The Web Weaver (37 page)

Wheelwright stopped to enjoy the view. The golden retriever saw the water and was off like a shot down the hill. She plunged into the pond with no hesitation. The Irish setter trotted down, but only stared curiously at its companion. Wheelwright leaned his gun against a stump and took a silver case from his jacket.

“Care for a smoke?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

Wheelwright took out a very long cigar, then put the case back in his jacket. He glanced at me, the hint of a frown briefly showing. He hesitated, bit off the end of the cigar, spat it out, and struck a match. As he inhaled, he continued to regard me closely. I was again struck by the size of his fingers; they were thicker than the cigar, a good inch across above the knuckles.

“I hope you don’t mind seeing a man bite off a cigar.” From his tone it was difficult to tell whether he was apologizing or warning me not to take offense.

I smiled. “Not at all. Gentlemen are supposed to use cigar cutters, but surely one must make some allowance for this rustic setting.” He stared curiously at me. I glanced down at the pond. “This is a beautiful spot.”

He nodded. “It’s my favorite hereabouts. Care to sit for a moment? We’ve been walking for a while.” He sat on the tree stump. “I usually sit here and have a cigar. I like a cigar. Violet hates cigars.” His eyes clouded over. “It’s one more thing about me she can’t abide.” His voice was bitter.

I sat on another stump—several trees had been cut there—and picked up a small twig. I began to snap off pieces.

Wheelwright sighed. “Yes, this is a good place. The rooks surely like
that big tree. Some days when I’m sick of their cawing, I have a shot at them. I’m not really trying to harm them, just scare them off. It works, too. Today they aren’t so noisy.”

I nodded and carefully pulled off a strip of bark from the twig. “I can see how they would get on one’s nerves.”

We both remained silent for a while. The sun felt very warm on our faces, and a faint breeze rustled the dry leaves in the trees behind us. One of the crows spiraled upward from the tree; another followed. With a caw, the higher one swooped and dived at the other. Wheelwright knocked off the cigar ash and ground it into the earth with the toe of his enormous boot. I could smell the oiled leather; the boots were beauties and had been well cared for, no doubt by his valet.

“Tell me, Dr. Vernier...”

“You might as well call me Henry. ‘Doctor’ sounds too formal for this setting. Besides, I grow tired of hearing ‘doctor’ all the time.”

His brow furrowed, then he stared closely at me. He shrugged. “Tell me, Henry, do you ever feel like chucking it all?”

“Chucking it all?”

“Your doctoring, your friends, your family, your house. London. Just giving it all up and going somewhere else—somewhere like this.” His head swept about.

“Well, yes, I have thought about that. Being a physician really is such a hopeless business. We can diagnose, but we simply cannot cure many diseases. And then you have to deal with the hypochondriacs who are not sick at all, but who are always coming to see you. It’s not charitable, I know, but some of them... I almost wish they would get truly sick. It would serve them right.”

Wheelwright laughed. I could not recall ever having heard him laugh before. “I can see that. All the same, your doctoring can’t be worse than the potted meat business.” He smiled grimly. “I promise if I ever have
a son—which isn’t likely—that he won’t have to work for me. No one should have to work for their own father. At least not for my father. He just can’t understand...” He drew in deeply on the cigar, then exhaled the pungent smoke. “He can’t understand that it bores me. He thinks of nothing else. He’s shrewd, and he’s rich, but he still badly wants to make more money. I told him once I didn’t see the point. We have enough.” Wheelwright laughed, this time harshly. “He gave me such a look, then started yelling at me. I stood there and took it, just as I always take it, but...” He stubbed out his cigar, then ground the butt savagely underfoot. “What’s the use of it all?”

I stared at him in amazement. “I... It does get tiresome, doesn’t it?”

He nodded. “I’d like to be outdoors more. Not in London, of course. Half the time you can’t breathe there. Lord, how I hate going to that office every day. He won’t trust me with anything important. I can’t blame him. I’m no businessman. All the same... It seems so foolish that we have to pretend all the time, pretend we’re something we’re not.”

