The Web Weaver

by Sam Siciliano

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  He drew me closer. The room was very cold—my nose was freezing—but we lay under a heap of quilts wearing our thick flannel nightshirts, and it was warm and comfortable. I could feel him fall back asleep, his breathing subtly changing. I watched the window square grow brighter and yellower, and then closed my eyes. But sleep eluded me.

  I decided to get up—an adventure in the frigid room. I put my heavy wool robe under the covers to warm it before venturing forth. At last I sat up. I slid my feet into my slippers, not wanting my bare skin to touch the icy planks, then stood and wrapped the robe about me. I could see my breath.

  I drew the curtains aside, and a shaft of bright yellow sunlight shot into the room. The light on the snow was blinding, and the vista spread before me was straight from a travel book. The Alpine mountains were sharp, jagged crags of white—winds stirring the snow on their glacial tops—and the sky was an absolute dazzling blue. There was an icy purity to everything, an austere and terrible beauty.

  “How can anyone be gloomy in a place like this?” I was happy to be away from London, from its squalor and dark ugliness. We had only been in the Alps a little over two days; such a setting must, in time, help even Violet.

  I put some kindling on the grate and started a fire, then added a large log so Henry would not have a similar adventure getting out of bed. Violet was sleeping in a chair before the fire in her room.

  “She was up half the night, ma’am,” Gertrude whispered.

  Although Gertrude was frail herself, she had been a great help. She was fiercely protective of her mistress. Soon Violet would be moving out of the enormous townhouse, and Gertrude and Collins would accompany her. She had no desire to live so ostentatiously, and her house was full of bad memories and dark shadows.

  Gertrude and I had breakfast together, and a sleepy Henry eventually joined us. The stove threw off heat—the tiny kitchen was the warmest room in the house. I teased him about his bedraggled appearance, but he only grinned and said something about the inevitable results of a night of wild abandon. Gertrude was making tea at that moment, so I smiled back at him.

  By noon Violet was still not up, and Henry resolved to walk into the village proper to inquire about trips to the nearby glacier. Violet finally came down and picked at her breakfast while I ate lunch. She was pale, but less tired looking. I suggested a game of chess in the sitting room, but I was such a poor player that she could easily beat me without paying attention to the game. Afterwards I tried to read a tedious book on diseases of the heart and circulatory system, but always I was aware of Violet staring obsessively into the fire.

  At about three, I grew restless. I set down my book, stretched, and then stood up. “Would you like to go outside for a while? If you do not feel up to walking, we could bundle up and sit on the balcony.”

  Violet smiled weakly. “Like all the tubercular patients at the inn. I saw them the afternoon we arrived. They appeared so sad, all of them: flushed, yet ill, wrapped in scarves, bundled in mittens and hats and coats and blankets, all of them waiting to die. No, it is too cold for me even when I bundle up, and the sun hurts my eyes. It makes my head ache.”

  “But I have some dark glasses.”

  She shook her head. “No. It is too cold and too bright.”

  It might make you feel better, I wanted to add. “It seems foolish to have come all this way to the beautiful sunny Alps and then to spend the days indoors before the fire.” I could not keep the irritation from my voice.

  She sighed and lowered her gaze. “Perhaps later I shall go out.”

  “Perhaps later I shall drag you out.”

  She looked up, and for an instant her lips formed the mocking smile that I had not seen for so long. “I do not doubt it.”

  No sooner had I picked up my heavy and tedious book, than I heard a rap at the front door. “Who can that be?” Violet did not much care. She continued staring into the fire, lost in some dark reverie. I frowned, then rose and left the sitting room.

  Framed in the doorway, against the brilliant exterior light, was a familiar silhouette, a tall form in a black greatcoat and top hat.

  “Sherlock!” I exclaimed. I strode forward. “Oh, at last!”

  Gertrude gave me a puzzled glance, then said, “Won’t you please come in now, sir?”

