The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “We must not leave Violet alone—Sherlock said she must not be left alone!”

  “Surely there can be no danger?” Michelle did not sound convinced.

  The door was open, and I went quickly up the stairs. The great hall echoed with our footsteps. Under the dim light it seemed positively medieval. Collins saw us, grinned, and raised a hand.

  “Where is your mistress?” I asked.

  “She went upstairs to her room.”

  “You should not have left her alone—Mr. Holmes told you she was not to be left alone.”

  Collins’ grin weakened. “But I didn’t leave her alone. Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy went with her.”

  I stared dumbly at him; dread caught in my throat. “What?”

  “The Lovejoys’re back from London. They... Sir?”

  I ran up the stone stairs and heard Michelle behind me. “Henry—wait. Henry!” Violet’s room was on the third floor. I strode down the hallway. Michelle seized my arm. “Please wait—my feet hurt so.”

  I took a deep breath and slowed down. “When will you find some sensible shoes that work?”

  “My feet are too big.”

  “Your feet are perfect. I admire them greatly. They are among the parts of you I most treasure.”

  Her hand slipped down to mine. “Oh, don’t talk that way—not now, you silly fool.” We had come to the door. “They would not harm her, Henry. I am sure of it.”

  I wrapped loudly at the door. “Violet? Violet!”

  The door swung inward, and Lovejoy gave me his most polished smile. If this was only a role, he had it down to perfection. “Good afternoon, Dr. Vernier, Dr. Doudet Vernier. How good to see you both again. The country air obviously suits you. Do come in.”

  We stepped into the bedroom. Violet had removed her coat and hat. She sat in a chair by the window. Mrs. Lovejoy stood nearby, a figure in black—her face pale and severe as ever, her dark hair parted down the middle.

  “I am quite weary,” Violet said, “but I need to discuss some household matters with Mr. and Mrs. Lovejoy. They are finally up from London. The rest of the staff will be joining us soon. Is anything the matter?”

  I said nothing, but my expression must have been grim.

  “Nothing.” Michelle smiled. “I only wanted to check to see how you felt.”

  Violet’s mocking smile returned. “I feel embarrassed, and you look tired, Michelle. If you wish to nap, I shall see that no one disturbs you. Lovejoy?”

  He gave a nod. “I shall pass along the word, madam.”

  I did not move. “Sherlock said you were not to be left alone.”

  Violet laughed. “I am not alone.”

  I licked my lips, uncertain how to proceed. Luckily, Collins appeared at just that moment. “Is anything wrong, sir? You looked as if...”

  “No, nothing is wrong. Would you stay with Mrs. Wheelwright until Mr. Holmes returns?”

  Collins’ grin returned. “Surely.”

  Lovejoy nodded. “And I shall see that no one disturbs you both. You also look fatigued, Dr. Vernier.”

  Michelle and I walked down the hallway to our own room. I removed my coat and dropped it over a chair. “Lock the door,” I said.

  “Are you sure, Henry? It seems...”

  “Lock it.”

  She did and turned to face me. “It seems wrong somehow.”

  “Wrong?”

  I kissed her. Never had I loved or desired her more, and I could tell that she felt the same way. Her large strong fingers sank into my back, and she seemed to melt into me. Finally, I drew away from her and kissed her throat, tugging her collar downward with my fingers.

  “Oh, Henry—I do love you so.”

  “Why did you say it seems wrong?”

  “Because of Violet—because of what she said.”

  I kissed her again. “It is not wrong. I want to show that she is... mistaken. A nightmare is only a dream. It is to show that life can be beautiful—that you are beautiful—and that I love you more than anything in the world.”

  Her skin was red from the sun and wind, and her face had a warm glow. She drew me to her, and all her strength seemed to flow into that all-consuming embrace. For a time I forgot about Violet, Donald, the Lovejoys, and Sherlock Holmes.

  Later, we dressed for dinner. I folded over my cuff and put in the stud. The bureau mirror was not flattering. My hair was a tousled mess, and I appeared haggard. I did my other cuff and picked up the hairbrush.

  “Would you fasten me up, Henry?”

