The Web Weaver (23 page)

“Yes.”

We had lingered in the box, and most of the crowd had left by the time Henry and Sherlock got our coats and we had stepped outside. The rain had stopped, and the cool air felt good on my face after being inside for so long.

“Thank you so much, Violet,” I said. “It was wonderful.”

“Superb,” Henry added.

Violet smiled, her eyes bleak. “You are welcome. There is Collins.”

“I shall see you tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh, Michelle, you need not.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

Violet stared past me at Holmes. He had on his black top hat and greatcoat. His pale thin face stared down at her, but he did not speak. The gas lamps before the theater were bright enough that I could see the flush return to her cheeks. “Mr. Holmes,” she began rather loudly.

“Yes?” He looked puzzled.

“I thank you—thank you—for a most pleasurable evening, and for...” Her voice died away.

“As I said, it is I who am in your debt.”

“No—
no
—it is I who...” She drew in her breath. “Thank you for being so charming, for reminding me that not all men are—for reminding me that men can also be intelligent and love art and music and the beautiful.” Her small hands quivered before her, then reached out and seized his
big hand. I do not know which of them was more surprised. They stared at one another, their eyes devouring each other, briefly paralyzed. Henry looked at me in disbelief. Abruptly, Violet raised Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it tightly, then releasing it. “Goodnight.” She turned and fled, her heels clattering upon the pavement as she strode toward her carriage. Sherlock’s lips had parted, his eyes still fixed on her.

Henry put his arm about me, shielding me from the wind and drawing me close. “This has been quite an evening,” he murmured. “Sherlock, I could certainly use those refreshments—especially something liquid.”

Holmes stared curiously down at his hand in its black glove and drew in his breath. “An excellent suggestion, Henry. I know a place close by if you would care to walk.”

“Let us walk,” I said.

We hardly spoke. I slipped my hand about Henry’s arm and stayed close to him. The restaurant was warm, brightly lit, and full of opera-goers. We remained morose and silent until the drinks came. I sipped my liqueur and felt it heat my mouth and throat.

“I wish...” I began. “I wish Violet could have come. And I wish she felt better and—I wish this nightmare were over, the old gypsy woman found, and Donald...” I took a big swallow, then coughed. “Oh, pardon me, but I do hope, Sherlock, that you soon figure out who sent those terrible notes.”

Holmes sat back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. “I know who the gypsy was.”

Henry leaned forward. “You do!”

Holmes smiled sadly. “Yes. It is rather obvious. Do you recall that the letters were signed with an A? The A stands for Azucena.”

Henry and I stared at him. “Sherlock, what do you mean?” I could not keep the annoyance from my voice. “Azucena was the character in the opera. She is not a real person.”

“Oh, I am quite aware of that, as was the person who played the gypsy. However, Azucena was the model for her character. I suspected some such scheme, but the realization struck me as a certainty in the second act. The gypsy at the ball was described as being almost exactly the same, her costume identical.”

“You are only guessing!”

“I do not guess, Michelle.” His voice was cold, but then he smiled and shrugged. “I rarely guess. I am absolutely certain Azucena was the inspiration for the gypsy and her curse. ‘
Mi vendica
,’ remember? ‘Avenge me.’ This is more of the strange humor as with the cake and the spiders. Signing the letters with an A is some person’s idea of a clever joke.”

“It is not my idea of a joke—it is hardly funny.”

He stared innocently at me. “You think not?”

“
No
. Is this just a game to you?”

Henry took my arm. “Michelle...”

“It is no game to me! Violet is my friend, and she is so sad and sick—oh, Sherlock, you must help her. I beg of you—the strain is tearing her apart.”

“She is a strong woman,” Henry said.

“You would not say so if you had seen her two nights ago! She is strong, yes, but so much of it is an act. I am worried to death about her. Please, Sherlock.”