  Holmes’ eyes searched the room, his nostrils flaring, and then he released his breath in a great white cloud of vapor. He seemed frozen at the entrance. He was very pale, and the brilliant light emphasized his pallor. Dressed all in black, he resembled some type of night creature, some cave dweller, caught in the unaccustomed brightness of day.

  “Do come in,” I said.

  He thrust forward his leg in the dark wool and his black boot, then crossed the threshold. “Lasciate ogni speranza,” he mumbled to himself. He tried to smile. “I... I had to come.”

  “It took you long enough! But I am glad you did. Violet will be happy to see you.”

  He took off his hat and gripped the brim with his long fingers in the black leather gloves. Despite his smile, his gray eyes swept anxiously about the room.

  “Perhaps you can cheer her up. She is so despondent. And it is wonderful to see you. I... I’m sorry about last time.” I took his arm. The muscle was hard and stiff. “Violet needs all the friends she can get. She would never admit it, but I know she was hurt that you would not see her.”

  Holmes’ lips drew back. “It was never my intention to be unkind. I may on occasion be curt, blunt, or insensitive, but never deliberately cruel.”

  I smiled. “Well, it is good you are here. You could obviously use some fresh air and sunshine yourself.”

  “I shall not... I have some business in Geneva, and I thought I might stop on my way. My visit must be brief.”

  Holmes was skilled at deception when he wished to be—when he was playing a part or uncovering some hidden fact—but that afternoon he did not seem to be trying very hard. He appeared almost ill, what with his pallor and the shadows under his eyes, and he was so thin. All in all, he, disturbingly, resembled Violet.

  Still holding his arm, I started for the sitting room door. He moved reluctantly and quite slowly.

  “You must promise me one thing,” I said. “You must not upset Violet. You must not be curt, blunt, or insensitive today.”

  He stopped and gave a quick shake of his head. “Do you know me so little, Michelle?”

  He seemed so hurt that I was sorry and immediately backtracked. “Of course I know you would not deliberately be cruel, but you must...” I smiled. “Today you must be charming.”

  He made a frightful grimace. “I have never been charming in my life.”

  I laughed. “Yes, you have, although it is a charm peculiar only to you. Oh, pay no attention to me, but do be gentle with Violet. She is sorry for what she has done, I can tell you that. Can you not...?” I paused before the door. “Oh Sherlock, can you ever forgive her?”

  “Yes.”

  I went through the doorway. “We have a visitor from London.”

  Violet turned slowly and saw Holmes. Her eyes abruptly widened, her lips parting, a fierce energy animating her face. Holmes froze again. The two of them stared hungrily at each other, their inner passion revealed only for an instant, as if two suns had suddenly flared up in the confines of the small room. Violet bit at her lip. She lowered her gaze, her eyes desolate. Holmes had not moved, but seemed paler than before. I gave him a nudge, but he seemed made of stone and incapable of motion.

  The vast silence which had filled the room made me uncomfortable.

  “Henry has just stepped out. He should be back shortly. He will be glad to see you, Sherlock.” Sensing an opportunity, I added, “Perhaps I shall go and fetch him.”

  That moved them, but not as I had hoped: The prospect of being alone together clearly terrified them. Holmes’ eyes had opened wide in disbelief, and Violet’s delicate, shapely hand gripped at the chair arm.

  “You
need not trouble yourself,” Holmes said weakly.

  “Oh, very well.” I walked over to a chair near the fireplace and sat down. My moving seemed to stir Holmes. He slipped his top hat under his arm, then pulled off his gloves and put them in the hat.

  Gertrude stepped into the room. “Let me take your things, Mr. Holmes.”

  He nodded solemnly, handed her the hat, then took off his greatcoat. “Thank you, Gertrude.” He strode to the fire and rubbed his hands briskly before it. Neither Violet nor I could see his face.

  “What’s the news from London?” I asked.

  “Nothing of interest. The weather is even colder and drearier than when you left, the rain and fog unceasing. Good cheer for the New Year is difficult to come by. And there are no cases of particular merit, nothing to divert me now that...” He squared his shoulders, drew himself up, and then turned to face us. “And how are you faring, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

  Violet shrugged. “As well as might be expected.” She would not look him in the eye.

