The Web Weaver (32 page)

Such thoughts made my head hurt all the more, and I tried to set them aside. The wheel of the hansom went through a pothole; the cab sagged, then threw me to the left, the springs groaning. I thought longingly of Violet’s carriage. No doubt she would offer to have me driven home.

The wind was even stronger before her house. The giant maple groaned and shook. A crow rose cawing from a limb, black against the pinkish-gray sky. The ivy along the brick front rustled and fluttered. I wrapped my coat tightly about me.

A shapeless, muted cry merged briefly with the wind, taking on a human timbre. I stopped and wondered what it might be. The sound ceased abruptly, leaving only the moan of the wind. It had been so faint, I wondered if I had only imagined it. My hands felt cold. I made fists with them.

I strode quickly to the front door and pressed the bell. Up close the
rustle of the ivy was even louder, as if each leaf were alive and struggling to escape. Hurry, I thought, and rang the bell again.

I waited and waited, but at last I turned the knob and pushed open the heavy door. Glancing over my shoulder, I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Strangely relieved, I set down my medical bag and pulled off my gloves. “Hello?” I cried. “Good evening!” The entrance way was very dim, an oil lamp burning in the room next door.

At last I heard the rapid patter of footsteps, and the little maid Gertrude came toward me, her handkerchief clutched in one hand. “Oh, thank heavens!” she cried. “It’s Providence surely! Oh, please come in—someone’s been murdered!”

“Murdered! Are you certain?”

“Oh, just come, ma’am! Please!”

I took my bag and followed her to the hallway. A group had formed before the library door: the footman Collins, Mr. Lovejoy, Mrs. Grady the cook, and looming over them all, Donald Wheelwright. He hammered at the door with his massive fist. “Open up, I say! Open up!” He put his hand on the brass knob, and then slammed his shoulder into the wood. “It’s no good. It won’t open.”

“What has happened?” I asked.

Wheelwright glanced at me, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Violet. What has happened?”

Lovejoy appeared only faintly perturbed. He had on his usual black morning coat and striped trousers; his black hair was parted neatly on the left side, not a hair out of place. “Mrs. Wheelwright was reading in the library, and I was speaking with Mr. Wheelwright when we heard a dreadful cry.”

Mrs. Grady sobbed loudly. “Someone’s killed, I know.”

“Oh, I hope not!” said Gertrude.

I looked about. “Where is Mrs. Lovejoy?”

Lovejoy swallowed once. “She may be in there.”

“We must break in the door!” Wheelwright exclaimed.

Lovejoy shook his head. “There is no need. Collins and I can go around the outside. The library windows are only about five feet above ground. We shall be able to enter.”

“For God’s sake, then—hurry!”

The two men went quickly down the hall. Wheelwright ran the thick fingers of his right hand through his hair, then slammed his fist against the door, a rumbling snarling sound issuing from between his lips. I took a step back—he always made me uncomfortable. A blend of fear and anger showed in his eyes. He had on evening dress—a black coat with tails, white shirt and tie, and glossy patent leather pumps of a size so large I had never before seen their like.

“I thought I heard something from outside the house,” I said.

The cook shook her head. “I never heard such a sound before in my whole life! Horrid it was—simply horrid. Oh, what if the mistress is...?”

Gertrude began to cry.

“We must wait and see,” I said.

Wheelwright lashed out at the door, striking it with his palm. “What the devil is keeping them?”

Again I stepped back, a cold feeling at my neck. The door swung open, revealing Lovejoy’s pale face. Wheelwright hesitated, suddenly frozen, and I stepped past him. A tall window at the far end was open, and the frigid wind touched my cheek. Papers from the table had already been blown on the floor. Collins stood at the end of the table, fear showing in his eyes. On the floor lay Violet and Mrs. Lovejoy, both of them unconscious.

“Turn up the lamp!” I cried, then went to Violet and knelt beside her. I pressed my fingers against her throat and felt a pulse. “Thank God!” I stood.

Light from the lamp on the table flooded the room, revealing the rich brown of the oak table and chairs, the deep hues of the oriental carpet. Another gust of wind swept into the room, moving the draperies on either side of the open window.

“Close that window,” I said. “It is freezing.”

Collins nodded, then his face suddenly scrunched up, even as his eyes widened.

