The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “Couldn’t you...? Do you have money of your own?”

  “Some, but he’d cut me off without a penny if I tried to leave the firm.”

  “He cannot—he cannot live forever, at any rate—cruel as that might sound.”

  Wheelwright gave a gruff laugh. “Sometimes I think he will outlive me.”

  “Of course he won’t.”

  Wheelwright shrugged. He stared down at the dog swimming about in the pond. “It’s funny how happy a dog is. It doesn’t take much to please them. Some meat and a bone, running about outdoors, and a bit of affection.” He smiled briefly, his mouth taut under the neatly trimmed mustache. “Yes, sometimes I think I’d like to chuck it all. Go somewhere and start over. Just take...” He glanced at me and stopped abruptly. He was probably thinking of his mistress; she would be the one person he would wish to take with him. Or was she only one more unwanted obligation?

  He stood up, put his fingers in his mouth and gave a deafening whistle. “Goldie, come on!” He glanced at me while we waited for the dogs to come back uphill. “It’s all just dreaming, anyway. I guess I’m stuck with houses and servants and the whole business. Most men would envy me, I suppose.”

  “I do not envy you.”

  He laughed again. “That’s wise.”

  “My practice does grow tiresome. I know something of what you must feel. One wearies of burdens and responsibilities. At least if you make an error, no one may suffer terribly for it.”

  Wheelwright’s mouth twisted into a smile. “No?” Goldie appeared before us and shook the water eagerly from her coat, splashing us. “Goldie, you stupid dog! You bad dog!” Wheelwright bent over and tousled the fur on the dog’s head, then brought his enormous hand around and scratched at the ruff of her throat. “You are a stupid dog.” Chieftain, the setter, watched forlornly, until Wheelwright beckoned with his hand. “Here, boy. You want some, too. That’s a good dog. Yes, you’re much smarter than Goldie.” He rubbed the dog’s head and stroked its back. He picked up his gun, and we started down the path.

  I wanted to ask him about Violet, but I could not. He had confided in me, and I could not bring myself to probe, to manipulate and spy.

  “We all have our burdens,” he said. “You’re right about that, but you are a lucky man, Henry.”

  “Me?” I could not think why.

  “Your wife loves you, and you love her. Anyone can see it.”

  “I... Your wife does not hate you.” I licked my lips. “You may have your differences, but surely...”

  “She hates me, and I hate her, but I’m not as good at it as she is.” It was as if a dark cloud had blotted out the sun, dimming the beauty all around us.

  “Have you...? Perhaps if you tried to talk with her about the situation. It does neither of you any good to be so miserable.”

  “Lord, that’s true enough.” He gave his massive head a shake. “It’s no use me trying to talk to her. I’ve never been much good with words, while she... She can talk and talk. She makes a net with her words and catches me in it. I’ll not try talking to her. Sometimes she makes me so angry...” And indeed, his face had grown quite red, that sullen anger showing in his eyes and brow.

  I wanted to say something that might help. “Perhaps I could...? If someone else tried to talk to her...” I felt confused and stupid. What was there for them to talk about? They had little in common, and both of them now loved another.

  “No, no.” Wheelwright drew in his breath. His lung capacity was immense; he seemed to inhale for a minute, trying to fill himself with the clear clean air. “As you say, we all have our burdens and responsibilities.”

  The path skirted the pond. I saw the reflection of the oaks shimmering on the blue-gray surface and closer up, floating leaves and bits of grass.

  “I wish I could help.” My voice was plaintive. His pain was so obvious.

  “That’s decent of you, but I’ll get by. I suppose. I wish this gypsy business were done with. It’s only when... when I think about the future, that this might go on for years and years, my father getting older and meaner, and Violet...”

  Again he drew in his breath. We were both silent. The dogs had run far ahead out of sight. Abruptly, something came out of the brush before us.

  Wheelwright moved very quickly. His gun was up, the breech locked, then he raised it and fired, the boom of the shell so deafening I clapped my hand—too late—over my ear. It would be ringing for hours.

