The Web Weaver (33 page)

He shook his head.

“The spider must be gone,” I said. “He would not have lingered.”

“I’ll stand.” The tone of his voice was glacial.

Holmes set one hand on the oak table, his long fingers spread slightly apart. “Collins told me the spider was enormous, no doubt another fine specimen of
tegenaria domestica
. They can grow nearly six inches across. Quite harmless, however.”

Donald Wheelwright went paler still, his eyes shifting toward the doorway.

Holmes’ eyes swept about the room, his fingers tapping lightly at the table. “Collins told me all that happened. It is regrettable that everyone has gone stampeding through the room and grounds obliterating any hint of a footprint or other evidence.”

“Sherlock, I thought someone might be badly hurt. We could hardly...”

“I understand, Michelle. All the same, it is a pity. Collins said the window was still wide open when he came around the house.”

Lovejoy gave an emphatic nod. “So it was, Mr. Holmes.”

“And the two ladies were lying on the floor. Where exactly were they?”

“Violet was near the open window there,” I said, pointing to the one in the far corner. “Mrs. Lovejoy closer to the door.”

Holmes walked over to Violet. His presence seemed to steady her. She smiled once, a brief twitch, and then stared up at him, brushing aside a strand of black hair.

“Do you feel up to a few questions, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

She nodded. I joined them. “Are you certain Violet?” I put my hand on hers.

“Yes.”

Holmes seized a chair, then sat and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. She looked down and raised her hands to pull together the collar of her dress. “What do you remember?”

“It was blowing hard, and I thought I heard something outside. I
went to the windows, and then...” Her voice grew fainter still. “... someone... choked me. From behind. Someone... very strong.” Her mouth tried to smile, but then she slipped her lower lip between her teeth and bit down.

“May I show Sherlock the bruises?” I asked.

She nodded but did not look up. Her hands slipped away from her collar, and I pulled the silk aside. The bluish-green outline of a hand was clearly visible, the fingertips spread slightly apart just before her larynx. Holmes’ eyes widened, his lips pulling back, and he stared up at me. He extended his finger and touched her chin. She averted her eyes and turned the other way. For only an instant, his guard was down. He ran his fingertip along her jaw, his eyes full of longing. Immediately he dropped his hand, stood and swiveled about, putting his hands in his frock coat pockets.

“And you remember nothing more after someone choked you?” His voice had a hint of strain.

“No.” Violet closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.

Holmes’ fingers tapped again at the table. Wheelwright watched impassively like some great sullen mountain—or perhaps a volcano. Holmes glanced at Mrs. Lovejoy. His nostrils flared, then he gave me a conspiratorial glance. He took the brandy decanter and poured more into Mrs. Lovejoy’s glass. “And what can you tell me, madam?”

Her hands began to tremble violently, and suddenly she spilled brandy all over her dress and onto the floor.

“Oh dear,” whispered Lovejoy. He knelt down and sponged at the liquid with his handkerchief.

His wife stared up at Holmes, her hands clenching at the chair arms. “I saw...”

“Now I wish you to remain calm, Mrs. Lovejoy—there is no reason to become distraught.”

“No reason? No reason?” She gave a sharp strained laugh. “No reason—if you had seen what I have...” She closed her eyes, then opened them and stared intently into space. “I was walking down the hallway when I heard a noise coming from the library, a very peculiar sound which made me uncomfortable. I knew the mistress was in there, so I opened the door to see if anything was amiss. The room was very dim, the lamp low, the fiery orange embers in the fireplace hardly visible. Outside the wind was howling. The mistress... was not at the table. The... noise was coming from near the window.
She
was making that sound!” Her voice had grown steadily louder, and she raised her entire arm and pointed with her forefinger at Violet. “The black thing had its hands about her throat—the sound I had heard was her choking to death!”

“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Lovejoy.”

“I’ll not calm myself—do you not understand what I am saying? The fiend was strangling her! I screamed and screamed! The blackness of hell was about that thing, and it was so tall and had black horns, and—oh, dear God!—it had a tail!” Again her voice had risen to a deafening crescendo, and she gave a shriek, which made me start, and clapped her hands over her face. “Oh, God!” she shuddered. “Oh,
God
!”

