The Web Weaver (41 page)

“Who has done this to you?” I asked.

“Henry!”

“Here, Michelle!” I cried again.

Violet stared at me, but seemed unable to speak. Michelle, Collins, Lovejoy, and Donald Wheelwright all came running down the path. Behind them, the house was a looming black shadow, a few of the windows feeble squares of yellow light in the dark monstrosity. The wind swept about us, the snow heavier than before, and I was aware of how cold I felt. All about us, the ground had at last begun to turn white.

Michelle took Violet by the arm. “Show me,” she said.

Violet slowly opened her hand, revealing the three bloody marks on her bare shoulder. “Merciful God,” Collins muttered.

“Who did this?” Michelle asked.

Violet stared past her at Donald Wheelwright, his tall form rising above all the others.

“The gypsy,” Violet whispered. “It was the gypsy.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lovejoy. “Not
here
.”

“She was at the door, calling to me, beckoning to me. When I stepped outside, she grabbed me. She was... so strong.” Violet stared into the darkness like a woman possessed; I do not think she saw any of us. “‘Now I’ve got you,’ she said. She dragged me away, and I fought her, but she was too strong. She pulled me here, and then I heard someone call my name. She was angry. Her eyes were red and glowing. Her fingers were like claws with long ugly nails. She... she scratched
me.” Violet’s breath caught; she almost choked and began to weep. “It hurts—it hurt me so.”

Donald Wheelwright stared dully at her, his eyes wider open than usual. His mouth twitched to the right.

Michelle put her arm about Violet. “We must get you inside. It’s freezing, and I shall treat the wound.”

“You won’t hurt me?” Violet sounded suddenly like a child.

“Of course I shan’t hurt you.”

Wheelwright folded his arms. “Mr. Holmes, you are off the case.”

Holmes stared at him, but said nothing.

Violet bared her teeth briefly like a dog. “He has done a better job protecting me than you ever have!”

Wheelwright thrust his jaw forward and lowered his big hands. He turned again to Holmes. “You are to leave. Immediately.”

Violet laughed harshly. “You cannot just send him off into a blizzard! You cannot!” Michelle had to hold her back. As if to reinforce her words, a sudden gust blew snow into our faces.

“I’ll do whatever I want. He can leave—they can all leave.”

“But you cannot!”

“Mr. Wheelwright.” Holmes’ voice was loud, but restrained. “This is your home, and should you wish us to leave, that is surely your prerogative. I can well understand your frustration. This is the most baffling case I have ever encountered.”

“But, Sherlock...!” I began angrily, aware of all he had discovered about the Lovejoys.

“Please do not interrupt, Henry. As I was saying, Mr. Wheelwright, I shall gladly leave, but I respectfully request that you let me remain until the morrow. I would like to have a look about. Then too, I would not care to face the road on such a foul night. All I ask for is simple courtesy. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

Wheelwright drew in his breath. “Oh, very well.”

Violet laughed, then said sarcastically, “‘Very well’?”

Holmes turned to her. “Please remain silent, madam. You are not well.”

Wheelwright shivered and clutched at his arms. “I wouldn’t put a dog out on a night like this. But I want you gone in the morning. All of you.” His gaze encompassed Michelle and me. “I’ll have my house to myself at last.”

“Certainly,” I said, relieved.

Michelle glared up at Wheelwright, her arm still about Violet. “But I am her physician.”

Wheelwright shook his head. “I don’t care about that. She isn’t dying. We’ll be back in London soon. No point in staying here now. It doesn’t seem to much matter where we are.” Fear had crept into his voice. He turned and stalked back toward the house.

“For God’s sake,” I said. “Let’s all get inside before we freeze solid.”

We started up the path, the snowflakes stinging our cheeks, the gravel faintly slippery from the snow. Violet began to cry, softly at first, then in great sobs. Even Michelle could not comfort her.