He had grown very pale. He ran his long fingers through his black, oily hair, and then set his hand on the table. “I shall do everything I can to save her, Michelle. Believe me, I would...” His fingers touched his glass, caressed it briefly, then circled the rim. “One way or another, she is in grave peril.”

“One way or another—what do you mean?”

He sipped his whiskey and soda. “
La diritta via era smarrita
. I
promise, I shall save her.” He obviously meant what he said, but I had never heard such quiet desperation in his voice.

W
e had seen
Il Trovatore
on Wednesday evening. Saturday morning I went to Baker Street. Although I arrived at eleven, my cousin was only then confronting a boiled egg perched upright upon its holder. His dark brows sank inward, a smile flickered over his lips. He struck the egg sharply with his spoon, cracking it nearly in half. “Ah, Henry. Do sit down. Are you hungry?”

“I have already eaten.”

“A shame. Mrs. Hudson is very good with a boiled egg. Four minutes and thirty seconds exactly. Overcook them, and they are a dry abomination. Undercook them, and they are repulsively gelatinous.”

Mrs. Hudson gave me one of her long-suffering smiles. “Coffee, Doctor?”

“Please.”

She poured a cup from the china pot, and I sat at the small table. Sherlock had removed the upper half of the eggshell and set it upon a saucer. Carefully, he spooned out some egg, leaving the top concave so the yolk would not run out.

He was so meticulous an eater I could not imagine when or how it had happened, but on the cuff of his purple dressing gown was what appeared to be prehistoric, dried egg yolk. Although I knew that he changed his linen every day and that he would discard a coat or trousers at the first sign of wear, the old woolen gown appeared decrepit. This one slovenly garment was the exception that proved the rule. No doubt it was like a familiar, comfortable old friend.

“I am glad you did not come yesterday, Henry. I was in a foul mood. Rarely have I been so frustrated. However, I have resolved anew to use those brains, those unique talents, which God has given me. I have been behaving... I have not been myself.”

“This affair of the Wheelwrights is very dark. It has disturbed Michelle greatly, and I too feel uneasy.”

Holmes had eaten the upper, uncovered half of the egg; now he carefully scooped some from the half shell remaining. “Very dark indeed. Michelle has a kind and generous heart. It does her credit, but I cannot—must not—let my sympathies cloud my reason.”

I took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Reason and the heart are often at odds.”

He took the last bit of egg from the shell. He chewed briefly, dabbed at his lips with a napkin and threw it aside. “I must be true to my nature, or I am lost. I am too old to change.”

“Are you? It hardly seems that way. It seems as if you
are
changing and that fact disturbs you.”

He sat back in his chair and extended his long arms before him, his gray eyes fixed on me. Abruptly he rose, strode to the fire, then stood with his back to me, his left hand clutching the wrist of his right arm. He was still for only seconds, then whirled about.

“You are very perceptive, Henry. All the same, reason—this brain—” he placed his forefinger on his temple— “has been my guide through
the labyrinth of life. I must trust it still. The heart will only... leave me wallowing in the mire.”

I laughed. “What a frightful metaphor! It is clear where your sympathies lie.”

He returned to the chair and crossed his legs, revealing a bare bony ankle between the leather slipper and the black wool of his trousers. “Is it? Do you also presume I am some mechanical automaton incapable of genuine human feelings?” His eyes were hot and fierce.

“You know me better than that—I have never presumed any such thing. Quite the contrary.”

He took a quick sip of coffee. “Forgive me. I do know that. All the same, it is my reason I must now follow and not my heart.”

“Why divide yourself?”

“Because my heart might misdirect me—because it might make me betray everything I have ever believed in, everything I have fought for.”

“How could it do that?”

He stared at me, and then lowered his eyes. “If you do not understand... that is good. Perhaps...” Briefly his gaze lost its focus as his thoughts turned inward; at last he seemed again to see me. “The lady in question is a married woman. How, therefore, can I trust my heart?” Despite his smile, his eyes were pained.

