The Web Weaver (14 page)

I smiled, but whispered, “Hush.”

Violet waited until we were well out of earshot, and then said, “I hope you will forgive my father-in-law’s rudeness. He believes that his wealth gives him the right to treat the rest of humanity as his inferiors. Let me
introduce you to the Herberts—you can have a better look at the necklace, Mr. Holmes—and then I really must see how dinner is coming along.”

Mr. George Herbert was a portly man whose joviality clashed with his wife Emily’s sour countenance. Given that he was Mr. Herbert, not Lord Herbert, he must have made his fortune in trade, his wife’s necklace the beacon of his success. Herbert grinned as he was introduced, then offered Holmes his plump ruddy hand. Emily Herbert tried to smile, but the rest of her face would not go along.

Violet gave my arm a squeeze, bade us goodbye and turned to leave. Her dress left half her spine and both clavicles exposed, her long slender neck shown to good advantage. I noticed Holmes staring past me at her bare back.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” George Herbert said, “I have followed your career with some interest, and it is a great honor to meet you.”

Reluctantly, Holmes turned his gaze upon Herbert. “I am pleased to hear it, sir.”

“I have even read your pamphlet on various tobaccos.”

“Indeed? You surprise me.”

“Of course, I’m partial to hats and coats—they are the key to a man’s character. You’ve heard the business about the eyes being the windows to the soul? Nonsense. I believe it to be the coat. A shoddy tight-fitting coat means a narrow parsimonious soul. A spaciously cut, ample coat is the sign of a generous, expansive nature. Whenever I meet a man, I always take his measure by the coat upon his back.”

“How, then, do you judge the fair sex?” Henry asked.

Herbert’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “There you have me, sir. I’m afraid the fair sex is something of a mystery. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes.”

I turned to Mrs. Herbert whose smile was at odds with her
strained, disapproving eyes. “And what do you think of your husband’s theories?”

She shrugged her formidable shoulders. “They keep him occupied.”

My laughter put some warmth in her smile. She wore a pink dress that did not at all suit her, a gaudy ostentatious thing which clashed with her reserved manner. Surely it was more a clue to her husband’s nature than her own.

Holmes was staring at the necklace with the three enormous diamonds—it was difficult to ignore. “Tell me, Mr. Herbert, that necklace—did it not belong to the Duke of Denver? I recognize it by reputation.”

Herbert nodded. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. I purchased it from the duke himself some five years ago. His misfortunes were my gain.”

Sherlock stared coolly at the man’s self-satisfied countenance. “Perhaps, sir.” He hesitated. “I have often thought such spectacular jewelry to be more trouble than it is worth.”

Mrs. Herbert’s eyes abruptly caught fire. “Exactly, sir.
Exactly
.” We all stared at her, surprised by her sudden vehemence. “I have often tried to tell him so.”

Herbert gave an embarrassed smile. “My wife, oddly enough, has never cared for the necklace. Why do you say it is more trouble than it is worth, Mr. Holmes?”

“There are literally thieves everywhere, Mr. Herbert. This is tantalizing bait.”

“But if one is careful... I assure you the necklace is kept locked in the best safe money can buy, absolutely unbreakable, and whenever my wife wears it—only a few times a year—our stout footman, a very trustworthy fellow, accompanies us everywhere.”

Holmes smiled grimly. “That safe only gives you false confidence. As I often tell my clients, such jewelry is best kept locked in a bank vault and treated like bars of gold bullion. Its ornamental value
causes one to take foolish risks. One would not blithely wear several thousand pounds in notes strung about one’s neck.”

Mrs. Herbert gave a ferocious nod. “I am never comfortable in it—
never
.”

Mr. Herbert’s face reddened, some of his joviality evaporating. “Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Holmes? Such a thing of beauty should be seen! There must be precautions one might take. What would you advise?”

“Keep a written record of each time you have the necklace out of the safe, never take your eyes off it for even an instant, and have it appraised annually.”

“What on earth for? I do not plan to sell it.”

“Have it appraised to make sure it is what you think it is—a clever thief could substitute a worthless fake, and the theft might go unnoticed for years.”

The color slowly drained from Herbert’s face. His wife seized his arm. “George, are you well?”

He took a big swallow of sherry. “Such a thing could not happen.” He managed a smile. “We are too careful.”