“Please, Mrs. Lovejoy...” Holmes began.

She slowly lowered her hands. “You do not believe me.”

Lovejoy put his hand on her shoulder. “Of course we do, but Mr. Holmes is right—you must not upset yourself.”

“You do not believe me.” Abruptly she stood and stared defiantly at Holmes. “Do you!”

“Abigail—
please
.”

She swung about. “You don’t either! Can you not understand? I saw him! I saw the devil himself—with his long rat’s tail. The devil—it
was
the devil!” She was nearly screaming again. “Oh, someone help
me—please help me! Oh, save me—save me! Do not let the fiend take me! Oh, God—
God!
”

Abruptly, she collapsed into the chair, covered her eyes and sobbed loudly. Holmes and I stared wearily at each other. I had nearly clapped my hands over my ears because Mrs. Lovejoy’s voice was so very loud. Any servants close by would have heard her every word, and such news would spread instantaneously.

Holmes turned to Lovejoy. “I shall defer further questions. Could you entrust your wife to another servant’s care and return shortly? Later I am sure Dr. Doudet Vernier can prescribe something to help calm her.”

Lovejoy put his hand gently on her arm. “Come, Abigail.”

She let him lead her, still weeping, to the door. “They do not understand,” she muttered. “They do not. Oh, we are all doomed. What is the use? We are powerless against the forces of hell.”

“She must not talk to the other servants,” I said sharply. Someone had doubtlessly tried to strangle Violet, perhaps a man all in black, but I could not believe it was a devil with horns and a tail.

Holmes ran his hand through his hair. “Lovejoy and Collins have no doubt tramped the lawn under the window to mush, but I shall want to have a look. The grass is wet, and a solitary footprint may remain. The intruder must have locked the door, then escaped through the window.” He looked up and noticed Wheelwright still standing. “
Tegenaria domestica
is as frightened of humans as you are of her. No doubt she has retreated to some crevice. You may as well sit down.”

Wheelwright did not move. Finally, he said, “You have been on the case for nearly a month, and we have gone from one disaster to another. I cannot take much more of this.”

Holmes drew himself up to his full height, which still left him a few inches below Donald Wheelwright. “I have tried to explain to you that I
am not a miracle worker. I am making progress, but you must be patient.”

“You ask me to be patient when my wife is nearly strangled to death? We will both be dead and buried by the time you figure things out.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed, and his face went red. He glanced briefly at Violet. “Perhaps you have a point. I... I shall personally see to it that there are no further attacks upon your wife. With your permission, I or one of your male servants shall remain close by her.”

Wheelwright did not appear mollified. He went to the table, poured more brandy, and sank into a chair. The massive oak chair looked like child’s furniture with him sitting in it. He took a big swallow of brandy. Outside, the wind was low and steady.

“I cannot... This is like some terrible nightmare. This has been the worst month of my life.”

Violet gave a sharp, shrill laugh, which made my flesh crawl. “It is a nightmare for
you
? My nightmare has lasted for more than four weeks—it has lasted for months—for years—and it grows worse and worse. Oh, whenever will it end?” Her voice broke, and she turned away from us to hide her tears.

Again I felt as if something had caught in my throat. Wheelwright stared dumbly at Violet, his eyes pained and confused. I wanted to shout, “Go to her for once—comfort her, you blockhead!” But he did not move.

Holmes took a step forward, then stared at me, his hands clenched into fists. “See to her,” he managed to say.

I rose and put my hand on her shoulder, then touched her black hair with my other hand. “Please, my dear...”

She almost leaped to her feet, turning and twisting away. “Michelle, I cannot bear your kindness! Can you not understand? Oh, God.” She bit savagely at her lip, her right hand clutching at her left side. “I must get away from here! I must. Donald, you must take me away—away
from this wretched house—from London—you must.” Her voice was raw and hoarse.

Surprised, Wheelwright looked at her. “Where?”

“Anywhere!”

He drank the rest of his brandy. “We could go to Norfolk. If not for the family business, we would have gone there by now, but father wanted me close by because of his dealings with Atherton. I think after all that has happened he would understand.”

“Yes—any place. Norfolk will do fine.” She gave a harsh laugh.

