The Web Weaver (24 page)

“Why?”

“Her hysteria is too convenient. She plays the part of a devout Christian, yet when I ask her what church she attends, she cannot tell me. I press the matter, and down she goes. When I returned to the Herberts’, I questioned the servants and discovered Mrs. Lovejoy seems to have been more than just a casual acquaintance of Mrs. Dalton.”

“I do not like that. But the husband seems a decent fellow.”

“Perhaps a trifle too decent. He is like the perfect butler in some play. Oh, I have less to go on than with the wife, but I suspect him all the same. The fact they come from Liverpool bothers me.”

“How can they possibly help that?”

“Again, it is too convenient. They have no past I can examine, no former employers whom I can question. Even their Liverpool employer is accommodatingly deceased. However, there is another person whom I wish to meet, a rather obvious suspect.”

I pulled at the corner of my mustache, frowning. “Who?”

“Come, come, Henry. You must know.”

I gave him a blank stare.

“Consider how Mr. Wheelwright spends his afternoons.”

I sat upright, and then stood. “The mistress!”

“Yes. She has an excellent motive for wishing Violet harm.”

“Of course! She must be the person.”

Holmes laughed, then took off his dressing gown and threw it over a chair. “You have never met the woman, and yet you appear certain of her guilt. Many men have mistresses, but most mistresses do not plot against their benefactors’ wives.” He took a pair of black stockings from
his desk drawer (I could see the gray blur atop the desk which was the web of his resident spider), and sat down on the sofa, raising one bare foot. “Would you like to meet her?”

“What? You are going to confront her?”

“No. I merely wish to meet the lady. You really must join me.”

“When Wheelwright finds out, he will be furious.”

“He will not find out.”

A gentle rap sounded at the door, then it swung partly open revealing Mrs. Hudson. “Lord Harrington is here to see you, Mr. Holmes.”

“Harrington? Why the devil would he choose now of...? Give me two minutes, Mrs. Hudson, then you may admit him.” Holmes was wearing black trousers and a white shirt without the collar buttoned on. He snatched the dressing gown and retreated to his bedroom. From there he said, “As soon as we are finished with Lord Harrington we shall pay a call upon Miss Alice Ladell. I must confess to a certain curiosity.”

He strode back into the room, collar done up, black cravat in place, his frock coat folded over one arm, his boots in hand. He put on the coat, tugged at the lapels, then flipped it back before he sat and pulled on a boot. By the time Mrs. Hudson opened the door, he was on his feet and looking as if he had been dressed for hours.

“Good day, Mr. Holmes.” Lord Harrington gave Mrs. Hudson his stick, pulled off his gray gloves and put them in his top hat, then handed her the hat. He had not a hair on the dome of his head, but his beard and the hair in back were thick, curly and red. His large, light blue eyes had a wary look. He noticed me and struggled to recall my name. “Dr. Verner, is it not?”

“Vernier,” I said, shaking his hand.

Holmes gestured at a chair. “Please sit down, Lord Harrington.”

He sat before the fire and rubbed his hands together. His fingers were long and white; his hands oddly delicate for so large, broad shouldered
a man. “It’s beastly cold and wet.”

Holmes nodded, then sat, watching him closely. Harrington gazed at the glowing coals. “I suppose frankness would be best. I’d as soon get it off my chest at once. Mr. Holmes, when you showed me that dreadful letter of my brother’s, I told you I had no idea who the scoundrel was, the villain Joseph blamed for ruining him. I must confess I was being less than truthful.”

Holmes stroked his chin with his forefinger. “I suspected as much.”

“As well you might. The devil’s name, Mr. Holmes, is Steerford. Geoffrey Steerford.”

Holmes frowned, closing his eyes and putting his fingertips on his temple. “Steerford. I know that name.” He stood up. “Something to do with investments? I heard the name at a party.”

Harrington gave a reluctant nod.

“But there is something else. Steerford. Steer... Ah, Flora Morris, who gave us the suicide note, said the name crossed out had been Turnford—only a slip of the tongue away. This is very useful information, Lord Harrington. I am in your debt.”

“I hope you can use it to save others from that blackguard.”

“I certainly shall. What made you come to me?”