  “I hope you will soon be recovered.”

  As soon as his words faded away, I sensed the all-encompassing silence lurking nearby. “I doubt,” I said, “that you have remained completely idle.”

  “No, thank heavens. Ennui has always been the bane of my existence. Lestrade needed some help finishing up what he had bungled.” He had begun to pace, but he glanced warily at Violet. “I managed to dredge up Herbert’s diamond necklace. It cost him about a third of its purchase price to get it back, and now he has it up for sale.” He smiled. “This time it is safely stowed in the bank. Would it disturb you ladies greatly if I smoke a single cigarette?”

  Violet shook her head. “It is a beastly habit,” I said, “but go ahead.”

  He withdrew a cigarette from his case and struck a match. “There has been work to do, but not enough, and nothing of real complexity. I have been...” He was pacing again. “Solving a challenging case is always satisfying, but the inevitable disappointment soon follows. The greater the challenge, the greater the disappointment. Rarely does anything of equal interest turn up. One is weary, one is restless, but there is little of merit to occupy the brain. Instead it continues to race on, to spin out lunatic reveries or veer off into odd, dark corners.”

  Violet had raised her dark eyes and was staring intently at him.

  “There are times when my powers seem more a curse than a gift, when I would gladly... But such idle thoughts are useless. One must play the cards one is dealt. I only hope something of interest turns up soon. Patience is not one of my virtues.”

  Violet’s cheeks had a faint flush, the first color I had seen there in some time. “I understand exactly what you are saying. At least...” She stared at him. “At least you have the possibility of another interesting case. I have spent so many years, so much time and energy... And now there is nothing, nothing at all. Am I to take up knitting or watercolor painting?” The ironic smile appeared.

  Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “I think not. There is, however, the violin.”

  Violet lowered her eyes. “I have not played since... Norfolk.”

  “That is a waste,” Holmes said. “I do not know what I would do without my violin. It soothes the troubled spirit. You must play again.”

  I nodded. “I have tried to tell her the same thing. She must not sit and brood all day long.”

  Violet was gazing at the fire. “I do not want to be soothed. I do not deserve it. At least, Mr. Holmes, you have the consolation of knowing your talents have been put to good use, that you have righted wrongs and helped the unfortunate. You have not been corrupted—you have not let hatred and the desire for vengeance drive you to terrible deeds.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Holmes was distressed. “It is not so simple as you think. I deal with vicious and unsavory people all the time. Frequently they are my aids and accomplices. You said that you wanted justice. Your goal was a worthy one, although you took... the wrong path.”

  “Was it?” She laughed sharply. “As they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. You accused me of wishing to be God, and you were absolutely correct. I thought I could be judge, jury, and one of the avenging Furies. My crimes were monstrous, but worse still was my arrogance, my phenomenal arrogance.” Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes smoldering, and she had run out of breath.

  “Do not torment yourself,” I said. “It does neither you nor anyone else any good.”

  She did not seem to hear me. “And Donald, poor Donald. During our eight years together, I never felt any pity for him, not one ounce. I pitied only myself.”

  “He was cruel to you,” I said. “He hurt you physically. Your hatred was understandable.”

  “But it was as he said—he had not touched me for years! He turned to his little blonde, and he tried to leave me alone. Still I hated him—I would not let him be—I baited him. He was a fairly normal man of no great intelligence, but by no means a cretin. And he was nowhere so cruel or spiteful as his father. Yet my mind made him into an absolute monster. Surely he deserved some pity? He was unhappy too. Other men marry women more intelligent than them, yet they are not... murdered.”

  Holmes stared at her in horror, a long ash dangling at the end of his cigarette. I felt my face grow hot.

  “Oh, Violet, why must you talk so? I was there—whatever else it may have been, it was not murder.”

  Her mouth twisted into a frightful smile. “Whatever else it was does not much matter now. He is just as dead. And his only crime was that he married a woman with ice in her veins, a woman who could not love.”

