The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Four

  After we reached Baker Street, I told Holmes I would be happy to accompany him again on an afternoon, because my practice was not particularly demanding at that time. Thus, two days later, I received a telegram inviting me to meet with royalty and high society.

  I had some difficulty getting away and arrived late, shortly after one. No royal barouche was present at Baker Street, only an antiquated carriage whose scowling driver possessed a huge black mustache. The horses, however, were regal, massive creatures whose dark brown and black coats had a glossy sheen; they were cleaner and better cared for than many London children.

  Their apparent owner sat before the fire in the chair of honor, and both he and Sherlock rose to greet me. What an extraordinary costume! His frock coat was double breasted and of a brilliant maroon velvet, a style which had been fashionable decades ago. However, the big shiny silver buttons, which matched his belt and shoe buckles, must be recent additions. His waistcoat was purple silk, his trousers gray wool. He had deep brown, leathery skin, and a fine network of cracks about his eyes and mouth. His mustache and the long hair spilling onto his shoulders were white, but his eyebrows remained a stark black. His eyes themselves were dark brown, large, and curiously intense.

  “This is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier,” Sherlock said. “Henry, this is the king of the gypsies.” A faint smile played about Holmes’ lips, but his eyes remained serious.

  “A pleasure to meet your majesty,” I said.

  The monarch had a grip like a steel trap, but a brief glint of irony showed in his dark eyes. He held a foul-smelling cigar between two fingers of his left hand.

  “I am sorry to be late,” I said.

  Holmes opened his desk drawer and took out a wooden box. “His majesty has only recently arrived.” He raised the lid, and I could smell the tobacco. “Would you care for one of mine?”

  The gypsy flicked his wrist lightly, tossing the remnant of his cigar into the fireplace. “Ah, yes. Good of you to remember.” He stuck the long cigar in his mouth, then withdrew a clasp knife from his pocket and opened it. Light glistened upon the long shiny blade. He lopped off the end of the cigar, threw the fragment into the fireplace, and let Holmes light the cigar. Soon he gave a contented sigh, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke. Sherlock used a more gentlemanly cutter on his own cigar.

  “This is truly wonderful, Mr. Holmes.” He glanced at me. “Your cousin is not only my friend, but a friend to the gypsies. He has saved my son from rotting in an English jail.”

  Holmes crossed his legs and exhaled. “He was most unjustly accused.”

  “Still, I am in your debt forever. What can I do for you? Your note did not say.”

  Holmes took the thick cigar between thumb and forefinger. “Did you hear of the gypsy woman appearing at the Paupers’ Ball a year and a half ago?”

  The gypsy said nothing, but his eyes changed rather subtly. Until then he had appeared an exotic, even faintly comical figure, but now I saw something dangerous in his countenance. Certainly that clasp knife was not used only for cutting cigars. He muttered something in Romany, the gypsy language, which was obviously a curse, then nodded.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “I can tell you she was almost certainly one of the gorgiki.”

  “Who are the gorgiki?” I asked.

  Holmes glanced at me. “The term is a generic one for non-gypsies. So your majesty does not believe she was a gypsy?”

  The gypsy shrugged. “Who can be sure of anything in this life? All I know is the business has a bad smell. We gypsies do not go looking for trouble, not like this woman did. Also, no one can tell me who she is, not even the gypsies who saw her.”

  I frowned. “There were gypsies at the ball?”

  The king gave me a stern look but said nothing. Holmes shook his head. “That does not interest us. So you made inquiries as to her identity?”

  “Yes. There are not so many old gypsy women in London, not true gypsies, and especially not sorceresses. No one can tell me who she is. Also, her English is too good. I hear she has no accent and bellows like a bull.”

  “Do you have any idea who might wish to do your people harm?” Sherlock asked.

  The gypsy laughed, hard and sharp. “All of the gorgiki seem to wish us ill. We are not saints, but we are accused of every crime, every unpleasantness. Forgive me, my friend. I do not include you and your cousin amongst our enemies, and in all honesty, I do not think I would include this woman at the ball. She meant no harm to gypsies. She was only acting a part.”