Lord Harrington had set his elbows upon his knees, leaning toward the fire. He gazed up at Holmes, then his eyes fell. “I did not want to come. My family name has been dragged through the mud because of this wretched business. Before you gave me that note, I had half convinced myself my brother had been murdered. Now it is clear that he was a very... disturbed man.”

“I am sorry,” Holmes said, “to have been the one to discover the note, but I thought...”

“You thought, quite rightly, that I should have it. After all, he was my brother. After some soul-searching, I have also showed it to Harriet,
Joseph’s wife. The truth, dreadful as it is, is...” He looked up again at Holmes. “He tried to tell me, some six months ago, about his torment, but I was repelled by the little he revealed, disgusted. Had I heard him out...”

“You cannot blame yourself for his death.”

“No? If he had had a sympathetic ear to share his troubles...”

Holmes’ mouth was taut, grim. “It may have been closer to murder than you think. Someone knew his weaknesses only too well. His mistress, that pathetic child, did not come up with such a scheme.”

I repressed a shudder. “It was that vile old monster, her ‘aunt’.”

Holmes folded his arms. “I shall want to meet this Mr. Steerford.”

Harrington’s jaw slid briefly forward, anger showing in his pale blue eyes. “I have not yet told you why I have come. I had thought of visiting you for the past week but always found some excuse for delay. However, yesterday I received a letter from Mr. Steerford, polite in tone, but most threatening. He apparently knows of your interest in my brother’s death, Mr. Holmes, and he said all of London, including the newspapers, would discover more about Joseph’s vices should I assist your investigations.” His face had reddened, his voice hoarsened. “I’ll not let the blackmailing dog who destroyed my brother threaten me. Regrettably, I cannot kill him with my bare hands, but I shall do all I can to bring ruin down upon his head.” He drew in his breath, struggling to calm himself. His eyes were fixed on Holmes. “If I can be of any assistance, Mr. Holmes, I hope you will call upon me. Should you require additional funds...”

“You have already paid me generously, Lord Harrington.”

“If you need money—or anything else—let me know, and you shall have it. I want this man brought to justice. I do not want him to destroy anyone else, as he has destroyed Joseph. He thought he could coerce me into silence—he thought I would put my pride as a Harrington above all else. Well, I do not wish to see Joseph’s name further soiled, but I
could not live with myself were I to sit idly by while other poor wretches and their families suffered. I shall see the villain in hell first.” His voice shook, and his eyes were deadly earnest.

Holmes gave a nod. “You have chosen rightly.”

Harrington stared down at his hands. “I hope so. Nothing can bring Joseph back, so whatever happens...” He withdrew his watch from his waistcoat. “I must go. I have another appointment.” He stood up. “I meant what I said, Mr. Holmes. If I can help, please call upon me.”

“So I shall.”

We followed him to the door. Holmes assisted him with his coat, and then he shook our hands. He seemed embarrassed by the feelings he had shown us. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Holmes closed the door behind him, then gave me an ironic smile. “Mr. Steerford seems to have misjudged Lord Harrington. I also misjudged him. I thought I had heard the last from him after I gave him the note.”

“I do vaguely remember the name coming up at the Wheelwrights’ party.”

Holmes nodded. “Old Wheelwright did not like the smell of Mr. Steerford’s enterprise. One shrewd devil no doubt recognizing another of his kind. Using an alias, I shall let Mr. Steerford know I have a substantial sum of money to invest and try to set up a meeting with him. However, this afternoon I shall visit Miss Ladell. Do you wish to accompany me?”

“I have no firm plans for the afternoon, and I too am curious.”

“Excellent!” Holmes slipped out of his frock coat. “We must dress for the occasion.”

“You are certain Mr. Wheelwright...?”

“We shall, of course, pay our visit in disguise. If you would care to join me in the bedroom.”

“What disguise?”

“Our role will be one which I particularly enjoy and which has served me well in the past. We shall be plumbers.”

“I know absolutely nothing about plumbing.”

“An unfortunate gap in your education, Henry. We will cast you as my ignorant assistant.”

To my way of thinking, Sherlock carries his desire for authenticity in his disguises too far. He produced soiled and foul-smelling clothing, which any true plumber would have been proud to wear. The touch of it made my flesh crawl, but I reassured myself with the thought of a hot bath when our charade was finished. Besides the dirty clothing, Holmes put on a red-haired wig and applied an enormous red mustache to his upper lip. He ruffled up my hair, then gave me a beard, which matched the color of my mustache. After adding a mole to his cheek, he blacked out a few of our teeth, then smeared some grimy black concoction on our hands and faces. When he was finished, we both resembled mangy sewer rats.

