The Web Weaver (3 page)

A.

I shook my head. “What deranged creature can have written this?”

Holmes took the paper and held it up to the light. “It, too, is very dramatic, and this appears to be real blood. The aged parchment is a
nice touch. I can see why this might unsettle you and your wife, Mr. Wheelwright. Did it come in the post?”

“No. My wife found it one morning.”

“Where exactly?”

“In the library.”

“And how did your wife react to this hateful note?”

Wheelwright hesitated, then shrugged. “She’s not the hysterical sort, but she doesn’t much care for it.”

Holmes’ smile was close to a grimace. “Of course not.” He sat back in his chair and regarded Mr. Wheelwright through half-closed eyes. The big man shifted about in the chair uncomfortably. It was small for him.

“So you have been married nearly eight years?”

Wheelwright nodded. “That’s right.”

Holmes’ eyes were fixed on him. “And I suppose you are... fond of your wife.” I could not be sure, but I thought I heard irony in my cousin’s voice.

“Fond enough. See here, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t come here to have you ask questions about me and my wife. I want this gypsy business resolved, but leave me and my wife out of it.”

“That may hardly be possible given that you both seem to be at the center of the affair.”

“All the same, I won’t tolerate questions about my personal affairs. Violet—my wife—is my business and my business alone.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Wheelwright. You do understand that I will have to extensively question her and your household staff.”

I sat up abruptly. “Excuse me.” Wheelwright gave me a look, which suggested he had forgotten I was in the room. “Your wife is Violet Wheelwright?”

He nodded.

“We have not met before, but my wife is her physician—and her
friend, as well. In fact, they are engaged in some charitable actions together today, if I am not mistaken.”

Wheelwright frowned slightly. “The lady doctor is your wife? But she has some French-sounding surname, not Watson.”

“I must clear up a misapprehension, sir. I am not Dr. Watson.” Holmes, I could see, was amused. “I am Dr. Henry Vernier. My wife is Dr. Michelle Doudet. She uses both our names: Doudet Vernier.”

“Ah yes, I forgot to mention Henry’s name, did I not? Now then, when may I question your household, Mr. Wheelwright?”

“Soon, Mr. Holmes.” He withdrew an ornate golden watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. “I’m afraid I must leave. I have other business. I shall send word.” He stood up and glanced about the room, obviously displeased with its untidiness.

Holmes also stood. “There is the matter of my fee.”

“I shall pay whatever you wish. Will five hundred pounds be enough of an advance?”

I was impressed, but Holmes nodded politely. “That will do nicely.”

“I have my checkbook. If you have a pen...” He started for the desk.

“You need not pay me now, Mr. Wheelwright. I only...”

Wheelwright had almost reached the desk when he suddenly turned and dashed back behind the chair, moving remarkably quickly for so large a man. His blue eyes were wild, his face very pale. He raised his hand and pointed his thick forefinger at the desk. “
Kill it!
”

I took a hesitant step toward him. “Are you well, sir?”

“Kill it. Take one of those papers and kill it!” His hand began to shake as he lowered it.

Puzzled, I gazed at Holmes.

“I am sorry to have alarmed you, Mr. Wheelwright. I shall dispose of the spider. You can send me a check later. I believe you said you had an engagement?”

Wheelwright kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “Yes, I do. You... you will be hearing from me, Mr. Holmes. You should...
clean your desk
.” He strode to the door, glanced behind him at the desk to make certain the spider was not pursuing him, then swiftly closed the door.

I shook my head and returned to my chair. “Your spider will cost you a client one of these days.”

Holmes also sat. “Elephants do not truly fear mice, but the relation in size is about the same with our Mr. Wheelwright and
tegenaria
. Perhaps I shall have to try to move her, if only for her own protection. Luckily he was too fearful to attempt to kill her himself. So, Henry, Michelle and Mrs. Wheelwright are friends, are they? And what is the lady like?”

