The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  I wanted to say something or touch his hand, but I was so sleepy, my limbs so heavy. My thoughts drifted elsewhere. Henry’s voice changed to that of Sherlock, but I could not make out his words. Sleep was a welcome refuge from black fiends and the memory of Violet’s throat marred by those vivid, hand-shaped bruises.

  Thirteen

  Holmes took off his gloves and overcoat, then set them on the table. He stretched out his hands before the fire, warming his long fingers. He glanced at Michelle. She had shifted sideways and was fast asleep in the chair.

  He gave his head a shake. “She is quite extraordinary, Henry. Rarely have I seen such grace under pressure in any man, let alone a woman.” His voice was nearly a whisper.

  I smiled wryly. “Much more so than her husband, you mean.”

  “I meant no such thing.”

  “You need not worry about waking her. Once under, she is a very sound sleeper. It would take considerable effort to rouse her now.”

  Holmes nodded. He took out his cigarette case. “Good. I have several important matters to discuss with you in private. Let us leave the fire to Michelle.” He lit the cigarette, then walked to the far end of the table near the window through which the assailant must have come.

  I pulled out a chair midway along the length of the table and sat down. Stifling a yawn, I withdrew my watch. There was barely enough light to see the face. “It’s after eleven. No wonder I feel like sleeping myself.”

  Holmes bent over and flicked the cigarette ash into a potted fern. “I found no sign of anyone having left through this window. There should have been some trace. The earth near the house is wet; the lightest touch would have left a print. I suppose Lovejoy and Collins might have trampled the remnants underfoot. As if this case were not frustrating enough, without them stampeding about like elephants.”

  “It certainly is baffling.” Recalling the bruises on Violet’s throat, I could not repress a shudder. “He must have been a brute indeed to choke her that way.”

  “Mr. Wheelwright has been generous enough to give me one final chance.” His voice was heavy with irony. “Another such incident, and I am to be dismissed.”

  I shrugged. “His impatience is understandable.”

  Holmes gazed out the window, his back to me. The wind had died away, and now the large, dim room was enveloped in a heavy silence. Holmes turned, then put more cigarette ash into the potted fern. “There shall be no further attempts on his wife’s life. I will see to that.” His eyes were dangerous. “Unfortunately, I have other important business here in London. I would like you to remain behind for a few days and stay in contact with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. It is regrettable; he is a man of mediocre ability who requires supervision. You can communicate with me by telegraph if necessary. I assume it will also take time to arrange things with your practice.”

  I nodded. “We certainly could not both leave tomorrow. I can cover our patients—who are mostly Michelle’s. What is this business with Lestrade?”

  “I have loosed him on our Mr. Steerford and the Angels of the Lord. The Steerford matter is the simpler, being as it is a traditional swindle. Its uniqueness comes from its many illustrious participants, its sheer audacity, and the sum of money involved. I have revealed Steerford’s true identity to Lestrade, and he will be closely watched from now on.”

  “Who, then, is Steerford?”

  Holmes’ lips twisted briefly into a smile. “Lovejoy.”

  I stared at him, the name taking a second or two to sink in. “Lovejoy.” Unconsciously, I had risen to my feet.

  “Keep your voice down. None other.”

  “How can you be so sure? He was nothing like Lovejoy. His voice, his appearance...”

  “You are not trained in the art of disguise. I recognized him almost at once, as he most likely recognized me.”

  “Can you be certain of such a thing?”

  “Any lingering doubts were resolved this morning when I made a brief visit here and spoke with Lovejoy. Since they were not hidden, I had studied Steerford’s ears and hands closely, noting certain distinguishing characteristics. Lovejoy’s were identical.”

  “But how...? And why?”

  “The ‘why’ is simple. He was talking about raising a million pounds. As for the how, as the head servant he is not closely supervised and can frequently be out on business. He maintains the Steerford establishment conveniently nearby, but is rarely at home there. As Steerford he can use the oil well as his excuse for being absent.”

  “And is Mrs. Lovejoy a party to this scheme?”