Holmes shrugged. “I recall a case involving a large emerald which had been in the family for years. When the owner went to sell it, he discovered he had only a fake. The theft may not have even been during his lifetime.”

Herbert took another glass of sherry from a passing servant. “Well, at least I had it appraised at the time of purchase. The theft must have happened in the past five years.” He gave a hearty laugh, but his wife was not amused.

“I think you should take Mr. Holmes’ advice and lock the wretched thing up.”

“No, no, Emily. You look far too charming for me to be willing to shut it up.”

She gave a weary sigh, but for the first time something like affection showed in her face. “Oh, George, you are hopeless.”

“After all, my dear, I got it for you.”

“So you always say.”

From somewhere above us came a booming crash. Holmes whirled about. Lovejoy stood on the balcony above us holding a pair of cymbals, his demeanor magisterial. Beside him stood Violet.

“Dinner is about to be served. Do come upstairs and be seated.” She stepped back, and Lovejoy crashed the cymbals again. A muted laugh swept through the gathering.

“Lord, those things gave me a start,” Henry said.

Holmes nodded. Mrs. Herbert said, “She does something different every time. In August it was trumpets.”

We started for the stairway. I took Henry’s arm. Mr. Herbert gazed about warily, worried now that some jewel thief lurked nearby.

Dr. Dyson and his wife Margaret waited for us. He stroked thoughtfully at his white, gray and brown beard, his fingers lost in its depths. Margaret held his other arm loosely with her gloved hands.

“Michelle,” he said, “you do have a prosperous look. Of course we know why, do we not, Henry? Her practice is thriving because she has stolen all our patients—batted those charming blue eyes—brained them and hoisted them away in her bag.”

“Matthew!” his wife exclaimed. “What a dreadful accusation! You wretched men certainly deserve the worst. How you love to prod and poke at us poor creatures! Say what you will, women are gentler.”

Another woman spoke to Margaret, and she turned away. I slipped my hand about Matthew’s arm. “You know, of course,” he said, “that I was only jesting. I’m happy to see you succeed. Pioneers like you have shown your opponents’ fears to be mere prejudice.”

I laughed, but I was moved. “Oh, Matthew, you are such a dear. Not
only do you ridicule accusations of patient-snatching, but you actually refer people like Violet to me. You are the most good-hearted soul I know.”

Dyson flushed slightly, but I could see he was pleased. “I knew Violet would do better with you. She is a charming lady, and like you, she laughs at my jests, only...” We were halfway up the stairs.

“Only...?”

“Something was troubling her, I could tell, but she would never confide in me. Of course, I was only her doctor, not her minister, but I felt I was missing some vital information.”

I thought about Violet’s distaste for Donald. “We all have our troubles,” I murmured.

Dyson laughed gruffly. “Too true, but this did not seem the usual thing.” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Not the usual marital disharmony. Not childlessness either.”

My amazement must have shown, and he laughed. “We stodgy old men are not all blind, Dr. Doudet Vernier. At my age, you have seen certain... patterns repeat themselves so often that you have an instinct for them. I am rarely surprised anymore, but, with Violet I... Oh, pardon me, Mr. Holmes. I should watch where I am going.”

Holmes had been farther ahead with the Herberts, but he was suddenly just before us, and Matthew had nearly walked into him. I knew at once that he must have been listening.

“Not at all, Dr. Dyson. The fault is mine.”

The large double doors were open, and as I stepped into the dining room I gave an involuntary gasp. It was like an enchanted palace. The light came from enormous candelabras of ornate silver, two and even three feet high, with white tapers each a foot long. The candelabrum at the center of the long table held ten candles, the flames at a level taller than a man. The warm yellow-orange light glittered and sparkled off countless surfaces of glass, crystal, and silver. The damask tablecloth
had a subtle, white-on-white pattern, and each place setting had four sterling silver forks, four spoons, four knives, and four glasses, all resplendent. The napkins were neatly folded and stood like elfin crowns. Crystal vases and pale white china bowls held exotic flowers—lilies, orchids, roses—or luminescent yellow-green moss or darker green ivy. In the corners of the room were ferns, huge potted things, which belonged in some prehistoric jungle. The guests cast flickering shadows against the dark wood and floral wallpaper.

