The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “Stop it!” I shouted.

  Holmes stepped past me and his thin arm in the black sleeve rose, his fist striking Donald Wheelwright on the side of the jaw. Holmes groaned from the impact. Wheelwright released Violet, and she collapsed at his feet. Wheelwright shook himself dully, his nostrils flaring. Holmes stepped back and raised his fists in a boxer’s stance.

  Wheelwright’s breathing was labored, and he touched his chin with his fingertips. “You bastard. I’ve seen how you look at her. You were in on it all.” His eyes were half closed, ominous slits with blue slivers in them.

  Sherlock was very pale. “That is nonsense—utter nonsense.”

  Wheelwright’s hands formed fists. “So you want to box?” He rushed Holmes, a right jab thudding off his shoulder, and then he had him wrapped in his arms. Wheelwright staggered forward.

  “Stop!” I cried. I glanced about. The Farnsworths had risen, but they were terrified and would be of no help.,

  “Michelle.” Violet held out her hand to me. I helped her up. Her mouth was bleeding, her eye starting to swell. She swayed and I caught her.

  Holmes writhed about, managing to slip one arm free. Wheelwright crashed him into the table, sending chess pieces flying. Sherlock’s long legs and shoes thrashed about. Wheelwright grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head twice against the wooden surface.

  “He will kill him!” I cried. I let go of Violet and went to them.

  Wheelwright was bent over Holmes, his huge hands wrapped about his throat. Holmes was unconscious from the blows to his head. His face was red, and Wheelwright’s thick ugly fingers were choking the life from him.

  “Stop!” I shouted. “Stop.” I pulled at Wheelwright’s arm, but I could not budge him. I struck him once with my fist, but it was as if I were a mosquito or fly, hardly worth his notice. He did resemble an animal: his mouth open, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, and that terrible, all-consuming rage in his eyes.

  “Please!” I cried. “Please—you are killing him! He did nothing—I swear he didn’t! Let him go!”

  I do not think he even heard me. I glanced in desperation at the Farnsworths, but James appeared paralyzed, unable to move, while Abigail had hidden her face against him.

  I heard a dull thud, and something splattered my face. Wheelwright’s jaw dropped, and his frame quivered. I looked about. This time I saw Violet’s arms swing around in a great arc, both hands holding the black poker from the fireplace, her own lips drawn back, teeth bared, her dark eyes raging. The poker again struck Wheelwright at the base of the skull. More blood flew, and this time he fell. The table collapsed, Holmes sliding off, and the two men lay unconscious on the floor.,

  I knelt down and fumbled at Sherlock’s collar. I felt a pulse and could tell he was breathing. He would have a terrible bump at the back of his head. Wheelwright lay on his side. His eyes were open but blank, all the anger and hate and life gone from them.

  “Oh, dear God,” I murmured. I tried to turn him, but I could not move him. I felt at his throat but could find no pulse. I used both hands to pull at his arm, and he flopped onto his back. I opened his jacket and put my ear against his chest. My own heart was throbbing, but all was silent.

  With a sigh I rose onto my knees. “He is dead.” I looked up at Violet. “He is dead, Violet.”

  She gave a sharp terrible laugh and let the poker fall. “Oh, good,” she said. “Oh, good.” She laughed again, then bit savagely at her hand and staggered back.

  I stood slowly. “That part of the brain controls unconscious functions like respiration and the heartbeat. The first blow must have been mortal.” My words sounded strange, curiously remote. “I cannot believe it.” I touched my face and felt something damp. Glancing down, I realized blood had splattered my yellow silk dress, my fancy dress, which I had worn since yesterday afternoon.

  Someone began to cry loudly—Miss Farnsworth. She was on the sofa, her face in her hands. Her brother tried to comfort her. Violet made a pained noise, something between a laugh and a sob. She bent over and picked up the revolver, which her husband had kicked from Holmes’ hand. “I did not even see this.” She put her left hand over her bloody mouth while her right held the revolver, the barrel pointed at the floor.