  He smiled. “It is not likely they came up with two such devious schemes independently. Devious and lucrative—the Angels of the Lord dabble in at least robbery and extortion. The Lovejoys’ positions give them access to valuable information. At dinner parties they no doubt keep a sharp ear open, and the servants in higher-class households maintain a network of gossip. A talkative footman can spread a rumor about half the households of London in a mere week.”

  “Then you think Mrs. Lovejoy’s hysteria is only an act?”

  Holmes gave a gruff laugh. “I thought so from the first. She is a bit too histrionic.”

  “But... but this business with Violet—is it also their doing?”

  Holmes frowned. “That is a puzzle. It makes little sense, as it draws attention to them and there is no profit in it. If not for the threats against Mrs. Wheelwright, I most likely would never have discovered Mr. Steerford or the Angels of the Lord. As for this evening, neither of them could be the perpetrator; a third person must be involved. However, none of the male servants were alone at the time.”

  “Could the Lovejoys have some grievance against Mrs. Wheelwright?”

  “If they do, they are the only people in the house—with one exception—who do. As you know, I have questioned the servants extensively. They genuinely like their mistress.”

  “Who is the exception?”

  “Her husband. Then, of course, we must not forget her father-in-law. I believe the old man is paying Lovejoy for information about his son’s household.”

  “What!”

  “This came out in my interviews with the servants. Old Wheelwright is a frequent visitor, and after his arrival he always speaks briefly and privately with Lovejoy.”

  “Then it must be the old man—he is behind the threats against Violet. And perhaps it goes further still...”

  “Let me remind you that the last time you were equally certain the person in question was Miss Ladell.”

  “But I had never actually met her, while old Wheelwright is obviously despicable. Spying on his own son! Even so, this thing tonight remains baffling, and I suppose the old man has so much money he could not be involved in the Lovejoys’ schemes.”

  Holmes gave a dry, hollow-sounding laugh. “There you are wrong. Men such as Wheelwright can never have too much money. There is no limit to their greed—it is bottomless and irrational. All the same, the Angels do not fit his style, nor does Steerford. Direct annihilation was always his stratagem in the potted meat trade, a full frontal assault upon his opponents.”

  We were both silent. I could hear Michelle breathing deeply and regularly. At last I spoke. “Perhaps it is time to confront Lovejoy and his wife.”

  “Absolutely not!” His voice was sharp. “Tell no one except Michelle.”

  “Not even the Wheelwrights?”

  “Especially not the Wheelwrights. Mr. Wheelwright would want to thrash someone. Let us keep the Lovejoys guessing. They do not know for certain whether I recognized Lovejoy.” Holmes ran his fingers back through his hair. “I shall write Lestrade a note, which I want you to deliver. He will be keeping Lovejoy under surveillance and preparing to spring a trap before the fifteenth. I am hopeful that we may finally discover the Lovejoys’ true identities; Lestrade’s clerks are searching the police files. When you depart in three or four days, Lestrade should have some news for me. He will also be pursuing my suggestions concerning the Angels of the Lord
.”

  “What if Lovejoy does not remain behind?”

  Holmes laughed. “He will find some excuse to stay here. I only wish I could do the same.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lestrade is a mediocrity! The whole thing could slip through his clumsy fingers. And there are too many details unresolved. If I had another week... I shall also have you visit a brothel.” He smiled at my look. “For information only.”

  “Oh.” There was a faint stir of wind, which rattled the windowpanes. “You have made considerable progress in this case. I would not have believed it.”

  Sherlock frowned, the fingers of his right hand drumming relentlessly at the table.

  “What is the matter?”

  He finally raised his eyes. “Things still do not add up.”

  The attack on Violet had occurred on a Friday night. Michelle, Holmes, and the Wheelwrights left the next day. I was busy over the weekend with Holmes’ tasks, then on Monday and Tuesday I handled our combined medical practice and prepared for my own departure. From morning to evening, I saw one patient after another.

  A few days without Michelle always made me morose, and my last patient on Tuesday was a sweet old lady who was slowly dying of cancer. After she had left, I sat alone in my examining room, my head slumped wearily, my elbow on the desk, forehead against my palm, fingers in my hair. A rap sounded at the door. “Yes?”

