The Web Weaver (29 page)

I shoved aside a man who blocked my way, cursing him angrily. I made it to the stairs and went down them two at a time. My eyes burned from the smoke; they watered and stung.

“Henry!” Holmes shouted. “Henry!”

I strode through the pub, which was half vacant now because of the ratting upstairs, and pulled open the oak door. The cold wet fog enveloped me. After the heat and noise of the ratting den, it was like plunging into a quiet icy stream—a fetid one. The fatty, rancid smell of the rendering plant and the muted decay of the slaughterhouse mingled with the mist. My stomach lurched, and I tasted something hot and foul, which I fought to keep down. My hand groped out as I sagged against the brick wall.

“Henry—what is it?”

“I think I am about to vomit.”

“Little wonder. I should never have brought you with me.”

“Are you mad? You would have faced that odious little vermin alone?”

He seized my arm. “Try walking. It may steady your stomach.”

“Yes. My God, let’s get out of here.” I lunged forward, but his grip tightened.

“I said walking, not running. In another quarter of an hour we will be out of here. In an hour or two you will be with Michelle.”

I made a loud sound between a sob and a laugh. “Can it be? Shall I ever see her again?”

“Of course you will.”

We were in the blackest part of the alley now. Most of the windows on either side were dark. The rain had already soaked my clothes again, and I started to shiver. Holmes still held my arm. “The trip was well worth it, Henry. He told me little I did not know or suspect, but confirmation of one’s theories is of value in a case like this.”

“He is not really a man, is he, Sherlock? He was truly a rat, and the rest of them were not men either. They were dogs—or pigs. Someone—Circe, I suppose—had turned them into swine. Or maybe rats. Did you ever see so many rats? It is the tails I cannot abide. Their bodies are all furry, but those pink hairless tails...”

“Please stop that, Henry. You have shown your bravery. Now show some good sense. Ratty is only a man. Were you to strike him down, another Ratty would arise. It is only a business to him, and he does treat his ‘girls’ fairly well. I thought he might know... If even Ratty and his friends are in the dark, then no one knows.”

We had turned onto the cobblestone street. The rain poured down, drenching us to the skin. A few men were out, but they huddled under the shelter of the eves. I was shivering so hard my teeth wanted to chatter.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. A streetlight lit up the steamy vapor of my breath.

“Yes, but this rain is a good thing. The roving bands like the one we met earlier will prefer to stay indoors until it lets up. It is time to consider what we might have to eat and drink when we return to Baker Street. We deserve some reward for this evening’s work.”

“Nothing for me. I shall never eat again.”

“Perhaps curried rats tails?”

“Sherlock!” In spite of myself, a strange, outraged laugh burst from my lips.

He gave a great roar of laughter, drowning out the steady sound of the rain on the dark stones about us. “Forgive me, it was a very ill jest, but one I could not resist.” He stopped before an alley. “And here is the gateway back to the surface, back for me—I who have no Michelle—to
Il Purgatorio
, while you pass upward to
Il Paradiso
.”

We started down the alley, the featureless brick walls rising on each side. “You had your chance,” I said. “Ratty offered you a night with the lovely Jeanne du Baisers.”

Holmes was briefly silent, and I could barely see the black shape of him beside me, let alone his face. The alley was quieter and somewhat sheltered from the downpour.

“Ah, yes, the lovely Mademoiselle Du Baisers. One can imagine how lovely, how radiant, such a woman must be.” His voice was full of loathing.

“When we reach the end of this alley are we almost to the Running Fox?”

“Yes, it is just around the corner.”

The light from the street ahead of us spilled into the alley, and I could see the raindrops’ slanted fall. Perhaps it was only my imagination, but already it seemed to smell cleaner. I staggered out into the street and swung my arms about, staring up at the cloudy heavens. The raindrops stung my cheeks and eyes. My hat fell off.

“Saved!” I cried. “Shall I kiss the ground?”