  Holmes picked up a small brass vase and knocked his cigar ash into it. “My thoughts exactly. And I suppose an old gypsy woman would not have written this?” Holmes took the parchment note from his pocket and unfolded it.

  The king glanced at the note, then laughed in earnest, a roaring sound. “You joke with me, Mr. Holmes. I do not know of any old gypsy women who can write English.”

  Holmes gave a nod. “I thought not.”

  “Read me the note, my friend.”

  The gypsy listened, cigar between his lips. The smile faded from his mouth, his eyes growing cold. “Truly a bad business. It has the stench of evil—probably a witch or sorceress, but not one of my people. Wishing barrenness upon a woman is very bad. A gypsy would hesitate before unleashing such a curse, and we do not drag our women into our quarrels.”

  “It is signed only with the letter A. Do you know what that letter might stand for?”

  The gypsy shook his head.

  “What you have told me only confirms my conclusions, but I wished to be certain. I knew that you must know if any gypsy had truly been involved.”

  “I ask of you one favor, my friend. Should you find this person, and she is not a gypsy—as we both suspect—will you make this known? Every time there is such a story, your proper Englishman and your police feel they must go out and kick the nearest gypsy.”

  Sherlock knocked off more ash into the vase. “If it is at all possible, I shall make certain the newspapers print the true facts.”

  We chatted for a while, the conversation turning to less serious matters, while Mrs. Hudson served tea. Finally, the king rose and said it was time to leave. Glancing at me, he asked if I were an equestrian, and he was clearly disappointed when I told him I was not.

  “Should you ever wish to buy a horse, see me first.” He made it sound more a command than a request, and I assured him I would do so.

  From the bow window, we watched the aged carriage and its magnificent horses depart. “He seems a pleasant enough man,” I said.

  Sherlock gave a sharp laugh. “So long as you number him among your friends. He makes a most fearsome enemy. Little happens anywhere in the London underworld that he does not know about.”

  “His eyes had... an unusual glint.”

  “How old would you take him to be?” Sherlock asked.

  “His late fifties.”

  “He is nearly eighty, but woe to any youthful fool who should wish to fight him! His first wife bore him several sons before expiring, one of whom was driving the carriage, and his new wife is expecting a child, no doubt another son.” Holmes took his top hat and stick. “The weather is exceptional. Let us walk for a while.”

  “Where are we going? High society, I presume.”

  He smiled. “Oh yes.”

  We started down the street. The gloomy weather of the past few days had lifted, winter retreating before a returning autumn. Great coats and mackintoshes had been left at home. The golden sun was low in the sky and lit up the bronze leaves of an oak tree across the way.

  “Do you recall Lord Harrington visiting me on Monday? Yesterday, I went to the home of his deceased brother, the former Lord Harrington, and spoke with his coachman and an elderly butler. I convinced them at last to give me the name and address of the woman he was seeing. I assured them I would not involve the police or allow their master’s good name to be impugned. They seemed genuinely fond of him. The coachman had ofte
n seen the woman greet his master at her door, and that particular day, the butler admitted her into the house. An hour later, he found Lord Harrington in a pool of blood, and the lady had fled. He was not surprised, because his master had been acting oddly and had even bid him farewell earlier that day. Harrington was a big strong man, and neither the coachman nor the butler thought the small woman could have possibly murdered him in such a violent way. Hence their silence with the police.”

  “So we go to question the lady. And her address? She must dwell in one of the more respectable houses of accommodation.” Sherlock took a piece of paper from his pocket. I stared at the writing for a few seconds. “Good Lord—there must be some mistake.”

  “There is no mistake.”

  “But one must be well-off and above reproach to live on that street.”

  Holmes smiled again. “Obviously only the first is true.”

  We soon hailed a hansom and took a brief ride through the sunny streets. There were wealthier neighborhoods than our destination, but none more respectable; it was a favorite of retired officers, rising young bankers, and solicitors. We went to the main entrance of the house in question, and Holmes rapped with the door knocker.

