The Web Weaver (6 page)

“And you, madam?”

“The regular roast beef, well done—preferably an end piece.”

“And I would like a pint of the house stout,” Violet said.

Usually I drink claret with roast beef, but I said, resolutely, “And I shall have the same.”

The waiter’s forehead wrinkled again. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded and fled. Another laugh slipped from my mouth. An elderly couple at the table next to ours regarded us warily.

Violet placed one hand graciously over the other. “Why, Michelle, whatever is the matter?”

“I had no idea dining at Simpson’s with you would be such an adventure!”

Violet smiled, and took a sip from her water glass. “I must confess to feeling rather silly. Donald is always so stuffy when we dine out. While the cat’s away, as they say.”

“You seem to have recovered from your faint. You gave me something of a scare.”

Violet’s smile withered. “Oh, that. I was such an idiot. I do not approve of fainting.”

“I am glad you feel better.” I took a bite of a bread roll. “Oh, I am starving.”

Our waiter reappeared, set two large glasses of stout on the white tablecloth, and again fled. Violet took a hearty swallow, while I sipped. The liquid was almost black. “It is very... substantial,” I said.

Violet took another swallow. “I like stout. My father and I used to drink beer together.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. We used to drink beer together because Oxford dons and their daughters are not supposed to drink beer.” She took a roll from the basket. “Thank you for coming with me.” Again she smiled, but then, as she looked about, the corners of her mouth fell. “I fear we are not to banish men this evening after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your husband was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, and now he and another man who somewhat resembles a human ferret are headed our way.”

I turned and saw Henry approaching, Sherlock Holmes behind him. Henry seemed amused, and I wondered how long he had been
watching us. Sherlock appeared thinner than I recalled, his gray eyes curiously wary, his mouth stiff.

I smiled at Henry and briefly took his hand. “Here I was, thinking you were at home starving to death or eating cold and greasy mutton.”

“Sherlock invited me to dine with him. We have just finished and were enjoying the amusing spectacle of the two of you being seated. You seem to be having a splendid time. Perhaps we should be leaving—we don’t wish to intrude upon your meal.”

Holmes nodded brusquely. “Yes, this is obviously meant to be a festive evening, one reserved for the female of the species.”

Violet was surprised. She stared up at them, reflected for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, do sit down for a moment.” She laughed. “I am not an utter churl. I shall give you five minutes or so, and then you will be banished.”

I put my hand on Henry’s arm. “You know my husband, Henry. This is his cousin, Sherlock Holmes.”

Violet dropped her roll, and her nostrils flared. “
The
Sherlock Holmes?”

Obviously pleased, Holmes bowed from the waist. “The same.”

“This is my friend, Mrs. Violet Wheelwright.”

Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. His nostrils also flared. He pulled the chair out, sat, and crossed his legs.

Violet tore a small piece from her roll. “I have followed all your exploits with great interest, Mr. Holmes.”

“Indeed? Then I must warn you that Watson’s narratives are mostly fiction.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I feared we were in for some tedious deduction.”

Holmes’ dark eyebrows rose. “Tedious deduction?”

“I must confess I find all the deductions less than convincing. No
doubt that is the fictional part to which you refer.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “That is the only part he has right.”

“Oh dear, then I suppose we are in for some deducing. You will no doubt know where Michelle and I have been, on account of the unusual mud on my skirt.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched briefly into a smile. “You are skeptical of the art of deduction?”

Violet put another piece of bread in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Moderately skeptical.”

Henry toyed with the end of his mustache. “Have a care, Violet. You are hurling down the gauntlet.”

Holmes shook his head gravely. “No, no, good taste forbids.”

Violet gave him a quizzical look. “Good taste?”

“It would be indelicate to refer to your dress being so awkwardly damaged or the state of your undergarments.”

Violet dropped her knife; it clattered loudly on the plate.

“And I am sure a woman such as you would not like to be reminded of any feminine weaknesses.” Her eyes widened, then her mouth opened. “Such as fainting.”

Violet stood up, knocking over her chair. She pointed a finger at me. “You told him!”

