The Web Weaver (16 page)

Mrs. Lovejoy took a plate and a silver knife. “The first piece is for you.”

“Let me get it. Besides, that way I can make sure it is large enough.” This statement drew more laughter.

Violet sat almost directly across from me, and I saw her thrust the knife into the chocolate cake. Her dark eyebrows plunged, a puzzled look on her face. “How odd. Something is...” She used a silver cake server to take out the thick piece she had cut. Instead of a complete triangle, a wedge, there was only the outside part of the cake, a chunk that left a notch showing in the cake. “I believe...”

Things happened so suddenly then that they remain a blur of impressions. Mrs. Lovejoy clapped her thin white hands to her face and screamed, a hideously loud and piercing sound, and staggered back. Violet shoved the cake away from her. Donald Wheelwright moved faster than I thought so large a man possibly could—he hurled his chair aside and backed away, knocking over one of the maids. Everyone else at our end of the table rose except for Holmes, who leaned forward, entranced.

Out of the opening in the cake had come the largest spider I had ever seen, a monstrous black thing, its torso an inch across, its slender legs giving it a breadth of four or five inches. Smaller brownish-black spiders poured from the cake, but they were not so fast as the big one. He ran madly for the other end of the table, the white linen providing a dramatic backdrop for his sinister, sable form. As he proceeded on his erratic path, chairs were upended and people backed away wildly from the table.

Half the people in the dining room—not all of them women—seemed to be screaming. “Oh God!” I heard Henry cry. More chairs fell over with bangs; water glasses, coffee cups, and saucers smashed.

Insects do not usually disturb me, but I was startled. Seeing them swarm from the cake like maggots from a corpse was unbelievably nasty. A wave of revulsion passed over me. For an instant I too wished to flee, but I forced myself to master my fear. Sherlock, Violet, and I were the only ones still near the table. Violet stared at me, then grabbed for her chair and sank down.

Sherlock’s face was flushed, his eyes filled with excitement. “Incredible!” he exclaimed. “
Incredible
. I have never seen such a specimen of
tegenaria
.”

A hand grasped my arm tightly. “Lord, Michelle—get away!”

I turned. Henry was ashen.

“They cannot hurt us.”

“For God’s sake!—
humor me
.”

I stepped back. A brawny maid swept into the room; her stout hands raised a broom overhead, her grim eyes resolute.

“Kill them!” a man shouted, his deep voice shrill. “
Kill them all!
” It was Donald Wheelwright. He seemed to have completely lost his reason and reminded me of a frightened horse or dog, terror manifest in his visage.

The maid would have probably demolished the cake, but Holmes seized the broom handle. “Have a care—you must not disturb the cake!”

“Yes, sir.”

She moved aside, bringing the broom down with a great
whoomph
on the table. Those few glasses left standing were knocked over, and the silver candelabrum at that end fell, some tapers breaking, others toppling onto the floor. “Got them!” She raised the broom, and I could see smashed spiders smeared across the white linen. The wrathful broom rose and fell several times, but Holmes stood guard over the cake.

Dr. Dyson appeared at our side, a glass of brandy in each hand. “Drink this.” He offered Henry and me a glass each.

Henry snatched his, swallowed it down, then turned away from the table with a shudder. “Filthy buggers!”

I shook my head. “I do not need it. I have had enough to drink this evening.” I was impressed with Matthew’s composure. “You are so calm.”

“I spent some time in the tropics. One grows accustomed to ungodly large spiders and beetles.”

His wife nodded her approval at the maid. “That’s right, dear—whack the little beggars!”

Matthew shook his head. “Luckily I brought along my bag, doctors. We have plenty of work before us. No strokes or heart failures, I hope, but several very shaken people.”

“I shall be with you in a moment,” I said. “First I must see to Violet.”

“Don’t get too near!” Henry exclaimed.

