The Web Weaver (21 page)

I laughed. “I would have liked to hear one of those stories.”

“They were wonderful. I like stories, except ones with gypsies.”

“We shall not talk about gypsies. Besides, Sherlock believes there are no gypsies involved. Whoever is behind it, he will catch them.”

“Can you be so sure?”

“Yes. He is very tenacious. He will not rest until he figures things out.”

The wind rattled the windows again. “Do you like the sound of the wind?” Violet asked.

“When I am inside, warm, and comfortable!”

“I do not like it. It makes me feel frightened. Mr. Holmes is very different from how I thought he would be.”

“In what way?”

“He is not such a machine, and he is so interesting. And he has hungry eyes.”

I laughed. “So you noticed that?”

“Yes. But it is not mere appetite as with the Reverend Killington or Donald’s father. I thought women would not interest Mr. Holmes, but they do.”

“You interest him very much.”

“I wish... I wish I had not met him this way. I thought I had him all figured out. If only... But it is too late.” She had closed her eyes.

I wanted to take her hand again, but she was nearly asleep. “Perhaps it is not so late,” I murmured.

“It is too late. Years too late. It...” She paused mid-sentence, then she began to breathe very softly and regularly.

I sat back in the chair. “Oh, Violet, whatever am I to do with you?” My voice quavered slightly.

I walked back to the fire, then sat down and put my boots back on. Outside the wind had grown fierce. I wanted to stay awhile, but I could not keep my eyes open. Finally, I stood up. Violet was obviously sound asleep, but she looked so sick.

I closed the door softly behind me and went downstairs. Lovejoy insisted on fetching a carriage, and I had a wild, wet, windy ride home. As soon as I saw Henry, I rushed into his arms.

“What is it? You are so cold. Are you...?”

“Just hold me for a moment,” I said.

“Gladly. I did miss you,” he murmured gently, and his tone of voice, his touch, seemed to resonate through me as if I were a harp or other instrument, the feelings—the melodies—beyond my control, some mysterious law of harmonies guiding me. As we went upstairs, I told him I would talk about Violet in the morning. We lay together in the darkness, and I clung to him as if I were cast adrift in frigid waters. I fell asleep almost at once, but my dreams were troubled. Violet’s ghostly face with its corona of black hair stared at me. I kept reaching out for Henry.

W
hen the morning light fell on my face, I put a pillow over my head and went back to sleep. When I finally woke up, I rolled over and felt with my foot for Henry, but he was gone. I was very warm and comfortable, but then memories of the night before came back. I glanced at the clock.

“Good heavens!”

I never slept so late—it was after ten, and I had patients arriving before nine.

I slipped out of bed, dressed quickly in the frigid room, and then went downstairs. Harriet had the stove going and was making pie crust. Our black-and-white cat Victoria rubbed about my ankles. I scratched her forehead.

“Morning, ma’am. You look much rested.”

“I should have been awake hours ago.”

“Mr. Henry said you weren’t to be bothered. He is seeing your patients for you. Let me pour your coffee and milk. And shall I warm up some of the leftover porridge?”

“Yes, I am famished.”

I sipped my coffee and glanced at
The Times
. A column about the Prince of Wales reminded me of what Violet had said the night before. “Harriet?” The kitchen was empty, a small pan left on the stove. I rose and gave the porridge a stir, then burned my mouth tasting it.

The kitchen door swung open, and Henry came in wearing his best black frock coat and waistcoat.

“Good morning,” I said.

He stared closely at me. “How do you feel?”

I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Much better. Can you spare a moment?”

“Yes. Mrs. Scott sent a note saying she could not make her appointment.” We sat down at the table. “Now tell me everything that happened to you last night. You were not yourself. You had quite a grip on me, you know.”

“Poor darling.” Harriet had returned, and she set a bowl of porridge before me. As I ate, I told him all that had occurred. His face grew more and more sober. When I had finished, he took my hand. We were both silent.

At last I said, “You should have told me about the mistress. I would not have been so shaken had I already known.”

“I am sorry. I almost did, but... Sherlock did not want me to worry you.”

“Let me be the judge of that! However did he find out?”

“He deduced it from the disorderly state of Donald Wheelwright’s clothing when he visited Baker Street in the afternoon.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes. I... I shall not keep such a secret from you again.”

We were quiet again, our hands still clasped. At last he looked up at me. “Do you think Violet is... mentally unbalanced?”

I shook my head. “I do not think she is crazy if that is what you mean. She is under a great strain, and...”

“And?”

“She is not telling me everything. She was so very... odd. She wanted to know if we were going to have children. She asked about it so frivolously, and yet she badly wanted to know. Why?”

“Is that not obvious? It is because she cannot have children of her own.”

I shook my head again. “No, that is too obvious. She really wanted to know what
I
was going to do. I have never seen her the way she was last night. I always thought her the most self-assured woman I knew.”

Henry’s shoulders twitched. “That business with the spiders would disturb anyone.”

“She said nothing about the spiders. I do not think it was them. I am worried about her, very worried. I shall have to keep a close watch on her. The ulcer would be problem enough, but...”

“You do have a kind heart, Michelle. She was right about that.”

“So do you, my dear, and I hope you are not black and blue from all the squeezing I gave you last night.”

He smiled. “You may squeeze me whenever you wish. Do not worry about squeezing too hard.” Harriet had her back to us, and he raised my hand and kissed my knuckles.

“Oh, Henry. I hope—I hope we never hate each other—or tire of each other.”

He gave his head a fierce shake. “We shall not.”

I bit at my lip and stroked his cheek. “I have dawdled long enough, Dr. Vernier. Lady Brankenbury has an appointment at eleven, and she most assuredly will not be late. Duty calls.”

