The Web Weaver (11 page)

The woman gave a great
hah!
of a laugh. “Fruitful, yes—that’s very good.”

“I can assure you that it will be a very profitable meeting, if you take my meaning.” He gave his pocket a pat.

The woman laughed again. “I’m sure!” She glanced about somewhat warily. “Do come in, gentlemen. No use standing about in the street.”

We stepped inside, and she closed the heavy oak door behind us, shutting out the warm sun and the autumnal breeze. The parlor had an odd odor; dark maroon curtains hung on either side of the tall windows, the blinds pulled almost to the sills, leaving it dim and chill. I shuddered as I glanced about. The furniture was massive and solid; ornate lace doilies were pinned to the arms of the overstuffed chairs and sofa. The carpet was thick and appeared new, a pattern of somber reds and purples.

“I am Mrs. Morris. I can take you to Flora. However...” She glanced at me, her eyes briefly conducting an appraisal. “I have another niece, Louise, who will be back shortly.”

“We both wish to meet Flora,” Sherlock said.

Mrs. Morris scratched at her chin. “It will cost you extra.”

“The expense is not a problem.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but Holmes dug his fingers into my arm and smiled grotesquely. “My friend is very shy.”

Mrs. Morris smiled again. “We shall remedy that.”

She turned and started for the stairs. She must have weighed well
over two hundred and fifty pounds, but she wore a bustle, the worst possible fashion for such a figure. The gray dress was fully cut, not tight, an expensive-looking fabric—and there were yards of it. Her upper arms were as big around as a stevedore’s, though not so hard, and the girth at her waist reminded me of a young oak growing before the house. We followed her up the stairs. My cheeks felt warm as I reflected upon the few brief words between her and my cousin.

“Exactly how many nieces do you have, Mrs. Morris?” Sherlock asked.

“Just the two, and very good girls they are. They do me proud.” We went down the hallway, and she wrapped at a door. “Flora! Flora! Visitors, dear.”

The door swung open. The girl inside was so different from Mrs. Morris that any lingering doubts that they might actually be related vanished at once. She was a slight little thing, frail, blonde, and very pale. She was not truly beautiful, but she had a pleasant enough face: large blue eyes, a narrow mouth with almost colorless lips, and a small, slightly turned-up nose. She smiled at us, revealing a pair of dimples, but she seemed weary. Her blue silk dress was well cut with the puffy upper sleeves coming into fashion. It emphasized her tiny waist.

“These gentlemen said a friend had recommended your acquaintance.”

Flora’s chest swelled as she inhaled. I could not hear any whistling, but she appeared almost consumptive. “Do come in, gentlemen.”

Mrs. Morris folded her arms as we walked by. “I’ll be close by if you need anything. And I shall want fifty pounds.” She spoke in such a way that she sounded both accommodating and threatening.

Flora closed the door. She was a good six inches shorter than her supposed aunt. We were in a large sitting room, the furniture, carpet, drapes, and decorations all of the highest quality. “Do sit down, gentlemen.”

She herself sat in a wicker chair near the window, the light quite
flattering. She wore gloves, but she pulled them off. Her hands were small and slender, and I could see the blue veins under the skin. Her smile had vanished, but she attempted to resurrect it.

“A friend gave you my name? I hope he was pleased.” Something about her articulation was a bit strained; her “H”s were overemphasized.

Holmes had sat at one end of the velvet sofa. Even the furniture seemed suggestive. “I presume so, Miss Morris.”

She ran the fingertips of one hand across the palm of the other; the skin of her palm had a rosy orange flush. Despite the smile fixed on her lips, her blue eyes seemed detached, curiously vacant. I could almost see her thoughts losing focus and drifting, but then she willed herself back into the room, again becoming conscious of our presence.

“We do our best to please. Would you gentlemen care to go out somewhere for supper, or would you prefer...?” The sudden awkwardness did not fit with her profession, but she was so very young—at most a year or two past twenty—that she could not have been thus employed for long.

“We would prefer a brief chat,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you would like to know the name of the person who told us about you?”

“Surely.” Again there was something oddly vacant about her smile.

“Lord Joseph Harrington.”

