The Web Weaver (42 page)

“I certainly shall, and before I go I’ll have Daisy fetch Collins.”

Daisy sat up. “Oh, he’s in the hall, ma’am, right by the door.”

“Good. I shall send him in.” Violet stared forlornly at me. I squeezed her hand—she felt icy. “I shan’t be long.” I took a candle from the table.

Collins was leaning against the wall near the door. I asked him where I might find Henry and Sherlock, and told him to go into Violet’s room. As I went down the corridor, the flickering candle cast strange shadows upon the wall, its light a feeble thing. Briefly I thought of the gypsy.

Holmes and Henry were in Violet’s sitting room on the second floor, the room in which I had spent many a pleasant hour. Henry sat near the fire, half asleep, while Sherlock paced. Rarely had I seen him so agitated. He reminded me of one of the big cats at the London Zoo, nervously circling its small cage. He still had on evening dress, but he and Henry both wore heavy, soiled boots.

I took Henry’s hand. “You look tired. Where have you been?”

He related how they had spent nearly an hour outside searching the grounds and what they had to show for it.

I frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Sherlock.” He strode by, hardly seeing me. He was circling the table where the wooden chessboard was still set up, hands behind his back, one grasping a bony wrist. I stepped before him. “Sherlock, do you understand any of this?”

His gray eyes glared furiously, and I thought briefly he might push me aside. He drew in his breath. “Yes.”

“But you told Donald Wheelwright you were baffled.”

His mouth formed an ironic smile. “I did not want to be cast out into the wilderness. Not yet.”

“You know who the gypsy is?”

“Yes.”

“And who has attacked Violet?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

I stared at him. Henry had sat up in the chair. “Please explain.”

“I shall tell you everything in the morning.” He stepped around me and started pacing again.

“Sherlock—please!”

He stopped and turned, placing one hand on the table. His face was pale, his eyes anguished. “Michelle, do not disturb me—not now of all times. I have it all, everything that matters. You will hear the truth in the morning. But for now, leave me be—leave me in peace!”

“Oh, very well.” I went past him to the door.

“Michelle!” Henry cried.

I started down the hall, my hand holding the candle before me. Henry caught up.

“Wait,” he said.

“He has never spoken to me that way before.” My voice was shaky.

“You are lucky—but he is not himself. He will be sorry in the morning.”

Abruptly I set down the candle and embraced Henry. I laid my head against his face and touched his cheek with my hand. The skin felt bristly from the stubble of his beard.

“Are they both mad? Whatever is the matter with them?”

“I do not know.” His voice was gentle. One hand was clasped high against my back, the other just below my waist. His breath felt warm.

“I wish we could just go to bed,” I said. “I am so tired.”

“Go to bed, then.”

“I promised Violet I would stay with her. She is most dreadfully upset.”

Henry sighed; I could feel the movement along my chest and abdomen. “And I must remain with Sherlock,” he said.

Neither of us moved for a while. The house was quiet and still, and we could not hear the wind or the snow there, where the outer and inner walls sheltered us.

“If he has figured it all out,” I said at last, “it does not seem to have made him very happy.”

Henry gave a muted laugh. “No.”

We stood holding each other until I felt the fatigue settling about me. So much of the day had been disastrous. The house was so cold, Henry so warm.

“I must get back to Violet.” I kissed him, briefly relaxing into his arms, letting him support me. At last, I stepped away and took up the candle.

Violet was still curled in the chair before the fireplace. With a yawn, Collins stood and was about to step into the hall. “Don’t be silly,” I said. “You can have Daisy’s chair. She is ready for bed.” They both protested, but I would not hear them.

Violet glanced up at me, her dark eyes tormented. I put my hand over hers.

“How are you?” The question was a foolish one.

“I feel cold—so cold.”

“I hope you have not caught a fever.” I put my hand on her forehead, but she was not hot. “Please let me give you something. You really should sleep.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.” I went to the bed, took an afghan throw and put it over her lap. “Thank you.”

My shoes still sat before the other chair where I had left them. Under my stockings, my toes were freezing; I sat and stretched my feet toward the fireplace, curling and uncurling my toes. Violet smiled weakly. I closed my eyes, opened them, and then fell fast asleep.