  “Violet, we must get away from here at once,” Farnsworth said. “There is not an instant to lose.”

  Violet looked at me. She said, “Go ahead and leave. I always meant to give my share to the Angels. I am staying here. It does not matter now.”

  Farnsworth shook his head. “Are you mad? There is over half a million pounds. You said you wanted to be free. This is your chance. Come.”

  She shook her head. “No.” She laughed. “I can never be free now.” She stared down at Wheelwright’s corpse.

  Abigail Farnsworth rose, but she appeared weak. “Please come, Violet—before it is too late.”

  “No.”

  Farnsworth stared at Violet. “We cannot leave you here. You could be tried for murder.”

  “No!” I said. “It was—he was killing Sherlock—he would have killed him.”

  Farnsworth gave a pained smile. “I would not want to argue the point with the police.” He slowly approached Violet. “You must come with us—you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

  His sister nodded. “Yes, Violet. We have accomplished all that we intended. The wretched men got what they deserved—all of them.”

  Violet’s hand seemed to rise of its own accord, floating lazily upward so that the revolver pointed at Farnsworth. He stopped moving. Violet smiled. “Thank you, James, but I have other plans.” She motioned toward the door with the barrel. “Our acquaintance has been a pleasant one, of mutual benefit, and I shall miss you. You both shared my hatred of injustice and played your parts well. Now please go.”

  Abigail was distressed. “But, Violet...”

  “Will you leave me be!” Violet cried. “Do go! I would not want to shoot you, but I am so tired I cannot think well. My father taught me about revolvers. And Abigail, I know I can rely on you—distribute my share amongst the Angels. Now goodbye.”,

  Farnsworth shook his head. He had played the butler for so long he tended to slide back into the role. “A pity. Mr. Holmes was correct. We are only two hack actors. We could never have managed without you. Goodbye, Violet.”

  He strode toward the door, drawing Abigail Farnsworth after him. “My gypsy was not hack work,” she said. Farnsworth unlocked the door, then carefully shut it behind them.

  I felt dizzy. Everything had happened so fast. Only about fifteen minutes had passed since Donald Wheelwright had come through the doorway.

  Violet smiled briefly, her hand trembling. She walked over to a chair by the fire and sat. “Michelle...” Her voice shook, and her eyes were full of tears again. “Oh, God.” She raised the revolver and put the barrel under her chin.

  “Violet,” I moaned as fear swept through me, a sudden chill at the nape of my neck, “whatever are you doing?”

  “Do you not see? This is the way it was always meant to end. I understand that now.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No, it was most assuredly not meant to end this way.” My mouth felt dry, my hands icy. The dread had returned.

  “I’m sorry, Michelle, but...”

  “Violet—in God’s name, if you apologize to me one more time, I swear I will strangle you!”

  We stared at each other, and then she laughed. “My poor Michelle. I cannot blame you. I shall... I shall try not to apologize again. Can I not make you understand? He hurt me so many times—again and again. I could do nothing. My life has been a nightmare, and now... I am glad I killed him, but I am sorry he is dead. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes.” I took a step forward.

  “If you come any nearer I shall surely press the trigger. Perhaps I shall press it anyway. My head does hurt, and my stomach. Oh, it will be good to be dead, to be free, finally, of hate and fear and pain—all this pain.”

  “No, Violet.” My own eyes were ful
l of tears. “It is not good to be dead—it is good to be alive. You are free now, if you want to be.”

  “No—I told them the truth—I can never be free.” Her right hand held the gun, but her left hand slipped over to her side. “Oh, God, this hurts so. My cursed stomach has hurt me forever—it wakes me in the night and spoils my days.”

  “The burden is gone, the truth known. You will heal now.”

  She shook her head, smiling wearily. Her left eye was badly swollen and bluish. Unaware of what she was doing, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve, leaving a bloody smear on the silk. Her eyes could not seem to focus properly, and I saw she was near the point of collapse. The barrel of the gun quavered continually. I took a step closer.