We went in the front door, and the calm and warmth were a relief. Michelle led Violet upstairs to the great hall. Holmes took Collins by the arm. “I shall need a lantern, possibly two of them. Bring them back here in about five minutes.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Wait, Henry.”

Sherlock and I were alone in the alcove, the feeble light from the great hall up the stairs spilling out near our feet. Holmes had blood on his formal clothes, vivid red splotches on the white shirt—Violet’s blood.

From above we heard old Wheelwright’s shrill voice. “Outrageous—
outrageous
—I’ll not stay a minute longer in this madhouse, not a minute longer!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Would you help me search the grounds?”

“
Now?
” My dismay was obvious.

“Yes. The snow will soon hide everything; we must get to work at once.”

“But what...?

“On the other side of the stone wall where we found Violet is a tangled slope of vegetation—ferns, rhododendrons, and other growth. I want to have a good look about.”

A sudden dread caught at my throat. “The gypsy! You do not think...?”

His laugh was harsh. “No, it is not the gypsy we seek. Get your overcoat, a hat, gloves, and some decent shoes, and meet me back here.”

“But what are we looking for?”

When he told me, I thought he was joking.

It was cold, dark, and snowy when we went back outside, a regular blizzard commencing. As we trampled about in the brush, lanterns in hand, I wondered if the strain had finally been too much for my cousin. I managed to thwack myself in the face with a rhododendron branch and was ready to go back inside, but I decided to humor him. We had been out for about forty minutes when he stumbled across exactly what he had told me we were searching for.

I
could do nothing with Violet. I thought it might help once we were alone together, but she continued to weep loudly. “Can you tell me anything?” I asked. She said something about being lost. I could understand how frightened she must have been.

Because Gertrude was ill, another maid had joined me, a girl only a little older, whose name was Daisy. She was so upset that she was of little help. Violet’s shoulder was a bloody mess, her lovely dress ruined.

At last I managed, with Daisy’s feeble assistance, to remove the dress. Daisy choked out “Lord” and turned away. I gave my head a shake. Violet’s slender throat still had those ghastly handprint bruises, their color now dark and purplish, and her left shoulder was torn open, the cuts beginning in back, coming all the way over the shoulder and extending to the pectoral muscle above the breast. Gently I bathed the wound with hot soapy water. Bad scratch marks I had seen before, but these appeared too narrow and deep to have been made by fingernails. Perhaps they should be stitched up, especially the center one, but I was uneasy about anesthetizing Violet and working on her. Certainly they
needed to be disinfected, but that would sting badly. “You won’t hurt me?” Violet had pleaded. I considered asking Henry to care for her.

The tears continued to flow from Violet’s eyes, but she seemed somehow calmer.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I should put something on those cuts, but it will hurt.”

“Oh, go ahead if you must.” Her mouth formed an ugly smile. “I deserve it.”

“Do not say such things!”

I was genuinely angry, and it sobered her. “Go ahead then.”

“Perhaps I shall ask Henry.”

“I’d rather you did it. Just get it over with.”

I drew in my breath, doused a clean cloth from my bag with an iodine solution, and then said: “Hold on.”

The muscles of her arm went rigid, and she moaned through clenched teeth. Involuntarily she tried to pull free of me, but I had her firmly in my grasp. I worked as quickly as I could. When I was finished she began to tremble, her thin arm quaking. I put some gauze over the cuts and taped it in place. My hands were steady, but I felt terrible.

The maid had collapsed on the bed, her face hidden in her arm. “Daisy,” I said, then more sharply, “
Daisy
.” She looked up. “Get me a robe for Violet, something warm—wool, not silk.” I handed her a clean handkerchief.

“Yes, ma’am.” She sniffled loudly.

“It is finished.” I helped Violet to her feet. She swayed, then reached out and embraced me.

“Thank you, thank you for everything.”

There seemed little of her left. I stroked her hair briefly, struggling with my own emotions.

