The Web Weaver (43 page)

Lovejoy gave us a very sorrowful look, although his wife had gone paler still. “I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

Violet stared at Lovejoy, her mouth a taut line. “Can this be true?”

Holmes continued to smile. “As for your wife, in her guise as an ‘Angel of the Lord,’ she has been stirring up prostitutes and servants, enlisting them in blackmail, theft, and extortion.”

Mrs. Lovejoy rose to her feet, her brown eyes blazing. “I...!”

Her husband’s hand shot out and seized her wrist. “
Abigail!
”

She glanced at him, then nearly collapsed onto the sofa. I would not have thought she could lose any more color, but her face was nearly white. “It’s not true,” she whispered.

Violet licked her lips. “Have you proof of these allegations, Mr.
Holmes? The Lovejoys have been with me many years, and I... I must confess I find these accusations difficult to believe.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched. “You are too trusting, madam. As I said, I myself saw Mr. Lovejoy in disguise, and Henry and I saw Mrs. Lovejoy coming out of a brothel near Underton.”

Mrs. Lovejoy gave him a look of absolute hatred. “I often visit brothels as part of the Lord’s work. The poor sinners need our pity.”

“My cousin Henry went to the same brothel and discussed your activities there with one Lucy Jennings. She said it was widely known that you would pay for any sordid and disgusting information, that you were only too happy to blackmail the clientele, especially those of a higher class. She also said you had unusual... ideas about her trade.”

Henry nodded gravely. “She told me all that and more.”

Mrs. Lovejoy’s upper lip curled back. “She was lying!”

“Lestrade also found that you and your associates were well known,” Holmes said. “I am certain you are responsible for the theft of Herbert’s necklace and for Lord Harrrington’s death.”

Mrs. Lovejoy leaped again to her feet. “
No!
I did not kill anyone.”

Lovejoy seized her wrist again. “
Abigail!”

Holmes stared calmly back at her. “You only drove him to it.”

“
No
.”

Lovejoy stood and took her by the shoulders. “Please, Abigail.”

Violet had also gone very pale. “Why... why would she do such a thing?”

Holmes’ fingertips tapped at his thighs. “There was a great deal of money involved. But let me tell you who these two really are. Lestrade was kind enough to set his clerks to work and sent descriptions of the finalists in the contest down with Henry. The clerks were looking for a man and woman briefly involved in crime, five to ten years ago, who had no subsequent record of arrests. I provided a detailed physical
description of the Lovejoys, and I told Lestrade to be especially alert for any persons with a background in the theater.”

“
Theater?
” Henry said.

Mrs. Lovejoy’s teeth clamped together, while Lovejoy gave a sharp, involuntary laugh.

Holmes nodded. “Yes. It had become obvious that both Lovejoys were consummate actors. I had seen Mr. Lovejoy do Steerford, and then there was Mrs. Lovejoy’s remarkable performance last week after seeing the supposed fiend. Do you recall her excellent diction and impressive volume? Unlike Mrs. Wheelwright, whose voice was hoarse, weak, and strained, Mrs. Lovejoy was deafening. She has a very big voice and has been well trained. Her religious fanatic is quite convincing, but of course it is only another role.”

Mrs. Lovejoy could not repress a brief, savage smile.

“Of course, the high point of her career, the performance of a lifetime, was that of the crazed gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball.”

Mrs. Lovejoy dug her nails into her knees, and I drew in my breath sharply. “Dear God,” Violet murmured, her hand still pressed to her side.

Holmes smiled. “The old gypsy was always the most preposterous part of the whole business, a character from a second-rate melodrama. After I saw
Il Trovatore
I became convinced she was modeled after Azucena. Tell me, madam.” He stared sharply at the woman in the black dress. “Did you ever study voice as well?”

She said nothing.

Henry nodded. “She could have left the note in the library—and substituted the cake before the party. She knew everything that went on in the house. And she must have watched while someone else tried to strangle Violet.”

I leaned forward in my chair and stared at the woman. “How could you do such a thing? What has Violet ever done to you?”

Her guilt seemed obvious, and she lowered her eyes. Lovejoy had hold of her arm. “I... I do not know what you are talking about,” she said.

Holmes gave a sharp laugh. He was pale himself and caught up in a strange fury. “Do you not, Miss Abigail Farnsworth?” She drew in her breath, her eyes widening. “It was unwise to retain your actual first name. And this is Mr. James Farnsworth. They are not man and wife. They are brother and sister. The descriptions fit perfectly, and there are even photographs from their days on stage. She had lighter hair then, but it was only dye.”

