The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “Who?” I asked. “Who?”

  Holmes stared out the window at the bleak white landscape. “She might have gotten away with it if only she had kept me out of it. The note made Wheelwright call me in. He was never much of a suspect. I sensed something wrong, but the Farnsworths were her agents and a shield before her. If not for the spiders... But she could not resist the spiders. They were a cruel touch. Wheelwright has a mortal fear of them—there can be no doubt of that. But she was an entomologist’s daughter, one who took after her father.”

  I felt a very odd sensation at the nape of my neck, and while my face felt hot, my hands were suddenly cold as ice. “Oh, dear God—no. No.” I stared out the windows at the whiteness. Small black dots began to swim about and fall slowly downward, while the blood in my ears roared like a waterfall. Very distantly, I heard myself saying, “Oh God!” again.

  Someone shook me hard, and briefly I saw Henry, his blue-gray eyes intent, the flat bone running down his nose, the brown thick hairs of his mustache, and the creases in the dark skin of his lower lip. “Sit down—you must sit down.” I nearly fell into the chair. He was massaging my hands. “Keep your head low. Damnation, Sherlock! Next time don’t do this to her after she has been up half the night and has had no breakfast!”

  My eyes came back into focus upon Violet. She was staring at me, her dark eyes full of concern. “I am sorry, Michelle.” She looked up at Holmes, the mocking smile pulling briefly at her lips. “I knew from the first that I could never deceive you.” She appeared somehow relieved.

  Lovejoy—or Farnsworth—or whoever he was—shook his head grimly. “Mr. Holmes, you have no proof of any of this. You have upset my wife; you have driven my mistress half mad. When will you be satisfied?”

  Henry still had hold of me, and I could not see his face. His voice was grim. “Are you certain of this, Sherlock—are you absolutely certain?”

  Holmes drew in his breath. He looked very tired, dark circles under his eyes, his face gaunt, his lips grayish. “Yes.”

  Violet was smiling at him. “Tell them what proof you have.”

  Holmes reached out with his long arm and sagged against the wall next to the fireplace. “It was those attacks which gave you away. The first was brilliant, the second merely desperate.”

  “But the bruises...” I moaned. “Who choked her?”

  “That was Mr. Farnsworth.” He turned to Farnsworth, whose genteel front suddenly wavered, his alarm apparent.

  “But he was with Wheelwright!” Henry exclaimed.

  “Yes, but he had choked Violet a few minutes earlier. He did it quite carefully, not wishing to injure her, and then he went downstairs. The two women did the rest. Violet is not a professional actor like those two, and as a result, I... was more easily taken in.” He was staring at Violet. “All the same, it must have hurt. Other women might have dreamed up such a scheme, but to actually sit there and let him put his hands about your throat...” He let his arm drop. “This would be quite easy to verify. Mr. Farnsworth’s hands should perfectly match the handprints on her throat. Enough of the bruises remain to make such a comparison.”

  No one said anything. I felt dizzy again and faintly nauseous. What kind of woman could possibly...?

  “This attack was followed by your desperate plea to escape—to go somewhere else—anywhere else. This happened the day after we met Mr. Steerford. Farnsworth had recognized me, even as I recognized him. You knew I was getting very close, and you wanted me out of the way, out of London and far from Steerford and the Angels of the Lord. I was forced to rely on Lestrade. Yesterday the Farnsworths arrived, no doubt with an enormous sum of money, and it was time to send me packing. Mr. Wheelwright had given me one more chance. What better way to get rid of me than by staging a final attack? You did your best to make your husband send me away at once—you baited him—but the storm complicated matters. You three planned to depart today with the money, no doubt heading for the continent. England would be far too hot for you. However, that final attack was clumsy. It confirmed all my suspicions and made everything fall into place.”

  Violet’s head was held high, her brown eyes glistening and chin thrust forward. “And your proof?”

  Holmes walked over to the small desk, opened the top drawer, and held up a common garden fork, less than a foot long, with a wooden handle and three curved tines. I had used such a fork many times to prepare a bed for flowers.