“Not like her husband. She is of medium stature and slightly built, a brunette, a vivacious, amusing lady who is also quite beautiful. I would never have suspected such a husband.”

“What of her intellect?”

“She seems most intelligent. And Michelle is not generally fond of stupid women.”

Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “No.” He sighed and sat back in his chair. “I feared as much, but it does not surprise me.”

“Whatever are you saying?”

“It is regrettable she is married to such a man.”

“Come now, he may not have an impressive brain, but I am sure he is fond of her and a responsible husband.”

“No—no—
no
.” Holmes rose up in exasperation, then sat again. “Your responsible husband has just lolled away the afternoon with his mistress.”

I stared in disbelief. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Henry, I begin to think you are as hopeless as Watson. Was it not obvious where Mr. Wheelwright had just been?”

“No.”

“Did you notice his dress?”

“He did seem... frumpled.”

“Exactly! One of his waistcoat buttons was unfastened, his tie was crooked, a button on his left boot undone, and his hair ruffled. Can you not surmise why?”

“Why?”

“Because he had been lying in bed with his mistress until the last minute. He then dressed in great haste and came to see us in his disordered state.”

I shook my head. “Perhaps he is just sloppy.”

“Did you notice the quality of his clothes and his watch? He is a rich man of business, and he would not make it through the day in so slovenly a state. To begin with, no valet of minimal competence would let his master out the door looking that way. Even if the man’s servants were incompetent, his colleagues would have discreetly mentioned that he might straighten his tie or button his waistcoat. He also smelled faintly of cheap perfume.”

I put my hand on my head. “I did smell something! Perhaps... perhaps he was with his wife.”

“Could you not tell from his manner that things are amiss between them? Besides, married people do not indulge themselves in the afternoon. That time of day is reserved for expensive harlots and their clientele.”

“Balderdash! That is simply not true.”

Holmes’ smile vanished, and he stared thoughtfully at me. “Is it not?”

“Well, I cannot speak for all respectable married couples, but... no, I think not.”

Holmes looked away, then scratched briefly at his chin. “I must defer to you on this, but you said his wife is with Michelle. Besides, I doubt his wife would use such foul perfume, not if she has any taste at all.”

I sighed wearily. I had only met Violet Wheelwright a few times, but I had liked her. Wheelwright, on the other hand... And if he were an adulterer, too... “I cannot believe it.”

“Henry, you should know how common such behavior is.”

“It may be common, but it is
wrong
. Blast it all, Violet is so pretty! Why would he trifle with a prostitute when he is married to a woman such as her?”

“Is that not also obvious? Because he is a dullard, Henry—a blockhead. Her beauty does not matter. He wants someone equally obtuse who will flutter her eyelids and tell him how handsome and clever he is. I doubt his wife would do that.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Wheelwright seems a familiar name... Of course—Wheelwright’s Potted Meats! I’ll wager he’s that Wheelwright’s son and heir. The old man has a reputation for being shrewd and ruthless. I cannot picture the son maintaining the family empire. Perhaps there is an elder brother.”

“They are rich. Michelle commented on it, and Violet has been only too willing to purchase medicine, food, and clothing for the poor. You have put me in an awkward position, Sherlock.”

“In what way?”

“I do not like to keep secrets from Michelle, and what you have deduced about Mr. Wheelwright concerns her good friend. Should I tell Michelle, she may be similarly perplexed, but knowing her, she will want to tell Mrs. Wheelwright about her husband’s infidelity. Who knows what misery may then ensue?”

“Oh, nonsense.” Holmes crossed his legs, took his pipe, and began to cram tobacco into the bowl. “If Mrs. Wheelwright is anywhere near as intelligent as you claim, she already knows about her husband’s infidelity. In my experience, the wife usually knows about the mistress, and so long as the husband is discreet, not particularly
abusive, and continues to make his income readily available, she does not much care.”

“What a horribly cynical viewpoint.”

