The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  At this I could not restrain a laugh. “Are you mad? You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever known, while I... You would not want paws like this.” I held up my red hands with their thick fingers.

  “I like your hands. My beauty, as you call it, is only fashion, mere convention. Every man at the party was staring at you, even the Reverend Killington.”

  “That dirty hypocrite. I know one man who could not take his eyes off you—Sherlock Holmes. You really are very lovely. That is why I cannot understand...” I did not mention Donald’s name, but it rose like a dark cloud between us. “You know, if you wished—you are not too old—and you would make an excellent physician.”

  This set her laughing. She grasped her tray with both hands.

  “I am not joking.”

  “I know you are not, but I haven’t the stomach for it—literally—nor the inclination.”

  “It is good to use the brains God gave one, as you put it.”

  “I know.” She kept laughing.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She caught her breath and managed to stop laughing. “It struck me as funny for some reason. I know because I do use my brains—I cannot help it. I cannot exactly turn off my brain, if you know what I mean.” She took a piece of bread and buttered it, then set down the tray. “I was hungry, and I do feel much better.” She began to yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “Pardon me. I feel now like I could sleep.”

  “Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps I should leave and let you go to bed.”

  “Please do not go—please.” Her eyes were suddenly frightened.

  “Of course, I shall stay if you wish.”

  She bit off a piece of bread. “I am being foolish. Go if you wish. I only... I am tired now, but when I lie down I grow so... restless. How can I be so weary and yet not sleep?” The question had an undercurrent of anxiety.

  “You are overly tired. Let me give you something, and then I shall stay until you fall asleep.”

  “You would do that?”

  “Of course.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “You really are a generous person.”

  “Oh, do stop it, Violet! I assure you, I am no paragon, no angel in womanly form. You know better.”

  “Ah, but you are an angel in womanly form, that bearer of the divine spark, that divine vessel meant to guide the errant nature of your husband onto the spiritual plain.”

  “Now you are delirious. Whatever have you been reading?”

  “All that is needed are the darling children, four boys and four girls.”

  “Rather more than I had in mind.”

  “But there will be children?” Her dark eyes were fixed on me.

  “Oh, yes. When we are ready.”

  “Ah. The Princess of Wales was quite worn out when she was our age. She had borne the Prince, our future king, six children by the age of twenty-six. Her reward was that he took up with Lily Langtry, the first of his whores to be publicly flaunted. Have you seen Mrs. Langtry on stage? They say she is still a beauty but has gotten quite fat.”

  “Violet...”

  “I am sorry. Please pardon me. My mind sometimes does cartwheels. Perhaps you should give me the magic potion so you can be off.”

  “I can stay as long as you wish.”

  “You are very kind, but I have imposed on you long enough. Besides, I am so exhausted I can hardly think straight. Do you ever wish you could shut off your mind? Mine just seems to go and go like some mechanical thing, the same tired thoughts repeating themselves endlessly.” Her eyes had an unhealthy glint.

  I took her empty water glass and filled it from the pitcher near the bed.

  “All of life seems like clockwork,” she said. “It all just goes, the wheels and cogs turning ceaselessly. The key has been wound, and now the machine must run. It is out of my hands. I thought I was controlling it, but I am only one tiny part, one more cog. There can be no retreat, no turning back.”

  I gave her so curious a look that she laughed.

  “Surely by now you know not to pay any attention to my ravings.”

  I added a few drops of an opiate to the water. “Drink this.”

  She took the glass, swirled the liquid. “Will it keep me asleep? I... I do not like waking in the early morning.”

  “It will,” I said, knowing that my firm pronouncements were often more effective than my medicines.

  She raised the glass. “A ta santé, ma chère amie.” She drank it down.

  “Now get into bed.”

  She stood up and swayed slightly. I stepped forward and seized her arm. Again I had a sense of being so much larger than she. She smiled at me. “I am only a little dizzy. It is nothing.”

  I led her to the bed and drew aside the covers. “Do you sleep with your robe on?”

  “Yes, the sheets are cold—icy.”

  I thought of the familiar warmth of Henry beside me at night, and something seemed to catch in my throat. I drew the covers over her. She was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. I turned and walked toward the fire.

  “Michelle!” She had sat up in bed, her eyes wide open.

  “I am only getting a chair.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  I brought the chair over to the bed and turned down the flame of the nearby lamp.

  “Do not turn it off.”

  “I shall not.”

  I sat down by the bed. Violet smiled at me. The drug already seemed to have soothed her agitated mania. Her pale thin face showed all her weariness. She had dark circles under her eyes, her mouth pinched. She looked so ill it frightened me. I reached out and took her thin white hand in mine.

  “You are so cold.”

  “I am freezing. It was nice by the fire.”

  I put my hand on her forehead. “You have no fever.”

  She gave a restless sigh. “If only I could sleep.”

  “You will, and I shall be here until you do. You have my promise.”

  She smiled. “Did your mother tuck you in when you were a child?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “I wish I had known my mother. My nanny tucked me in, and sometimes my father. He would tell me bedtime stories.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot remember any.”