  “Last night I found this near where you were attacked. You had laid it upon your shoulder like this.” Holding it in his right hand, he set the three metal claws back behind his left shoulder. “You pulled it forward and down, ripping open your dress and cutting yourself. You then hurled the fork over the wall as far as you could.”

  “Oh, Violet!” I could not keep the revulsion from my voice. “How could you do such a thing to yourself?”

  She gave me a pained smile, and then looked again at Holmes. “The fork might have been misplaced by the gardener. One would expect to find it amidst rhododendrons and ferns.”

  Holmes gave a savage laugh. “This particular fork was in a bucket before the house with several other tools yesterday morning. The fork was not in the bucket last night. You seized it when you ran from the house.” He held it upright again, his hand shaking. “Shall we examine your lovely white shoulder and verify that the spacing of the tines matches that of the wounds?”

  Violet sighed. “That will not be necessary Mr. Holmes. As I said, I knew I could never deceive you. And I could no more have ignored you, than you could have ignored your Moriarty.”

  I felt curiously empty inside. I made a sound, which I recognized as a sob. “But why, Violet? Why did you do all these terrible things and hurt yourself and...?”

  She lowered her gaze. “Mr. Holmes?”

  “Her all-consuming hatred of her husband. She has hated him for many years, and that hatred has grown into a hatred of his entire circle of acquaintances, of his entire class. It has become a hatred of life itself. She began by wanting to revenge herself upon her husband, to frighten and humiliate him; then she determined to destroy all those who seemed equally shallow, vicious, and cruel. Perhaps... perhaps there was an element of jealousy as well.”

  “Never!” Violet leaped to her feet, her voice a sudden clap of thunder, both hands raised. “Never.” She glared fiercely at him.

  Holmes shrugged. “Comprehending female sentiments has never been my strong point.”

  “His little blonde shopkeeper is welcome to him—welcome to him!” She sank into her chair.

  I put my hand over my mouth. My throat hurt, and I felt almost as if I had been physically assaulted, kicked, or slapped. “I don’t understand,” I managed to say.

  “No,” Violet said sadly, “and you never shall.”

  Henry stroked my hair lightly. “How could you... waste...? Oh, what is the use of questions.”

  Holmes dropped the fork abruptly and pulled a revolver from the pocket of his frock coat. “Please do not move your right arm, Mr. Farnsworth—no sudden motions whatsoever. Very good. Now slowly withdraw your hand. Set it on your lap. Excellent. Henry, I believe he has a pistol of some sort in his inner jacket pocket. Would you be so kind...?”

  Henry walked across the room to the sofa and carefully reached into Farnsworth’s pocket. He was on the opposite side from the sister. He withdrew a small, ugly weapon.

  “A derringer, Mr. Farnsworth. Wherever did you find it? Do you realize how difficult it is to hit anything? They are totally useless beyond a few feet.”

  Violet shook her head angrily. “You did not tell me about any guns, James.”

  Farnsworth glared at her. “His proof does not amount to much.”

  “What is the use?” Violet sighed. “You have it all exactly right, Mr. Holmes.” Her smile slowly faded. “I must confess I don’t much care for the idea of prison.”

  “You cannot!” I cried. “You are too sick!” I turned to Sherlock. “For God’s sake—you cannot let them lock
her up—please!”

  Holmes flinched. “Calm yourself, Michelle,” he said. Henry came back across the room. I grabbed for his hand. He sat on the chair arm and put his other hand on my shoulder.

  Holmes and Violet were staring at one another. She appeared sick again and utterly exhausted. The Farnsworths were frightened now, both of them. The fire had died down, but with a sudden crackle, an ember flew out and landed on the hearthrug.

  Holmes lowered the revolver and closed his eyes momentarily. His mouth twitched. “If you will return the money—every penny—I shall let you go.”

  Violet stared at him. “What?”

  “You must give back all the money and call off the Angels of the Lord and the others. It must all cease.”

  Violet smiled. “My own father-in-law has paid James for years to spy on me, and Harrington—he was such a pig. Abigail was only one of his victims. If you had known him, you might have understood.”