We went downstairs together, and Henry went to check the morning post. He came back into my examining room with several letters.

“Here is a telegram from Sherlock. Damnation,” he muttered, giving his head a shake. “Mrs. Dalton has flown the coop.”

“Who is Mrs. Dalton?”

“George Herbert’s housekeeper. She must have stolen the necklace after all.”

“Oh dear—although you said she was frightfully underpaid.”

“Yes, but that is not considered grounds for grand theft. On a more cheerful note, he wants to know if we would accompany him to Covent Garden tomorrow for the performance of
Il Trovatore
. He apologizes for the late invitation and pleads distraction. He even offers to pay for our tickets.”

“How sweet of him. We must go.”

I saw Violet late that afternoon. She had slept ten hours, was much improved and—like me—seemed embarrassed about the night before. I casually mentioned that Henry and I were going to the opera the next day with Sherlock.

Her eyes widened, and she seized my wrist. “Oh, but you must join me! Father Wheelwright has a box at Covent Garden, but he and Donald have some evening meeting, potted meat business. I was debating whether to go by myself. The seats are really very good. Tell Mr. Holmes to save his money. It would be wonderful to have you all as my guests—it would mean so much to me!” Her enthusiasm was catching, and I assured her I would pass on the invitation.

Sherlock, Henry and I—all three of us once again in our finery—paused before the door to Box Three at Covent Garden. Henry knocked. The door swung open, and Violet stood before us, radiant.

“Oh, I am so glad you could come!”

Her silk gown was two shades of blue, an elaborate lace framing her bosom, a split in the skirt revealing a darker blue fabric. Her shoulders
were bare, and she wore a black silk choker about her slender neck, a single magnificent pearl in front. To my physician’s eyes, she seemed pale and thin, her ribs showing near the sternum above the curve of her bosom. However, her beauty could not be denied; unlike so many of the women at the opera, her gown and jewels did not clash with her person.

I glanced at Sherlock and recalled Violet saying he had hungry eyes. “I think we are in for a splendid evening,” he said. “Reports of the tenor are favorable, and the principals and the conductor are all Italian.”

Violet laughed. “An oddly chauvinistic view for an Englishman.”

“No, no—it is not chauvinism.
Il Trovatore
is the quintessential Italian opera, and as such is best left to the natives. One would not wish to hear Signor Vitelli attempting Irish ballads; similarly,
Il Trovatore
should be entrusted to those who know the language and have the music in their blood.”

“Henry and Sherlock have been telling me something of the plot,” I said. “It sounds very confusing.”

Violet raised her right eyebrow, smiled and shook her head. “Oh, but it is not complicated at all. It is a simple story of revenge. I can explain it to you. I also have two copies of the libretto. Following it should help. Do you know Italian?”

“Some. Henry and I both took up Italian before a trip there. It does not
sound
like French, but the vocabulary is similar. I also studied Latin for years. I should be able to follow along. However, Sherlock reads Italian better than either of us.”

Violet stared up at him. “Indeed? I am surprised, Mr. Holmes. Somehow I would have thought Italian a bit too extravagantly Mediterranean for a practical Anglo-Saxon nature such as yours.”

“You are mistaken, madam. Even ignoring the Gallic side of my family, what lover of music could neglect the language of Petrarch and
Dante? ‘
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita
.’”

I frowned slightly. “In the middle of the road of our life, I found myself by an obscure wood that the direct way was marred.”

Sherlock and Henry smiled, while a ripple of laughter slipped from Violet’s lips. “Very close. Not obscure—dark, a dark wood.” Her smile faded away. “‘
Una selva oscura
’. ‘In the midst of the path of our life, I found myself in a dark wood where the straight way was lost.’ The first stanza from Dante’s
Inferno
—Hell. ‘
A quanto a dir qual era e cosa dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura
.’” The words sounded beautiful, but she spoke them sadly.

I shook my head. “I dare not try to make that out.”

Sherlock smiled. “The second stanza. ‘Ah, how hard to say how this wood was savage, bitter and dense; even thinking of it renews the fear.’ The syntax is rather twisted, but there is nothing in English like ‘
selva selvaggia
’; ‘savage wood’ is not so melodious.”

“Nor can fear compare to ‘
paura
’,” Violet said. “You seem very familiar with Dante’s
Divine Comedy
, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes. I read it while at university, and I still pull out my copy occasionally.”

Henry gave his head a shake. “The Italian is beautiful, but I grew tired of all the misery in the
Inferno
. One must give Dante credit for making art out of poetic spleen and fiendish torture. A bit twisted, though.”

Violet nodded. “Revenge is rarely so poetic or beautiful, nor does it often rise to the level of art, but Dante’s language is sublime. I love the Italian country, too, all that sunshine and spontaneity, and of course the food.”

“Did you not travel there just after your marriage?” Holmes asked.

Violet was smiling, but the right side of her mouth straightened, then twitched. She swallowed, the expression in her eyes suddenly changing.
“Yes. I... I came down with a common traveler’s ailment and felt quite dreadful. I believe it was some bad fruit I ate in Venice. We... I had to come home early.” She managed a laugh. “I fear it still makes me queasy just thinking about it! That was not my first trip. My father loved Greece and Italy, and we spent many summers there. Sometimes I long to just run away to some beautiful villa in Tuscany or perhaps by the sea. But come, we should be gazing at the other spectators, rating their apparel, and sharing the latest gossip. We have little time for this amusing sport, for the performance is about to begin.”

“That does not stop most ladies,” Holmes said.

Violet laughed. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. My sister-in-law is one of the worst offenders. We have this large box to ourselves, a blessed occasion—as you would know if you had ever endured a performance in the company of Donald and his relations! The worst was the time the Reverend Killington accompanied us.”