Wheelwright stared vacantly at her. It was as if he could not really see her. “We could leave tomorrow.”

“Yes. Oh, yes.” She laughed again, then her hand clasped at her side, and her face went ashen. “Oh Lord, it hurts so.”

I took her arm and drew her back to the chair. “Do sit down.” She might have fallen had I not had hold of her.

“Thank you. I have to get away. I must get away.” She was crying again. Sherlock’s eyes were anguished.

“The brandy has probably irritated her stomach. I shall have to get her some milk.”

Holmes turned to Wheelwright. “Norfolk may or may not be safer than London. With your permission, I shall accompany you there.”

Wheelwright had refilled this glass. “As you wish.”

“So shall I.” The words were out of my mouth before I could reflect on what I was saying.

Wheelwright raised his head. “What?”

“She is ill. Someone needs to look after her.”

Violet appeared truly surprised. “You cannot mean it. Your practice...”

“I can be away for a week or two, if need be.”

Holmes stared intently at me. “I shall want Henry along as well. He will be of assistance.”

“Someone can fill in for us.”

Violet put her small white fingers about my big red hand. “I shall be glad for your company. You are the only person who is not part of the nightmare, the only one who is free. I... I did not mean it about your kindness. I...”

Wheelwright took another swallow of brandy. “Mr. Holmes, there is one thing you must understand.” His face was ruddy, his broad forehead wrinkled. “This is your last chance. No more talk about patience or the difficulties of the case. Any more disasters, and you will be dismissed, and I’ll find someone who can do a proper job.”

Holmes’ lips curled into a smile, gray eyes smoldering. He hesitated, no doubt struggling with his pride. “I accept your terms, sir.”

Wheelwright emptied the glass and rose. “If we are to leave tomorrow, I must see to a few things.”

Violet let go of my hand, then withdrew a handkerchief and wiped at her eyes. “The Lovejoys can join us later, or perhaps Abigail should come. She also needs to get away.”

Wheelwright gave a short rumble of a laugh. “She needs a stay in a madhouse.”

Violet sat up, her right hand still holding her side. “She is not to blame for this business. It has taken its toll on her.”

Wheelwright shrugged. “We can discuss it in the morning.” He started for the door.

“One moment, sir,” Holmes said. “What were you doing when you heard Mrs. Lovejoy scream?”

Wheelwright blinked dully. “I was in the smoking room talking with Lovejoy and Collins.”

“How long had the three of you been there?”

“Half-hour or so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wheelwright.”

Wheelwright closed the door behind himself. “His hands are far too large, anyway,” Holmes said softly. “Mrs. Wheelwright, may I have another look at those bruises?”

Violet nodded. “Certainly.”

Holmes walked over to us, raised his hands, then hesitated and looked at me. “Michelle, would you be so kind...?”

I opened her collar, pulling the material aside. The sight of those bluish handprints on her white skin still disturbed me. She must bruise easily to have it show so distinctly. Her throat was so very long, and the finger marks came around the front; the fingers separated only slightly at their tips, but the hands had not quite met. There was a gap of over an inch, which was lucky—otherwise, her larynx might have been crushed. The palms in back had made little impression, but the thumbprints were clearly visible.

Holmes’ hands hung tightly at his sides, and again I saw longing in his eyes. He had an excuse for staring at her so, but I knew he was appreciating the beauty of her throat, the curve of her jaw. His eyes briefly met hers. Then they both looked away.

“Curious,” he said. “Very curious. Mrs. Wheelwright, would you care to retire?”

She shook her head. “I shall never sleep.”

“I can give you something, Violet. And you must drink some milk.”

“I feel better now.” She tried to smile, but her brown eyes still had a wild glint. Briefly, she bared her teeth. “Mr. Holmes?”

He sat back against the edge of the table. “Yes?”

“Have you... have you ever thought you might be going mad?”

I put my arm on her shoulder. “You must not say such things.”

She laughed. “Michelle is far too healthy—far too sane—to understand, but you... Has the possibility ever occurred to you?”

He stared gravely at her. “Yes.”

“
Ah
—I knew it.”

“But I do not allow such thoughts to linger. I do not allow myself to indulge in such fancies. They are a form of... self-deception. Self-punishment.”