The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  He shrugged. “So do I.” He raised his stick and rested it on his right shoulder.

  We heard a noise behind us. Michelle and Violet had changed their shoes and put on their hats and heavy coats. Michelle carried a wicker hamper with two handles. She was flushed with excitement while Violet appeared pale.

  “I’m sorry we were so long,” Michelle said, “but we had the cook put together a picnic lunch. It is almost noon, and this way we can stay outside longer.”

  Violet gave a curt nod. “And we can avoid the ordeal of lunch with my father-in-law, an event which would be a dyspeptic extravaganza even for those with stomachs made of stronger stuff than mine.”

  I could not help but laugh at this. “Let me carry the basket.” I took it from Michelle. “Goodness—how many people did you tell her you were feeding?”

  Violet smiled. “I fear the dear cook wants to fatten me up. If we cut across the grounds, there is a pleasant path into the woods.”

  Michelle slipped her hand about my left arm. Her face was radiant, her happiness apparent. Violet seemed to have recovered her spirits. Her full lips formed the customary ironic smile, but her dark eyes had an almost haunted look.

  “What a beautiful day,” Michelle said.

  Violet nodded. “It is good to be outdoors.” She stared up at the sun.

  “I put Gertrude to bed,” Michelle told me. “The poor girl. I did not like the sound of her lungs.”

  Violet sighed. “Her health has never been good. When she first joined us, she was sick all the time, but she has been much better the past two years.” She stared past me at Michelle. “Promise me you will look after her.”

  Michelle laughed. “You know I shall.”

  Violet stepped before us. We stopped, and she seized Michelle’s arm. “I mean promise me that you will look after her—that you will not forget—no matter what.”

  Michelle’s smile wilted, but did not quite vanish. “Of course I promise. You know I am fond of Gertrude.”

  Violet realized we were all regarding her. The ironic smile returned; she forced a laugh. “Forgive me, I... Because of Father Wheelwright I may not be able to keep her with me for much longer.”

  Michelle’s smile was gone. “He would actually have you dismiss her, even if you told him she had been ill with a fever?”

  Violet laughed harshly. “Without a doubt. You must have seen that.”

  “You were right, my dear. He is an old lizard.” We were all walking again. Michelle stared resolutely ahead. “I shall find her another place, I promise you. She is such a sweet girl. Oh, it does seem monstrous.”

  “Hush,” I said softly. Michelle gave me a wrathful glance. “We must not spoil the day.” Nor must we get Violet all worked up again.

  She caught my meaning, even though I did not say the significant part aloud. “Oh, I am sorry,” she said. “Things are barely calmed down, and...”

  Violet smiled wearily. “If only you knew what it means to me to have friends who understand, friends who do not snivel and whimper about the ‘servant problem.’ But it is too nice a day, and I must be good. I must think soothing thoughts and put that vile old scoundrel out of mind. Even Donald cannot bear his company—I know no one who can. But there I go again!” We had nearly reached the woods. Violet slipped her hand about Holmes’ arm, then started down the path into the trees. “You are very quiet, Mr. Holmes. Have you nothing to say? Nothing pleasant to say?”

  “Idle pleasantries are not my strong point.”

  “Oh dear, I do hope you have not been overrated,” she said. A loud laugh burst from Holmes. “Oh, sorry.” But Violet sounded pleased with herself.

  We were all silent for a while. The forest air and the sunshine were like a tonic. Violet was the shortest of our group, and she set a leisurely pace. The breeze overhead ruffled the dry leaves, and a few of them came drifting down to join their departed brethren on the forest floor. It felt much damper and colder amongst the trees. We could see the blue sky through the branches, but a few high thin clouds had appeared.

  Holmes and Violet stopped abruptly. A squirrel ahead of us on the path dug about and produced an acorn. He glanced up and sprang to the nearest oak, running around and up the massive trunk. The tiny head with the acorn in its mouth stared warily at us.

  Violet laughed, then resumed walking, her hand still holding Sherlock’s arm. “That squirrel reminds me of a time I went walking with my father long ago, oh so long ago.” She was briefly silent. “Somehow... something about you reminds me of him.”

