The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes stared at him, but said nothing.

  Violet bared her teeth briefly like a dog. “He has done a better job protecting me than you ever have!”

  Wheelwright thrust his jaw forward and lowered his big hands. He turned again to Holmes. “You are to leave. Immediately.”

  Violet laughed harshly. “You cannot just send him off into a blizzard! You cannot!” Michelle had to hold her back. As if to reinforce her words, a sudden gust blew snow into our faces.

  “I’ll do whatever I want. He can leave—they can all leave.”

  “But you cannot!”

  “Mr. Wheelwright.” Holmes’ voice was loud, but restrained. “This is your home, and should you wish us to leave, that is surely your prerogative. I can well understand your frustration. This is the most baffling case I have ever encountered.”

  “But, Sherlock...!” I began angrily, aware of all he had discovered about the Lovejoys.

  “Please do not interrupt, Henry. As I was saying, Mr. Wheelwright, I shall gladly leave, but I respectfully request that you let me remain until the morrow. I would like to have a look about. Then too, I would not care to face the road on such a foul night. All I ask for is simple courtesy. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

  Wheelwright drew in his breath. “Oh, very well.”

  Violet laughed, then said sarcastically, “‘Very well’?”

  Holmes turned to her. “Please remain silent, madam. You are not well.”

  Wheelwright shivered and clutched at his arms. “I wouldn’t put a dog out on a night like this. But I want you gone in the morning. All of you.” His gaze encompassed Michelle and me. “I’ll have my house to myself at last.”

  “Certainly,” I said, relieved.

  Michelle glared up at Wheelwright, her arm still about Violet. “But I am her physician.”

  Wheelwright shook his head. “I don’t care about that. She isn’t dying. We’ll be back in London soon. No point in staying here now. It doesn’t seem to much matter where we are.” Fear had crept into his voice. He turned and stalked back toward the house.

  “For God’s sake,” I said. “Let’s all get inside before we freeze solid.”

  We started up the path, the snowflakes stinging our cheeks, the gravel faintly slippery from the snow. Violet began to cry, softly at first, then in great sobs. Even Michelle could not comfort her.

  We went in the front door, and the calm and warmth were a relief. Michelle led Violet upstairs to the great hall. Holmes took Collins by the arm. “I shall need a lantern, possibly two of them. Bring them back here in about five minutes.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “Wait, Henry.”

  Sherlock and I were alone in the alcove, the feeble light from the great hall up the stairs spilling out near our feet. Holmes had blood on his formal clothes, vivid red splotches on the white shirt—Violet’s blood.

  From above we heard old Wheelwright’s shrill voice. “Outrageous—outrageous—I’ll not stay a minute longer in this madhouse, not a minute longer!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Would you help me search the grounds?”

  “Now?” My dismay was obvious.

  “Yes. The snow will soon hide everything; we must get to work at once.”

  “But what...?

  “On the other side of the stone wall where we found Violet is a tangled slope of vegetation—ferns, rhododendrons, and other growth. I want to have a good look about.”

  A sudden dread caught at my throat. “The gypsy! You do not think...?”

  His laugh was harsh. “No, it is not the gypsy we seek. Get your overcoat, a hat, gloves, and some decent shoes, and meet me back here.”

  “But what are we looking for?”

  When he told me, I thought he was joking.

  It was cold, dark, and snowy when we went back outside, a regular blizzard commencing. As we trampled about in the brush, lanterns in hand, I wondered if the strain had finally been too much for my cousin. I managed to thwack myself in the face with a rhododendron branch and was ready to go back inside, but I decided to humor him. We had been out for about forty minutes when he stumbled across exactly what he had told me we were searching for.

  Fifteen

  I could do nothing with Violet. I thought it might help once we were alone together, but she continued to weep loudly. “Can you tell me anything?” I asked. She said something about being lost. I could understand how frightened she must have been.

  Because Gertrude was ill, another maid had joined me, a girl only a little older, whose name was Daisy. She was so upset that she was of little help. Violet’s shoulder was a bloody mess, her lovely dress ruined.