  Harriet’s face appeared, a crease between her dark brows. “Doctor...” Behind her I saw the pale thin face of old Wheelwright, a faint smile pulling at his bloodless lips.

  Oh Lord, I thought, a twinge of fear flickering through my chest.

  “Come in, Mr. Wheelwright. Thank you, Harriet.”

  He silently stared down at me, his top hat held in his aged, trembling fingers. “I do not suppose you have come to see me about a medical problem.”

  His smile intensified. “I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I thought not. What, then? Have a seat if you will.”

  He slowly sat down upon the edge of a heavy oak chair. “It’s about my daughter-in-law. Do you believe me now?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That she is a lunatic.”

  I had the sudden urge to strike him, to plunge my fist into that smiling mouth of brownish-yellow teeth. The intensity of my repulsion caught me by surprise, and I had to compose myself before I could speak. “No, I do not. Someone tried to strangle her last week.”

  “She imagined the whole thing.”

  “She did not—I saw the bruises on her throat. They were shaped like hands.”

  “No one told me about any bruises—that’s impossible.”

  “I saw them, sir. They were real enough.”

  His white brows had bunched up over his nose. “No matter, no matter. She is still a lunatic.”

  Again I had to restrain my anger. “It has been a long day, Mr. Wheelwright. What exactly do you want from me?”

  He stared closely at me. “I want your assistance in committing my daughter-in-law.”

  My eyes widened, and a peculiar fear now contended with my fury. “You are mad, not her! Most asylums are still in the Dark Ages. I would not have my worst enemy committed, let alone a beautiful and intelligent young woman like Violet.”

  His smile grew contemptuous. “Beautiful, eh? It always comes back to beauty, doesn’t it?”

  “I can well believe you have no feeling for beauty.” My voice shook.

  “What good is it, Doctor? Tell me that. My age has finally freed me from all such snares. You are a respectable man, a married man. Her beauty is of no use to you—all it does is stir you up and make you behave stupidly. Otherwise, you would realize that I could make it very much worth your while to help me. If my son were free, he could marry again, marry someone who could bear him a child. What do you want? Money, prestige? They are yours for the asking, and believe me, it would be for the best. She is quite mad, you know.”

  I lowered my gaze, unable to bear his leering visage. “Mr. Wheelwright, you had better leave.”

  “Your cousin is a hopeless case. I could see that at the dinner. The great consulting detective—the finest mind in England, as the newspapers put it—reduced to quivering jelly by a mere woman. I had hoped for better from you, Doctor. You have a woman of your own, a pretty enough one. She need never know...”

  “Get out of here!” I roared, leaping to my feet. “Get out before I give you the thrashing you deserve!”

  His smile vanished, uneasiness appearing in his eyes: he saw that I meant it. “Very well, sir.” He stood. “There is no reason to be abusive. You need not take that tone with me.”

  “No? You are the most morally repugnant... You spy on your own son, do you not? How much are you paying Lovejoy?”

  His smile was wary. “I suppose Holmes discovered that. Maybe he is worth his fee. I’m Donald’s father after all. Someone has to look after him, the poor fool. He can’t seem to take care of himself.”

  “Why do you not simply talk to your son instead of spying on him?”

  Wheelwright seemed genuinely surprised. “Because I want the truth.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. And is Violet mad, or are you only trying to drive her mad?”

  “There’s no need for me to do anything. She’s been that way for many years, ever since her marriage. She hides it well, but I can see—I can see.”

  My head had begun to hurt, and I put my hand on my forehead. “Go away—leave now.”

  His contemptuous smile returned. “Very well, sir, but you might tell your cousin that if he gets in my way I shall crush him. I have broken far better men than he.”

  “And he has been threatened by far better men than you—good day, Mr. Wheelwright.”

  He turned and walked out of the door.

  A decanter of brandy, usually reserved for medicinal purposes, was on my desk. I poured a large glass, my hands shaking, and took a big swallow. I stared out the window at the gray, rainy sky and tried to calm myself.

  “Deliver us from evil,” I murmured. A shiver snaked its way along my spine, and I took another swallow of brandy.