“
Uhhhh
...
!
” a man cried behind me.

I turned and saw the expression of absolute terror on Donald Wheelwright’s face, even as he staggered backwards out of the room. I looked about, expecting to see blood pouring from Mrs. Lovejoy’s skull, but the movement was what caught my eye, the impression of something black scuttling across the floor. The spider was the twin of the big one in the birthday cake. The creature darted under the table, vanishing into the shadows.

Collins grabbed a heavy volume. “Filthy bugger!” he snarled, then dropped down onto his knees and pursued the spider under the table.

“Forget the spider!” I knelt beside Mrs. Lovejoy and put my fingers against her throat.

“Is she...? Lovejoy’s voice broke, and for once his impenetrable calm was gone.

“She is alive. Help me get her up.”

Her head lolled about as we lifted her, and she moaned softly. We set her in one of the big red-velvet chairs. Her face was pale, the part in her black hair revealing the gleaming white line of her scalp. She wore the usual severely cut black dress.

I turned to Collins, who had reluctantly set down the heavy book. “Help me with Mrs. Wheelwright.”

We lifted Violet gently and set her on another plush chair. Her undergarments rustled, but she seemed so light, so little of her under the
blue silk of her dress and all those petticoats. Long strands of black hair had come loose—one hung down across her face. I touched her neck, and she winced and opened her eyes.

“Michelle—what are you doing here!”

“I came to see you, my dear.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” She closed her eyes and tears seeped from under the lids and down her cheeks. Her mouth half opened, then twisted and clamped shut. I felt her thin chest quake under my hands.

“Violet—what is it? Where do you hurt?”

She said nothing, only turned and tried to hide her face in the side of the chair.

I sighed and glanced about. Collins appeared as consternated as I. The cook and Gertrude had come into the room, and the cook was sobbing loudly again.

“Go fetch Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I said to Collins. “He lives at 221B Baker Street. Get him here as fast as you can.”

Collins was relieved to have a course of action. “Yes, ma’am—I’ll take the very best pair and be back before you know it.”

I sighed again and turned to Violet. “What is wrong, Violet?” I set my hand lightly on her shoulder. “No one will hurt you, I promise. Are you in pain?”

I saw the familiar signs of her struggling to master herself, but for once her will did not seem up to the task. “My neck hurts.” Her voice was hoarse.

The collar of her dress was high and tight; my big fingers fumbled at the tiny buttons as I softly cursed their manufacturer. When I had the dress unfastened down to her bosom, I spread the blue silk apart. “Dear God,” I whispered. The fear and loathing I felt were like a pain, a wrenching spasm deep inside me.

The entire side of her throat was bluish-purple, the bruise forming
the pattern of a hand. Very gently I tipped her head the other way and saw the same pattern on the other side. Her face had a strange, wild smile, which made her almost unrecognizable. I closed my eyes, then stood up and turned away. For the first time in my life, I thought I might actually faint. Mrs. Grady was still crying.

“Do stop that!” I snapped at her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she sobbed.

“Go into the hall, please.”

Gertrude appeared frightened but not hysterical.

“Gertrude, could you get me some brandy and bring it here?” She nodded.

Violet turned away again and buried her face in the chair. I put my hand on her shoulder and felt her body quiver from the force of her silent weeping.

“Violet—
please
. You mustn’t. You are safe now.”

“Is she hurt?” Donald Wheelwright had appeared in the doorway.

“Not seriously.” I could not keep the contempt from my voice. His terror of spiders was ludicrous. For such a giant to fear a harmless insect... I turned to Lovejoy. “How fairs your wife?”

“She appears to be breathing normally.”

I probed at Mrs. Lovejoy’s skull but found no bumps. “Perhaps she only fainted.” I took some smelling salts out of my bag, unscrewed the cap, and passed them back and forth under her nose. Her eyelids sprang open; she gasped and looked about.

Lovejoy clasped her hand tightly and pressed it to his chest. “Oh, my dearest, oh thank God!”

“Oh, Jonathan,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering. She smiled, then closed her eyes. Abruptly, she sat up and stared about. “The mistress! The mistress! Oh, God help us all!”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Lovejoy,” I said. “She has not been harmed.”