“Couldn’t you...? Do you have money of your own?”

“Some, but he’d cut me off without a penny if I tried to leave the firm.”

“He cannot—he cannot live forever, at any rate—cruel as that might sound.”

Wheelwright gave a gruff laugh. “Sometimes I think he will outlive me.”

“Of course he won’t.”

Wheelwright shrugged. He stared down at the dog swimming about in the pond. “It’s funny how happy a dog is. It doesn’t take much to please them. Some meat and a bone, running about outdoors, and a bit of affection.” He smiled briefly, his mouth taut under the neatly trimmed mustache. “Yes, sometimes I think I’d like to chuck it all. Go somewhere and start over. Just take...” He glanced at me and stopped abruptly. He was probably thinking of his mistress; she would be the
one person he would wish to take with him. Or was she only one more unwanted obligation?

He stood up, put his fingers in his mouth and gave a deafening whistle. “Goldie, come on!” He glanced at me while we waited for the dogs to come back uphill. “It’s all just dreaming, anyway. I guess I’m stuck with houses and servants and the whole business. Most men would envy me, I suppose.”

“I do not envy you.”

He laughed again. “That’s wise.”

“My practice does grow tiresome. I know something of what you must feel. One wearies of burdens and responsibilities. At least if you make an error, no one may suffer terribly for it.”

Wheelwright’s mouth twisted into a smile. “No?” Goldie appeared before us and shook the water eagerly from her coat, splashing us. “Goldie, you stupid dog! You bad dog!” Wheelwright bent over and tousled the fur on the dog’s head, then brought his enormous hand around and scratched at the ruff of her throat. “You are a stupid dog.” Chieftain, the setter, watched forlornly, until Wheelwright beckoned with his hand. “Here, boy. You want some, too. That’s a good dog. Yes, you’re much smarter than Goldie.” He rubbed the dog’s head and stroked its back. He picked up his gun, and we started down the path.

I wanted to ask him about Violet, but I could not. He had confided in me, and I could not bring myself to probe, to manipulate and spy.

“We all have our burdens,” he said. “You’re right about that, but you are a lucky man, Henry.”

“Me?” I could not think why.

“Your wife loves you, and you love her. Anyone can see it.”

“I... Your wife does not hate you.” I licked my lips. “You may have your differences, but surely...”

“She hates me, and I hate her, but I’m not as good at it as she is.”
It was as if a dark cloud had blotted out the sun, dimming the beauty all around us.

“Have you...? Perhaps if you tried to talk with her about the situation. It does neither of you any good to be so miserable.”

“Lord, that’s true enough.” He gave his massive head a shake. “It’s no use me trying to talk to her. I’ve never been much good with words, while she... She can talk and talk. She makes a net with her words and catches me in it. I’ll not try talking to her. Sometimes she makes me so angry...” And indeed, his face had grown quite red, that sullen anger showing in his eyes and brow.

I wanted to say something that might help. “Perhaps I could...? If someone else tried to talk to her...” I felt confused and stupid. What was there for them to talk about? They had little in common, and both of them now loved another.

“No, no.” Wheelwright drew in his breath. His lung capacity was immense; he seemed to inhale for a minute, trying to fill himself with the clear clean air. “As you say, we all have our burdens and responsibilities.”

The path skirted the pond. I saw the reflection of the oaks shimmering on the blue-gray surface and closer up, floating leaves and bits of grass.

“I wish I could help.” My voice was plaintive. His pain was so obvious.

“That’s decent of you, but I’ll get by. I suppose. I wish this gypsy business were done with. It’s only when... when I think about the future, that this might go on for years and years, my father getting older and meaner, and Violet...”

Again he drew in his breath. We were both silent. The dogs had run far ahead out of sight. Abruptly, something came out of the brush before us.

Wheelwright moved very quickly. His gun was up, the breech locked, then he raised it and fired, the boom of the shell so deafening I clapped my hand—too late—over my ear. It would be ringing for hours.