  At last I managed, with Daisy’s feeble assistance, to remove the dress. Daisy choked out “Lord” and turned away. I gave my head a shake. Violet’s slender throat still had those ghastly handprint bruises, their color now dark and purplish, and her left shoulder was torn open, the cuts beginning in back, coming all the way over the shoulder and extending to the pectoral muscle above the breast. Gently I bathed the wound with hot soapy water. Bad scratch marks I had seen before, but these appeared too narrow and deep to have been made by fingernails. Perhaps they should be stitched up, especially the center one, but I was uneasy about anesthetizing Violet and working on her. Certainly they needed to be disinfected, but that would sting badly. “You won’t hurt me?” Violet had pleaded. I considered asking Henry to care for her.

  The tears continued to flow from Violet’s eyes, but she seemed somehow calmer.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I should put something on those cuts, but it will hurt.”

  “Oh, go ahead if you must.” Her mouth formed an ugly smile. “I deserve it.”

  “Do not say such things!”

  I was genuinely angry, and it sobered her. “Go ahead then.”

  “Perhaps I shall ask Henry.”

  “I’d rather you did it. Just get it over with.”

  I drew in my breath, doused a clean cloth from my bag with an iodine solution, and then said: “Hold on.”

  The muscles of her arm went rigid, and she moaned through clenched teeth. Involuntarily she tried to pull free of me, but I had her firmly in my grasp. I worked as quickly as I could. When I was finished she began to tremble, her thin arm quaking. I put some gauze over the cuts and taped it in place. My hands were steady, but I felt terrible.

  The maid had collapsed on the bed, her face hidden in her arm. “Daisy,” I said, then more sharply, “Daisy.” She looked up. “Get me a robe for Violet, something warm—wool, not silk.” I handed her a clean handkerchief.

  “Yes, ma’am.” She sniffled loudly.

  “It is finished.” I helped Violet to her feet. She swayed, then reached out and embraced me.

  “Thank you, thank you for everything.”

  There seemed little of her left. I stroked her hair briefly, struggling with my own emotions.

  Daisy brought me a cream-colored robe made of very soft wool. We helped Violet into it and put her in a chair before the fire. Daisy added a piece of coal. Violet sat huddled in the chair. She was still crying—she had never really stopped. Her right hand was pressed against her stomach.

  “Get me some brandy,” I said to Daisy, “and something to eat. Some bread and soup. Enough for two.” She started to leave. “Thank you, Daisy. I know this is very hard.”

  She smiled and curtsied. Her eyes were puffy.

  After she was gone, I sighed deeply and glanced at Violet. Slowly, I walked over to the window. “Very hard,” I whispered to myself. My hands never shook, but somehow I wished they would. The windowpanes rattled from the wind. Outside everything was whiteness: the sloping lawn before the house covered with the snow, the blank featureless sky, the shreds of snow hurtling slowly past the glass.

  I swallowed and thought, yes, for once you are truly afraid. Sherlock had seemed so certain the gypsy could not be real, and yet somehow she had dragge
d Violet from the house and ripped open her arm. The Lovejoys had been in the hall the whole time—I had seen them. And how could an old woman be so strong? Perhaps there was some evil power that... My mouth went dry, and I clenched my fists.

  No—no. I would not believe such a terrible thing until I had absolute proof. It was curious. I believed in a loving God, but tales of the devil, of witches, ghosts, and the supernatural, had always made me skeptical. Perhaps the gypsy had been a man dressed as a woman—that would explain the gypsy’s strength. And Violet was not strong—it would not be hard to pull her about. I could do it easily. I stared out into the white chaos whirling beyond the glass, my fists tightening. Try it with me, I thought. Show yourself and try yanking me about.

  I heard the door open, and I turned away from the chill of the window. Daisy had a large tray, and I could smell the soup—something with leeks, if I was not mistaken. I realized I was starving.