Holmes smiled. The rain had smeared the blackening on his face, and his dark clothing was soaked. All the same, he seemed as oddly happy as I. “I cannot recommend it. While not the equal of the alley, the pavement here is none too clean.”

We started down the street, and abruptly the rain diminished. A great quiet seemed to settle about us. A lone carriage passed, the horse’s hooves clopping regularly on the street. It stopped ahead of us at the stately old house with the two streetlights.

“I am so glad to be out of there,” I mumbled. Never again would I volunteer for any insane adventures!

Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the wall, clapping his other hand over my mouth. All my fears returned at once. “What?” I tried to say, but could not speak through his hand.

“We are in no danger. Be quiet and still. Do you understand?” I nodded, and he lowered his hand. “Look over there.”

We were in the shadows and behind a hedge of bushes and a thick tree trunk. Across the street, two women stood in the doorway talking. One was older and wore a gaudy, elaborate gown; the other was a slight figure in a black dress, bonnet, and coat. The older woman seemed to be thanking the younger woman.

“That is Madam Irene,” Holmes whispered. “The brothel is hers.”

I frowned. The younger woman was twisted partly away, and the light on the porch was not good. Still, she seemed oddly familiar.

“Good night, and bless you,” exclaimed the older woman, her voice ringing out. “Truly you are an Angel of the Lord!”

The woman in black turned and started down the walkway to the waiting hansom. The light from the streetlamp fell full on her face, showing her pale skin, thin nose, and tight lips. The bonnet sat back on her head so that we could see the black hair parted in the middle.

“Good Lord,” I said.

“Hush!”

She seemed almost to hear me, for she hesitated and gazed about. We did not move. She went to the end of the walkway where she was hidden from us by the cab. The driver climbed back up, then snapped his whip and started down the dark, barren street.

Holmes took a deep breath, then released my arm. “Mrs. Lovejoy?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Lovejoy.”

H
enry had behaved so strangely before he left that I resolved to wait up for him. He returned just before midnight, murmured, “Thank God,” and gave me an embrace that took my breath away. I demanded to know where he had been, and when he hesitated, I told him we must not try to deceive one another. Clearly, he was relieved to tell me the truth.

The mention of Underton made the back of my neck feel cold. I listened silently as he related the whole nightmarish story—the tubercular coachman, Sherlock’s performance as a lunatic, the encounter with Ratty and Moley, the disgusting spectacle of the ratting, and the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Lovejoy. My anxiety grew, manifesting itself as a tightness in my throat and chest. When he was finished, I began to weep, an action that surprised us both.

He tried to comfort me—I was not only fearful but outraged. “How could you do such a thing and not even tell me? How could you?”

His own eyes filled with tears as he apologized.

We sat together by the fire a long while. Henry was badly chilled
from being wet and cold for so long. We actually fell asleep, and only later did we wake and go upstairs.

The next day, Wednesday, was my day at the clinic. Violet was there although I had told her not to come. She was not squeamish, but the harried pace and the frightful condition of most of the patients were agitating and disturbing. She did not look well. She had grown thinner, gaunter, and although she was still undeniably beautiful, she appeared oddly fragile, vulnerable even—qualities I had never associated with her.

She lasted until mid-afternoon, but then, as I was stitching up a nasty wound in a man’s leg, I noticed her turn absolutely white. The patient, a large, heavily muscled workman, lay unconscious from the ether on my improvised operating table.

I turned to Jenny. The contrast between her and Violet was striking. With her youth and rosy complexion, she radiated health and well-being. “See to Violet, my dear. She is about to faint.”

“I am not.” Even as she spoke, her brown eyes grew glassy, and she swayed.

“Hurry,” I said to Jenny.

Violet let her lead her away. Jenny returned almost at once. She shook her head. “Is Mrs. Wheelwright ill? She does not seem herself.”

“She is ill. I told her I thought she should remain at home.”

Jenny’s concern was obvious. “Is it serious?”