  Holmes opened his mouth, his face reddening. “You presume too much, madam. Never speak that way to me—never. I will not tolerate such talk from you or anyone else. You are beautiful and have great charm; you are a genius; but you do not know everything. You are not God. Do not try to be a deity—do not try to judge and punish the guilty. The world will always have an abundance of fools and scoundrels. Now then, as I said, if you will return the money, dismiss these two, and call off your Angels, I shall let you go free. If you will only give me your word, I shall leave this house and never set eyes on you again.”

  Violet stared silently at him. The corners of her mouth slowly rose. “Free?” She laughed. “You still do not understand.”

  “For God’s sake, Violet.” Farnsworth leaned forward, a man I had never seen before. “Say yes!”

  Violet shook her head. “None of you do. You simply do not understand. I would rather die than spend another day with my husband. This is my eighth wedding anniversary.” She laughed, baring her teeth. “It was to be the day of my escape—my triumph. I’d rather die than stay with him—I’d rather die.” She was smiling, but there was no doubt she meant it.

  “Damnation.” Holmes shook his head, teeth clenched. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

  The door swung open, and Holmes jerked about, the revolver ready. Donald Wheelwright froze in the doorway, looming there like some great brown mountain, and stared at the gun. Holmes lowered the barrel. “What is going on in here?” He had on his worn tweed jacket and his enormous walking shoes.

  Violet began to laugh. A red flush appeared on her cheeks. “I was just explaining to Mr. Holmes that I would rather die than spend another day with you.”

  Wheelwright’s brow furrowed, the sullen anger showing in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “You must congratulate Mr. Holmes. He has solved the whole mystery—the spiders, the gypsy, everything. He is worth every pound you paid him. You must assure Father Wheelwright that he is most assuredly not overrated.”

  “What is this?” Wheelwright asked.

  Holmes and Henry stared blankly at him. I knew how they felt. Not only did he appear dangerous, but whatever could we say to him?

  “I am the mastermind—I am the evil genius.” She laughed harshly. “I made the whole thing up—along with the Lovejoys’ assistance. Abigail was the gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball, and she left the note in the library.”

  Wheelwright turned his gaze on Miss Farnsworth, and she went ashen, her fear obvious. “No, no,” she murmured.

  “But you must not blame her—it was my idea—it has all been my idea. I dreamed up the cake with the spiders, and I helped choose them. I knew what a coward you were, how they would reduce the big, strong, masterful Donald Wheelwright to quaking jelly. Watching your face that night made it all worthwhile—watching you run away like some silly little servant girl. And it was Lovejoy who choked me last week after I had found another spider. The spiders were a nice touch. Abigail and I pretended I had been attacked. And last night I tore open my gown with a garden fork and pretended to see the gypsy. It hurt—it hurt dreadfully.” Her voice wavered for a moment. “But I thought of you as I did it. Mr. Holmes was clever enough to find the fork. It’s there on the floor. I’ve also been busy robbing all the pretentious, arrogant fools whose company I have had to endure all these years. I have used a good deal of your money in my schemes, but I have invested so wisely that you are a rich man. Of course, if you had tried to manage the money yourself, we would no doubt be in the poorhouse by now—you could not manage the boiling of an egg.” This struck her as funny, and she began to laugh.

  None of us had moved. Donald Wheelwright’s face was red, his eyes fixed on her. “Is this some... joke?” He glanced at the rest of us.

  Holmes grimly shook his head. “No.”

  He stepped slowly through the doorway, then closed the door and locked it. “You did all this?” He reminded me of people I had treated who had been badly injured but who did not seem to understand that they were hurt.

  Violet choked off her laughter. Her face was red, her eyes aflame, and she hissed, “Yes!” and jerked her head in a nod.

  “You did?” He could not seem to believe it. “But why?”

  “Why? You dare to ask why? Because I hate you!”

  “Why?” His voice was a rumble.

  “Because of what you did to me—because of the filthy, nasty thing you did to me—again and again. I told you not to touch me! I told you I could not bear it! But you were a brute—an animal. You hurt me so—again and again.” The hysterical mania that had seized her faltered; her lips quivered, her eyes filling with tears.

  “Oh, no.” I sighed softly. “Oh, I should have know—I must have known.”