  “I fear,” Holmes said, “that I know more about footprints, bloodstains, and tobacco ash than flora and fauna.”

  “Oh, but it is the same love of minutiae in either case. A walk with him could be tedious, a kind of school lesson. He would be telling me the name of that moss there and what side of the tree it typically grows on. His specialty, however, was spiders—or beetles, rather. He knew everything about them both. Oh, and he was a very good chess player. He taught me the game.”

  “Ah—then, he was a very good chess player indeed.”

  She laughed. “I remember the first time I beat him. I was only about twelve years old, and I think he was even more surprised than you were.” She was silent again. “I took up with Donald shortly after he died. I must have been truly desperate.” A hint of sarcasm had crept into her voice. “I do miss him—my father, that is. Not every day, but often. Is it not odd—how you can still miss someone after almost ten years? How can you still love someone after all that time? If you truly love someone, you cannot ever stop, while if you have never loved someone...” Her voice broke. “Forgive me—I—I’m being so foolish today. I cannot understand...”

  “Your feelings for your father do you credit,” Holmes said. “I am certain he was a worthy man.”

  We were behind Violet and could not see her face; she made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “There are so few.”

  The path came out at the same pond Donald Wheelwright and I had visited the day before. I recognized the gigantic oak, but the crows were gone that day.

  “What a lovely spot!” Michelle let go of my arm and looked about. “A perfect place for our picnic. Is anyone else hungry?”

  Sherlock and Violet stared at her curiously, too polite to say no. I laughed.

  “Michelle is not a woman of delicate appetites.” I squeezed her shoulder, then set the basket on a tree stump and opened it.

  Michelle blushed. “If no one else is hungry...”

  “But I do not like women of delicate appetites,” I said. “There are very good-looking sandwiches here. Ham and cheese, or boiled beef and mustard.”

  “Nor do I,” Violet said. “I shall have ham and cheese.”

  We divided up the sandwiches. The cook in her wisdom had also packed four bottles of beer (which explained the basket’s weight). We sat—Michelle and I sharing one stump, Violet and Holmes another—ate our sandwiches and drank our beer. There were pippin apples and russet pears for dessert. I cut them into quarters and passed them out.

  When we had finished, Violet put her hand over her mouth and fought back a yawn. Her gloves lay on the ground; her skin was white, her fingers thin and delicate. “I am so very tired. I could lie down here and sleep for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “So could I,” Michelle said.

  Holmes smiled. He had removed his hat and the sun gleamed off his high forehead and black, oily hair. “Does Morpheus also beckon to you, Henry, or does he only tempt the gentle sex?”

  “Having slept until nearly ten, I am immune to his charms.”

  Violet had scrunched up her nose at the phrase “gentle sex,” but she again covered her mouth and suppressed a yawn. “This is a lovely, lovely place, and the picnic was a wonderful idea, Michelle. Thank you so much.”

  Michelle smiled. “You’re quite welcome.” The intensity of Violet’s gratitude left her puzzled.

  “I only wish it could last forever—that we could stop time at this instant.” />
  Holmes smiled.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I fear we would grow frightfully bored.”

  “But we would also be frozen.”

  “Then why bother—what would be the point?”

  Violet gave him a mocking smile. “I see you insist on being logical and literal. It is so splendidly beautiful here, and I am enjoying your company so much—all three of you. It is nice not to have to pretend, not to have to work at being a fine lady, and... Oh, I suppose it is only because I do not want to go back—not ever—it is so perfect!” She clenched her fists and said this rather fiercely. “Forgive me, but my life is such a nightmare, and I feel as if—for once—I am awake. Only it cannot last. The nightmare will return.” Her face had grown flushed, and her eyes had an unhealthy gleam.

  “Oh, Violet,” Michelle said. “Is it truly so terrible for you? I cannot... I cannot understand.”