Violet appeared at my side and took my arm, the diamonds at her throat catching the candlelight. “I have been selfish,” she whispered. “I put you and Henry near me.” Her skin had a warm glow of its own.

“Oh, it is all so beautiful,” I murmured.

Violet released me before my chair, which Henry politely pulled out for me. At my place were the menu and a folded card with my name on it. Ravenous, I felt ready to devour all five courses on the menu—soup (turtle), fish (poached salmon), meat (beef Wellington or stuffed quail), sweet (chocolate cake), and dessert.

Henry shook his head. “The tablecloth looks clean enough to operate upon. A pity we must spoil such splendor by actually eating here.”

The man beside me, a clergyman who recalled a mournful raven, gave us a disapproving stare. The two elderly Wheelwrights had the place of honor at the head of the table, and to their left were this elderly clergyman in black and his equally thin, dour wife. Donald stood to the right of his father, surveying the room and his guests, his face placid, his eyes uneasy. Soon everyone at the table except Donald and the minister were seated, but hovering nearby were Lovejoy and the footmen in formal attire.

“Reverend Killington will say the benediction,” Donald said loudly. His voice had a nervous edge. He sat, and we all bowed our heads.

“Father in heaven, we thank thee for thy bountiful gifts which we
are about to receive, and we pray that in these troubled and iniquitous times our hearts may remain pure and unsullied. When the dreadful judgment day comes and thou strikest down the wicked and sendest them into the fire, we pray thou wilt have mercy on our poor souls. We ask this in the name of thy son, Christ our Lord.”

The Reverend Killington had a piercing tenor voice worthy of an Old Testament prophet. As I was seated next to him, I was relieved when he finished. I raised my eyes and across the table saw Violet’s mocking smile. Briefly she raised her right eyebrow.

Everyone joined in the “amen.”

“Thank you, Reverend Killington,” Donald said.

Smiling fiercely, the elderly Wheelwright nodded. “The Reverend knows how to pray.”

“It is my profession.” The Reverend Killington sat absolutely upright—as if his spine had no curve to it. His face was thin, his hair mostly gone on top, but he had black bushy eyebrows and brown eyes which glowed like two hot coals.

Violet introduced us to the Reverend and his wife. The room, meanwhile, had filled with maids in black dresses and white aprons who served soup from tureens on carts. The soup was green and smelled odd.

Henry shook salt and pepper on his, and then took the first spoonful with great relish. “I have not had turtle soup in a long time.”

I forced a smile. I did not care for turtle soup, but I knew I must eat some. The Reverend Killington had an odd look in his fiery eyes. He certainly did not approve of woman physicians, and he probably also thought my dress was a deliberate provocation, my flesh offered up as a temptation.

“So you are a doctor, madam?”

I knew at once from the accusatory tone that I had guessed right. I nodded and tried to smile. From the brief downward shift of his eyes,
I saw that my other guess was also correct. He was less obvious than Donald’s father, but dinner would be an ordeal if I had to spend it with the two old men leering at my bosom between mouthfuls.

Violet must have read my thoughts—certainly she was likely to share my fate since her lavender dress revealed both shoulders and the curve of her breasts. “She is a very good doctor, Reverend, and a stout-hearted one.” A faint hint of truculence was in her voice. “I am sure she has seen sights which would make your hair stand on end, but she is a great comfort to the sick. I can vouch for it.”

Killington’s long nose pointed toward her. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I have worked with her at the clinic for the poor.”

“Violet...” I began.

“Oh, how can you bear it!” exclaimed Mrs. Killington, going even paler. “I do so hate sickness. It makes me positively ill.”

“It is God’s work,” Violet said. “Does the Bible not bid us care for the sick and dying?”

Donald Wheelwright said nothing, but his bland face somehow radiated disapproval.

The Reverend Killington reddened. “You presume too much, Mrs. Wheelwright. I do not believe the Almighty meant the weaker sex to be subjected to bloody sights and death. That stern conflict is reserved for men. Women should remain at home and provide their husband and their children with the shining example of their virtue.”

“This soup really is delicious.” Henry smiled at Violet. “My compliments to the cook. I do not much care for bloody sights and death myself, and I have never been able to figure out why Michelle should be so much less squeamish than I. Truly the ways of the Lord are mysterious. Why would He give such a strong stomach to a mere woman?”