If this was a test, it produced the desired effect. She sat bolt upright, and every last vestige of color drained from her already pale face. One hand rose, covered her mouth.

“I see the name is familiar to you.”

She let her hand drop. “What is this?”

“We are friends of the late Lord Harrington, Miss Morris, and we wish to put some questions to you.”

She said nothing, but her terror was palpable, showing most of all in her eyes. “I didn’t do nothing.”

Holmes peered at her. “Did you not, Miss Morris?”

Her hand slipped down to her chest, her fingers splayed out across her bosom. “I swear to God I didn’t.”

“So you did not kill him?”

I would not have thought she could be more frightened, but her mouth opened wide, revealing discolored teeth. She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She shook her head wildly. “No—
no!
” Abruptly her eyes seemed to go liquid, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

I glanced at Holmes, then at her. “Calm yourself, Miss Morris. If you are truly innocent, you have nothing to fear from us.”

Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her, and his visage seemed monstrous, gargoyle-like, with that beak of a nose, sharp chin, and probing stare. “That is true. If she is innocent.” The irony in his voice was cutting.

Her hands shook, but she still seemed unable to speak.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock—you will make her ill.”

Suddenly, she leaped to her feet. “Auntie!” she screamed. “Auntie!” I wanted to cover my ears, her voice was so loud.

The door swung open at once, and the old woman appeared. All pretense of amiability was gone, and she resembled a vicious cur, her face red with anger. Behind her stood a tall man whose visage was completely at odds with his dress. He wore the formal garb of a butler, but he had the face of a pugilist, worn and aged. His nose was twisted and had been broken more than once; he had a great scar over one eye.

I too had leaped to my feet, but Holmes remained seated. He opened his coat, withdrew a revolver, cocked it, and leveled the barrel at Mrs. Morris. “I mean your niece no harm, madam, but I will speak with her.”

The old harpy glared at him. She was, luckily for us, a good ten feet away, or I think she would have rushed him. The revolver did not seem to frighten her, but the gigantic butler appeared subdued. He backed up slightly into the doorframe.

“Give me ten minutes with your niece, and then I shall leave. We need to ask her a few questions about Lord Harrington.”

The name, which had so frightened Miss Morris, seemed to enrage the old woman even further. Her great chest swelled, and her face grew so red I thought she might burst a vessel in her brain. “You get out of here!”

“Ten minutes, Mrs. Morris.”

“
Out!
” she bellowed.

Holmes reached into his pocket with his left hand and threw several gold coins at her, which I recognized as sovereigns. “Ten minutes, my good woman. I would prefer paying you to shooting you.”

I could not believe he would actually shoot the old dragon, but if he had any doubts, you could not see them in his face. The old woman snatched up the coins while the pugilist butler stepped sideways, out of the line of fire.

“Ten minutes,” she hissed at us, then stepped backwards and out of the room.

“Close the door, Henry, and then pour yourself and Miss Morris some brandy. You both look ill.”

Miss Morris collapsed into the chair. Her hands trembled. “Oh God,” she murmured.

“Lock it,” Holmes said.

There was a key in the latch, and I turned it. I would not have expected a lock, but given the nature of Miss Morris’s business, it was not surprising. A crystal decanter sat on the dark cherry-wood sideboard upon a lacy covering. My own hands were somewhat shaky, but I poured some brandy into two glasses and took a healthy swallow from one. The burning impact of the drink was a shock, but it steadied me. I took another swallow, then walked over and offered the other glass to Flora Morris. She was frightfully pale and obviously badly
frightened. She gave her head a wild shake.

“Drink it,” Holmes commanded.

She took the glass, swallowed some, and began to cough.

“Have another swallow,” I said, “but more slowly.”

Her blue eyes gazed up at me, her lips parted slightly. I could not bear to see such fear. I put one hand on her shoulder. “We shall not harm you.”

“
If
you cooperate with us, Miss Morris. Where is the note?”

She held the glass with both hands clutched against her, and I could see it quiver, the liquid sloshing slightly. “Note?” She was genuinely confused.

“Lord Harrington’s suicide note.”

“I–I don’t know nothing about no note.”