  “Stop that!” I had stood up, my fists clenched. “In God’s name, Violet, you are no saint, but you are no such devil either. Can you not see? Now you are making yourself far worse than you really are.”

  She stared up at me, her eyes black whirlpools of despair, which would suck into their depths the entire world. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. I know there is much that is good and loving in you.” I sat down.

  A tear trickled from her left eye, and she wiped quickly at it. “Oh, I hope you are right.”

  “She is,” Holmes said softly. When Violet looked at him, he walked to the fire and flicked off the ash of his cigarette. He had his back to us again. “You are beautiful and... charming. You are... It was very hard for me to expose you. I hope you understand that.”

  “I do,” Violet said.

  “And I was... hurt that you deceived me for so long, but that is not fair on my part, because I think we both always knew how things stood. The realization was always there at the back of my mind. Henry and Michelle had no suspicions, but you and I knew better. We were not fooling one another, not for much of the time.” He turned about to face her. “Were we?” He raised the cigarette to his mouth.

  She smiled, her eyes still glistening. “No.”

  “You certainly had me fooled,” I said.

  Her smile grew sad. “It is as I have said—it is because you are too good. I hope you understand that my greatest regret is for deceiving you, for betraying your trust and your friendship.”

  I sighed. “And I have told you repeatedly that you are forgiven.”

  Violet laughed softly. “I do not seem to want to be forgiven.”

  Holmes turned again to the fire. “You are a woman of extraordinary talents. Unfortunately, they were wasted—there was no worthy outlet for them. And there is your... phenomenal beauty. Even I cannot resist it. But what have I to offer? I have reached my fortieth year, but it feels more like my seventieth, my three score and ten. I am a confirmed bachelor like those old men with long white sidewhiskers, black cloaks, and tall hats—everything long out of fashion—who totter through the park clacking at the walkway with their sticks. My hours are irregular, my habits fixed and eccentric, and my interests bizarre and fantastical. I could not, in good conscience, wish one such as myself on any woman, let alone one so remarkable as you. I have spent my life pursuing evil and dealing with perverted and d
eranged creatures. It has taken its toll. I am not... I am barely fit for company such as yours. My heart is not capable of normal human affections, and then there is my appearance.” He laughed sharply. “Perhaps it is my occupation which has made me resemble some lean and hungry bird of prey with a monstrous beak.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Violet appeared exhausted by her own earlier outburst. The silence filled the room, a great gray, deadening thing that reminded me of the web I had dreamed about at Norfolk, the web binding and suffocating Violet and Sherlock. I waited, hoping one of them might break free, but it was no use.

  At last I said, “That is utter and complete nonsense, Sherlock!”

  He took a final draw on his cigarette and threw the butt on the fire. His shoulders were slumped, his long thin hands dangling at his sides, white alongside the black frock coat. “The truth is rarely pleasant.”

  “The truth? The truth? You dare to call that ugly drivel the truth? You are no such homely freak, and besides, women are intelligent enough not to love men only for their appearance. Have you forgotten how Susan Lowell could love the maimed Erik?”

  “Because she was blind.”

  “Do you think so little of her? Do you think she could not have loved him otherwise?”

  He shrugged. His eyes shifted briefly to Violet, who had, almost reflexively, turned again to the fire. “What I think does not particularly matter.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “Mrs. Wheelwright, I wished to pay my respects and let you know I hold no grudge against you. To the contrary, I admire you greatly, and you did save my life. Unfortunately, as I told Michelle, I have business in Geneva, and I fear I cannot linger.”

  Violet stared dully at the fire. “I understand.”

  I was astounded. “You are not leaving? You have not even seen Henry.”

  “I had hoped to catch the four-thirty train so I could be in Geneva before eight. If you would be so kind as to have Gertrude fetch my coat.”

  I stared at him, but his eyes would not meet mine. The silence began to settle again, gray and terrible. I would still breathe, but the filaments were slowly settling, winding about Sherlock and Violet, slowly binding them. It was only a matter of time. A sense of dread washed over me. I wanted to rise from the chair, but I felt suddenly as if I could not move.