  “No, Michelle.” She drew in her breath, and I saw her struggling to master herself, to find the will for that one final, desperate act.

  “You will not go to prison,” I said. “I promise you. What you did was terrible, but necessary. You saved Sherlock. Donald very nearly killed him—and he might have killed you as well. Please put down that revolver.”

  “I should not have struck him the second time. That was cruel. I have no reason to go on living. Can you not see the justice of it? Mr. Holmes accused me of playing God, but all I ever wanted was justice.” She sighed. “My justice may seem suspiciously like vengeance. I shall make amends now. I honestly cannot think of why I should live.”

  “Because you are my friend!” I cried. “And I should miss you ever so much if you were dead!” I could not restrain my tears, but I kept talking and took another step forward. Violet’s dark eyes were stark against her bruised white face. “You are such a wonderful person, my dear, that it would be a terrible waste, the worst crime of all. You are barely thirty. You are young and you are beautiful, witty, and charming. I have few female friends whose company I can tolerate, and I will not have the best of them blowing her brains out! You said you would not apologize again; well, show me, for once, that you are my friend—show me that you love me even as I love you. And there is Sherlock—he also loves you.”

  Violet sobbed and shook her head. “No, no—it is too late—I am lost. I deceived him not once, but many times. And you—I deceived you. It has torn me apart. Oh, I did not want to!” She was crying so hard.

  “Oh, my dear, I forgive you—you know I do. I only wish you had confided in me about... Oh, Violet—please.”

  I walked over and took the gun from her hand.

  “Michelle.” She stood and embraced me, her arms feeble.

  “It is over now,” I said. “It is finished.”

  “Oh, thank God.” Her body swayed, then went limp in my arms as she finally found the unconsciousness she longed for.

  Afterword

  I woke up early that morning and had to think for a while to remember that I was not at home in London, but near a small village, high in the Alps. February was only two days away. Henry lay beside me, breathing slowly. I moved nearer to him. The room was icy cold, and he gave off heat like a steam radiator. The window behind the curtains was a fuzzy square of grayish light.

  I closed my eyes, ready to go back to sleep, then remembered that Violet was with us and that she was still miserable. The thought was like a reoccurring pain, some dull headache. Henry and I had been weary of rain and fog, the winter even gloomier than usual, but we had also made the trip because we had hoped it would improve Violet’s spirits.

  Over two months had passed since the disastrous climax at Norfolk. Physically and mentally exhausted, Violet had come down with bronchitis. She had been gravely ill, and I had spent many nights by her bedside. She had a high fever and grew delirious. In her sleep she would talk to Donald Wheelwright. When she became frightened, I would bathe her forehead and try to calm her. Between my practice during the day and the long nights with Violet, I too became exhausted. Henry finally took me aside and sternly told me that even though I had the constitution of an ox, I would eventually wear myself out or fall ill, and then I could help no one. Gertrude and the other servants shared the nursing with me after that, and Henry took on some of my patients. Several elderly ladies found him quite charming.

  Violet had recovered from the bronchitis, but then the inevitable depression set in. At least the physical illness had let her sleep, the body overpowering the mind and asserting its demand for rest. Her stomach ulcer had also been better. But once her fever lifted, her spirits sank, and her insomnia returned. Try as I might, I could not distract her from black thoughts.

  She, who had run a household of over thirty servants, handled all the accounts and investments, and overseen a vast, secret organization, now spent most of her days idly brooding before the fire. She had been a witty and charming conversationalist, but now I could barely get her to talk to me. I could not recall the last time I had heard her laugh. She had become pale, thin, and weak, a prime candidate for pneumonia—which would kill her quickly—or tuberculosis, a disease of lingering horror.

  I turned restlessly in the bed, then stroked Henry’s shoulder and arm, feeling the muscles beneath his nightshirt. He mumbled a word that I could not make out.