No one spoke for about a moment—the air was charged with tension.

“These two come from a theatrical family, having joined their parents as children on tours. They worked in the serious theater. Miss Farnsworth had a career as the blonde ingénue, while her bearded brother—who is six years her senior—specialized in Shakespeare. Unfortunately, Miss Farnsworth decided to supplement her flagging career with some extortion. She became involved with several wealthy and indiscreet young gentlemen. Miss Farnsworth would lead them along so far, but then Mr. Farnsworth would appear as the outraged brother and threaten both bodily injury and public denunciation. They were only too happy to pay a hundred pounds or so to have him off their backs. Two disgruntled suitors finally compared notes and went to the police.”

Already I felt relieved. “But why would they want to hurt Violet?” I asked.

The Lovejoys—or Farnsworths—stared at one another. He still held her arm in his hand. She turned to me and gave a sharp laugh. “You don’t understand, do you? You are like all the others. I hate you—
hate you all.
” She clenched her fists, her face contorting horribly. She laughed again. “Have you ever had to bow—to scrape—to fawn and beg? You are no better than she! Your kind treat us like dirt—you do not even see us!”

“No mistress is kinder than Violet!” I exclaimed.

“Kind—
kind!
” She drew back her lips, baring her teeth at me. “I do not want your kindness—your charity! I want you and all your kind to suffer—to suffer as you have made me and so many others suffer. And all those filthy young men! Curse you—curse you all!”

Lovejoy shook her arm. “What are you saying, my dear? Stop this, I beg of you! Please,
my dear
.” He shook his head. “Your nonsense has disturbed her, Mr. Holmes. You are absolutely mistaken—I have never heard of your Farnsworth, but you have upset my wife. Her mind is... unbalanced.” He seemed genuinely distressed.

Holmes raised his long white hands, then clapped politely three times. “Bravo, Mr. Farnsworth—bravo, Miss Farnsworth. Another superb performance. It is truly a shame you did not continue on in the theater. What a pair you might have made. You could have challenged Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. Alas, I fear it is now too late.”

Violet’s left hand clutched the arm of the chair, the tendons standing out. I was glad to have the threat to her life lifted, but I feared what this added strain might do to her. She did look ill, her eyes feverish. She stared at Holmes. “Are you... are you quite sure about this, Mr. Holmes?”

As he looked at her, the smile faded from his lips, and I could see the fatigue about his eyes. He had also been up all night, and the two of them were beyond mere exhaustion. “Yes,” he said.

Violet put her hand over her eyes. “I... I cannot believe it.”

Henry appeared as relieved as I. “You must tell Donald Wheelwright. He will have to eat some crow.”

Violet moaned and turned away toward the window. I stood up and went to her. “Oh, my poor dear.” I touched her unhurt shoulder, and she clutched desperately for my hand. “It will be all right now—it is all over with.”

The Farnsworths said nothing. Sherlock’s mouth jerked briefly into a smile, and then it was gone, his gray eyes bleak and desperate.

“Not quite,” he said. “A few details remain.”

The fire had died down. He picked up a log, dropped it on the flames, then seized the poker and thrust viciously at the blackened wood. “Obviously an accomplice was involved, the person who attempted to strangle Mrs. Wheelwright last week and who attacked her last night. The first event would seem to require a man, the second a woman.”

“It could have been a man disguised as a woman last night,” I said. “The gypsy must have been strong.”

Holmes laughed, a sound that set my teeth on edge. “Very good, Michelle. So we have an accomplice to account for, and one very curious fact.” He paused and looked first at Henry, then at me. Neither of us spoke.

Holmes began to pace. “The Farnsworths in the police records do not amount to much. Their crimes were petty and uninspired. Decent actors they might be—even splendid at times,” he gave them an ironic glance, “but there is nothing to prepare one for the scope and genius of what they have done in the last year or two. You have heard me jokingly refer to my Moriarty, but all along I have sensed a truly first-rate mind at work. The oil scam was cleverly designed to pull in the cream of London society, to embarrass and even ruin many. I am quite certain Mr. Steerford got his million pounds, and then there was the peculiar business with the Angels of the Lord. A very odd sensibility was involved, one with an insidious twist. My Moriarty wanted to arouse the prostitutes and servants, to inflame them, to turn them against their employers and their clientele. Money—mere avarice—was not what motivated Moriarty. We are dealing with a complex and disturbed mind, but a brilliant one. To have conceived of so many plots, to have spun so many webs, cast so many threads, found so many allies, all consumed with the same hatred of high society and the same hatred of... of men.”