  I took a drink of brandy, considered offering Violet some, but decided against it. I did not like the way she clutched at her stomach. The soup was a vichyssoise: chicken broth, leeks, and cream, just the thing for Violet. She resisted briefly, but finally took the soup and ate very slowly. Mine was gone almost at once, and I thought briefly how hot food would mitigate most of life’s pains and tragedies. My appetite whetted, I sent Daisy back to the kitchen. The dinner in shambles, the cook was happy someone was hungry; Daisy returned with pork tenderloins in a mushroom sauce, which I gobbled up while Violet worked on her soup.

  Full at last, I set down the tray, unfastened my wretched fashionable shoes, and slipped them off, sighing contentedly. Violet ate mechanically, her eyes fixed on the glowing coal in the fireplace. I felt warm and comfortable now, much better, and my eyelids grew heavy. It was selfish, I knew, but it would be so good to get back to my own home and my practice. There was something... suffocating about the Wheelwrights’ household. No wonder Violet could not bear it. I closed my eyes and began to dream at once, something where the blue of the pond was obscured by falling snow... I jerked open my eyes and sat up. If I fell asleep, I would be out for the night.

  Violet had put down her soup bowl and was staring at me. She looked dreadful—pale and ill—her eyes were red, their lids swollen. At least she had finally stopped crying.

  I smiled sadly. “How do you feel?”

  Her lips tried to form the usual mocking smile, but she hardly seemed herself. “My stomach still hurts, almost more than my shoulder. I do not think I was cut out for...”

  “Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

  She shook her head resolutely. “No. I do not want anything. I do not deserve it.”

  “What has deserving to do with anything?” My voice was sharp.

  “No. I shan’t take anything. Not tonight.” She stared wearily at me. “How I shall miss you.” She bit her lip, struggling to hold back her tears.

  “But you will be returning to London soon, and I shall see you straight away. You are my patient, and you will find I am not easy to shake off.” She smiled, but the tears began again. “Oh, Violet.” I had a sudden longing to see Henry, to talk to him—and to Sherlock. Perhaps they had discovered something. “I shall be back in a little while.” I stood.

  Violet appeared genuinely frightened. “Promise me—no—no more promises! Please stay with me tonight—do not leave me alone. You can go, but please come back.”

  “I certainly shall, and before I go I’ll have Daisy fetch Collins.”

  Daisy sat up. “Oh, he’s in the hall, ma’am, right by the door.”

  “Good. I shall send him in.” Violet stared forlornly at me. I squeezed her hand—she felt icy. “I shan’t be long.” I took a candle from the table.

  Collins was leaning against the wall near the door. I asked him where I might find Henry and Sherlock, and told him to go into Violet’s room. As I went down the corridor, the flickering candle cast strange shadows upon the wall, its light a feeble thing. Briefly I thought of the gypsy.

  Holmes and Henry were in Violet’s sitting room on the second floor, the room in which I had spent many a pleasant hour. Henry sat near the fire, half asleep, while Sherlock paced. Rarely had I seen him so agitated. He reminded me of one of the big cats at the London Zoo, nervously circling its small cage. He still had on evening dress, but he and Henry both wore heavy, soiled boots.

  I took Henry’s hand. “You look tired. Where have you been?”

  He related how they had spent nearly an hour outside searching the grounds and what they had to show for it.

  I frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Sherlock.” He strode by, hardly seeing me. He was circling the table where the wooden chessboard was still set up, hands behind his back, one grasping a bony wrist. I stepped before him. “Sherlock, do you understand any of this?”

  His gray eyes glared furiously, and I thought briefly he might push me aside. He drew in his breath. “Yes.”

  “But you told Donald Wheelwright you were baffled.”

  His mouth formed an ironic smile. “I did not want to be cast out into the wilderness. Not yet.”

  “You know who the gypsy is?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who has attacked Violet?”

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

  I stared at him. Henry had sat up in the chair. “Please explain.”

  “I shall tell you everything in the morning.” He stepped around me and started pacing again.

  “Sherlock—please!”

  He stopped and turned, placing one hand on the table. His face was pale, his eyes anguished. “Michelle, do not disturb me—not now of all times. I have it all, everything that matters. You will hear the truth in the morning. But for now, leave me be—leave me in peace!”

  “Oh, very well.” I went past him to the door.

  “Michelle!” Henry cried.