He strapped on a leather belt with wrenches dangling and handed me a wooden toolbox. On the way out, he tipped his worn bowler with a tear in the brim to Mrs. Hudson. “Guh’day, ma’am.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “You both look absolutely dreadful.”

Holmes laughed. “Excellent, Mrs. Hudson. I shall be home in time for supper.”

We had some difficulty hailing a cab, as the drivers were wary of us. But Holmes finally flagged one down and paid in advance. When he mentioned the street to the driver, I said, “A modest, respectable neighborhood. How did you discover the woman’s name and address?”

“I had a cabby whom I frequently employ wait outside Wheelwright’s offices in the early afternoon. Mr. Wheelwright is impossible to miss.
On the second day at his post, my cabby was hired to drive him to the address we are visiting. Once I had the address, I sent one of the Irregulars over to get the name.”

“It is odd to think that... such a woman should be installed in her own house in that neighborhood.”

Holmes’ smile was harsh. “Come, Henry. You are too severe. She has reached the summit of her profession. She bears no more resemblance to the toothless, diseased prostitute who spends the night on the street than an itinerant patent medicine peddler does to the royal surgeon on Harley Street. Mr. Wheelwright, whatever his other faults, is not a stingy man. Miss Ladell may not be respectable, but she leads a comfortable life which would be the envy of most of the women of London.”

“It is disgusting!” I exclaimed. “When I think of the poor women who come to the clinic struggling to get by on a few shillings a week, their families crammed into a single filthy room, half of them married to drunkards or ruffians... They must suffer abuse and see their children half starved and sick. What is the sense of it all?”

Even under the red wig and mustache Holmes looked grim. “I do not know, Henry.”

“That some vile woman...”

“First you were willing to make her the arch-conspirator, and now you portray her as the Whore of Babylon. She may be quite... respectable, in her own way.”

“You are joking!”

“Not at all. Mr. Wheelwright does not strike me as a furtive sensualist. I expect he has found a woman better matched to his plodding intellect and leaden soul. You might also recall the frequently quoted—but rarely followed—exhortation: ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ We shall shortly be meeting Miss Ladell, and I shall reserve judgment until then.”

Holmes had the driver let us out a street away from the house; plumbers must not be seen arriving in a cab. The afternoon was cold and wet, the yellow fog dirty and heavy with the odor of coal smoke. Our coats were none too warm, and the toolbox was so heavy I had to keep switching it from hand to hand.

Irritated, I said, “What on earth is in this box?”

“More wrenches, cast-iron pipe, and a first-class snake.”

“A
what
?”

“A plumber’s snake, a device of coiled metal used to unplug drains. Henry, I shall do most of the talking. Remember to appear somewhat stupid.”

The house was not large, but appeared pleasant, reminding me of a country cottage. Built of sturdy red brick, smoke billowed from its chimney. The rose bushes had been cut back for winter, and the hedge along the side was neatly trimmed. Holmes and I went to the door around back, and he knocked.

An elderly woman opened the door. She had on a plain black coat and hat and was obviously about to leave. Her eyes took in our filthy apparel and soiled faces, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Yes?”

Holmes tipped his ragged bowler. “Afternoon, ma’am. ’Eard you’ve ’ad some problems with the water closet. Yer landlord sent me and me mate ’ere to ’ave a look.”

The maid still seemed unsure about us. “I was just going out for the afternoon, but the mistress will be here if...”

“Oh, we won’t be no trouble, ma’am. Quiet as mouses, we’ll be.”

“Perhaps if you could come back next week?”

Holmes scowled horribly and shook his head. “No, ma’am, I can’t recommends it. You’d be takin’ a terrible chance, you would. Once a water closet is plugged up, they’ll flood on you fer sure, and then yer done fer! The smell is powerful bad, and the dirty water and stinkin’
muck soaks into yer fine oak floors and carpets. It’s an ’orrible fate, one I wouldn’t wish on me worst enemy. Best let us ’ave a look.”

The maid had grown pale. “I shall ask the mistress.” Her nose wrinkled again. “I guess you can wait inside.”