I put my hand on his cheek. “Please calm yourself, darling. You cannot help anyone when you are like this. You are being rather silly. The spiders cannot harm us.”

He took a deep breath, and much of the wildness went out of his eyes. “I... One spider might be tolerable—but so many!”

“Hush.”

He took my gloved hand and kissed my knuckles. His color was returning. “Next time I suggest remaining home for the evening, I hope you will listen to me.”

I smiled faintly. “So I shall.”

I walked around the table. Old Wheelwright stood surveying the crowd, his face pale. A ghastly, trembly smile contorted his lips.

Violet still sat in the chair staring at the wrecked table with the smashed spiders, broken glasses, and china. I pulled off my glove and put my hand on the bare skin of her shoulder. She glanced up at me. Her face appeared thin and flushed, a wild gleam in her eyes; her mouth twitched briefly into a smile that reminded me of Sherlock.

“How are you, my dear?” I asked.

“I shall never forget this birthday.”

Holmes was bent over the cake. At last he stood up and thrust his hand into the opening where Violet had cut out the piece. “My God!” someone shrieked. He withdrew a small envelope smeared with chocolate, tore it open and withdrew a note. His gray eyes glared, but his mouth twisted into a frightful smile.

“Hah!” he shouted.

“What on earth is it?”

He handed me the note. Violet stood and read it with me.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes cannot save you from me and my little friends. Next time they will eat you, not cake.

A.

M
ichelle and I did not get home from the disastrous dinner party until well after midnight. It was a fortunate coincidence that three physicians had been invited. Many of the ladies—and gentlemen–young and old alike, suffered from hysterical shock. Others had been physically injured.

One lady, in her alarm, pulled the chair out from under her husband, and he landed hard upon his coccyx. This may sound comical, but if the bone breaks, it is extremely painful, and one cannot sit for weeks. The maid that Donald Wheelwright had bowled over struck her head against the wall and was briefly knocked unconscious. Old Mrs. Wheelwright had fainted dead away.

Perhaps the saddest case was the cook. She blamed herself for everything, although she was clearly not responsible. At first she insisted she would pack her things and leave at once. Both Michelle and Violet tried to calm her. Finally she agreed to remain, but she was inconsolable. Before we left, Michelle gave her a sedative to help her sleep. She kept muttering that she was disgraced, that she would never cook again.
Holmes wanted to question her about the cake, but Michelle would not allow it. She told Violet to make sure the cook went back to work in the kitchen the next morning; that would be the best thing for her.

I sympathized with the cook. My own actions during the cake cutting were a major source of embarrassment. True, I had not completely lost my reason like Donald Wheelwright, but my irrational fear seemed foolish and unmanly. It had taken Michelle’s remarks—and her touch—to bring me to my senses. Early in our relationship I had grudgingly realized who was the stronger person. I was only a fair-weather physician, while Michelle would have made an excellent army surgeon.

By way of absolution, I resolved to return to the Wheelwright’s house the next day. Someone needed to check on the casualties, and as usual, Michelle’s morning schedule was full. The hansom pulled up before the townhouse shortly after ten. The rain had returned, the day overcast and gloomy. A footman let me in, and then took me to Lovejoy, who appeared none the worse for wear.

“Ah, Dr. Vernier, how good of you to come. Mrs. Wheelwright went to bed at last, while Mr. Wheelwright has just risen. Your cousin, Mr. Holmes, is in the dining room.”

“When did he arrive?”

Lovejoy smiled. “He never departed.”

“Good Lord—he has spent the entire night here? Well, I shall want to see the little maid that struck her head—Alice, wasn’t it?—and the cook and your wife. How is your wife doing this morning, Mr. Lovejoy?”

“She is better, but still gravely shaken. She does not have a strong constitution to begin with, and such a disturbance... We men may laugh at spiders, but to a woman’s fainter heart, the loathing is quite genuine.”

I managed a smile. “No doubt, although you must have noticed that several of the men—especially your master—had an equal dread of spiders.”