  I started down the hall, my hand holding the candle before me. Henry caught up.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “He has never spoken to me that way before.” My voice was shaky.

  “You are lucky—but he is not himself. He will be sorry in the morning.”

  Abruptly I set down the candle and embraced Henry. I laid my head against his face and touched his cheek with my hand. The skin felt bristly from the stubble of his beard.

  “Are they both mad? Whatever is the matter with them?”

  “I do not know.” His voice was gentle. One hand was clasped high against my back, the other just below my waist. His breath felt warm.

  “I wish we could just go to bed,” I said. “I am so tired.”

  “Go to bed, then.”

  “I promised Violet I would stay with her. She is most dreadfully upset.”

  Henry sighed; I could feel the movement along my chest and abdomen. “And I must remain with Sherlock,” he said.

  Neither of us moved for a while. The house was quiet and still, and we could not hear the wind or the snow there, where the outer and inner walls sheltered us.

  “If he has figured it all out,” I said at last, “it does not seem to have made him very happy.”

  Henry gave a muted laugh. “No.”

  We stood holding each other until I felt the fatigue settling about me. So much of the day had been disastrous. The house was so cold, Henry so warm.

  “I must get back to Violet.” I kissed him, briefly relaxing into his arms, letting him support me. At last, I stepped away and took up the candle.

  Violet was still curled in the chair before the fireplace. With a yawn, Collins stood and was about to step into the hall. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You can have Daisy’s chair. She is ready for bed.” They both protested, but I would not hear them.

  Violet glanced up at me, her dark eyes tormented. I put my hand over hers.

  “How are you?” The question was a foolish one.

  “I feel cold—so cold.”

  “I hope you have no
t caught a fever.” I put my hand on her forehead, but she was not hot. “Please let me give you something. You really should sleep.”

  She shook her head. “Not tonight.” I went to the bed, took an afghan throw and put it over her lap. “Thank you.”

  My shoes still sat before the other chair where I had left them. Under my stockings, my toes were freezing; I sat and stretched my feet toward the fireplace, curling and uncurling my toes. Violet smiled weakly. I closed my eyes, opened them, and then fell fast asleep.

  My dreams were restless. Henry and I wandered amidst the oak forest, but the sunlight kept turning to snow. I knew we needed to return to our house in London before the blizzard, but we had lost something—or someone—first Sherlock, but then he was beside me in his traveling cap, so it must have been Violet. But she was beside me wearing an evening gown and diamonds, a curious choice for the woods. Holmes must be missing... Then they were both there, but someone was chasing us. Donald Wheelwright? No, the gypsy. She was cackling in the midst of the dark green rhododendron leaves while the moon slowly rose, and now both Sherlock and Violet were lost again.

  “Damn them both!” I cried. I thought Henry would admonish me for my language, but he only nodded. “We must find them,” I said. “They must not loiter here in the dark wood.”

  We searched everywhere: beside the pond, the dark country house, the Wheelwrights’ London mansion, Henry’s and my home, the clinic for the poor, and even Simpson’s. I looked under the table where Violet and I had eaten our roast beef dinner.

  We could not find them, but some black shadowy thing—it lurked just out of sight—was also pursuing them. When I held up the lantern, it quickly scuttled under the table.

  “Come out—show yourself!” I cried. “Filthy thing.”

  We were on the fourth floor of Violet’s house before the rickety stairway to the attic. I held up the lantern. “They are up there,” I told Henry. “Come.”

  He smiled but shook his head. Something strange was happening to his face. I turned away and started up the stairs. The door hinges creaked as I opened it.

  “Violet? Sherlock?”

  I held up the light, but it grew dimmer. My heart felt peculiar, its beat desperate and arrhythmic. “Violet? Sherlock?” Their faces were so gray. They must be dead. I wanted to run but could not move. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, I could see more and more. They were bound in a gray, sticky substance—threads which cut more tightly even as they struggled and tried to escape. The web was in their mouths and noses; they could not possibly breathe. They must be dead, but still they writhed, two mummies in their suffocating bonds, every futile breath drawing the gray poison deeper into their lungs and their hearts.