  The next day, Wednesday, I arrived at Norfolk on the three-fifteen train. Collins and Michelle were waiting at the station. Collins smiled as Michelle gave me an embrace that would have crushed a smaller man. It seemed as if we had been apart much longer than four days.

  The sun was out, the day cold and clear, the air marvelously fresh after London. Michelle wore a beautiful purple coat with sable collar and cuffs. Her face was slightly sunburned, the few freckles on her nose and cheeks clearly visible. She wore black leather gloves, which hid her powerful hands. Looking at her made me briefly forget Sherlock, the Wheelwrights, and Lovejoys—I was only conscious of my desire for her.,

  “You look well,” I said. “The country air must agree with you.”

  She slipped her hand about my arm. “How I have missed you! Now everything is perfect. We have been having a wonderful time. Violet seems much better. It is good for her to be away from London. Donald Wheelwright tramples about the woods every day with his dogs and shoots at various birds and animals. In the meantime, I...” She stopped abruptly, glancing sideways at Collins, who was carrying one of my bags.

  Noticing the silence, he turned to us. “I’ll fetch the cart, ma’am. No need to walk all that way.”

  “Thank you, Collins.”

  We watched him start down the cobbled street. “What were you saying?”

  She smiled wryly. “I have been chaperoning Sherlock and Violet. They are such good company. They have brought along their violins, and they play beautifully together. We’ve gone for walks in the woods. The forest is so beautiful. We saw a deer yesterday. The two of them have also been playing chess. Violet won the first game.”

  “What?”

  She laughed. “You should have seen the expression on his face. He was ahead by a rook, when she checkmated him.”

  I glanced quickly about, and then ki
ssed her on the lips. She pressed her fingers into the small of my back. “I have been longing for you,” she said.

  Collins came down the street driving a dogcart. He stopped, then hopped down, opened the door, and helped Michelle up. I got in and sat across from her. Since the carriage was open to the air, I could savor the sunny weather. Within five minutes we were out of the village following a country road winding about a pastoral setting.

  We entered a forest of gnarled, ancient oaks, their trunks massive, a yard or two across. Many of the leaves were still on the trees, all bronze, russet, or reddish; others had fallen and formed a thick carpet. The air had a moist, fecund smell, a heady odor of fresh earth and rotting leaves. The branches themselves were long and twisted, nearly black. It seemed the kind of forest where Oberon, Titania, and Puck dwelt, where fairies would dance under moonlight. Gradually the trees thinned, the road dropped and curved, and ahead at the summit of a vast expanse of lush green lawn was an enormous house of gray stone.

  “Good Lord,” I murmured. “That is where we are going?”

  “It has only fifty rooms or so. Somewhere they will find a place to put you. The great hall appears to be something from Ivanhoe.”

  I shook my head. “There are those that aspire to great wealth and such houses, but I keep thinking in practical terms of the difficulties in maintaining such a residence.”

  Michelle nodded eagerly. “The rooms are cold and drafty. Already I miss our little house and Harriet and Victoria. How are Harriet and Victoria, by the way?”

  “They are both well, but they miss you. Victoria wanders about the house yowling pathetically.”

  “Poor dear.” She reached out and took my hand. “I am glad you do not wish to be horribly rich. Violet is the first wealthy friend I have had, and I do not envy her.”

  I glanced at the back of Collins’ neck. “You would not want your own huge room far from mine, and your own bed?”

  She frowned. “Absolutely not!” She smiled and squeezed my hand.

  The house was imposing, but melancholy. The gray stone was colorless and forlorn, and the rooms inside were huge—and as Michelle said, cold and drafty. The fire burning at one end of the great hall was large enough for roasting an ox, yet it hardly cut the chill. Somber, uninspired paintings hung from the walls, mostly bucolic pastorals in gaudy antique frames. Portraits of several generations of ancestors would have been more appropriate, but the Wheelwrights were a youthful dynasty. However, before the dining table in the place of prominence was a painting of the elderly Wheelwright and his wife. The artist had the features exactly right, but as there was no hint of malice or avarice, the Wheelwright on canvas appeared to be only some saintly relative of the old scoundrel.