  Violet laughed—a pained, hollow sound. “No, you cannot. It is all one rather ghastly dream everywhere I look. There is my life with Donald: people always watching me—all those servants—and then our whole dreadful social set. The business with the spider cake has one good side: I may never have to give another dinner party! Who would come? All that planning and arranging; all the pretentious menus and food; all that polishing and cleaning—so that a few vicious, rich, ugly people can meet and compare jewels and finery. The men smoke and boast, the women gossip and titter. It is all so banal—so petty—their minds so hopelessly trivial and polluted.”

  We had grown very still, but she hardly seemed to see us. “But I have no right to complain. There are all those others—the poor, the sick, the miserable—the great mass of London that we see at the clinic and on your rounds, Michelle. For every woman in her fine gown and jewels, there are a thousand malnourished wretches in rags. Families living in rat holes too dark and filthy for animals—for rats, even!” She laughed. “Then there are the lucky ones with jobs, the masses who slave in the factories day after day for a miserable pittance, or people like the woman who drugged her own babe to keep him silent so she could do her sewing work. Do you recall, Michelle?” Her dark eyes burned. “Do you?”

  Michelle nodded. Her eyes were full of tears.

  “Poisoning her own baby to keep it quiet. And then there are all the thieves, and our miserable prisons, and the workhouses. Their humanity has been taken from them. We treat them worse than slaves. ‘Lax, lax!’” She laughed savagely. “They call this the greatest nation on earth. They speak of evolution, progress, and survival of the fittest. They boast so, and it is only a cesspool, a filthy cesspool.

  “Oh, but I must not forget the whores.” She rose slowly to her feet. “All the whores—old or young; fat or thin; inexpensive or very dear; male or female—someone for every taste, every appetite. No act is too vile or disgusting that you cannot pay...” She choked off her words and clenched her fists. “Lord Harrington, the great Lord Harrington, had his little whore—they all do, every one of them! That is why it is all part of the same nightmare—all the same—all the same!”

  Michelle groaned and hid her face against my shoulder. I put my hand on her hair. “Don’t,” I said both to her and Violet.

  Violet put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God—oh...” She bit into her hand so hard I thought she would draw blood, but Holmes yanked her hand away. She stared up at him.

  “One can always find reason to despair. One can always transfer the inner darkness to the outside.”

  Some of the fury went out of her eyes, and she grew pale. “But it is so dreadful.”

  “Of course it is. Men do have a great capacity for evil. At least we no longer hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread. Nor do we cut off his right hand.”

  “Oh, no, we only lock him up for years in some stinking prison.”

  Holmes drew in his breath and set a big hand on each of her shoulders. “My mistake. I cannot win such an argument. No one can. I happen to believe—fitfully—in progress, but it certainly cannot be proven. One can always find examples of evil and cruelty, but there are other examples as well. Kindness is possible. Honor is possible.”

  “Honor?” she laughed. “Falstaff was right about honor.”

  “No, he was not. Had Hamlet or Lear no honor? Shakespeare believed in honor. His plays are full of it. And there is...” He paused abruptly. “There is goodness, there is... the love between parent and child, between members of a family.” I saw the tendons in his hand tighten.

  Violet swayed slightly. “Is there?”

  “Did you not say you still loved your father?”

  The tears flowed from Violet’s dark eyes. She managed to nod.

  “And there is...” He turned to me and Michelle, his eyes hot. “Look at them.”

  “Oh, God,” Violet moaned.

  “And does Michelle not love you? Can you possibly doubt she is your dearest friend?”

  Violet’s hands clawed at his sides, and she clamped shut her eyes, her teeth. He held her back for an instant, and then she collapsed against him, her hands clutching desperately at his back, her face hidden against his chest. I could see her body quaking, but she made hardly any sound. Holmes’ face was pale, the oddest expression in his eyes, as he held her to him.

  Michelle had sat up. She pulled a handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped resolutely at her eyes. She stared at Sherlock and Violet, frowned slightly, then looked at me. I took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

  The high thin clouds had covered most of the blue sky, and the sun was noticeably lower. It was very quiet, the only sounds the murmur of the wind in the nearby trees and the faint splash of a fish down in the water.