  Michelle turned her back to me. Her gown was yellow satin, and, regretfully, hid her arms and shoulders. I could not blame her, given the cold hall. I began to fasten the tiny hooks. When I was about six inches from the top, I kissed her bare skin. “It seems a shame to fasten you all up.”

  She laughed. “It is curious. You never seem to tire of me.”

  “That would be correct.” I finished with the last hook. “Is it not better having your husband fasten you up than a maid?”

  “Oh, yes. Far better.”

  I tightened my bow tie, arranging it before the mirror, and then brushed my hair. Michelle put on her earrings and then helped me into my black tailcoat. She kissed me quickly.

  “Was it not better having your wife help you with your coat than a valet?”

  I laughed. “You are much prettier than any valet.” I unlocked the door. “I must confess that I am not looking forward to dinner.”

  She slipped her hand about my arm. “Neither am I. It was nice to be alone with you.”

  “It is not yet five, but I suppose we should be sociable.”

  We walked down the hallway to the stairs. The house had no gas lighting, and the hallway was already almost pitch black. “It grows dark so early,” Michelle said. “Oh, I wish we had not even had to get up.”

  “I must confess that I am ravenous. For food. Perhaps there will be some appetizers.”

  The great hall had been fitted with a crystal chandelier, a glaring anachronism that did not provide much light. It also had to be raised and lowered by a rope so the candles could be lit. A fire crackled in the enormous fireplace and lamps were lit on the dinner table; but the massive chamber still seemed mostly dark, the light feeble and flickering, with black shadows everywhere.

  Before the fireplace in his formal attire, Holmes stood smoking a cigarette. He smiled languidly at us, tossing the cigarette butt into the flames. “Did you see that it has begun to snow? Only a few scattered flakes thus far, but I’ll wager we have several inches by morning.”

  “Let’s go and see,” Michelle said, “just to a window.”

  I glanced at Holmes, but he did not seem inclined to venture from the fire. Michelle and I stepped through a doorway to a small room, which had ancient, mullioned windows, the thick wavery glass panes set in lead cames. We were up a story, and all we could see was the cold gray sky, a few large white flakes drifting slowly downward. The wind was faint—a low, constant sigh.

  Michelle drew closer to me. “It looks so cold. I am glad we are indoors.”

  “This room is even colder than the hall. You can feel the chill coming from the glass. It will soon be dark out there.”

  We were only too glad to rejoin Holmes by the fire. The bricks within the six-foot enclosure were blackened with soot, and a huge log sat on the grate. The tile floor, of course, was clean; no doubt a maid scrubbed at it on her knees early every morning, long before the lord of the manor stirred.

  “It seems to me,” I said, “that a deer or an ox should be roasting there.”

  We heard footsteps on the stairs and turned. Violet approached through the shadows, her black hair done up elegantly; diamonds at her throat and ears; her dress a vision of white, cream, and lace. It was difficult to believe this could be the person who had told us her life was a perpetual nightmare, but when she came closer I could see the tension about her mouth and eyes. All the same, she was very beautiful. The dress had sleeves that ballooned out at the shoulder and tapered at th
e elbow; it emphasized her slender waist and hips. Behind her, ever vigilant, was Collins.

  “I see,” Violet said, “that you have all found the warmest spot in this icy cavern. I have tried, in vain, to convince Donald that it would be both pleasant and sensible to dine in a different room. In fairness, it is his father who insists this is the dining hall. Perhaps when icicles form on his long nose, he will change his mind.”

  The image was so ludicrous that we all laughed. Holmes appeared his usual cool and detached self, but occasionally, as he watched Violet, something in his eyes gave him away. Lovejoy approached us with several slender glasses on a silver tray.

  “Would anyone care for sherry?”

  “Hot cider might be more appropriate,” Violet said with a smile, then reached for a glass. Her fingers trembled slightly. She seized the stem and swallowed half the sherry. I took two glasses and handed one to Michelle. She was staring at Violet, her forehead creased. No doubt she was reflecting that sherry on an empty stomach is not wise for a person with an ulcer.

  “At least,” Violet said, “this fireplace is big enough for a crowd to share.”