“Marriage is the institution created for cynics, but do not blame me for your dilemma. Mr. Wheelwright is the guilty party. If he makes a habit of leaving his afternoon rendezvous in such disorder, then others must have remarked upon the fact. By the way, had you heard anything of this gypsy curse?”

“Not a word. That note was certainly vile. What do you make of it?”

Holmes drew in on the pipe. “Probably some discontented servant, nothing more. The whole business is far too melodramatic to be genuine. It reeks of artifice, of histrionics.”

“But what about the gypsy at the ball?”

“The author of the note probably has no relation to the gypsy, but that affair also seems suspicious. An old gypsy cursing all of well-to-do London is simply too dramatic, too sensational. I always suspect reports of anything even faintly supernatural, and this is very dubious. I shall be interested in meeting Mrs. Wheelwright and hearing her version of the events. Wheelwright certainly has no flair for storytelling.”

“I think she will please you. She is remarkably beautiful, but her wit and liveliness are what captivate one.”

Holmes laughed. “You make her sound a very paragon. I suppose I must guard my heart, for she is, after all, a married woman.” His irony had a weary edge.

I sighed but said nothing. I could think of no rejoinder.

“Do not tell Michelle, Henry. I would not have her worried as well. Perhaps in this case, I should have kept my deductions to myself.”

He rose, glanced out the window, then walked to his desk and examined the spider with his glass. “Her meal is half gone. My poor
tegenaria
, you had another close call. Luckily the massive Mr.
Wheelwright was too cowardly to strike you. Come, Henry, cheer up. Would Michelle spare you this evening? I am tired and have not dined out in a while. A good piece of beef at Simpson’s would be the very thing. Given Mr. Wheelwright’s promised check, I can afford to be generous and feed an industrious physician.”

I forced a smile. “Oh, very well. Michelle may be late herself since she is with Mrs. Wheelwright.”

“Good. It is settled then. Wheelwright, gypsy curses, and my mysterious Moriarty and his web will be forgotten for the rest of the evening.”

“You must tell me more about Moriarty.”

“In due time I shall, but not tonight—tonight, British roast beef shall rule supreme, and only topics conducive to good digestion will be discussed.”

A
s usual, by late Wednesday afternoon, I was weary in body and soul. In the morning Violet, her footman Collins, and I had walked about and visited the patients who were too ill to come to the clinic. I was fairly well known as the lady doctor, but Collins provided security in so rough a neighborhood. A big, tall, strapping fellow with a ready smile, he was known to be good with his fists.

We trudged up many dark narrow flights of stairs which stunk of human waste and visited the cold, dimly lit rooms where entire families dwelt, squalor and misery their perpetual companions. The weather had recently changed, the golden warmth of early fall giving way to the foul yellow fog and drizzle which were harbingers of winter. I dreaded the change because I knew what would happen to so many of my patients. With the bell of my stethoscope pressed against their chests, I could hear the consumption devouring their lungs. Suggesting a change of climate, wintering over in Italy or Spain, would have been a cruel mockery to those who could afford neither adequate nutrition nor shelter. Many would not live to see another summer.

At the clinic, in the afternoon, the parade of human suffering continued. I saw many children and infants with runny noses, coughs and fevers. If they were lucky, it was only a head cold or the first croup of the season. The weather had also aggravated the rheumatism of the elderly.

One woman about my age (just past thirty) had the most beautiful chestnut hair. She also had a dreadful black eye and a split lip. “It hurts when I breathe,” she said. I had her disrobe to the waist so I could examine her. Her skin was very pale, truly almost white, her frame slender. The outline of the humerus showed through her skin, and the shape of each curving rib was clearly defined. Her fingers were long and thin, the bones prominent—an artist’s hands—but red and rough from toil. She was frail and beautiful; somehow she reminded me of a painting of Saint Sebastian stuck full of arrows. From her sagging breasts and slightly swayed back, I could tell that she had borne children, and the proof—a small pale girl with the same chestnut hair—waited beyond the screen.