  She had married in her early twenties, and like most women of her class—like Jenny—she had known almost nothing. Some women were lucky, but if the man were rough and cruel, the results could be disastrous, akin to ravishment. And there was no escape for the unhappy woman—no way out—legal or otherwise. The man might do whatever he wished with her.

  Wheelwright glanced nervously about the room. “I haven’t touched you in years.”

  “Thank God for small favors.” Violet laughed harshly. “But you did—you kept at it that first year even though you knew how I loathed it—loathed it. You kept pawing at me. I thought I would go mad each time you touched me. I did not know what to do. I seriously considered suicide. Spiders are no more frightful to you than you are to me. I wanted to die, but then I decided that was foolish. What I really wanted was for you and all your kind to suffer—to feel the same pain and humiliation as I. That was when I decided upon revenge. I would wait and plan and gather you and all the others in my web. I pretended to submit, I seemed to make peace, but all the while I consoled myself by making my plans, by imagining how you and the others would suffer even as your wives, your servants, and your pathetic whores had suffered.” She bared her teeth in a cruel, joyful smile. “Oh, yes, and I made sure I could not bear your child.”

  Frightened, I leaped to my feet. “What have you done!”

  Violet bit at her lip, surprised. “It was only a simple... device, but it prevents...” Embarrassed, she looked away.

  My fists were clenched. “Oh Lord, this is all so pathetically foolish—so absurd.”

  For a moment I had feared she might have mutilated herself, but I knew the device she spoke off. Now I understood. She had nearly fainted at the clinic when I had discussed human biology with Jenny and again when I had been stitching up a man’s brawny thigh. Childbirth also made her uneasy. The signs had all been there. I had suspected all along, but I had suppressed the knowledge—driven it from my awareness because I did not want to believe it of my beautiful, brilliant friend.

  Wheelwright looked like someone had struck him. “You did not want... a child?”

  “No—never—not your child.” Her repulsion was obvious.

  Holmes seemed ill—and simply embarrassed. The Farnsworths sat stiffly on the sofa, no doubt glad not to b
e the center of attention, but still fearful.

  Wheelwright made a choking noise. “You call me a... brute... a monster. Look at yourself, woman. Good God—look at yourself.”

  Violet glared at him, fierce as ever, but the wild joy was gone. For the first time she appeared truly ugly, her face twisted and deranged by hatred. Holmes had been correct—it was all-consuming. It would devour and destroy her.

  “You are the monster.” Wheelwright’s massive hands had begun to tremble. “You. You do not deserve...” Abruptly he lashed out and struck her across the face.

  “Mr. Wheelwright!” Henry exclaimed.

  I went over to her. She sat in the chair, but her entire body quivered under my hand. Holmes had also stepped forward, a resolute look in his eyes.

  Violet’s mouth was bleeding, her laugh pained and sharp. “Go ahead—kill me and be done with it once and for all. Kill me—but don’t bully me ever again, you ugly freak.”

  Wheelwright’s blue eyes no longer appeared human, and I crouched down, trying to shelter Violet with my arms. “Do not touch her.”

  “You...” His eyes focused on me, along with his rage. “Meddling witch—keep out of this. All of you keep out of this!” he roared, and then his big hand caught me square in the chest, on the sternum, and sent me flying backward.

  Violet screamed, “No!”

  I landed hard on my backside, the breath knocked out of me. Henry rushed Wheelwright; I heard a sickening thud as the big man’s fist struck him. Henry half turned, toppled, and fell near me.

  “Henry!” I cried. I went on my knees to him. “Henry.” I touched his face; I saw the red mark on his chin and jaw that would become a bruise. I took his shoulders and shook him. “Oh, Henry.”

  Holmes knelt beside me, his black frock coat spilling onto the floor, and touched Henry on the throat. “The blow has only stunned him.”

  “Watch out!” I cried.

  He had dropped his guard, and Wheelwright came at him, kicking out with his enormous boot. The revolver flew through the air; Holmes cried out and clutched at his hand. Wheelwright’s head swept back and forth, then he turned and yanked Violet up out of the chair by her arm. She screamed, the sound raw and strained. He hit her face again, twice, his big hand like a flat club.