The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Something laughed overhead—a woman’s voice. I did not want to raise my head, but something made me. It lurked in the corner, a part of the darkness, its form barely discernible: a spider—bigger than a man—bigger even than Donald Wheelwright. It had red eyes and wore golden earrings even though it had no ears. More dreadful laughter: I realized she was laughing at me.

  It would get me and weave its deadly threads about me, but I could barely stir. The harder I tried, the slower I moved. It would get me—I could not escape.

  “Michelle,” it said.

  I tried to scream but nothing came out. I knew that voice.

  “Michelle.”

  It was Violet’s voice—it was Violet.

  Someone shook me, and I bolted upright. Violet stood before me, her hand over her mouth, her dark eyes fixed on mine. I was breathing hard and my heart thudded against my ribs. My eyes took in the bedroom: the solid, well-built furniture, Collins sleeping in a chair, the clock on the mantel. It was one thirty in the morning.

  “You had a nightmare,” Violet said. “You could not seem to move.”

  I put my hand on my face. “Oh God, what a horrible dream.”

  Violet hesitated, and then stepped closer. She gave my hand a squeeze. “Poor dear.”

  I moistened my lips. My throat was dry. “Have you slept?”

  She shook her head.

  I stood slowly. “You really should. You feel warmer anyway. Sit down.” I covered her with the afghan. “What have you been doing?”

  “Thinking. Watching you.”

  “It is a new day,” I said.

  She nodded. Her lips drew back into a smiling grimace. “Today is my wedding anniversary.”

  I stared incredulously at her. “What?”

  “Eight years,” she said. “Eight years.” She laughed.

  I recalled the gray filaments binding her, suffocating her, filling her mouth, nose, and lungs, and I could not repress a shudder.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The dream—it was so dreadful. “I think... I shall go downstairs for a moment. I shall be back in only five minutes or so.”

  I took the candle. It was shorter now. Walking—being able to move—felt good, but the house was quiet as the tomb, and I was thinking about spiders. Henry was asleep in the chair, slumped to the side and breathing loudly. He looked odd sleeping in evening dress. Holmes sat in another chair smoking a pipe, and the room stank of tobacco. Although he was seated, he appeared as restless as when he had been pacing. He smiled weakly, the expression gaunt and forlorn.

  “I suppose you have been awake all this time,” I said.

  He shrugged. He would not meet my gaze. I turned to go.

  “Michelle.” His eyes watched me. “I am sorry if I behaved rudely earlier. You will understand all in the morning.”

  I smiled wearily. “Maybe I should send Violet down. She will not sleep either. Perhaps you could play chess.”

  I was only joking, but he shook his head forcefully. “No.” As I stared at him, his nostrils flared. “I must not. I... I shall see her in the morning. Oh God, how I wish I had never laid eyes on her.”

  I was too sleepy for more mysteries. “Good night,” I said.

  Violet, of course, was also wide awake, the afghan wrapped about her shoulders. She managed a wan smile. I thought of trying to talk with her, but again I fell asleep. My dreams, while still troubled, were not so bad as before.

  When I woke, a cold white light had filled the room, and the coal in the fireplace was nearly gone. Violet was still in the chair, and the clock on the mantel said seven thirty-five. I glanced slowly about. Violet had obviously not slept, and she seemed more fragile than ever, as if one more blow would shatter her.

  The door opened, and Daisy looked in. When she saw we were awake, she came into the room. She gave Collins a playful push. He stirred and sat up. “What a night,” he muttered, stretching.

  Daisy walked over to Violet and me. “Mr. ’Olmes’d like to see you in the sitting room whenever you’re ready.”

  Violet sat up stiffly, raising her chin and showing her long slender neck. The bruises were so ugly. “Get me my lavender dress, the silk one with the lace collar.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  Collins stepped outside. I blinked my eyes, stared distastefully at my shoes. I slipped my feet into them.

  “How does your shoulder feel?” I asked.

  “It throbs some.”