  I realized that she had not once looked at Holmes. Perhaps she was embarrassed about what had happened that afternoon. “I was just saying,” I said, “that you should have a deer or ox roasting on a spit here.”

  “I shall have to suggest that to cook, although I doubt she will like the idea. She may have difficulty concocting a sauce to serve on a side of beef.”

  We heard more footsteps on the stairs, echoing faintly through the hall. Donald Wheelwright and his father were descending. They appeared almost comical side by side: the one all thin bone, his features sharp and predatory; the other all muscle, flesh and fat, towering above his progenitor. They were like a pair from an Aesop’s fable—the stork and the ox, the weasel and the elephant, or the rat and the plow horse, both animals in formal attire.

  Violet’s distaste was obvious. She finished her sherry, and then said, “I must speak with Donald.” She set down the glass, nearly knocked it over, but caught it and set it upright. She started for the two men. The Lovejoys hovered about the dining table.

  Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on Violet. His mouth twitched, and he turned away toward the fire and sipped his sherry. Michelle gave me a pained look. I stepped nearer to my cousin. The flaming log cast a reddish glow, tinting his white shirt and bow tie, his pale thin face and prominent nose.

  “I think,” I said, “that we will all be happier when dinner is finished.”

  His eyes watched the flames. “I cannot bear it. I feel as if...” His voice was a hoarse whisper.

  I seized his arm. “I believe I am supposed to say, ‘Steady now, old man,’ or some such thing.”

  Holmes laughed, and then looked at me. “I have faced physical danger many times. Sometimes I was fearful, sometimes not, but I have never fled from hazard.”

  I nodded. “Your bravery has always amazed me. I have watched you in awe, even as I quaked in my boots. There were all those times in that dark maze beneath the Paris Opera, and then the way you faced down that mob in Underton. I wish I had a fraction of your courage.”

  Holmes smiled. “But you never ran away either.” He watched the fire. “That is what I would like to do now—run away—flee. And not because I am afraid, but because...” His free hand formed a fist even as he drank. “It pains me so. It is as if I were starving to death—some street urchin with a feast spread before him, but absolutely forbidden to touch anything.”

  Michelle had wandered away, no doubt thinking Sherlock and I wished to be alone. I could think of no easy comfort. “You said it would be over soon.”

  “So it will.” He drew in his breath, then turned and stared past me.

  Donald Wheelwright and his father were taking glasses of sherry from Lovejoy’s silver tray, while Mrs. Lovejoy fussed over the table’s floral display. Michelle stared up at a boring painting, even though it was so dark you could hardly tell whether sheep or cows were in the meadow. Donald Wheelwright stepped toward us.

  Something smashed on the tile at my feet—Sherlock’s half-empty sherry glass. He drew himself up on the balls of his feet, his eyes sweeping about the room. He strode forward, and I followed.

  “Where is Mrs. Wheelwright?” he asked.

  Donald stared curiously at him. “She had something to tell the cook.”

  “Oh, good.” I was relieved, but Holmes was not.

  “You let her go alone?” Holmes did not wait for an answer, but headed for the doorway. I was right behind him.

  A dim corridor led toward the back of the house, the only light a solitary oil lamp. We descended a narrow stairway. At the bottom was a door to the outside. We were only halfway down when we felt icy air sweep about us.

  The door stood open, a few flakes of snow swirling about in the muted gray light.

  “Oh, Lord,” I whispered, suddenly afraid. “Could she...?”

  Holmes pushed open the door and stepped outside. It was bitterly cold, and the sky had almost no daylight left. However, because of the cloud cover, we could still see fairly well. The snowflakes stung my cheeks and made me blink. The snow had not yet accumulated on the ground, but it would before long.

  “Perhaps she is still inside,” I said. We had passed the door leading to the kitchen.

  Holmes said nothing, only peered about trying to decide where Violet might have gone. We had come out at the back of the house. A few feet from the gray stone facade was a jungle of darkling foliage—ferns, trees, and rhododendrons. A stone path wound around the house.

  “Perhaps...” I began, but a scream interrupted me, a sharp pained cry.

