The Web Weaver (2 page)

“Disgusting.” I set down the glass and turned away from the desk, hoping to steer us away from the spider.

Holmes smiled briefly. “I had no idea you were so fond of flies.”

“I am not fond of flies!”

This made him laugh. “Come, let us sit down. You need not watch her devour her prey.” I sat in one of the armchairs near the fire, while Holmes took the other and crossed his legs. “You look the very model of a prosperous physician today, Henry. And how is Michelle?”

“Now there you have the prosperous physician. Luckily avarice is stronger in my disposition than male pride. Her practice is thriving, and she makes far more money than I. Several women of the upper class have discovered that they prefer a woman physician, and she has become quite the rage. She will soon have to begin turning away patients. Only last week she snared Lady Connely. Old Thurswell must be furious. He has preached against women doctors for years. To have his wealthiest patient snatched away by a female half his age... It is rather delightful.”

Holmes laughed. “Come, Henry, you make her sound like my friend
tegenaria civilis
with her fly. I am glad to hear you are both prospering. What of her work with the less fortunate?”

“She would turn away Lady Connely first. She has made a vow that for each rich patient she takes on, she will have a poor one in the balance. We both still work at the clinic weekly.”

“I wish all physicians shared your charitable sentiments.”

“And you, Sherlock—what is all this? It does seem a bit... messier than...” A gesture with my hand took in the books and papers scattered about.

“I have been working on a puzzle, a very curious one.” He sat back in the chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Tell me, Henry, did you ever read Watson’s story,
The Final Problem
?”

“Given your attitude toward his stories, I have always scrupulously avoided them. Is that not the one, however, where you die at the end?”

Holmes was amused. “Yes. At the Reichenbach Falls. And have you heard of Moriarty, Professor Moriarty?”

“No, I have not.”

“He is my arch-enemy, the Napoleon of crime, Watson has me calling him.”

“Does this Moriarty have any basis in reality?”

Holmes set down his pipe and leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright. “Ah, that is the question—that is the puzzle. Even a week or two ago I would have told you he was a complete fiction. I would have been adamant. Watson’s stories to the contrary, most crimes and criminals are stupid. Only very rarely does a man of first-rate intelligence turn to crime. Most often we have only drunken ruffians or groups of them who bash in someone’s head, snatch a purse, or rob a bank. The true criminal genius is rare, and the notion of an evil mastermind behind the crime in London is a silly one. Watson has me comparing Moriarty to a huge spider at the center of an evil web sensing every motion, every criminal movement, in this great metropolis. Of course, I would never have come up with such an obviously preposterous metaphor.”

“Why preposterous?”

Holmes shook his head. “You know nothing about spiders either. Only a female spider can spin a web; only
she
sits waiting for her prey—and not necessarily at the center. If Moriarty were a woman, the metaphor might have made sense, but for a man, it is a foolish one.”

“Perhaps poetic license...”

“I do not take poetic license with the natural world! If Watson wished to make such an inane metaphor, he should have had it coming from his own mouth.” His face had grown quite red. “Pardon me. My irritation with Watson is only too ready to come to the surface. People are always comparing men to savage creatures such as wolves or spiders, but in reality, man is the only animal capable of true evil. There is no malice in the wolf or spider. I watched my spider devour her mate.”

“
What?
”

“Yes, she is one of the varieties which frequently consumes the male. The male is much smaller than the female. The female
tegenaria
will devour other spiders of either sex or even her own children after a certain age. It is curious how the roles of the sexes are reversed with
spiders and humans. But I digress. I was telling you about Moriarty and the foolishness of the notion of a mastermind behind much of the crime in London.”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, I am no longer convinced it is so foolish an idea.”

His smile vanished, and as I stared into his gray eyes, I felt a kind of chill about the heart. “Good Lord,” I whispered.

“I am not certain, Henry. Perhaps I am wrong—I hope I am wrong.” He tried to draw on his pipe, but it had gone out. “Blast it.” He set down the pipe, stood, and walked to the large bow window overlooking Baker Street. “The past several months I have had a growing sense of... uneasiness. I thought at first it was only nerves, but now I think I had begun to sense a pattern, a shape—a web, if you will.” He glanced over at his desk. “Forgive me,
tegenaria
. Something is happening, I believe, but still it eludes me. It began only as an intuition, but I have been pondering the problem, reading over the papers for the past several months, checking certain leads, certain odd crimes. There may indeed be a Moriarty. It is ironic.” He laughed.