  “Did you see?” Wheelwright’s blue eyes were wild, and his teeth showed below the mustache. “A pheasant! A beauty, I think.” The dogs came barking down the path toward us. “Get her, Chief!” His rumbling voice was loud.

  The Irish setter came up to us, the bird hanging limply from his jaws, the brilliant feathers spattered with blood. Wheelwright took it and held it up by the neck. The sun glinted off the feathers, the iridescent shades of gray, red, green, and gold. I could see the tiny wounds made by the shot.

  “Well, we’ve something to show for our walk this afternoon, Henry. I’ll have the cook serve it, and we’ll have the choicest portions for ourselves.”

  I smiled, but I felt a strange dread that I could not quite understand. My ears rang. The sunlight seemed faint and feeble, and I felt cold even though we stood in the sun. The blast had disturbed the crows. They filled the sky with their caws, shards of blackness against a vast blue.

  Fourteen

  When we were alone that evening, I told Michelle about my conversation with Donald Wheelwright. As she listened, the creases in her forehead deepened. For once she was at a loss for words.

  “I wish we could leave this place,” I said. “I wish we could leave Sherlock, Violet, and Donald. I... I am sick to death of the whole business.” My vehemence surprised us both.

  “I cannot abandon Violet, my dear.”

  I sighed wearily. “Oh, I know. Nor can I abandon Sherlock. All the same... there is something unhealthy and disturbing about the Wheelwrights.”

  Michelle stared at the candle flickering on the table. “Surely... surely not with Violet.”

  “Her, too.”

  Michelle’s hand tightened about my arm. “But... she is only tired. This is all such a strain. If we could get her away from here—away from Donald and the Lovejoys and the gypsy’s threats—then she would be well again. I know it.”

  “Perhaps.” I was not convinced, and my face showed it.

  Michelle’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

  That night my uneasiness kept me awake. Michelle was asleep in minutes, but I was up at least two hours longer. As a result, I slept later than usual. After a solitary breakfast I went to the sitting room.

  Michelle rose to greet me. Sherlock sat on the window seat playing an informal air on his violin. Violet sat close by, a book on her lap. Gertrude was at a chair by the fire. The day was again spectacularly fair, the green expanse of lawn and the oak forest visible, the light different this early in the day. A small clock showed it was nearly eleven.

  “Welcome, slug-a-bed.” Michelle kissed my cheek. “I thought you would never get up.”

  Violet seemed more interested in Sherlock than her book. He set down the violin. “This country air does not make one industrious. Rather it has a soporific effect.” He played part of Brahms’ Lullaby. Michelle and Violet laughed.

  “You seem full of energy,” I said. “What project will you undertake today?”

  He raised his long hand, gesturing at the table. “Mrs. Wheelwright must offer me another game of chess. We are tied at one game apiece.”

  “You actually managed to win the second game?” I said. “You were losing.”

  “I was lucky.”

  Violet gave a sharp laugh. “No, I was stupid—I made a very ill-considered move. You may be full of energy, Mr. Holmes, but I do not know if I am quite ready to start another game. Chess takes such concentration.”

  Michelle gave her head a shake. “It is far too lovely a day to be playing chess indoors, e
specially in November. The weather could change at any time.”

  A sharp rap came at the door, and then it opened. Collins was dressed in his formal footman’s garb, and behind him were Donald Wheelwright and old Wheelwright. The two Wheelwrights strode into the room.

  Violet’s eyes narrowed, but she stood and smiled, a faintly glacial expression. “Father Wheelwright, what a pleasant surprise.”

  The younger Wheelwright gazed about the room. He did not appear particularly happy himself, and I remembered him saying how much he disliked working for his father. “Father had some business to discuss.”

  The old man nodded. “We can’t all retreat from our everyday affairs. The potted meat trade requires constant attention. I’d never be where I am today—this house would never be in the family—if I had gone running off to the country all the time.” He turned to Holmes. “And have you discovered who attacked my daughter-in-law, Mr. Holmes?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No.”