  Violet went to the washbasin and splashed ice-cold water on her face. I felt chilly merely watching. Daisy helped her out of her robe. I went to the window. The snow had stopped, but the sky—and all else—was white, the landscape totally altered, the golden autumnal vista seemingly gone forever. Daisy fastened Violet’s dress in back, helped her with her hair, and then we two went downstairs to the sitting room.

  It was faintly cold and smelled of tobacco, but a wood fire roared in the fireplace. Holmes stood before a window. He had changed into his frock coat and striped trousers. Henry wore a tweed suit and looked rested, despite the night in the chair. The Lovejoys sat on the sofa, polite yet wary smiles on their faces.

  Holmes stared for only an instant at Violet. She stiffened, and a faint blush showed on her high cheekbones. “Please be seated, ladies.” He gestured at the two plush chairs near the fire. “It is time for me to relate what I have discovered.”

  Lovejoy was clean-shaven, his linen white and crisp looking alongside his fine black morning coat. “I do not see why you wish us to be present, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes gave him a frightful smile. “You will soon learn exactly why. You are my special guests.”

  Lovejoy was unperturbed, but his wife gave a quick, desperate glance at the door.

  “Should not Donald be here?” Violet asked, her hand holding her side.

  He looked at her, then looked away. “Not yet.” He stepped over to the fireplace and prodded the logs with the black iron poker, making them flare up. Violet and I had the comfortable chairs near the fire, but they were turned outward, toward the room. The sofa where the Lovejoys sat was before the windows, that long, southern expanse of glass. Henry was seated by the cherry-wood table and the chessboard. Holmes prowled about upon the carpet with its vivid, scarlet pattern. He had changed from his muddy boots to shoes of a glossy black.

  “I fear, Mrs. Wheelwright, that I have made some unpleasant discoveries about the two persons who oversee your household.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy wore one of her plain black dresses, and she scowled. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Lovejoy nodded. “Someone has misinformed you, Mr. Holmes.”

  Holmes gave them such a look I was glad not to be in their places. “I think not. You, Mr. Lovejoy, I have already seen first-hand playing one Geoffrey Steerford and attempting to sell shares in imaginary oil wells. Your research was well done, your references excellent, the whole business handled with the utmost skill. Yesterday was the deadline for investors, and in spite of my warnings to Inspector Lestrade, you managed to give him the slip. He was supposed to track down your bank accounts and seize the funds, but I am certain you did not come here empty-handed.”

  Lovejoy gave us a very sorrowful look, although his wife had gone paler still. “I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Violet stared at Lovejoy, her mouth a taut line. “Can this be true?”

  Holmes continued to smile. “As for your wife, in her guise as an ‘Angel of the Lord,’ she has been stirring up prostitutes and servants, enlisting them in blackmail, theft, and extortion.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy rose to her feet, her brown eyes blazing. “I...!”

  Her husband’s hand shot out and seized her wrist. “Abigail!”

  She glanced at him, then nearly collapsed onto the sofa. I would not have thought she could lose any more color, but her face was nearly white. “It’s not true,” she whispered.

  Violet licked her lips. “Have you proof of these allegations, Mr. Holmes? The
Lovejoys have been with me many years, and I... I must confess I find these accusations difficult to believe.”

  Holmes’ mouth twitched. “You are too trusting, madam. As I said, I myself saw Mr. Lovejoy in disguise, and Henry and I saw Mrs. Lovejoy coming out of a brothel near Underton.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy gave him a look of absolute hatred. “I often visit brothels as part of the Lord’s work. The poor sinners need our pity.”

  “My cousin Henry went to the same brothel and discussed your activities there with one Lucy Jennings. She said it was widely known that you would pay for any sordid and disgusting information, that you were only too happy to blackmail the clientele, especially those of a higher class. She also said you had unusual... ideas about her trade.”

  Henry nodded gravely. “She told me all that and more.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy’s upper lip curled back. “She was lying!”