“What is?”

“If it were not for Watson’s preposterous creation, I might never have hit upon the idea. Two weeks ago I asked myself, what if there were a Moriarty? Only then did I begin to sense the pattern. So far I have no idea what kind of person he may be. If this pattern is real, then a major intellect, a truly imposing mind, is behind it. The design is intricate and very subtle. He is the opponent for whom I have always longed.”

I frowned. “How could you long for such a monster?”

“Have you never wanted to slay a dragon?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

Holmes leaned upon the windowsill, staring down at the street below. “Now what have we here? A visitor, if I am not mistaken. He would
have given the cabby’s poor horse a workout. A little under eighteen stone, I would say. His clothes proclaim him a gentleman, but he has the physique of a boxer or stevedore. Ah, yes! He is at the door. I am tired of musing over insubstantial cobwebs, and it has been frightfully dull of late. Perhaps he has an interesting case for me.”

“I suppose I had better be going.”

“Not at all, Henry. You can play the part of Watson. Most of my clients expect to find him at my side. Besides, it is too early for supper. From what you told me of Michelle, she is probably engaged for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Yes, it is her day at the clinic. Very well, I shall stay. Medicine has also been rather dull of late. Let us hope your visitor has some interesting tale to relate.”

Holmes took off his dressing gown while he walked to his bedroom, and he returned wearing a frock coat, just as Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door: “Mr. Holmes, there is...”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know. You may send in Tiny.”

She rolled her brilliant blue eyes and withdrew.

Despite Holmes’ description, I was not prepared for the bulk of the man who entered, his head barely clearing the doorframe. He wore formal dress, the ubiquitous black frock coat, waistcoat with gold watch chain showing, and striped trousers, the toes of his boots shiny, but all in all, he did not appear at home in his grand apparel. He had a slightly frumpled look, his tie askew, an errant lock of hair almost standing up.

At one time, he must have been a superb physical specimen, but now, nearing forty, he had the look of a man in transition toward corpulence. His shoulders were still broad, but his waist was thick, his neck too fleshy and full under the square chin. All the same, at a good six and a half feet tall, with an eighteen-inch neck, fingers thick as sausages, and a weight nearer three-hundred than two-hundred pounds, he was an
imposing figure. His hair and mustache were light brown, his eyes blue, his skin fair with a tendency toward redness. His gaze shifted from me, to my medical bag, to my cousin.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. I am he. What may I do for you, Mr.—?”

“Wheelwright, Donald Wheelwright.” His immense paw briefly swallowed Holmes’ long, delicate fingers.

“This is my cousin, Mr. Wheelwright. As you noted, he is a physician.”

Wheelwright’s hand now swallowed mine. It felt sweaty, big, very strong, and I noticed the reddish-brown hair on the back. “Dr. Watson,” Wheelwright said softly.

I raised my eyebrows. Holmes’ gray eyes had a wicked gleam, and he turned Wheelwright aside before I could apprise him of my true identity. A very faint, floral scent touched my nostrils. I glanced at my hand and sniffed cautiously. Lavender?

“Now then, Mr. Wheelwright, do be seated and tell me how I can be of service.”

Wheelwright sat warily, and the chair was dwarfed with him in it. He gave a sigh, and his mouth stiffened. “I— This is a black business, Mr. Holmes. I usually like to keep my affairs private, but... My safety and my wife’s safety are at risk, and the police don’t seem to be of much use. I didn’t quite know where to turn, but I was told you were the very best for this type of deviltry. I’m not superstitious, mind you, but all the same...”

“Who has threatened you, Mr. Wheelwright?”

His eyes showed a sudden coldness. “Who told you I had been threatened?”

“You did, albeit in a roundabout manner.”

He nodded. “I see. Well, there have been letters, and... See here, did you ever hear about the business with the gypsy at Lord Harrington’s ball?”

Holmes’ fingers tapped at his leg, and he frowned. “Was that nearly two years ago?”