Daisy brought me a cream-colored robe made of very soft wool. We
helped Violet into it and put her in a chair before the fire. Daisy added a piece of coal. Violet sat huddled in the chair. She was still crying—she had never really stopped. Her right hand was pressed against her stomach.

“Get me some brandy,” I said to Daisy, “and something to eat. Some bread and soup. Enough for two.” She started to leave. “Thank you, Daisy. I know this is very hard.”

She smiled and curtsied. Her eyes were puffy.

After she was gone, I sighed deeply and glanced at Violet. Slowly, I walked over to the window. “Very hard,” I whispered to myself. My hands never shook, but somehow I wished they would. The windowpanes rattled from the wind. Outside everything was whiteness: the sloping lawn before the house covered with the snow, the blank featureless sky, the shreds of snow hurtling slowly past the glass.

I swallowed and thought, yes, for once you are truly afraid. Sherlock had seemed so certain the gypsy could not be real, and yet somehow she had dragged Violet from the house and ripped open her arm. The Lovejoys had been in the hall the whole time—I had seen them. And how could an old woman be so strong? Perhaps there was some evil power that... My mouth went dry, and I clenched my fists.

No—
no
. I would not believe such a terrible thing until I had absolute proof. It was curious. I believed in a loving God, but tales of the devil, of witches, ghosts, and the supernatural, had always made me skeptical. Perhaps the gypsy had been a man dressed as a woman—that would explain the gypsy’s strength. And Violet was not strong—it would not be hard to pull her about. I could do it easily. I stared out into the white chaos whirling beyond the glass, my fists tightening. Try it with me, I thought. Show yourself and try yanking me about.

I heard the door open, and I turned away from the chill of the window. Daisy had a large tray, and I could smell the soup—something with leeks, if I was not mistaken. I realized I was starving.

I took a drink of brandy, considered offering Violet some, but decided against it. I did not like the way she clutched at her stomach. The soup was a vichyssoise: chicken broth, leeks, and cream, just the thing for Violet. She resisted briefly, but finally took the soup and ate very slowly. Mine was gone almost at once, and I thought briefly how hot food would mitigate most of life’s pains and tragedies. My appetite whetted, I sent Daisy back to the kitchen. The dinner in shambles, the cook was happy someone was hungry; Daisy returned with pork tenderloins in a mushroom sauce, which I gobbled up while Violet worked on her soup.

Full at last, I set down the tray, unfastened my wretched fashionable shoes, and slipped them off, sighing contentedly. Violet ate mechanically, her eyes fixed on the glowing coal in the fireplace. I felt warm and comfortable now, much better, and my eyelids grew heavy. It was selfish, I knew, but it would be so good to get back to my own home and my practice. There was something... suffocating about the Wheelwrights’ household. No wonder Violet could not bear it. I closed my eyes and began to dream at once, something where the blue of the pond was obscured by falling snow... I jerked open my eyes and sat up. If I fell asleep, I would be out for the night.

Violet had put down her soup bowl and was staring at me. She looked dreadful—pale and ill—her eyes were red, their lids swollen. At least she had finally stopped crying.

I smiled sadly. “How do you feel?”

Her lips tried to form the usual mocking smile, but she hardly seemed herself. “My stomach still hurts, almost more than my shoulder. I do not think I was cut out for...”

“Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

She shook her head resolutely. “No. I do not want anything. I do not deserve it.”

“What has deserving to do with anything?” My voice was sharp.

“No. I shan’t take anything. Not tonight.” She stared wearily at me. “How I shall miss you.” She bit her lip, struggling to hold back her tears.

“But you will be returning to London soon, and I shall see you straight away. You are my patient, and you will find I am not easy to shake off.” She smiled, but the tears began again. “Oh, Violet.” I had a sudden longing to see Henry, to talk to him—and to Sherlock. Perhaps they had discovered something. “I shall be back in a little while.” I stood.

Violet appeared genuinely frightened. “Promise me—
no
—no more promises! Please stay with me tonight—do not leave me alone. You can go, but please come back.”