The Web Weaver (10 page)

I have no great ear, but I could tell this was more Bach. The melody went much faster and teemed with notes. It must have been fiendishly difficult. Although the music was very formal, very dignified, its passion was striking; she gave it such pathos, such yearning. My eyes shifted to my cousin. He was absolutely transfixed. I had seen him absorbed before, but never with such fire in his eyes, such color on his cheek. When she finished at last, he drew in a great breath, opened his mouth, then turned and went to an armchair, virtually collapsing. Mrs. Wheelwright watched him. She too was flushed.

“That was also Bach, was it not?” I asked.

Violet nodded. “Yes, from the same partita.” She set down the violin and bow, and held the handkerchief out to Holmes. He raised his head, then took it.

“Brilliant, Mrs. Wheelwright. Your playing is extraordinary.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

“It was quite remarkable,” I said.

She smiled at me. “Thank you, Henry.”

Holmes ran his hand across his forehead and back over his oily black hair, then stood. “I think we have intruded upon your household long enough.”

“I have something for you both.” She went to her desk, then selected two envelopes from a stack, and handed one to each of us. “I am giving a small dinner party a week from today, frightfully formal,
I fear, but you are both invited—and Michelle, of course. Perhaps you can liven things up. My cook is truly formidable, so I can promise you a memorable meal.”

I glanced down at the invitation. “How very kind of you.”

“Not at all. Michelle is especially dear to me, and I have been intending to have you as our guests for some time.”

“We shall be happy to attend.”

She smiled again. “I am glad. And you, Mr. Holmes? It is next Monday. I do hope you can come.”

He stood and thrust the invitation into his coat pocket. He was nearly a foot taller than Violet. “I shall.” They were staring at each other, again.

“Oh, good.” She laughed. “This will also give you the opportunity to investigate our friends and relations. You can decide who is in league with the old gypsy.”

Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No doubt.”

She led us back downstairs. She and I chatted, but despite some glances from her, Holmes remained unusually quiet. We tipped our hats, said good day, and stepped outside. The yellow glow of the sun was gone, only gray showing in the sky.

“She is an exceptional woman,” I said.

“Yes.” Holmes was still clutching his handkerchief.

“By the way, I meant to ask you earlier—who is that minister you mentioned, the Reverend Obadiah something?”

Holmes took a deep breath, which seemed to clear his head. He smiled. “The Reverend Obadiah Dunbar is my own invention. He does not exist.”

A
fter we reached Baker Street, I told Holmes I would be happy to accompany him again on an afternoon, because my practice was not particularly demanding at that time. Thus, two days later, I received a telegram inviting me to meet with royalty and high society.

I had some difficulty getting away and arrived late, shortly after one. No royal barouche was present at Baker Street, only an antiquated carriage whose scowling driver possessed a huge black mustache. The horses, however, were regal, massive creatures whose dark brown and black coats had a glossy sheen; they were cleaner and better cared for than many London children.

Their apparent owner sat before the fire in the chair of honor, and both he and Sherlock rose to greet me. What an extraordinary costume! His frock coat was double breasted and of a brilliant maroon velvet, a style which had been fashionable decades ago. However, the big shiny silver buttons, which matched his belt and shoe buckles, must be recent additions. His waistcoat was purple silk, his trousers gray wool. He had deep brown, leathery skin, and a fine network of cracks about
his eyes and mouth. His mustache and the long hair spilling onto his shoulders were white, but his eyebrows remained a stark black. His eyes themselves were dark brown, large, and curiously intense.

“This is my cousin, Dr. Henry Vernier,” Sherlock said. “Henry, this is the king of the gypsies.” A faint smile played about Holmes’ lips, but his eyes remained serious.

“A pleasure to meet your majesty,” I said.

The monarch had a grip like a steel trap, but a brief glint of irony showed in his dark eyes. He held a foul-smelling cigar between two fingers of his left hand.

“I am sorry to be late,” I said.

Holmes opened his desk drawer and took out a wooden box. “His majesty has only recently arrived.” He raised the lid, and I could smell the tobacco. “Would you care for one of mine?”

The gypsy flicked his wrist lightly, tossing the remnant of his cigar into the fireplace. “Ah, yes. Good of you to remember.” He stuck the long cigar in his mouth, then withdrew a clasp knife from his pocket and opened it. Light glistened upon the long shiny blade. He lopped off the end of the cigar, threw the fragment into the fireplace, and let Holmes light the cigar. Soon he gave a contented sigh, releasing a cloud of fragrant smoke. Sherlock used a more gentlemanly cutter on his own cigar.

“This is truly wonderful, Mr. Holmes.” He glanced at me. “Your cousin is not only my friend, but a friend to the gypsies. He has saved my son from rotting in an English jail.”

Holmes crossed his legs and exhaled. “He was most unjustly accused.”

“Still, I am in your debt forever. What can I do for you? Your note did not say.”

Holmes took the thick cigar between thumb and forefinger. “Did you hear of the gypsy woman appearing at the Paupers’ Ball a year and a half ago?”

The gypsy said nothing, but his eyes changed rather subtly. Until then he had appeared an exotic, even faintly comical figure, but now I saw something dangerous in his countenance. Certainly that clasp knife was not used only for cutting cigars. He muttered something in Romany, the gypsy language, which was obviously a curse, then nodded.

“What can you tell me about her?”

“I can tell you she was almost certainly one of the
gorgiki
.”

“Who are the
gorgiki
?” I asked.

Holmes glanced at me. “The term is a generic one for non-gypsies. So your majesty does not believe she was a gypsy?”

The gypsy shrugged. “Who can be sure of anything in this life? All I know is the business has a bad smell. We gypsies do not go looking for trouble, not like this woman did. Also, no one can tell me who she is, not even the gypsies who saw her.”