  “Contradict nothing I say,” he said. “I want our quarry to believe we are prospective clients.”

  I gave him a suitably dumbfounded look. The door swung open. In the musty shadow stood an enormous woman dressed in gray. Her colorless, soiled hair was parted exactly down the middle, and she had a greasy curl before each ear. Her chin and mouth floated upon a great moon of flesh, which bloated forth from a lace collar. Two grayish-brown eyes, like flecks of mud, stared from under half-closed lids, and two rosy spots on either cheek, obviously rouge, clashed with the rest of her complexion. The pink of her tongue flickered across her lower lip, and she smiled at us, an expression which made me want to turn and run.

  “Good day, gentlemen. What might I do for you?”

  Holmes held his hat in his hands, long fingers clutching at the brim. “We wish to see Miss Flora Morris.”

  The woman’s chin bobbed in its sea of flesh. “Ah, yes—my niece, Flora. And what business would you gentlemen have with her?”

  “A friend recommended her to us, madam. He said her acquaintance might prove a fruitful one.” Holmes winked at her and attempted to leer.

  The woman gave a great hah! of a laugh. “Fruitful, yes—that’s very good.”

  “I can assure you that it will be a very profitable meeting, if you take my meaning.” He gave his pocket a pat.

  The woman laughed again. “I’m sure!” She glanced about somewhat warily. “Do come in, gentlemen. No use standing about in the street.”

  We stepped inside, and she closed the heavy oak door behind us, shutting out the warm sun and the autumnal breeze. The parlor had an odd odor; dark maroon curtains hung on either side of the tall windows, the blinds pulled almost to the sills, leaving it dim and chill. I shuddered as I glanced about. The furniture was massive and solid; ornate lace doilies were pinned to the arms of the overstuffed chairs and sofa. The carpet was thick and appeared new, a pattern of somber reds and purples.

  “I am Mrs. Morris. I can take you to Flora. However...” She glanced at me, her eyes briefly conducting an appraisal. “I have another niece, Louise, who will be back shortly.”

  “We both wish to meet Flora,” Sherlock said.

  Mrs. Morris scratched at her chin. “It will cost you extra.”

  “The expense is not a problem.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes dug his fingers into my arm and smiled grotesquely. “My friend is very shy.”

  Mrs. Morris smiled again. “We shall remedy that.”

  She turned and started for the stairs. She must have weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, but she wore a bustle, the worst possible fashion for such a figure. The gray dress was fully cut, not tight, an expensive-looking fabric—and there were yards of it. Her upper arms were as big around as a stevedore’s, though not so hard, and the girth at her waist reminded me of a young oak growing before the house. We followed her up the stairs. My cheeks felt warm as I reflected upon the few brief words between her and my cousin.

  “Exactly how many nieces do you have, Mrs. Morris?” Sherlock asked.

  “Just the two, and very good girls they are. They do me proud.” We went down the hallway, and she wrapped at a door. “Flora! Flora! Visitors, dear.”

  The door swung open. The girl inside was so different from Mrs. Morris that any lingering doubts that they might actually be related vanished at once. She was a slight little thing, frail, blonde, and very pale. She was not truly beautiful, but she had a pleasant enough face: large blue eyes, a narrow mouth with almost colorless lips, and a small, slightly turned-up nose. She smiled at us, revealing a pair of dimples, but she seemed weary. Her blue silk dress was well cut with the puffy upper sleeves coming into fashion. It emphasized her tiny waist.

  “These gentlemen said a friend had recommended your acquaintance.”

  Flora’s chest swelled as she inhaled. I could not hear any whistling, but she appeared almost consumptive. “Do come in, gentlemen.”

  Mrs. Morris folded her arms as we walked by. “I’ll be close by if you need anything. And I shall want fifty pounds.” She spoke in such a way that she sounded both accommodating and threatening.

  Flora closed the door. She was a good six inches shorter than her supposed aunt. We were in a large sitting room, the furniture, carpet, drapes, and decorations all of the highest quality. “Do sit down, gentlemen.”