“Not yet, but it could be.”

Jenny shook her head. “I cannot understand it. She has everything, has she not? She is beautiful, wealthy, and clever. And yet, she has always seemed so... sad.”

I glanced at Jenny’s blue eyes, the clear, youthful innocence reflected there. If I could not fathom Violet’s torments, how could I begin to explain them to Jenny? I prayed silently that Jenny and her young man might truly learn to love one another. Recently we had talked again, and
at least she knew what the whole business was about.

Jenny nodded at the unconscious man. “Can I help?”

“Yes. We are nearly finished. I am going to wash the wound in carbolic one last time, and then I shall be ready for the dressing.”

She handed me the bandage, keeping her eyes focused elsewhere as she did so. I wondered why—bloody wounds and ugly sores did not seem to bother her—then smiled as the answer came to me. My patient was mostly covered, but his thigh was exposed. Jenny had never seen a man’s bare leg before, that pale skin with the short curly hair. My cultivated medical detachment had inured me to such sights.

Violet did not want to leave, but I resolutely had a cab sent for. She stared so forlornly at me that I gave her thin white hand a squeeze, my own hand rough and red from the irritating disinfectant.

“What is it, Violet? What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I only... I look forward to this time with you, and I was hoping... We must go to Simpson’s again soon.”

“Certainly we shall. But you really should not have come today.”

“No?” The mocking smile pulled at her lips. “I like to come here. It makes me feel... It is the only truly good thing I do. Everything else is...” A laugh slipped from her lips. “It gives me a context for my own ills, my own suffering, and it reminds me how wrong everything is.”

“Wrong?”

She laughed again and stood. “Come and see me soon, Michelle, and perhaps I shall explain.” The evasiveness in her eyes contradicted her words.

It was well after six when I got home, the streets dark and wet, and I had a sudden longing for the sun, for warmth. My patients needed me then more than ever, but it would have been wonderful to flee to the south of Italy or France, somewhere clear and sunny without fog or the stink of coal smoke and soot. However, a delightful smell greeted me
as I climbed the stairs—roasting meat, probably a joint of pork. Coming home to a warm comfortable house and a good meal was no small consolation in the dark, wet cold of a London winter.

Henry rose to greet me. In the large purple armchair, his long thin legs thrust straight out, his boots up on the matching ottoman, sat Sherlock Holmes, a wary smile on his gaunt face. Abruptly I was struck by the similarity in appearance between him and Violet—the same unhealthy intensity, the sense of some dark obsession consuming them.

“Sherlock stopped by to tell me about his inquiries, and I invited him to stay for supper.”

“Very well, but I have a bone to pick with you, Sherlock Holmes.” His smile flickered weakly then vanished. “So help me, if you ever take Henry off to a place like Underton again, you will no longer be welcome in my house.”

“Michelle...” Henry began.

“It is one thing to risk your own neck, but it is unforgivable to drag Henry along. I will not have it—do you understand? If anything had happened to him...” My voice shook, and my eyes were awash with angry tears.

Henry took my arm. “It was my choice, Michelle. He told me I need not come—he warned me it was not wise.”

I wrenched free of him. “Then he must have known exactly how foolish you are! Such advice would only convince you all the more.”

“Michelle, it is not fair to blame him.”

“Is it not? Whose wretched plan was it?”

Holmes drummed nervously at the chair arm with his long fingers. “You are harsh, madam.” (I could not remember the last time he had addressed me so formally.) “You forget that he is my cousin and my good friend. Desperate circumstances require desperate measures. This is a dark business, and the risk to everyone involved is considerable.
Do you recall what you said to me concerning Mrs. Wheelwright after the opera? ‘I beg of you to save her.’ And I promised you that I would do everything in my power. Our visit last night was part of my effort to honor that promise, and Henry, very bravely, offered to accompany me. Had he not, it is quite possible I would not have returned from Underton alive. Your friend and I are deeply in his debt.”