“Did you see?” Wheelwright’s blue eyes were wild, and his teeth showed below the mustache. “A pheasant! A beauty, I think.” The dogs came barking down the path toward us. “Get her, Chief!” His rumbling voice was loud.

The Irish setter came up to us, the bird hanging limply from his jaws, the brilliant feathers spattered with blood. Wheelwright took it and held it up by the neck. The sun glinted off the feathers, the iridescent shades of gray, red, green, and gold. I could see the tiny wounds made by the shot.

“Well, we’ve something to show for our walk this afternoon, Henry. I’ll have the cook serve it, and we’ll have the choicest portions for ourselves.”

I smiled, but I felt a strange dread that I could not quite understand. My ears rang. The sunlight seemed faint and feeble, and I felt cold even though we stood in the sun. The blast had disturbed the crows. They filled the sky with their caws, shards of blackness against a vast blue.

W
hen we were alone that evening, I told Michelle about my conversation with Donald Wheelwright. As she listened, the creases in her forehead deepened. For once she was at a loss for words.

“I wish we could leave this place,” I said. “I wish we could leave Sherlock, Violet, and Donald. I... I am sick to death of the whole business.” My vehemence surprised us both.

“I cannot abandon Violet, my dear.”

I sighed wearily. “Oh, I know. Nor can I abandon Sherlock. All the same... there is something unhealthy and disturbing about the Wheelwrights.”

Michelle stared at the candle flickering on the table. “Surely... surely not with Violet.”

“Her, too.”

Michelle’s hand tightened about my arm. “But... she is only tired. This is all such a strain. If we could get her away from here—away from Donald and the Lovejoys and the gypsy’s threats—then she would be well again. I know it.”

“Perhaps.” I was not convinced, and my face showed it.

Michelle’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

That night my uneasiness kept me awake. Michelle was asleep in minutes, but I was up at least two hours longer. As a result, I slept later than usual. After a solitary breakfast I went to the sitting room.

Michelle rose to greet me. Sherlock sat on the window seat playing an informal air on his violin. Violet sat close by, a book on her lap. Gertrude was at a chair by the fire. The day was again spectacularly fair, the green expanse of lawn and the oak forest visible, the light different this early in the day. A small clock showed it was nearly eleven.

“Welcome, slug-a-bed.” Michelle kissed my cheek. “I thought you would never get up.”

Violet seemed more interested in Sherlock than her book. He set down the violin. “This country air does not make one industrious. Rather it has a soporific effect.” He played part of Brahms’
Lullaby.
Michelle and Violet laughed.

“You seem full of energy,” I said. “What project will you undertake today?”

He raised his long hand, gesturing at the table. “Mrs. Wheelwright must offer me another game of chess. We are tied at one game apiece.”

“You actually managed to win the second game?” I said. “You were losing.”

“I was lucky.”

Violet gave a sharp laugh. “No, I was stupid—I made a very ill-considered move. You may be full of energy, Mr. Holmes, but I do not know if I am quite ready to start another game. Chess takes such concentration.”

Michelle gave her head a shake. “It is far too lovely a day to be playing chess indoors, especially in November. The weather could change at any time.”

A sharp rap came at the door, and then it opened. Collins was dressed in his formal footman’s garb, and behind him were Donald Wheelwright and old Wheelwright. The two Wheelwrights strode into the room.

Violet’s eyes narrowed, but she stood and smiled, a faintly glacial expression. “Father Wheelwright, what a pleasant surprise.”

The younger Wheelwright gazed about the room. He did not appear particularly happy himself, and I remembered him saying how much he disliked working for his father. “Father had some business to discuss.”

The old man nodded. “We can’t all retreat from our everyday affairs. The potted meat trade requires constant attention. I’d never be where I am today—this house would never be in the family—if I had gone running off to the country all the time.” He turned to Holmes. “And have you discovered who attacked my daughter-in-law, Mr. Holmes?”