I frowned. “There were gypsies at the ball?”

The king gave me a stern look but said nothing. Holmes shook his head. “That does not interest us. So you made inquiries as to her identity?”

“Yes. There are not so many old gypsy women in London, not true gypsies, and especially not sorceresses. No one can tell me who she is. Also, her English is too good. I hear she has no accent and bellows like a bull.”

“Do you have any idea who might wish to do your people harm?” Sherlock asked.

The gypsy laughed, hard and sharp. “All of the
gorgiki
seem to wish us ill. We are not saints, but we are accused of every crime, every unpleasantness. Forgive me, my friend. I do not include you and your cousin amongst our enemies, and in all honesty, I do not think I would include this woman at the ball. She meant no harm to gypsies. She was only acting a part.”

Holmes picked up a small brass vase and knocked his cigar ash into it. “My thoughts exactly. And I suppose an old gypsy woman would not have written this?” Holmes took the parchment note from his pocket and unfolded it.

The king glanced at the note, then laughed in earnest, a roaring sound. “You joke with me, Mr. Holmes. I do not know of any old gypsy women who can write English.”

Holmes gave a nod. “I thought not.”

“Read me the note, my friend.”

The gypsy listened, cigar between his lips. The smile faded from his mouth, his eyes growing cold. “Truly a bad business. It has the stench of evil—probably a witch or sorceress, but not one of my people. Wishing barrenness upon a woman is very bad. A gypsy would hesitate before unleashing such a curse, and we do not drag our women into our quarrels.”

“It is signed only with the letter A. Do you know what that letter might stand for?”

The gypsy shook his head.

“What you have told me only confirms my conclusions, but I wished to be certain. I knew that you must know if any gypsy had truly been involved.”

“I ask of you one favor, my friend. Should you find this person, and she is not a gypsy—as we both suspect—will you make this known? Every time there is such a story, your proper Englishman and your police feel they must go out and kick the nearest gypsy.”

Sherlock knocked off more ash into the vase. “If it is at all possible, I shall make certain the newspapers print the true facts.”

We chatted for a while, the conversation turning to less serious matters, while Mrs. Hudson served tea. Finally, the king rose and said it was time to leave. Glancing at me, he asked if I were an equestrian,
and he was clearly disappointed when I told him I was not.

“Should you ever wish to buy a horse, see me first.” He made it sound more a command than a request, and I assured him I would do so.

From the bow window, we watched the aged carriage and its magnificent horses depart. “He seems a pleasant enough man,” I said.

Sherlock gave a sharp laugh. “So long as you number him among your friends. He makes a most fearsome enemy. Little happens anywhere in the London underworld that he does not know about.”

“His eyes had... an unusual glint.”

“How old would you take him to be?” Sherlock asked.

“His late fifties.”

“He is nearly eighty, but woe to any youthful fool who should wish to fight him! His first wife bore him several sons before expiring, one of whom was driving the carriage, and his new wife is expecting a child, no doubt another son.” Holmes took his top hat and stick. “The weather is exceptional. Let us walk for a while.”

“Where are we going? High society, I presume.”

He smiled. “Oh yes.”

We started down the street. The gloomy weather of the past few days had lifted, winter retreating before a returning autumn. Great coats and mackintoshes had been left at home. The golden sun was low in the sky and lit up the bronze leaves of an oak tree across the way.

“Do you recall Lord Harrington visiting me on Monday? Yesterday, I went to the home of his deceased brother, the former Lord Harrington, and spoke with his coachman and an elderly butler. I convinced them at last to give me the name and address of the woman he was seeing. I assured them I would not involve the police or allow their master’s good name to be impugned. They seemed genuinely fond of him. The coachman had often seen the woman greet his master at her door, and that particular day, the butler admitted her into the house. An hour
later, he found Lord Harrington in a pool of blood, and the lady had fled. He was not surprised, because his master had been acting oddly and had even bid him farewell earlier that day. Harrington was a big strong man, and neither the coachman nor the butler thought the small woman could have possibly murdered him in such a violent way. Hence their silence with the police.”

“So we go to question the lady. And her address? She must dwell in one of the more respectable houses of accommodation.” Sherlock took a piece of paper from his pocket. I stared at the writing for a few seconds. “Good Lord—there must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake.”

“But one must be well-off and above reproach to live on that street.”

Holmes smiled again. “Obviously only the first is true.”

We soon hailed a hansom and took a brief ride through the sunny streets. There were wealthier neighborhoods than our destination, but none more respectable; it was a favorite of retired officers, rising young bankers, and solicitors. We went to the main entrance of the house in question, and Holmes rapped with the door knocker.

“Contradict nothing I say,” he said. “I want our quarry to believe we are prospective clients.”

I gave him a suitably dumbfounded look. The door swung open. In the musty shadow stood an enormous woman dressed in gray. Her colorless, soiled hair was parted exactly down the middle, and she had a greasy curl before each ear. Her chin and mouth floated upon a great moon of flesh, which bloated forth from a lace collar. Two grayish-brown eyes, like flecks of mud, stared from under half-closed lids, and two rosy spots on either cheek, obviously rouge, clashed with the rest of her complexion. The pink of her tongue flickered across her lower lip, and she smiled at us, an expression which made me want to turn and run.

“Good day, gentlemen. What might I do for you?”

Holmes held his hat in his hands, long fingers clutching at the brim. “We wish to see Miss Flora Morris.”

The woman’s chin bobbed in its sea of flesh. “Ah, yes—my niece, Flora. And what business would you gentlemen have with her?”

“A friend recommended her to us, madam. He said her acquaintance might prove a fruitful one.” Holmes winked at her and attempted to leer.