The Web Weaver (34 page)

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

She put her hand over her forehead. “If only I could stop my thoughts... It grows so tiresome!”

“No storm lasts forever. It is the penalty we pay for our intellect, for our ability to think better and more intensely than our fellow men. Once our mind undertakes a problem, we cannot rest until it is resolved, until we have our answer, and the wearier we grow, the more frantic our thoughts become. When it is all over, exhaustion and black melancholy often follow.”

Her hand shot out and touched his knee. “Oh, yes—
yes
! You do understand—you do.”

I could see his fingers tighten about the table edge, the tendons rising to the surface. “You shall not go mad, Violet. I promise you. Your sufferings will end.”

It was the first time I had heard him address her as anything other than Mrs. Wheelwright. She laughed, a strained sound, but her relief was audible. “Oh, thank you. I hope—I wish...” She put her hand over her forehead. “Oh God, I am so exhausted I cannot...”

I shook my head. “As well you might be. You should go to bed.”

“I shall, but first...” She looked again at Holmes. “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes?”

“Anything you wish.”

“My violin is on the shelf there. Play me something—play some Bach”

Holmes frowned. “
Now?
”

“Yes.”

“But... will it not appear somewhat strange to...?”

“Everyone will think it is me. If anything, it will reassure the servants. They are used to music emanating from this room at odd hours. No one has enough of an ear to tell your playing from mine.”

Holmes gazed at me. “Will you go upstairs,” I asked, “when he is finished?”

“I promise I shall. I merely... I am not up to playing myself, and I want... I want to think about something else.”

I hesitated, and then nodded. Holmes shrugged and walked over to the shelf where the violin sat. He plucked the strings, tuning them, and then tucked a handkerchief and the violin under his chin. The bow slid across the string and swelled into a resonant note, which his quivering fingertips gave a warm vibrato.

“A wondrous instrument,” he said.

The door burst open, and Henry rushed into the room. He wore a bowler hat and his black overcoat, but his shirt collar was unbuttoned. “What on earth has happened?”

I walked over to him and slipped my arm about his waist. “Hush, for a moment, and then I shall tell you everything. Just now we must listen to Sherlock play.”

Holmes raised the bow, then began. I do not much care for Bach’s music. All those melodies going at once frustrate me because I can only hear one thing at a time, only bits and pieces. Nevertheless, Holmes played beautifully. I had always been struck by the passion of his music; only then did he give his emotions full rein.

Violet had closed her eyes and seemed to melt into the chair. Holmes was the only other person I had known who brought such utter concentration to listening; briefly her dark thoughts were forgotten. He finished the piece. She did not open her eyes. “One more, please. Do you know the saraband from the third partita?”

This was more languorous than the first—stately in its sorrow—but I hardly heard it. I was so sleepy. I leaned against Henry, and he drew me close. “Oh my dearest,” I murmured softly. How I wished the long evening were over.

At last Holmes lowered the violin, sighing deeply. “My Stradivarius is no better. It may not be its equal.”

Violet moistened her lips and opened her eyes. “Bring it with you to Norfolk, and we shall see. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. Your playing is inspired.” She looked at me. “I am very tired.”

“As well you should be.”

There was a polite knock at the door. “Come in,” Holmes said.

The door opened and Lovejoy stepped into the room. “I am sorry for the delay, but Abigail was distraught. You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

“In a moment. I want to have a look about the grounds. Would you fetch a lantern? First, however, we need Mrs. Wheelwright’s maid. She is ready to retire?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Henry slipped free of me and put his hat on the table. “What has happened here?”

“You will hear the whole story soon enough.” Holmes gestured with his hand at Violet. “By the way, would you be so kind as to have a look at Mrs. Wheelwright’s throat?”

Henry frowned, then walked over to Violet. She drew in her breath and looked elsewhere. “Good God!” Henry seemed to jump back. “Who has done this?”

Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “That is the question I would most like answered. Have a good look, Henry. I shall want your professional opinion.”

Henry’s examination was more detached than Sherlock’s, but his revulsion was obvious. Brutality disturbed him.

Another brief knock at the door, and Lovejoy reappeared with Gertrude. I helped Violet to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy—she was utterly worn out. Her fingers brushed aside a strand of black hair. She winced.

“My throat hurts.”

“Have Collins go upstairs with Mrs. Wheelwright and the maid,” Holmes said to Lovejoy. “Collins should examine the room, especially under the bed and in the closets. He should only remain outside while Mrs. Wheelwright is dressing. She is not to be left alone under any circumstances. Have a cot brought up for the maid.”

“Me, sir?” Gertrude’s eyes opened wide.

“Have no fear, miss. You will not be alone. I shall be in a chair in the same room.”

“The same room?” Lovejoy’s voice was faintly incredulous.

Holmes frowned. “Yes. There will be no more mysterious assailants. Please fetch me that lantern now.”

Gertrude and I led Violet to the door. She walked stiffly, stumbling slightly. I released her arm, and she turned, her face a mute appeal. “Michelle...”

“I shall be up in a moment to say good night.”

She smiled weakly. “Thank you.” She turned to Holmes. “Good night, and thank you again for your playing.”

He nodded, then closed the door behind her. Henry took off his coat. “Now, will one of you please explain what has happened!”

Holmes took out a cigarette, which he smoked while I told Henry all that had occurred. When I was finished, Henry shook his head.

“Who—or what—can have done this?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched briefly into a smile. “You think it was the devil, then?”

“I no longer know what to think.”

I shook my head. “Why should the devil need to go around strangling people? I would also expect him to be better at his work.”

Holmes laughed loudly and threw his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Oh bravo, Michelle! One would assume the fiend could choke someone to death if he were really determined to do so. Did you notice the unusual nature of those bruises on her throat?”