  She herself sat in a wicker chair near the window, the light quite flattering. She wore gloves, but she pulled them off. Her hands were small and slender, and I could see the blue veins under the skin. Her smile had vanished, but she attempted to resurrect it.

  “A friend gave you my name? I hope he was pleased.” Something about her articulation was a bit strained; her “H”s were overemphasized.

  Holmes had sat at one end of the velvet sofa. Even the furniture seemed suggestive. “I presume so, Miss Morris.”

  She ran the fingertips of one hand across the palm of the other; the skin of her palm had a rosy orange flush. Despite the smile fixed on her lips, her blue eyes seemed detached, curiously vacant. I could almost see her thoughts losing focus and drifting, but then she willed herself back into the room, again becoming conscious of our presence.

  “We do our best to please. Would you gentlemen care to go out somewhere for supper, or would you prefer...?” The sudden awkwardness did not fit with her profession, but she was so very young—at most a year or two past twenty—that she could not have been thus employed for long.

  “We would prefer a brief chat,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you would like to know the name of the person who told us about you?”

  “Surely.” Again there was something oddly vacant about her smile.

  “Lord Joseph Harrington.”

  If this was a test, it produced the desired effect. She sat bolt upright, and every last vestige of color drained from her already pale face. One hand rose, covered her mouth.

  “I see the name is familiar to you.”

  She let her hand drop. “What is this?”

  “We are friends of the late Lord Harrington, Miss Morris, and we wish to put some questions to you.”

  She said nothing, but her terror was palpable, showing most of all in her eyes. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  Holmes peered at her. “Did you not, Miss Morris?”

  Her hand slipped down to her chest, her fingers splayed out across her bosom. “I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “So you did not kill him?”

  I would not have thought she could be more frightened, but her mouth opened wide, revealing discolored teeth. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She shook her head wildly. “No—no!” Abruptly her eyes seemed to go liquid, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

  I glanced at Holmes, then at her. “Calm yourself, Miss Morris.
If you are truly innocent, you have nothing to fear from us.”

  Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her, and his visage seemed monstrous, gargoyle-like, with that beak of a nose, sharp chin, and probing stare. “That is true. If she is innocent.” The irony in his voice was cutting.

  Her hands shook, but she still seemed unable to speak.

  “For God’s sake, Sherlock—you will make her ill.”

  Suddenly, she leaped to her feet. “Auntie!” she screamed. “Auntie!” I wanted to cover my ears, her voice was so loud.

  The door swung open at once, and the old woman appeared. All pretense of amiability was gone, and she resembled a vicious cur, her face red with anger. Behind her stood a tall man whose visage was completely at odds with his dress. He wore the formal garb of a butler, but he had the face of a pugilist, worn and aged. His nose was twisted and had been broken more than once; he had a great scar over one eye.

  I too had leaped to my feet, but Holmes remained seated. He opened his coat, withdrew a revolver, cocked it, and leveled the barrel at Mrs. Morris. “I mean your niece no harm, madam, but I will speak with her.”

  The old harpy glared at him. She was, luckily for us, a good ten feet away, or I think she would have rushed him. The revolver did not seem to frighten her, but the gigantic butler appeared subdued. He backed up slightly into the doorframe.

  “Give me ten minutes with your niece, and then I shall leave. We need to ask her a few questions about Lord Harrington.”

  The name, which had so frightened Miss Morris, seemed to enrage the old woman even further. Her great chest swelled, and her face grew so red I thought she might burst a vessel in her brain. “You get out of here!”

  “Ten minutes, Mrs. Morris.”

  “Out!” she bellowed.

  Holmes reached into his pocket with his left hand and threw several gold coins at her, which I recognized as sovereigns. “Ten minutes, my good woman. I would prefer paying you to shooting you.”

  I could not believe he would actually shoot the old dragon, but if he had any doubts, you could not see them in his face. The old woman snatched up the coins while the pugilist butler stepped sideways, out of the line of fire.