Lovejoy gave a reluctant nod. “It is true, sir. The fact was well known in our household, as I told Mr. Holmes this morning. Nothing infuriates the master more than finding a spider in the house. Mrs. Lovejoy always stresses this to the maids. Frightened though they might be, they must tell her, and she, poor dear, who loathes them herself, gets one of the footmen to destroy the creature. The point has been driven home many a time, and as a result, I can truly say this house has always been free of spiders. We have been ever vigilant.”

“I am sure you have.”

“Perhaps you would like a cup of coffee with your cousin before you get to work.”

“That would be very kind.”

We went upstairs. The enormous dining room appeared different, vast and mostly empty, the warm, subdued light of the candles replaced by the dull gray light of the cloudy sky. Gone were the white linen tablecloth and napkins, the splendid sterling silver settings, the vases and bowls of colorful exotic flowers, and the throng of guests and servants. The bare brown table had shrunk, many leaves no doubt having been removed.

Holmes sat at one end of the table, a cup of coffee before him, a cigarette in hand. He was pale, and the fatigue seemed to be setting in. His black tailcoat had been removed, but he still wore the dress shirt, waistcoat, and bow tie. They had lost the crisp, freshly starched look of the evening before and, like Holmes, appeared slightly wilted. Next to him, on the table, was the infamous chocolate cake.

“Good morning, Henry. You look much rested.”

“I wish I could say the same for you. Did you sleep at all?”

“Of course not. I wished to think.”

“I have told you before that one thinks better when one is rested.”

“And I have told you that I disagree.” He sipped at his coffee. A maid appeared with another cup and poured me some.

“Thank you.” I turned to Holmes. I did not want to look at the cake. In spite of myself, it set my insides crawling again. “Have you discovered anything?”

“Yes, but it is most frustrating. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort to humiliate me, and...”

“Humiliate
you
?”

His gray eyes showed anger, and he stubbed out the cigarette in a huge crystal ashtray. “
Yes
.” He pointed at the note from the cake. “This was meant for me as much as the Wheelwrights.”

“Could this person have known you would be present?”

Holmes gave an annoyed snort. “Do not be obtuse. Of course they did. This has all the marks of an inside job. I always considered the gypsy story ludicrous, and this is further confirmation. It should be one of the servants, but what servant would go to such ridiculous lengths? Someone has a peculiar sense of humor.”

“Humor?” I set down my coffee cup. “You call that
humor
?”

“It is very black humor, but humor all the same. Did it never strike you as amusing last night? To see the cream of London society, all those ladies and gentlemen in their finery, reduced to a hysterical mob, knocking furniture, glasses, and each other aside in their panic to escape? Once some time has passed and your own fears have dwindled, you will see the comical side.”

“I do not think so. You have a peculiar notion of the comical.”

He frowned. “You mistake me if you think I could ever condone such a thing. The people’s fear was all too genuine. Comical it may have been, but cruel, as well. It was not a trivial matter to pull off. We are dealing with a very clever and determined person. I simply cannot believe it was a mere servant. Have you given any thought as to how the spiders came to be placed in the cake?”

“I... I suppose someone in the kitchen...” Again my intestines
seemed to writhe. “Yes, it must have been one of the cooks who...”

“But how would this person have placed live spiders inside of a cooked cake? It would have been quite a project. To begin with, many spiders were captured—this in a house reputed to be free of spiders. Then the entire center of the cake was hollowed out so that it resembled a tube cake. The spiders and the message were put inside, then the open center was covered with a circle of stiff paper and the whole thing frosted over. Such a cake would take considerable time to prepare, yet the cook and her assistants made the cake in the early afternoon, working together. It was placed in the pantry off the kitchen. They all swear the cake was a normal one. Once made, you could not easily tamper with such a cake; sabotaging it would be a difficult and messy business. So how did the spiders get into the cake?”