“They were so distinct,” I said. “She must have fragile blood vessels.”

Holmes shook his head. “No, no—I refer to the gap in front.”

“The gap?” Henry asked.

“Given the size of the hands, the person could have wrapped them entirely about her throat, but he did not. He carefully avoided her larynx. I doubt he wanted to severely injure or kill her.”

My hands clenched into fists. “You mean someone only wanted to frighten her? How absolutely beastly!”

“I must question the servants, but the most obvious and interesting suspects—Lovejoy, his wife, Mr. Wheelwright—cannot have done it. Lovejoy and Wheelwright were together, and of course Wheelwright’s hands are far too large to have made those marks.”

“You do not actually think Mrs. Lovejoy could have done it?” I asked incredulously.

Holmes shrugged. “I know not what to make of her mental state, but she is the single most obvious suspect. She gave quite a performance. We have only her word for the ‘black fiend,’ and she could have crept up behind Mrs. Wheelwright and tried to throttle her. Unfortunately, she has very small, weak-looking hands. She, too, could not have made those marks. So we are left with a mysterious assailant who conveniently fled through the window.” Lovejoy reappeared with a small lantern. “Ah, thank you. Henry, would you care to join me?”

“Do you think it is safe outside?” I asked.

“I only wish our strangler were loitering about.” Holmes and Henry took their hats and left.

I seized my bag and went upstairs to Violet’s room. She had on her nightclothes. She was visibly trembling. “There is nothing to be afraid of now,” I said.

She gave me a grotesque smile. “Yes, there is.”

I prepared several drops of an opiate in a glass of water for her, and then sat beside her on the bed. She fell asleep almost at once. The fearful tension slowly faded until her face was utterly relaxed, her lips half parted, her forehead a smooth blank. Her hair was aswirl, the snaky black coil contrasting with the white sheets and her pale skin. Even asleep she appeared thin and exhausted.

I went back downstairs to the library. The wind had finally died away, and Henry had pulled one of the plush red chairs near the fireplace. A big log crackled nicely. He raised his arm, and I squeezed into the chair beside him, a tight fit.

“This will teach you to go visiting at odd hours.”

“I am so tired,” I said. “And did you find anything outside?”

“Only many of Collins’ and Lovejoy’s footprints.”

“No cloven hooves? Perhaps the fiend does not leave footprints.” I felt him stiffen. “I am sorry. It is not really amusing.”

“Sherlock told me we are going to Norfolk.”

“Yes. You do understand why?”

“Of course I do. We might get a spot of nice weather there. It should be lovely.”

“No, this cold and fog and rain and darkness will last forever.” My voice nearly broke.

“Hush.” Henry touched my cheek and slipped out of the chair. I shifted about, resting my head on the soft curved back. The warmth of the fire felt good, and he stroked my shoulder. “You are very brave,
and I love you very much.”

I wanted to say something or touch his hand, but I was so sleepy, my limbs so heavy. My thoughts drifted elsewhere. Henry’s voice changed to that of Sherlock, but I could not make out his words. Sleep was a welcome refuge from black fiends and the memory of Violet’s throat marred by those vivid, hand-shaped bruises.

H
olmes took off his gloves and overcoat, then set them on the table. He stretched out his hands before the fire, warming his long fingers. He glanced at Michelle. She had shifted sideways and was fast asleep in the chair.

He gave his head a shake. “She is quite extraordinary, Henry. Rarely have I seen such grace under pressure in any man, let alone a woman.” His voice was nearly a whisper.

I smiled wryly. “Much more so than her husband, you mean.”

“I meant no such thing.”

“You need not worry about waking her. Once under, she is a very sound sleeper. It would take considerable effort to rouse her now.”

Holmes nodded. He took out his cigarette case. “Good. I have several important matters to discuss with you in private. Let us leave the fire to Michelle.” He lit the cigarette, then walked to the far end of the table near the window through which the assailant must have come.

I pulled out a chair midway along the length of the table and sat down. Stifling a yawn, I withdrew my watch. There was barely
enough light to see the face. “It’s after eleven. No wonder I feel like sleeping myself.”

Holmes bent over and flicked the cigarette ash into a potted fern. “I found no sign of anyone having left through this window. There should have been some trace. The earth near the house is wet; the lightest touch would have left a print. I suppose Lovejoy and Collins might have trampled the remnants underfoot. As if this case were not frustrating enough, without them stampeding about like elephants.”

“It certainly is baffling.” Recalling the bruises on Violet’s throat, I could not repress a shudder. “He must have been a brute indeed to choke her that way.”

“Mr. Wheelwright has been generous enough to give me one final chance.” His voice was heavy with irony. “Another such incident, and I am to be dismissed.”

I shrugged. “His impatience is understandable.”

Holmes gazed out the window, his back to me. The wind had died away, and now the large, dim room was enveloped in a heavy silence. Holmes turned, then put more cigarette ash into the potted fern. “There shall be no further attempts on his wife’s life. I will see to that.” His eyes were dangerous. “Unfortunately, I have other important business here in London. I would like you to remain behind for a few days and stay in contact with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. It is regrettable; he is a man of mediocre ability who requires supervision. You can communicate with me by telegraph if necessary. I assume it will also take time to arrange things with your practice.”

I nodded. “We certainly could not both leave tomorrow. I can cover our patients—who are mostly Michelle’s. What is this business with Lestrade?”

“I have loosed him on our Mr. Steerford and the Angels of the Lord. The Steerford matter is the simpler, being as it is a traditional
swindle. Its uniqueness comes from its many illustrious participants, its sheer audacity, and the sum of money involved. I have revealed Steerford’s true identity to Lestrade, and he will be closely watched from now on.”