  “Lestrade also found that you and your associates were well known,” Holmes said. “I am certain you are responsible for the theft of Herbert’s necklace and for Lord Harrrington’s death.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy leaped again to her feet. “No! I did not kill anyone.”

  Lovejoy seized her wrist again. “Abigail!”

  Holmes stared calmly back at her. “You only drove him to it.”

  “No.”

  Lovejoy stood and took her by the shoulders. “Please, Abigail.”

  Violet had also gone very pale. “Why... why would she do such a thing?”

  Holmes’ fingertips tapped at his thighs. “There was a great deal of money involved. But let me tell you who these two really are. Lestrade was kind enough to set his clerks to work and sent descriptions of the finalists in the contest down with Henry. The clerks were looking for a man and woman briefly involved in crime, five to ten years ago, who had no subsequent record of arrests. I provided a detailed physical description of the Lovejoys, and I told Lestrade to be especially alert for any persons with a background in the theater.”

  “Theater?” Henry said.

  Mrs. Lovejoy’s teeth clamped together, while Lovejoy gave a sharp, involuntary laugh.

  Holmes nodded. “Yes. It had become obvious that both Lovejoys were consummate actors. I had seen Mr. Lovejoy do Steerford, and then there was Mrs. Lovejoy’s remarkable performance last week after seeing the supposed fiend. Do you recall her excellent diction and impressive volume? Unlike Mrs. Wheelwright, whose voice was hoarse, weak, and strained, Mrs. Lovejoy was deafening. She has a very big voice and has been well trained. Her religious fanatic is quite convincing, but of course it is only another role.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy could not repress a brief, savage smile.

  “Of course, the high point of her career, the performance of a lifetime, was that of the crazed gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy dug her nails into her knees, and I drew in my breath sharply. “Dear God,” Violet murmured, her hand still pressed to her side.

  Holmes smiled. “The old gypsy was always the most preposterous part of the whole business, a character from a second-rate melodrama. After I saw Il Trovatore I became convinced she was modeled after Azucena. Tell me, madam.” He stared sharply at the woman in the black dress. “Did you ever study voice as well?”

  She said nothing.

  Henry nodded. “She could have left the note in the library—and substituted the cake before the party. She knew everything that went on in the house. And she must have watched while someone else tried to strangle Violet.”

  I leaned forward in my chair and stared at the woman. “How could you do such a thing? What has Violet ever done to you?”

  Her guilt seemed obvious, and she lowered her eyes. Lovejoy had hold of her arm. “I... I do not know what you are talking about,” she said.

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. He was pale himself and caught up in a strange fury. “Do you not, Miss Abigail Farnsworth?” She drew in her breath, her eyes widening. “It was unwise to retain your actual first name. And this is Mr. James Farnsworth. They are not man and wife. They are brother and sister. The descriptions fit perfectly, and there are even photographs from their days on stage. She had lighter hair then, but it was only dye.”

  No one spoke for about a moment—the air was charged with tension.

  “These two come from a theatrical family, having joined their parents as children on tours. They worked in the serious theater. Miss Farnsworth had a career as the blonde ingénue, while her bearded brother—who is six years her senior—specialized in Shakespeare. Unfortunately, Miss Farnsworth decided to supplement her flagging career with some extortion. She became involved with several wealthy and indiscreet young gentlemen. Miss Farnsworth would lead them along so far, but then Mr. Farnsworth would appear as the outraged brother and threaten both bodily injury and public denunciation. They were only too happy to pay a hundred pounds or so to have him off their backs. Two disgruntled suitors finally compared notes and went to the police.”

  Already I felt relieved. “But why would they want to hurt Violet?” I asked.

  The Lovejoys—or Farnsworths—stared at one another. He still held her arm in his hand. She turned to me and gave a sharp laugh. “You don’t understand, do you? You are like all the others. I hate you—hate you all.” She clenched her fists, her face contorting horribly. She laughed again. “Have you ever had to bow—to scrape—to fawn and beg? You are no better than she! Your kind treat us like dirt—you do not even see us!”