My dreams were restless. Henry and I wandered amidst the oak forest, but the sunlight kept turning to snow. I knew we needed to return to our house in London before the blizzard, but we had lost something—or someone—first Sherlock, but then he was beside me in his traveling cap, so it must have been Violet. But she was beside me wearing an evening gown and diamonds, a curious choice for the woods. Holmes must be missing... Then they were both there, but someone was chasing us. Donald Wheelwright? No, the gypsy. She was cackling in the midst of the dark green rhododendron leaves while the moon slowly rose, and now both Sherlock and Violet were lost again.

“Damn them both!” I cried. I thought Henry would admonish me for my language, but he only nodded. “We must find them,” I said. “They must not loiter here in the dark wood.”

We searched everywhere: beside the pond, the dark country house, the Wheelwrights’ London mansion, Henry’s and my home, the clinic for the poor, and even Simpson’s. I looked under the table where Violet and I had eaten our roast beef dinner.

We could not find them, but some black shadowy thing—it lurked just out of sight—was also pursuing them. When I held up the lantern, it quickly scuttled under the table.

“Come out—show yourself!” I cried. “Filthy thing.”

We were on the fourth floor of Violet’s house before the rickety stairway to the attic. I held up the lantern. “They are up there,” I told Henry. “Come.”

He smiled but shook his head. Something strange was happening to his face. I turned away and started up the stairs. The door hinges creaked as I opened it.

“Violet? Sherlock?”

I held up the light, but it grew dimmer. My heart felt peculiar, its beat desperate and arrhythmic. “Violet? Sherlock?” Their faces were so gray. They must be dead. I wanted to run but could not move. As my eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, I could see more and more. They were bound in a gray, sticky substance—threads which cut more tightly even as they struggled and tried to escape. The web was in their mouths and noses; they could not possibly breathe. They must be dead, but still they writhed, two mummies in their suffocating bonds, every futile breath drawing the gray poison deeper into their lungs and their hearts.

Something laughed overhead—a woman’s voice. I did not want to raise my head, but something made me. It lurked in the corner, a part of the darkness, its form barely discernible: a spider—bigger than a man—bigger even than Donald Wheelwright. It had red eyes and wore golden earrings even though it had no ears. More dreadful laughter: I realized she was laughing at me.

It would get me and weave its deadly threads about me, but I could barely stir. The harder I tried, the slower I moved. It would get me—I could not escape.

“Michelle,” it said.

I tried to scream but nothing came out. I knew that voice.

“Michelle.”

It was Violet’s voice—it was Violet.

Someone shook me, and I bolted upright. Violet stood before me, her hand over her mouth, her dark eyes fixed on mine. I was breathing hard and my heart thudded against my ribs. My eyes took in the bedroom: the solid, well-built furniture, Collins sleeping in a chair, the clock on the mantel. It was one thirty in the morning.

“You had a nightmare,” Violet said. “You could not seem to move.”

I put my hand on my face. “Oh God, what a horrible dream.”

Violet hesitated, and then stepped closer. She gave my hand a squeeze. “Poor dear.”

I moistened my lips. My throat was dry. “Have you slept?”

She shook her head.

I stood slowly. “You really should. You feel warmer anyway. Sit down.” I covered her with the afghan. “What have you been doing?”

“Thinking. Watching you.”

“It is a new day,” I said.

She nodded. Her lips drew back into a smiling grimace. “Today is my wedding anniversary.”

I stared incredulously at her. “What?”

“Eight years,” she said. “Eight years.” She laughed.

I recalled the gray filaments binding her, suffocating her, filling her mouth, nose, and lungs, and I could not repress a shudder.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The dream—it was so dreadful. “I think... I shall go downstairs for a moment. I shall be back in only five minutes or so.”

I took the candle. It was shorter now. Walking—being able to move—felt good, but the house was quiet as the tomb, and I was thinking about spiders. Henry was asleep in the chair, slumped to the side and breathing loudly. He looked odd sleeping in evening dress. Holmes sat in another chair smoking a pipe, and the room stank of tobacco. Although he was seated, he appeared as restless as when he
had been pacing. He smiled weakly, the expression gaunt and forlorn.