Violet still held my hand, and I could feel her trembling. A strange, subliminal dread coalesced out of the air and settled about my heart.

“Could the Farnsworths—could two hack actors—have ever dreamed all of this up? Never—
never
. My Moriarty is made of stronger stuff.” He laughed.

My eyes were fixed on him. His face appeared grotesque and twisted, his anguish apparent in his terrible smile. He ran his long fingers through his oily black hair, leaving his arm raised and bent.

“Who?” I asked. “Who?”

Holmes stared out the window at the bleak white landscape. “She might have gotten away with it if only she had kept me out of it. The note made Wheelwright call me in. He was never much of a suspect. I sensed something wrong, but the Farnsworths were her agents and a shield before her. If not for the spiders... But she could not resist the spiders. They were a cruel touch. Wheelwright has a mortal fear of them—there can be no doubt of that. But she was an entomologist’s daughter, one who took after her father.”

I felt a very odd sensation at the nape of my neck, and while my face felt hot, my hands were suddenly cold as ice. “Oh, dear God—no.
No
.” I stared out the windows at the whiteness. Small black dots began to swim about and fall slowly downward, while the blood in my ears roared like a waterfall. Very distantly, I heard myself saying, “Oh God!” again.

Someone shook me hard, and briefly I saw Henry, his blue-gray eyes intent, the flat bone running down his nose, the brown thick hairs of his mustache, and the creases in the dark skin of his lower lip. “Sit down—you must sit down.” I nearly fell into the chair. He was massaging my hands. “Keep your head low. Damnation, Sherlock! Next time don’t do this to her after she has been up half the night and has had no breakfast!”

My eyes came back into focus upon Violet. She was staring at me, her dark eyes full of concern. “I am sorry, Michelle.” She looked up at
Holmes, the mocking smile pulling briefly at her lips. “I knew from the first that I could never deceive you.” She appeared somehow relieved.

Lovejoy—or Farnsworth—or whoever he was—shook his head grimly. “Mr. Holmes, you have no proof of any of this. You have upset my wife; you have driven my mistress half mad. When will you be satisfied?”

Henry still had hold of me, and I could not see his face. His voice was grim. “Are you certain of this, Sherlock—are you absolutely certain?”

Holmes drew in his breath. He looked very tired, dark circles under his eyes, his face gaunt, his lips grayish. “Yes.”

Violet was smiling at him. “Tell them what proof you have.”

Holmes reached out with his long arm and sagged against the wall next to the fireplace. “It was those attacks which gave you away. The first was brilliant, the second merely desperate.”

“But the bruises...” I moaned. “Who choked her?”

“That was Mr. Farnsworth.” He turned to Farnsworth, whose genteel front suddenly wavered, his alarm apparent.

“But he was with Wheelwright!” Henry exclaimed.

“Yes, but he had choked Violet a few minutes earlier. He did it quite carefully, not wishing to injure her, and then he went downstairs. The two women did the rest. Violet is not a professional actor like those two, and as a result, I... was more easily taken in.” He was staring at Violet. “All the same, it must have hurt. Other women might have dreamed up such a scheme, but to actually sit there and let him put his hands about your throat...” He let his arm drop. “This would be quite easy to verify. Mr. Farnsworth’s hands should perfectly match the handprints on her throat. Enough of the bruises remain to make such a comparison.”

No one said anything. I felt dizzy again and faintly nauseous. What kind of woman could possibly...?

“This attack was followed by your desperate plea to escape—to go somewhere else—anywhere else. This happened the day after we met
Mr. Steerford. Farnsworth had recognized me, even as I recognized him. You knew I was getting very close, and you wanted me out of the way, out of London and far from Steerford and the Angels of the Lord. I was forced to rely on Lestrade. Yesterday the Farnsworths arrived, no doubt with an enormous sum of money, and it was time to send me packing. Mr. Wheelwright had given me one more chance. What better way to get rid of me than by staging a final attack? You did your best to make your husband send me away at once—you baited him—but the storm complicated matters. You three planned to depart today with the money, no doubt heading for the continent. England would be far too hot for you. However, that final attack was clumsy. It confirmed all my suspicions and made everything fall into place.”