  “No mistress is kinder than Violet!” I exclaimed.

  “Kind—kind!” She drew back her lips, baring her teeth at me. “I do not want your kindness—your charity! I want you and all your kind to suffer—to suffer as you have made me and so many others suffer. And all those filthy young men! Curse you—curse you all!”

  Lovejoy shook her arm. “What are you saying, my dear? Stop this, I beg of you! Please, my dear.” He shook his head. “Your nonsense has disturbed her, Mr. Holmes. You are absolutely mistaken—I have never heard of your Farnsworth, but you have upset my wife. Her mind is... unbalanced.” He seemed genuinely distressed.

  Holmes raised his long white hands, then clapped politely three times. “Bravo, Mr. Farnsworth—bravo, Miss Farnsworth. Another superb performance. It is truly a shame you did not continue on in the theater. What a pair you might have made. You could have challenged Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. Alas, I fear it is now too late.”

  Violet’s left hand clutched the arm of the chair, the tendons standing out. I was glad to have the threat to her life lifted, but I feared what this added strain might do to her. She did look ill, her eyes feverish. She stared at Holmes. “Are you... are you quite sure about this, Mr. Holmes?”

  As he looked at her, the smile faded from his lips, and I could see the fatigue about his eyes. He had also been up all night, and the two of them were beyond mere exhaustion. “Yes,” he said.

  Violet put her hand over her eyes. “I... I cannot believe it.”

  Henry appeared as relieved as I. “You must tell Donald Wheelwright. He will have to eat some crow.”

  Violet moaned and turned away toward the window. I stood up and went to her. “Oh, my poor dear.” I touched her unhurt shoulder, and she clutched desperately for my hand. “It will be all right now—it is all over with.”

  The Farnsworths said nothing. Sherlock’s mouth jerked briefly into a smile, and then it was gone, his gray eyes bleak and desperate.

  “Not quite,” he said. “A few details remain.”

  The fire had died down. He picked up a log, dropped it on the flames, then seized the poker and thrust viciously at the blackened wood. “Obviously an accomplice was involved, the person who attempted to strangle Mrs. Wheelwright last week and who attacked her last night. The first event would seem to require a man, the second a woman.”

  “It could have been a man disguised as a woman last night,” I said. “The gypsy must have been strong.”

  Holmes laughed, a sound that set my teeth on edge. “Very good, Michelle.
So we have an accomplice to account for, and one very curious fact.” He paused and looked first at Henry, then at me. Neither of us spoke.

  Holmes began to pace. “The Farnsworths in the police records do not amount to much. Their crimes were petty and uninspired. Decent actors they might be—even splendid at times,” he gave them an ironic glance, “but there is nothing to prepare one for the scope and genius of what they have done in the last year or two. You have heard me jokingly refer to my Moriarty, but all along I have sensed a truly first-rate mind at work. The oil scam was cleverly designed to pull in the cream of London society, to embarrass and even ruin many. I am quite certain Mr. Steerford got his million pounds, and then there was the peculiar business with the Angels of the Lord. A very odd sensibility was involved, one with an insidious twist. My Moriarty wanted to arouse the prostitutes and servants, to inflame them, to turn them against their employers and their clientele. Money—mere avarice—was not what motivated Moriarty. We are dealing with a complex and disturbed mind, but a brilliant one. To have conceived of so many plots, to have spun so many webs, cast so many threads, found so many allies, all consumed with the same hatred of high society and the same hatred of... of men.”

  Violet still held my hand, and I could feel her trembling. A strange, subliminal dread coalesced out of the air and settled about my heart.

  “Could the Farnsworths—could two hack actors—have ever dreamed all of this up? Never—never. My Moriarty is made of stronger stuff.” He laughed.

  My eyes were fixed on him. His face appeared grotesque and twisted, his anguish apparent in his terrible smile. He ran his long fingers through his oily black hair, leaving his arm raised and bent.