  The two men stared at each other. Old Wheelwright wished to compel some explanation, but Holmes would not speak. “It’s a fine business when a lady can be attacked in her own home. Fleeing to the country hardly seems much of an answer. I hope you have not been overrated, Mr. Holmes.”

  Violet’s smile had vanished, but Sherlock only smiled. “I hope not.”

  Old Wheelwright glanced about angrily, and his gaze fell upon Gertrude. She sat quietly in the chair by the fire, her knitting untouched in her lap. Something about the old man’s thin neck and jerky movements reminded me of a bird, one with a white head and black body. He stepped forward, walking over to her chair. She did not move.

  “Here now? What’s this?”

  I could see that Gertrude had fallen asleep. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened.

  “Sleeping—sleeping? I cannot believe it! Get up, girl! Where are your manners?”

  Gertrude leaped up, her knitting tumbling from her lap. She clutched at her black skirts and managed a feeble curtsy. She looked pale and tired. “Good day, sir.” Her voice was hoarse. She made her tiny hand into a fist, and then coughed into it.

  “If you worked for me, girl, I’d have you go pack your things.” He turned to his son. “Lax. Very lax. Parlor maids sleeping and staying seated when their master enters the room.”

  “The girl is ill. Anyone can see that.” Michelle’s voice was steely and she stared sharply at the old man.

  His upper lip curled into a brief smile. “Ill? Ill? That’s no excuse. Servants have no business being ill—not on our time.” He glanced about, but no one said a word.

  Gertrude swayed slightly, as if she were about to faint. She coughed again. Michelle went to her side and took her arm. “Sit down, my dear.”

  “Oh, ma’am!” Gertrude shook her head, sagging against her.

  “Outrageous!” Wheelwright turned to his son. “I hope you’ll deal with her. If you let this kind of behavior go by, you’ll soon have all your household making faces at you behind your back.”

  Donald Wheelwright slowly drew in his breath. “She shall be punished.”

  “See to it.” The old man strode from the room.

  Donald started to follow, then turned to Violet. “See to it.”

  Violet’s face was red, but her voice was like ice. “See to what?”

  “He’s right. We can’t have servants falling asleep and ignoring our visitors. Make certain it does not happen again.”

  “Oh, I shall.” Violet gave a savage laugh.

  Wheelwright’s eyes were sullen. He turned and left the room.

  Gertrude began to cry. Michelle lowered her into the chair.

  “I couldn’t help it,” Gertrude said. “My chest hurts and my head. If I was awake... Someone shoud’ve nudged me.” She turned to Violet. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry! Honestly I am.” She began to cough in earnest.

  Michelle put her big hand on her shoulder. “There is nothing to be sorry about. You just sit and stay quiet.”

  Violet had not moved from where she stood. Her fists were clenched, and her thin arms shook beneath the silken sleeves. Her upper lip had drawn back, so that I could see her clenched teeth. Holmes’ eyes were full of concern, but he did not move.

  “That old... lizard,” Violet managed to say.

  Michelle went to her. “The girl has a fever. She should be in bed. Violet?” She seized her arms and felt the violent trembling. “Oh, my dear—it will be all right. Do not...”

  “What if she is sick?” A ghastly smiled appeared on Violet’s face. “She must continue to work. She must stand and curtsy. She must... As if she were a machine—as if she were not even alive! They must smile and bow and scrape and serve us like slaves, and if they make the least bit of unpleasantness, they must be thrown out on the street without references and made to starve and suffer.” Her voice was raw with rage. “Of course they are not real people. They are only animals—only insects—grubs.”

  Michelle’s big hands gripped Violet’s shoulders. “Stop it.” Violet’s brown eyes lost some of their wildness.

  “You must not let them upset you so. Let’s go for a walk. The air will do us all good.”

  Violet nodded. Tears seeped from her eyes, but she rubbed angrily at them. “Oh, yes—let’s do that. Let’s get outside.” She was still trembling.

  Michelle had her by the arm. “We shall get our coats and some comfortable shoes. And we must put Gertrude to bed.”