“I suppose you have been awake all this time,” I said.

He shrugged. He would not meet my gaze. I turned to go.

“Michelle.” His eyes watched me. “I am sorry if I behaved rudely earlier. You will understand all in the morning.”

I smiled wearily. “Maybe I should send Violet down. She will not sleep either. Perhaps you could play chess.”

I was only joking, but he shook his head forcefully. “
No
.” As I stared at him, his nostrils flared. “I must not. I... I shall see her in the morning. Oh God, how I wish I had never laid eyes on her.”

I was too sleepy for more mysteries. “Good night,” I said.

Violet, of course, was also wide awake, the afghan wrapped about her shoulders. She managed a wan smile. I thought of trying to talk with her, but again I fell asleep. My dreams, while still troubled, were not so bad as before.

When I woke, a cold white light had filled the room, and the coal in the fireplace was nearly gone. Violet was still in the chair, and the clock on the mantel said seven thirty-five. I glanced slowly about. Violet had obviously not slept, and she seemed more fragile than ever, as if one more blow would shatter her.

The door opened, and Daisy looked in. When she saw we were awake, she came into the room. She gave Collins a playful push. He stirred and sat up. “What a night,” he muttered, stretching.

Daisy walked over to Violet and me. “Mr. ’Olmes’d like to see you in the sitting room whenever you’re ready.”

Violet sat up stiffly, raising her chin and showing her long slender neck. The bruises were so ugly. “Get me my lavender dress, the silk one with the lace collar.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

Collins stepped outside. I blinked my eyes, stared distastefully at
my shoes. I slipped my feet into them.

“How does your shoulder feel?” I asked.

“It throbs some.”

Violet went to the washbasin and splashed ice-cold water on her face. I felt chilly merely watching. Daisy helped her out of her robe. I went to the window. The snow had stopped, but the sky—and all else—was white, the landscape totally altered, the golden autumnal vista seemingly gone forever. Daisy fastened Violet’s dress in back, helped her with her hair, and then we two went downstairs to the sitting room.

It was faintly cold and smelled of tobacco, but a wood fire roared in the fireplace. Holmes stood before a window. He had changed into his frock coat and striped trousers. Henry wore a tweed suit and looked rested, despite the night in the chair. The Lovejoys sat on the sofa, polite yet wary smiles on their faces.

Holmes stared for only an instant at Violet. She stiffened, and a faint blush showed on her high cheekbones. “Please be seated, ladies.” He gestured at the two plush chairs near the fire. “It is time for me to relate what I have discovered.”

Lovejoy was clean-shaven, his linen white and crisp looking alongside his fine black morning coat. “I do not see why you wish us to be present, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes gave him a frightful smile. “You will soon learn exactly why. You are my special guests.”

Lovejoy was unperturbed, but his wife gave a quick, desperate glance at the door.

“Should not Donald be here?” Violet asked, her hand holding her side.

He looked at her, then looked away. “Not yet.” He stepped over to the fireplace and prodded the logs with the black iron poker, making them flare up. Violet and I had the comfortable chairs near the fire,
but they were turned outward, toward the room. The sofa where the Lovejoys sat was before the windows, that long, southern expanse of glass. Henry was seated by the cherry-wood table and the chessboard. Holmes prowled about upon the carpet with its vivid, scarlet pattern. He had changed from his muddy boots to shoes of a glossy black.

“I fear, Mrs. Wheelwright, that I have made some unpleasant discoveries about the two persons who oversee your household.”

Mrs. Lovejoy wore one of her plain black dresses, and she scowled. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Someone has misinformed you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes gave them such a look I was glad not to be in their places. “I think not. You, Mr. Lovejoy, I have already seen first-hand playing one Geoffrey Steerford and attempting to sell shares in imaginary oil wells. Your research was well done, your references excellent, the whole business handled with the utmost skill. Yesterday was the deadline for investors, and in spite of my warnings to Inspector Lestrade, you managed to give him the slip. He was supposed to track down your bank accounts and seize the funds, but I am certain you did not come here empty-handed.”