“Yes, that’s right. Two years in January it will be. You know about it then?”

“Only vaguely. Something about a gypsy curse, was it not? I saw a brief article in one of the papers. Tell me about it, Mr. Wheelwright.”

Wheelwright sighed and shifted restlessly in the chair, which creaked ominously. “She was— There was this old hag. She appeared during the dancing. This was the Paupers’ Ball, and we were all in costume. She told us we should be ashamed—as if having money was a fault—and then she said how wicked we were. She had a piercing voice that got a grip on you, and at first no one was quite sure whether she was part of the entertainment. She came down the stairs and cursed everyone and wished the most terrible things on us all. And then...” His mouth stiffened, his brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “It was not wise. My wife tried to talk to her. The gypsy began to shriek at her. Finally, Harrington’s servants seized the gypsy and threw her out. The party was spoilt, though.”

Holmes gave a sharp staccato laugh. “Yes, I’ll wager it was. What did the gypsy look like?”

“Like a gypsy.”

Holmes forced a smile. “And what does a gypsy look like? What did this particular gypsy look like?”

“An old hag, as I said, in a bright dress—red, I believe. She had a hooked nose and bad teeth. Oh, and she wore big round golden earrings. What an old witch.”

“But her voice was piercing rather than feeble?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone in the hall could hear her.”

“And your wife confronted her?”

He gave his head a shake. “She was across the room from me, or I’d
have stopped her. You don’t try to reason with a lunatic.”

“And what did Mrs. Wheelwright say to the gypsy?”

“She told her that our being dressed up meant no... disrespect, and that only the Almighty could punish, and she even...” He drew in his breath. “She asked the old hag to pray with her for God’s mercy.”

“And the gypsy did not take kindly to these suggestions?”

“No, she was still cursing my wife as they dragged her off.”

“What exactly was the nature of these curses?”

Wheelwright’s tongue appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. “That she and all she knew would have bad luck, and... die in torment, and...” His face lost some of its earlier ruddy color. “And that she—my wife—would be... barren.”

Holmes took his elbows off his knees and sat back. “And by barren did she mean childless?”

Wheelwright nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Holmes tapped at his knee with his fingertips. “I do not wish to appear insensitive, Mr. Wheelwright, but it must be asked. Do you and your wife have any children?”

Wheelwright’s eyes narrowed, a brief hint of ice showing in their blue depths. “No. My wife... she is... But it was not the blasted gypsy!” His neck grew redder. “We already knew, long, long before the ball... I said I’m not superstitious, and I’m not.”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “How long have you been married, sir?”

“Nearly eight years.” Wheelwright seemed to grudge each word.

“I see. So the gypsy cursed your wife in particular and everyone else at the party. How very dramatic. The newspaper article comes back to me now. The curse involved general ruin, misery and misfortune, lingering illness, and early death, I believe. A crowd of London’s high society mesmerized by a vengeful gypsy who appears out of nowhere at the ball. Somewhat like Poe’s ‘Red Death.’”

“What’s this red death? I don’t recall her saying anything about any red death.”

“I was alluding to the story by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Who’s he?”

“An American writer of some note. But we digress, Mr. Wheelwright. Something more immediate than the ball has brought you to see me.”

“That’s right, Mr. Holmes.” His big hands formed fists. “Some strange things have happened to several of the people who were at the ball. Harrington himself cut his own throat. It’s enough to make a man nervous. And then... then there was this note...”

Holmes placed his hands upon his knees. “Note? Let me see it, please.”

“It’s... it’s not very... nice.”

“I must see it.”

Wheelwright sighed, then reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat. Holmes opened the brown, folded paper, read it, then handed it to me. The writing was a reddish-brown color resembling dried blood:

By now you know my curse was a true one. Your womb is all ashes and bitterness, and you will have no fruit. Perhaps I shall send the Master himself to claim you. You may burn every light in your home as brightly as can be, but it will not save you from
Him.
Let your foolish God try to protect you now! Watch out for the black dog, the crow and the spider, for they be my allies. Know that nothing you can do will possibly save you. No man, no power, on earth can help the pair of you. You are doomed. You shall soon meet me and the Master in Hell.