  Gertrude was crying and coughing. “Oh, I mustn’t.”

  “You will!” Violet exclaimed. “By God, you will.”

  She and Michelle led Gertrude out of the room. Michelle turned to me. “Meet us downstairs.”

  I nodded. Holmes’ face was pale, his gray eyes showing anger and concern. “He is a foul old serpent,” I said, “full of poison. No wonder Donald does not like working for him.”

  Holmes stared at me. “He told you so?”

  “On our walk yesterday.”

  “Indeed? I want to hear about this walk, but I must change my clothes. If you would care to accompany me?” I told him about our talk near the pond while he changed from a frock coat and striped trousers to a Norfolk suit. At one point I hesitated, then mentioned Wheelwright’s saying I was a lucky man. Holmes smiled.

  “Perceptive of him. Did he say anything more of interest?”

  I hesitated again. “He said Violet hates him, and he hates her, but...”

  Holmes raised his eyes from his boot. “But?”

  “But he is not as good at it as she is.”

  Holmes lowered his gaze. “Ah.”

  Holmes and I went downstairs and through the great hall. Luckily we did not see either Wheelwright père or fils. Rather than waiting in the gloomy entranceway, we went outside. A gravel road ran before the house, a small roof providing shelter for carriages, but the vast expanse of lawn was lush, green, and still wet. The moisture glistened on the toes of our boots.

  A tin bucket full of the gardener’s hand tools stood near one of the roof columns, and Holmes poked about in the bucket with his stick. He had on his cloth traveling coat and deerstalker hat; somehow the cap made his nose appear even larger. He looked washed-out under the bright sunlight.

  I heard an odd scrambling sound: A youth on a bicycle pedaled vigorously uphill, standing almost upright as he did so. He came to a stop a few feet from us, and then withdrew an envelope.

  “Does either of you gentlemen know where I might find Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

  Holmes raised his stick. “I am he.”

  “I’ve a telegram for you, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Holmes handed him a shilling.

  The boy grinned at the coin. “Thank you, sir.”

  Holmes slipped his long finger into one end of the envelope, then tore it open and withdrew the paper. His lips formed a smile and he laughed sharply. “Imbecile.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “The chickens have flown the coop. It’s from Lestrade. The Lovejoys have vanished.” Sher
lock whacked at the gravel with his stick, then drew a line. “I expected as much.”

  “I wonder if we shall ever see them again.”

  Holmes shrugged. “I wager we shall, and probably sooner rather than later.” He withdrew his watch and opened it. “I wonder what is keeping the ladies.”

  “Their clothing is more complicated than ours. Violet was surely angry.”

  Holmes’ nostrils flared as he whacked at the gravel. “Yes. I wish...”

  I waited, but he did not finish. “What do you wish?”

  “I wish... I wish I could help her. I wish I might break the enchantment and rescue her from this—” he raised his stick and pointed at the gray stone walls of the immense house— “this castle, this tower, where she is imprisoned. If she is imprisoned.”

  I smiled. “You wish to save her from the giant. And the old ogre.”

  “I only wish to save her. And I wish this case were over and done with.”

  “I told Michelle the same thing last night.”

  “One way or another, it will be over soon.” He stared down at the gravel. “I have never been so caught up in a case, never felt so...” Again he struck the gravel. “It makes everything so much more difficult. Usually I pursue the truth. That is my guiding light, my main principle, but now I am not certain I want the truth. All the same, there is no other way. First I must have the truth. Then we shall see.” He stared out across the lawn.

  Wanting to comfort him, I blurted out, “She does love you.”

  He winced as if I had struck him and turned away.

  “I am sorry. I only...”

  “That also makes everything more difficult.” He would not look at me.

  “I wish I could help you.”

  He raised his eyes and smiled at me. “You and Michelle have been invaluable. I am glad you are both here.”

  “Michelle thinks you will find a way.”

  “She would. I have never met a more generous spirit.” His eyes were sad, his smile pained. “But you know better.”

  I opened my mouth, but I could not lie to him.