She stared up at her husband. “Not harmed? But where is...
it
?” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

Lovejoy and I looked at each other in confusion. “Abigail, dearest, to whom do you refer? What is ‘
it
’?”

She let her hands fall, her brown eyes opening wide. “Father in Heaven, protect us! Angels of God defend us!” Her voice was loud and piercing.

I glanced at the doorway. Mr. Wheelwright still stood there, filling the frame. Behind him was Gertrude. She obviously did not dare tell him to move aside.

“Please come in, Mr. Wheelwright,” I said, “or go into the hall.”

He frowned and took one reluctant step forward, then another, his eyes searching the floor. Gertrude walked past him and set down the silver tray bearing a decanter and glasses on the table.

I poured half a glass and gave it to Mrs. Lovejoy. “Drink this.”

Wearily she shook her head. “I do not drink spirits.”

“Consider it a medicine.” I gave her my most authoritative stare. “Drink it.
Now
.”

She took the glass reluctantly. Lovejoy said, “Drink it down, dearest. The doctor knows what is best.” She took a sip, coughed once, then took another sip.

I poured another glass and walked over to Violet. She was turned about in the chair, her face pressed against the velvet back, her right hand gripping the top. “Violet.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Violet.” I tried to turn her forward, but her hand clutched at the chair. “Violet, what is wrong with you? Look at me. This is foolish.”

At last she let me turn her. Her face was red, her eyes swollen. “I feel so... awful.” Her lips twitched and started to form a grimace.

“Do not smile that way.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “Drink this.”

She took a big swallow and began to cough, her hand clutching her side. “Sip it. No...” I pulled the glass away. “Take small sips.”

I took a deep breath myself. Gertrude stared in horror at her mistress’s neck. “What... what did that to her?”

“The fiend!” shouted Mrs. Lovejoy. “The fiend from hell!”

Gertrude gave a sharp cry and stepped back. I heard other cries and talking in the hallway. Much of the household staff must have gathered there.

“The black man—I saw the black man—I saw the devil!”

My skirts trailed behind me as I spun about. “You keep silent! Not one more word, or I shall gag you myself!”

Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes shone with fury, but it vanished at once. “Yes, Doctor.”

I took Gertrude by the shoulder. “Your mistress will soon be well again. I want you to go into the hall and tell everyone that she and Mrs. Lovejoy are in no danger. Everyone should go back to what they were doing. Can you do that for me?

She drew in her breath and squared her shoulders. I doubted she was even five feet tall, and again I felt like a giantess alongside her. “Yes, ma’am—Doctor, I mean.”

“Very good.” She did as I told her. “Close the door,” I said to Lovejoy.

Donald Wheelwright came close enough to the table to pour some brandy, and then he backed quickly away and downed the glass, the muscles of his massive neck rippling. I went to the table and poured some for myself. The brandy was very smooth, but burned slightly. Lovejoy stood beside his wife who sat in one chair, while Violet sat in the other, her mouth twitching as she struggled not to smile.

The door opened, and Sherlock Holmes strode into the room, his top hat and gloves in hand, his black greatcoat sweeping behind him. “What has transpired?”

I had never been so relieved to see anyone in my life. “Thank heavens you have come.” I leaned against the table, supporting myself with my right hand, suddenly aware of how exhausted and disturbed I felt.

Holmes was at my side at once. “You had better sit down.”

“There is nothing the matter with me.”

He pulled out one of the stout wooden chairs. “All the same, there is no reason to remain standing.”

“Thank you.” I sank into the chair and realized my feet were hurting again, despite my sensible shoes. If I had remained at home, I could have slipped out of the beastly shoes and warmed my feet before the fire. Henry was usually only too happy to massage my feet. At the thought of him, something seemed to catch in my throat. I looked up and saw Collins standing near the doorway, his rugged face flushed with excitement, his hands grasping the brim of his top hat.

“Collins?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Could you do me another service and go to my house to fetch my—Dr. Vernier? It is near Paddington Station.”

He laughed. “Have you forgotten how often we’ve driven you there?”

“Oh, of course—forgive me. Do not alarm him, but bring him here at once.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Holmes draped his greatcoat over a chair. He wore his usual black frock coat, the gold chain of his watch dangling between the pockets of his black waistcoat. He glanced at Mr. Wheelwright, who stood before one of the bookcases. “Would you not prefer to sit, sir?”