  At last Violet straightened up and drew away from Holmes. He did not try to hold on to her. “Oh, we must not—I cannot. I’m sorry.” She turned away from us. “You must all be convinced I am a lunatic. I must go.”

  She almost ran to the path. Michelle glanced at me, then rose and rushed after her. “Wait, Violet—wait.”

  Violet turned and regarded her warily. She waited until Michelle was almost to her, then reached out and embraced her.

  They drew apart, and Violet rubbed at her eyes. “You will not always have to put up with my nonsense. You deserve better from me. Whatever happens—and I shall not ask you to make any more promises—always remember... A sister could not be dearer to me than you.” She looked at Holmes, biting at her lip. “Oh, I must go back.” She started down the path, and Michelle followed.

  I took a deep breath, then sat back down on the stump. I felt rather lightheaded. Holmes stood silently beside me, his fists clenched.

  “I wonder...” I murmured, “if she is quite sane.”

  Holmes laughed. “Few people are quite sane. Mostly sane is the best one can hope for. Violet is mostly sane.” He put his hand on his forehead, and then let it drop. “Whatever am I thinking of? Could you follow them, Henry—please? She must not be left alone.”

  I stood up, fingers of dread caressing my heart, my lungs.

  “I would go,” he said, “but I want to be alone for a few minutes.” His voice was suddenly anguished.

  “Are you certain you want to be alone? I...”

  “Yes—go! I doubt there are black fiends lurking in the forest, but we must not take chances.”

  I strode off at once. The shadows of the oaks were longer. Less light reached the forest floor, and the sky was nearly all gray. It was probably the spell Violet had woven with her voice, but I was immensely relieved when I caught sight of the two women, especially the taller of the two.

  I followed them silently, not wanting my presence known. The wind picked up, shook the trees, and sent dried leaves hurtling down to earth. With the sun gone, the wind was very cold. When I reached the lawn, I leaned against a gnarled trunk, watching them.

  The afternoon had begun so well, the lunch delightfully casual after the fussy, overabundant meals at the house. However much I sympathized with Violet, I was angry with her for spoilin
g everything and upsetting Michelle. I tended to agree with Violet’s view of life. It was a sordid business, and the self-importance and self-righteousness of Victorian England grew tiresome. The poverty and suffering of the urban poor were certainly depressing. It wore on me. Somehow the work at the clinic invigorated Michelle. I, instead, felt overwhelmed, exhausted and disheartened, but some notion of duty kept me at it. Perhaps I wanted to show that I was different from those who either ignored such misery or who, like the Reverend Killingsworth, considered it part of some divine plan. God could not be such a sadist.

  When the women were halfway to the house, I started after them. They were almost to the door when Michelle turned and saw me. We smiled at one another. Violet is wrong, I thought. It need not be a nightmare. Violet’s face was pale, but she had again mastered herself. With a smile, she gave Michelle a nudge and went inside.

  Michelle walked toward me. “I think Violet is better.”

  “And how are you?”

  She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “She made it all sound... so horrible. I felt so bad for her.”

  I grasped her hand. “I wish I could take you away from here.”

  “I wish you could, too. But you cannot.”

  I stared up at the stone facade rising before us with its dark slate roof. “It is an ugly house.” I lowered my gaze. “Sometimes when I wake up late in the night, I have thoughts like hers, a sense of how weak and evil we all are. Usually the brightness of day dispels my dark mood.” I looked up at her. “You dispel it.”

  “Oh, Henry.”

  I sighed. “I suppose the old man will be joining us for dinner. Lord, I hope he leaves soon.”

  Neither of us wanted to go back into the house. The wind rose, soaring in over the grass and rattling the many windowpanes overhead. A faint uneasiness, a sense of having forgotten something, made me frown.

  “Are you cold?” Michelle asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. I think it may snow.”

  The cold, unyielding sky made me shiver. “I do not doubt it. Oh, good Lord!” I started for the house at almost a run.

  “What is it?”