  Old Wheelwright had been a devil, but we had managed to shield Violet. Holmes had resolved that we would, as much as possible, be truthful, and I had told Lestrade that Violet had struck her raging husband just as he was about to kill Sherlock Holmes. The fact that we had all obviously been assaulted—especially Violet—supported our story. However, because we did not want Violet to go to prison and because the Farnsworths had safely escaped, they took the blame for the oil well scheme, the Angels of the Lord, and the evil gypsy. We were all questioned, but in the end no charge was brought against Violet. I think her poor battered face influenced Lestrade.

  Old Wheelwright had been doling out money to Donald for years, and he cut Violet off without a penny. However, unbeknownst to her father-in-law or her deceased husband, Violet had built up a small fortune of her own. She had had complete control of Donald’s finances (a fact which astonished me, as I have no head for figures), and she had invested shrewdly.

  The major newspapers were restrained in their coverage, but not so some of the sensational dailies. We made sure Violet never saw any of these, but Sherlock was not so lucky. One paper actually ran the headline, “Famed Detective Smitten at Last.” My mouth twitched, my anger flaring briefly like an ember someone had blown upon. It was ironic because the famed detective was hardly behaving like a conspiratorial lover.

  Although he was obviously deeply concerned, he had refused to see Violet since that fatal morning. When she had bronchitis, he had come to inquire of her health every day, and even now, he asked Henry or me about her at least once a week. On the worst night, as she lay burning with fever, he had paced about her library until morning, but I could not get him to come upstairs to the bedroom.

  At first I had been willing to leave him alone, but when Violet finally recovered, I went to see him at Baker Street. I pleaded with him for over an hour to simply go to see her—but in vain. He appeared colder and more gaunt than ever before, his face thin and imperious like some marble Caesar. I asked if he might somehow excuse her actions, even if he could not forgive. All I received were remarks like, “It would be neither to her benefit or mine were we to meet again. I have nothing more to say to her.” Always before, I had felt certain that Sherlock’s better qualities outweighed his eccentricities; now I was not so sure. Perhaps he was cold—and selfish.

  I had asked Henry to talk with him, but he gave me an odd look and asked if I really thought Sherlock could simply forget everything Violet had done.

  “That is not the point!” I had exclaimed.

  “Oh, but I’m afraid that is the point.”

  I ran the sole of my foot along Henry’s foot to his ankle bone and onto his calf muscle. He stirred, and his hand sought mine even though he was still fast asleep.

  Violet had not mentioned Holmes until one evening about two weeks ago. I had brought her violin to her room and urged her to
play. She took the violin and the bow, and then considered my request, her gaze turning inward. “The last time I played was for Mr. Holmes at Norfolk.” Her lips formed a smile, but one totally lacking in warmth or humor. “How he must despise me.” She gave a sharp laugh. “I deserve his disgust.” She set aside the violin.

  She had caught me at a weak moment. I was angry and told her that instead of morbidly dwelling on her past sins, she might think about how she could atone for them—think what good she could make of the rest of her life. By the time I returned home, I was ashamed of myself and tearfully told Henry all that I had said.

  “She needed a scolding,” he said. “You have been so patient. And I think you are nearly as worn out as she.” He suggested that a change of scenery might help us all, and the clear mountain air would be beneficial for Violet’s lungs.

  Well, the air was wonderful, the scenery spectacular, but Violet was gloomy as ever, and Holmes was back in London, no doubt sulking before the fireplace at Baker Street.

  “How can they...?” I said.

  Henry stirred abruptly. “Michelle?” He did not sound awake.

  “Go back to sleep.” I stroked his arm again.

  Henry was so still I thought he was still sleeping, but at last he rolled over—his hair was tousled, his eyes closed—and slipped his arms about me. He tried to kiss me, but his mouth was so wooden I could tell he was still half asleep.

  “Are you fretting?” he asked. I said nothing. “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Violet and Sherlock are grown up. Ultimately they must take care of themselves.”

  “Well, they are not doing a very good job of it.”

  “When we have children of our own,” he said, “we shall be responsible for them. Violet and Sherlock are not our children. Perhaps they will come round some day.”