I stared at my cup and toyed with the spoon. “Perhaps there might be... some way.”

Holmes laughed, a harsh, sharp sound. “Do you think if there was any real hope that I would not...?” He paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “No, Henry. Even were I lacking in moral scruples—even if I did not respect the lady so much... Over the years, in my profession, I have encountered too many sordid and disgusting cases involving married men or women and a third person. The guiding force—despite protestations of great love—was rarely the heart, but
another portion of the anatomy. I could never lower myself—or dream of lowering a lady—to the level of some vulgar, clandestine affair.”

“I was not proposing any such thing! I only... Perhaps she could... obtain a divorce.”

“On what grounds? Adultery in the male will not suffice. And Father Wheelwright would never tolerate such a scandal. Very bad for the potted meat business.” Holmes shook his head. “Besides, this is all extremely presumptuous on our part. The lady may not share...”

“She is interested,” I said. “Very interested.”

Holmes started to speak, then hesitated. “Do you believe so?”

I laughed. “I may not have your powers of observation, but in this case I am certain.”

A furtive smile pulled briefly at his lips, but he shook his head. “No matter, Henry. Futile reveries will not assist me now; mere feelings must not distract me. I must rely on my mental powers, as I have for all these years. There is a problem to be solved—many problems. This business with the Wheelwrights is only one part of a larger puzzle, the most complicated I have ever encountered.”

“What puzzle is this?”

He scratched his bare ankle with his finger, then, abruptly, was up and pacing again. “You know about the theft of George Herbert’s necklace. I have spoken with Lestrade, and some other acquaintances, at Scotland Yard. Crime is difficult to quantify, but they think they have been busier. Several thefts, as in the case of Herbert, were very skillfully done—not the work of crude, sloppy burglars or cracksmen. You know how Lord Harrington was blackmailed. I have had another member of the nobility approach me—a prostitute is threatening him with ruin. Lestrade has heard similar tales, and he suspects some high-class procurer is systematically putting the squeeze on his clientele. Other curious things have happened. The coal baron, Michael Welsley,
died a week ago and left his entire fortune to a miners’ hospital. It will be contested, but the nurse and a patient at the hospital witnessed him signing a letter requesting the change. And then there is the recent madness of Lord Wilson.”

“Is he not known for his violent temper?”

“Yes. He has apparently been hearing voices, threatening voices. They keep him awake. They torment him. He is under his wife’s care, but he may soon be sent to an institution in the country. Oh—so far all these unfortunates seem to have attended the Paupers’ Ball.”

I felt the dread squarely in my chest. “Good Lord.”

“Hardly surprising, Henry.
Everyone
was at the ball.”

“Do you think the gypsy...? Some evil presence seems at work in all of this.”

He gave a fierce nod. “Yes—some evil
human
presence. One need not posit evil spirits or devils. Men are sufficiently wicked. I have encountered men who would outmatch any devil from hell. The gypsy is a fake—I am certain—but the evil is real enough. I believe a single person is behind this epidemic of crime.”

Again I felt afraid. “Your Moriarty?” My voice was very soft.

Holmes gave me a wan, weary smile. “Yes. Whoever this person may be. And his ‘Angels.’”

“And is he also behind the threat to Mrs. Wheelwright?”

“I believe so, but I have so few facts.” He shook his head and sat again, drumming at the table with his long fingers. “My instincts tell me it is all related, all part of a vast pattern—a great web. Blast it! Watson’s feeble metaphor
would
be the first that comes to mind! Some puppeteer is pulling all the strings. However, what I most need now are facts. I have several leads, which must be pursued. I have pondered idly long enough—I am ready for action.”

“I hope these other crimes will not distract you from the Wheelwrights.”

“They will not. I shall not rest until I discover the truth about the Wheelwrights.” He stood up again. “I have several ideas, some of which are not... I need more information about the Lovejoys. I mistrust them both, especially the wife.”