  Holmes turned right and ran along the side of the house, turning right again at the corner. “Violet!” he shouted. “Violet!” The wind was worse on that side, but I hardly felt it.

  He stopped at the front of the house. “I think the cry came from that way.” He pointed away from the dwelling where the gravel driveway sloped downward. Before us the lawn was an unfamiliar dark sea, which ended at the black oak forest on the horizon.

  “I could not tell,” I said.

  We heard a faint noise, perhaps a sob, from the direction he had pointed, and he was off at once. “Violet!”

  We found her only a few feet away slumped against the stone wall. She was crying, her right hand clutching at her shoulder, her white shoes with the pointed toes and her legs sprawled out before her on the cold gravel. There was not enough light to see much color, but something black stained the sleeve of her dress where her fingers grasped her shoulder. She looked up at us, her mouth a pained O in the oval of her face.

  “Thank God,” Holmes murmured. “Oh, thank God.”

  We helped her to her feet, but he did not let go of her.

  “I thought you were gone—I thought you were lost forever.”

  She stared up at him, her hair all disheveled, her eyes wild. “Did you?”

  He said nothing. One hand grasped her uninjured shoulder; the other slipped about her waist. I took a step back. She put her arms about him. I shall never know who moved first, but she rose up onto her toes, her head twisting about as he drew her to him. The kiss had a fearsome energy, some desperate, long-repressed passion on both sides released at last. I stepped back, unsure what to do. The left shoulder of Violet’s gown had been almost completely torn away: the white flesh of her slender upper arm gleamed in the dim light, three dark, bloody wounds marring her shoulder. Fear slithered quicksilver through my belly, and I turned away.

  “Violet!” someone shouted. It was Michelle’s voice.

  The two of them must have heard, for they drew apart, although they still held one another.

  “Forgive me,” Holmes murmured.

  A pained sound burst from her lips. “Oh, it is too late. I am lost. I was lost long before I ever met you.”

  “No.” Holmes’ eyes almost glowed in the dark. He shook his head. “You cannot be.”

  “Violet!�
�� Michelle was nearer.

  “Here!” I shouted.

  Holmes and Violet started at my cry, then he released her. Their hands touched, his fingers lingering briefly about her palm. She bit at her lip. Blood had oozed from the wounds, and she clutched at her shoulder, wincing with pain

  “Who has done this to you?” I asked.

  “Henry!”

  “Here, Michelle!” I cried again.

  Violet stared at me, but seemed unable to speak. Michelle, Collins, Lovejoy, and Donald Wheelwright all came running down the path. Behind them, the house was a looming black shadow, a few of the windows feeble squares of yellow light in the dark monstrosity. The wind swept about us, the snow heavier than before, and I was aware of how cold I felt. All about us, the ground had at last begun to turn white.

  Michelle took Violet by the arm. “Show me,” she said.

  Violet slowly opened her hand, revealing the three bloody marks on her bare shoulder. “Merciful God,” Collins muttered.

  “Who did this?” Michelle asked.

  Violet stared past her at Donald Wheelwright, his tall form rising above all the others.

  “The gypsy,” Violet whispered. “It was the gypsy.”

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Lovejoy. “Not here.”

  “She was at the door, calling to me, beckoning to me. When I stepped outside, she grabbed me. She was... so strong.” Violet stared into the darkness like a woman possessed; I do not think she saw any of us. “‘Now I’ve got you,’ she said. She dragged me away, and I fought her, but she was too strong. She pulled me here, and then I heard someone call my name. She was angry. Her eyes were red and glowing. Her fingers were like claws with long ugly nails. She... she scratched me.” Violet’s breath caught; she almost choked and began to weep. “It hurts—it hurt me so.”

  Donald Wheelwright stared dully at her, his eyes wider open than usual. His mouth twitched to the right.

  Michelle put her arm about Violet. “We must get you inside. It’s freezing, and I shall treat the wound.”

  “You won’t hurt me?” Violet sounded suddenly like a child.

  “Of course I shan’t hurt you.”

  Wheelwright folded his arms. “Mr. Holmes, you are off the case.”