Holmes gave a sigh. “If you will give me the note and tell me what happened, we shall leave you in peace. Otherwise I fear we must take you directly to the police.”

She stood quickly, the brandy tumbling onto her dress, the glass rolling onto the floor. “No! Not that! Please, sir...”

Holmes had thrust the revolver back into his coat pocket. He extended his right hand, palm up. “The note, then. We do not want to alarm your aunt unnecessarily.”

She swayed briefly, and I seized her shoulders with both hands. I was accustomed to Michelle, and by contrast, there seemed almost nothing to this girl. I doubt she weighed more than eighty pounds. Perhaps she was consumptive. “Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “Be merciful—she is only a child.”

“She is no child, and she was hardly merciful to Lord Harrington. Now get me that note.”

She drew in her breath, and I released her. Her eyes still glistened with tears. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She walked over to a bureau, opened the bottom drawer, dug around a bit, and then withdrew a
folded piece of paper. She handed it to Sherlock.

“Please sit down,” he said.

She collapsed into the chair and began to weep in earnest. Sherlock opened the note. I stood behind him where I could read it. The writing was very small and filled the entire page.

My dear Harriet,

When you read this, I shall be no more. Forgive me, my dearest, but my life has become such an agony that I can no longer bear it. This seems the only way out, the only honorable refuge after so dishonoring you, myself, and my friends.

Should anyone approach you after my death with stories about my baseness, know that in my heart of hearts, I have loved you and you alone. I have been weak; I have been heir to the sins of the flesh that so beset Adam’s descendants; but you have always been my inspiration, a beacon of light and virtue shining through in all this wretched darkness. Words cannot convey the disgust I feel toward myself for my actions. I cannot explain why a man with a wife such as you would fall into the mire. The weakness is mine and mine alone. Do not blame yourself, my darling. I bear sole responsibility. Had I been stronger, had I not erred at an early age, perhaps I could have resisted the devil, but I could never forbear wicked pleasures. Now I pay the price for my worldly sins. If only I had followed my angel, none of this would ever have happened. No one else ever meant anything to me. Always remember, my dearest wife, that you and you alone were the one true love of my life.

As for my friends, I hope they too can forgive me, for I fear I have let loose a devil amongst them. This demon took advantage of my weaknesses. He made me a fortune, knowing full well he meant to reclaim it, and he introduced me to the harlot who would ensure my downfall. I cannot be certain, but I believe he is planning the general
ruin of others. Denounce ________ my dearest. The children of Israel are known for their rapaciousness, but no Jew exults so in the destruction of their victims. It is all money with them. Not so with this ghoul, this vampire: he most desires blood, not money. Warn the others to have a care. He and that gypsy must truly be infernal agents. I can fight them and my own weak nature no longer. I pray that some day the Almighty and you, my dearest, will forgive me.

With all my love,

Joseph

I shook my head. “The poor, tortured devil.”

Holmes had finished reading before I had. His lips twisted. “His brother was correct about his being long-winded. Little wonder he could not accept a note which said merely, ‘I cannot go on.’”

I shook my head. “Have you no heart at all?”

“I have heart enough, but my brain grows weary with human stupidity. All these professions of love—what good are they coming from a dead man? If he loved his wife so much, why did he not live? These pathetic, trite scrawlings are small consolation indeed.” He turned to the girl weeping on the chair. “We are nearly finished, Miss Morris, but you must honestly answer a few questions first. You had decided to blackmail him, had you not?”

She raised her head. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running. She sniffled and wiped at her face with her sleeve. “It wasn’t my idea! They told me to do it. How was I to know ’e’d kill himself?” Her hysteria had weakened her studied articulation.

“Who are ‘they’? Your aunt?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, and her friends. The Angels.”

Holmes frowned slightly, his gray eyes suddenly hot. “Angels? Of the Lord?”

She nodded again. “I didn’t want to do it. He was always a nice enough sort. Peculiar if you take my meaning, but harmless. Half the time he didn’t want to do nothing but stare at me. They said we could retire on the money, and so we shall.”

“How much did you ask for?”

She licked her lips. “Five thousand pounds.”