“I swear I did not! We have been together all day, Violet. Whatever is the matter with you?”

She sighed, then realized everyone in the immediate vicinity was staring at her. She shook her head, picked up her chair, and sat down. “Do forgive me. This is the second display of feminine weakness today, Mr. Holmes. I hope the stories were correct in that you will now explain how you arrived at your remarkable conclusions.”

Holmes nodded. “Gladly, madam. You are wearing your coat although it is warm in here. Moreover, earlier I noticed Michelle leap to
prevent the waiter from removing your coat. Also, your dress and your collar are not properly aligned. I suspect a tear or breach in the back which has been pinned together.”

Violet nodded. “Oh, very good. And the feminine weakness?”

“I had to ask myself how a woman such as yourself might have damaged her dress. Henry told me you were with Michelle at the medical clinic. You would have been subjected to unpleasant sights and smells—wounds, lacerations and sores. Perhaps the sight of blood became too much for you, and you swooned. Knowing Michelle’s views on female dress, she would have tried to loosen your garments—it would be easy to tear a dress in the process.”

I clapped my hands. “Bravo, Sherlock.”

Violet’s mouth formed the mocking smile. “And the disarray of my undergarments?”

Holmes reddened about the ears. His face could not be called handsome. His nose was too large, his features too sharp, his hair too black and oily. All the same, I was so fond of him that I liked his face: it had great character and showed his every mood. His gray eyes were particularly large and expressive.

“As I said earlier, modesty forbids.”

Henry laughed. “When her coat is open, even an undiscerning oaf such as I can tell whether or not a woman is wearing a corset.”

“Henry!” I exclaimed.

“A corset distorts the female shape,” he said. “It and the bustle make women resemble primitive fertility symbols. At least the bustle has fallen out of fashion.”

Violet shook her head, and finished the last of her roll. “Fairly beaten, Mr. Holmes. The first round goes to you, but next time I shall be better prepared.”

The waiter appeared and set down our plates before us. The smell
of the beef set my mouth watering, and I quickly took a spoonful of the potatoes.

Holmes eyed the slab of red meat on Violet’s plate. “I see you are in earnest, madam. You must be in training. Already you have begun to fortify yourself. The Simpson’s large is a truly prodigious cut.”

He withdrew his watch from his vest pocket. “I fear we have exceeded our allotted five minutes. We should leave the ladies to dine in peace.”

Violet sawed at one end of the meat, cutting it into small, neat strips. “You may stay a while longer if you will promise to make no further deductions about me.”

“You have my promise, Mrs. Wheelwright.”

“And some of the details were not correct. It was
not
the sight of blood which made me faint.”

“No?” Holmes leaned forward. “What then?”

Violet’s brown eyes glanced my way. “Weariness,” she said sharply. “And a corset laced far too tightly.”

I swallowed a mouthful of beef. “I can vouch for her, Sherlock. She watched me stitch up several wounds without flinching.”

Holmes’ lips pursed briefly, and his fingers tapped at the tablecloth. “A detail only, as you said.”

Violet raised her eyes and swept them briefly from face to face. She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “No, it was not blood, as you may well deduce from this bleeding slab of bovine tissue before me.”

An explosive laugh slipped from Sherlock’s lips. Violet, although at first taken aback, seemed pleased by his response.

“Violet,” I said, “your comment is too perceptive for someone who has spent time in the anatomy lab.”

Violet finished chewing another piece. “I am sorry, Michelle. Anyway, it was not blood which made me faint. I have been under
something of a strain of late.” She bit her lip and glanced at Holmes, who had not taken his eyes off her.

“Have you, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. And are you as chivalrous in real life as in the narratives?”

Holmes’ upper lip twisted back. “‘Chivalrous?’”

“Under your misogynous front beats a heart of gold.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched. He sighed. “It is at moments such as this that I most despise Watson’s efforts. You have me at a disadvantage, madam. Although we have only been acquainted a quarter of an hour, you assume you know my character because of some foolish words you have read. I would ask—I would beg of you—to reserve your judgment until you know me better.”