  “His stories usually had insects in them. The ants were very good, very civilized, while the beetles were bad.”

  I laughed. “I would have liked to hear one of those stories.”

  “They were wonderful. I like stories, except ones with gypsies.”

  “We shall not talk about gypsies. Besides, Sherlock believes there are no gypsies involved. Whoever is behind it, he will catch them.”

  “Can you be so sure?”

  “Yes. He is very tenacious. He will not rest until he figures things out.”

  The wind rattled the windows again. “Do you like the sound of the wind?” Violet asked.

  “When I am inside, warm, and comfortable!”

  “I do not like it. It makes me feel frightened. Mr. Holmes is very different from how I thought he would be.”

  “In what way?”

  “He is not such a machine, and he is so interesting. And he has hungry eyes.”

  I laughed. “So you noticed that?”

  “Yes. But it is not mere appetite as with the Reverend Killington or Donald’s father. I thought women would not interest Mr. Holmes, but they do.”

  “You interest him very much.”

  “I wish... I wish I had not met him this way. I thought I had him all figured out. If only... But it is too late.” She had closed her eyes.

  I wanted to take her hand again, but she was nearly asleep. “Perhaps it is not so late,” I murmured.

  “It is too late. Years too late. It...” She paused mid-sentence, then she began to breathe very softly and regularly.

  I sat back in the chair. “Oh, Violet, whatever am I to do with you?” My voice quavered slightly.
<
br />   I walked back to the fire, then sat down and put my boots back on. Outside the wind had grown fierce. I wanted to stay awhile, but I could not keep my eyes open. Finally, I stood up. Violet was obviously sound asleep, but she looked so sick.

  I closed the door softly behind me and went downstairs. Lovejoy insisted on fetching a carriage, and I had a wild, wet, windy ride home. As soon as I saw Henry, I rushed into his arms.

  “What is it? You are so cold. Are you...?”

  “Just hold me for a moment,” I said.

  “Gladly. I did miss you,” he murmured gently, and his tone of voice, his touch, seemed to resonate through me as if I were a harp or other instrument, the feelings—the melodies—beyond my control, some mysterious law of harmonies guiding me. As we went upstairs, I told him I would talk about Violet in the morning. We lay together in the darkness, and I clung to him as if I were cast adrift in frigid waters. I fell asleep almost at once, but my dreams were troubled. Violet’s ghostly face with its corona of black hair stared at me. I kept reaching out for Henry.

  Eight

  When the morning light fell on my face, I put a pillow over my head and went back to sleep. When I finally woke up, I rolled over and felt with my foot for Henry, but he was gone. I was very warm and comfortable, but then memories of the night before came back. I glanced at the clock.

  “Good heavens!”

  I never slept so late—it was after ten, and I had patients arriving before nine.

  I slipped out of bed, dressed quickly in the frigid room, and then went downstairs. Harriet had the stove going and was making pie crust. Our black-and-white cat Victoria rubbed about my ankles. I scratched her forehead.

  “Morning, ma’am. You look much rested.”

  “I should have been awake hours ago.”

  “Mr. Henry said you weren’t to be bothered. He is seeing your patients for you. Let me pour your coffee and milk. And shall I warm up some of the leftover porridge?”

  “Yes, I am famished.”

  I sipped my coffee and glanced at The Times. A column about the Prince of Wales reminded me of what Violet had said the night before. “Harriet?” The kitchen was empty, a small pan left on the stove. I rose and gave the porridge a stir, then burned my mouth tasting it.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Henry came in wearing his best black frock coat and waistcoat.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  He stared closely at me. “How do you feel?”

  I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Much better. Can you spare a moment?”

  “Yes. Mrs. Scott sent a note saying she could not make her appointment.” We sat down at the table. “Now tell me everything that happened to you last night. You were not yourself. You had quite a grip on me, you know.”

  “Poor darling.” Harriet had returned, and she set a bowl of porridge before me. As I ate, I told him all that had occurred. His face grew more and more sober. When I had finished, he took my hand. We were both silent.

  At last I said, “You should have told me about the mistress. I would not have been so shaken had I already known.”

  “I am sorry. I almost did, but... Sherlock did not want me to worry you.”

  “Let me be the judge of that! However did he find out?”

  “He deduced it from the disorderly state of Donald Wheelwright’s clothing when he visited Baker Street in the afternoon.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Yes. I... I shall not keep such a secret from you again.”

  We were quiet again, our hands still clasped. At last he looked up at me. “Do you think Violet is... mentally unbalanced?”

  I shook my head. “I do not think she is crazy if that is what you mean. She is under a great strain, and...”

  “And?”

  “She is not telling me everything. She was so very... odd. She wanted to know if we were going to have children. She asked about it so frivolously, and yet she badly wanted to know. Why?”

  “Is that not obvious? It is because she cannot have children of her own.”

  I shook my head again. “No, that is too obvious. She really wanted to know what I was going to do. I have never seen her the way she was last night. I always thought her the most self-assured woman I knew.”

  Henry’s shoulders twitched. “That business with the spiders would disturb anyone.”