He stared at her so gravely that her smile faded away. “Perhaps I have done you an injustice, Mr. Holmes, although you must admit that your deductions were decidedly in keeping with Dr. Watson’s portrayal.”

“Granted, madam, but you must admit that you invited—no, you positively begged for—a certain comeuppance.”

Violet laughed, then set down her fork and clapped her hands. “Bravo, Mr. Holmes. We are fairly matched. I shall try to know you better, especially since you are related to my good friend.”

While they had been talking I had finished my roast beef. With a contented sigh I pushed my plate back. “Take care, Sherlock. Be wary of dining with her at Simpson’s. You may discover more adventures than you thought possible.”

Violet’s mouth formed an ironic smile. “At any rate, Mr. Holmes, I am glad you are not dead.
The Final Problem
gave many of your admirers a scare. I have often wondered about Professor Moriarty.”

“Moriarty is another fiction, madam. Regretfully, he does not exist.”

“Regretfully, Mr. Holmes?”

“There are so few truly first-rate criminal brains. An arch-foe of Moriarty’s caliber would be welcome; battling him would surely be the high point of my career.”

Violet laughed. “A pity. I shall pray that some day you find yourself a Moriarty. Are you certain he does not exist?”

Holmes hesitated a moment. “Yes, madam.”

I frowned. “Surely you would not wish such a monster upon London, Sherlock. There are enough problems as it is.”

“Boring and insoluble problems, Michelle—a Moriarty I could handle. Besides, all of London enjoys a good crime, the bloodier the better.”

“What a dreadful thing to say!” I said.

Henry turned to his cousin. “Sherlock, perhaps we should allow the ladies to at least eat their desserts in peace.”

Holmes nodded. “Yes. We have intruded long enough.”

“You need not run off on my account,” Violet said.

Both men stood. They each wore long black frock coats. Sherlock was slighter than Henry, but both were just over six feet tall. Holmes gazed down at Violet. “It has been a pleasure, Mrs. Wheelwright.”

“It has, Mr. Holmes. In the future I hope to provide less fertile ground for deduction. I do trust we shall meet again.”

Holmes’ smile was brief and harsh. “Oh, we shall, madam.”

Henry appeared rather grim. He touched my shoulder and said, “Do not be too late.”

I put my hand over his. “I shall not.”

Violet and I watched them leave. Violet put a piece of meat in her mouth and chewed slowly.

“My comment about bloody tissue was unwise. I may never eat roast beef again.”

I laughed. “Now that the men are gone, you need not finish.”

“Donald always orders the large portion. I have always wondered
if I could eat so much. I have learned that I can, but it seems a hollow triumph. Well, hardly hollow, since I am completely stuffed. I fear I must forgo dessert.”

“Not I. They have a very good cream cake.”

Violet resolutely swallowed the last bite and pushed the plate back several inches. “You never told me you were related by marriage to Sherlock Holmes, Michelle. He is not so handsome as Mr. Sidney Paget draws him, but he has a most interesting face. He certainly startled me with his deductions.”

“You seemed rather upset, my dear. What is this strain you spoke of?”

Violet gazed at me, and I could sense the wheels, the small gears, turning inside. “I shall tell you another time. This is still our night out. We must not spoil it with seriousness.”

“I hope the men did not ruin it for you. I have had a wonderful time.” I reached over and grasped her hand with my big fingers, which were reddened from carbolic acid.

“I, too, Michelle. You are very good company. We must see each other more often. Too many of my acquaintances are vapid and ineffectual, wearisome to be around.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”

The waiter came, and I ordered dessert. We lingered afterwards talking until I realized that it was nearly half past eight. Violet insisted on driving me home. My house near Paddington Station was not far. In the carriage I began to yawn, and she complained, jokingly, that it was contagious.

Climbing the stairs to the second floor was an effort. Henry was waiting for me in the sitting room. We embraced, and he initiated a kiss, which made me briefly forget my fatigue.

“Oh, Henry, a day around women makes me appreciate you all the
more. I enjoy the company of my sex, but I could not live with them day after day.”

He ran his fingertips along my cheek. “I feel the same about men.”

“Oh, my feet hurt.”

He kissed me again. “Do sit down.”