  “She said nothing about the spiders. I do not think it was them. I am worried about her, very worried. I shall have to keep a close watch on her. The ulcer would be problem enough, but...”

  “You do have a kind heart, Michelle. She was right about that.”

  “So do you, my dear, and I hope you are not black and blue from all the squeezing I gave you last night.”

  He smiled. “You may squeeze me whenever you wish. Do not worry about squeezing too hard.” Harriet had her back to us, and he raised my hand and kissed my knuckles.

  “Oh, Henry. I hope—I hope we never hate each other—or tire of each other.”

  He gave his head a fierce shake. “We shall not.”

  I bit at my lip and stroked his cheek. “I have dawdled long enough, Dr. Vernier. Lady Brankenbury has an appointment at eleven, and she most assuredly will not be late. Duty calls.”

  We went downstairs together, and Henry went to check the morning post. He came back into my examining room with several letters.

  “Here is a telegram from Sherlock. Damnation,” he muttered, giving his head a shake. “Mrs. Dalton has flown the coop.”

  “Who is Mrs. Dalton?”

  “George Herbert’s housekeeper. She must have stolen the necklace after all.”

  “Oh dear—although you said she was frightfully underpaid.”

  “Yes, but that is not considered grounds for grand theft. On a more cheerful note, he wants to know if we would accompany him to Covent Garden tomorrow for the performance of Il Trovatore. He apologizes for the late invitation and pleads distraction. He even offers to pay for our tickets.”

  “How sweet of him. We must go.”

  I saw Violet late that afternoon. She had slept ten hours, was much improved and—like me—seemed embarrassed about the night before. I casually mentioned that Henry and I were going to the opera the next day with Sherlock.

  Her eyes widened, and she seized my wrist. “Oh, but you must join me! Father Wheelwright has a box at Covent Garden, but he and Donald have some evening meeting, potted meat business. I was debating whether to go by myself. The seats are really very good. Tell Mr. Holmes to save his money. It would be wonderful to have you all as my guests—it would mean so much to me!” Her enthusiasm was catching, and I assured her I would pass on the invitation.

  Sherlock, Henry and I—all three of us once again in our finery—paused before the door to Box Three at Covent Garden. Henry knocked. The door swung open, and Violet stood before us, radiant.

  “Oh, I am so glad you could come!”

  Her silk gown was two shades of blue, an elaborate lace framing her bosom, a split in the skirt revealing a darker blue fabric. Her shoulders were bare, and she wore a black silk choker about her slender neck, a single magnificent pearl in front. To my physician’s eyes, she seemed pale and thin, her ribs showing near the sternum above the curve of her bosom. However, her beauty could not be denied; unlike so many of the women at the opera, her gown and jewels did not clash with her person.

  I glanced at Sherlock and recalled Violet saying he had hungry eyes. “I think we are in for a splendid evening,” he said. “Reports of the tenor are favorable, and the principals and the conductor are all Italian.”

  Violet laughed. “An oddly chauvinistic view for an Englishman.”

  “No, no—it is not chauvinism. Il Trovatore is the quintessential Italian opera, and as such is best left to the natives. One would not wish to hear Signor Vitelli attempting Irish ballads; similarly, Il Trovatore should be entrusted to those who know the language and have the music in their blood.”

  “Henry and Sherlock have been telling me so
mething of the plot,” I said. “It sounds very confusing.”

  Violet raised her right eyebrow, smiled and shook her head. “Oh, but it is not complicated at all. It is a simple story of revenge. I can explain it to you. I also have two copies of the libretto. Following it should help. Do you know Italian?”

  “Some. Henry and I both took up Italian before a trip there. It does not sound like French, but the vocabulary is similar. I also studied Latin for years. I should be able to follow along. However, Sherlock reads Italian better than either of us.”

  Violet stared up at him. “Indeed? I am surprised, Mr. Holmes. Somehow I would have thought Italian a bit too extravagantly Mediterranean for a practical Anglo-Saxon nature such as yours.”

  “You are mistaken, madam. Even ignoring the Gallic side of my family, what lover of music could neglect the language of Petrarch and Dante? ‘Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita.’”

  I frowned slightly. “In the middle of the road of our life, I found myself by an obscure wood that the direct way was marred.”

  Sherlock and Henry smiled, while a ripple of laughter slipped from Violet’s lips. “Very close. Not obscure—dark, a dark wood.” Her smile faded away. “‘Una selva oscura’. ‘In the midst of the path of our life, I found myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost.’ The first stanza from Dante’s Inferno—Hell. ‘A quanto a dir qual era e cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura.’” The words sounded beautiful, but she spoke them sadly.

  I shook my head. “I dare not try to make that out.”

  Sherlock smiled. “The second stanza. ‘Ah, how hard to say how this wood was savage, bitter and dense; even thinking of it renews the fear.’ The syntax is rather twisted, but there is nothing in English like ‘selva selvaggia’; ‘savage wood’ is not so melodious.”

  “Nor can fear compare to ‘paura’,” Violet said. “You seem very familiar with Dante’s Divine Comedy, Mr. Holmes.”