The Web Weaver (47 page)

Violet shook her head. “It is a beastly habit,” I said, “but go ahead.”

He withdrew a cigarette from his case and struck a match. “There has been work to do, but not enough, and nothing of real complexity. I have been...” He was pacing again. “Solving a challenging case is always satisfying, but the inevitable disappointment soon follows. The greater the challenge, the greater the disappointment. Rarely does anything of equal interest turn up. One is weary, one is restless, but there is little of merit to occupy the brain. Instead it continues to race on,
to spin out lunatic reveries or veer off into odd, dark corners.”

Violet had raised her dark eyes and was staring intently at him.

“There are times when my powers seem more a curse than a gift, when I would gladly... But such idle thoughts are useless. One must play the cards one is dealt. I only hope something of interest turns up soon. Patience is not one of my virtues.”

Violet’s cheeks had a faint flush, the first color I had seen there in some time. “I understand exactly what you are saying. At least...” She stared at him. “At least you have the possibility of another interesting case. I have spent so many years, so much time and energy... And now there is nothing, nothing at all. Am I to take up knitting or watercolor painting?” The ironic smile appeared.

Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “I think not. There is, however, the violin.”

Violet lowered her eyes. “I have not played since... Norfolk.”

“That is a waste,” Holmes said. “I do not know what I would do without my violin. It soothes the troubled spirit. You must play again.”

I nodded. “I have tried to tell her the same thing. She must not sit and brood all day long.”

Violet was gazing at the fire. “I do not want to be soothed. I do not deserve it. At least, Mr. Holmes, you have the consolation of knowing your talents have been put to good use, that you have righted wrongs and helped the unfortunate. You have not been corrupted—you have not let hatred and the desire for vengeance drive you to terrible deeds.” Her eyes filled with tears.

Holmes was distressed. “It is not so simple as you think. I deal with vicious and unsavory people all the time. Frequently they are my aids and accomplices. You said that you wanted justice. Your goal was a worthy one, although you took... the wrong path.”

“Was it?” She laughed sharply. “As they say, the road to hell is paved
with good intentions. You accused me of wishing to be God, and you were absolutely correct. I thought I could be judge, jury, and one of the avenging Furies. My crimes were monstrous, but worse still was my arrogance, my phenomenal arrogance.” Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes smoldering, and she had run out of breath.

“Do not torment yourself,” I said. “It does neither you nor anyone else any good.”

She did not seem to hear me. “And Donald, poor Donald. During our eight years together, I never felt any pity for him, not one ounce. I pitied only myself.”

“He was cruel to you,” I said. “He hurt you physically. Your hatred was understandable.”

“But it was as he said—he had not touched me for years! He turned to his little blonde, and he tried to leave me alone. Still I hated him—I would not let him be—I baited him. He was a fairly normal man of no great intelligence, but by no means a cretin. And he was nowhere so cruel or spiteful as his father. Yet my mind made him into an absolute monster. Surely he deserved some pity? He was unhappy too. Other men marry women more intelligent than them, yet they are not... murdered.”

Holmes stared at her in horror, a long ash dangling at the end of his cigarette. I felt my face grow hot.

“Oh, Violet, why must you talk so? I was there—whatever else it may have been, it was not murder.”

Her mouth twisted into a frightful smile. “Whatever else it was does not much matter now. He is just as dead. And his only crime was that he married a woman with ice in her veins, a woman who could not love.”

“Stop that!” I had stood up, my fists clenched. “In God’s name, Violet, you are no saint, but you are no such devil either. Can you not see? Now you are making yourself far worse than you really are.”

She stared up at me, her eyes black whirlpools of despair, which
would suck into their depths the entire world. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. I know there is much that is good and loving in you.” I sat down.

A tear trickled from her left eye, and she wiped quickly at it. “Oh, I hope you are right.”

“She is,” Holmes said softly. When Violet looked at him, he walked to the fire and flicked off the ash of his cigarette. He had his back to us again. “You are beautiful and... charming. You are... It was very hard for me to expose you. I hope you understand that.”

“I do,” Violet said.

“And I was... hurt that you deceived me for so long, but that is not fair on my part, because I think we both always knew how things stood. The realization was always there at the back of my mind. Henry and Michelle had no suspicions, but you and I knew better. We were not fooling one another, not for much of the time.” He turned about to face her. “Were we?” He raised the cigarette to his mouth.

She smiled, her eyes still glistening. “No.”

“You certainly had me fooled,” I said.

Her smile grew sad. “It is as I have said—it is because you are too good. I hope you understand that my greatest regret is for deceiving you, for betraying your trust and your friendship.”

I sighed. “And I have told you repeatedly that you are forgiven.”

Violet laughed softly. “I do not seem to want to be forgiven.”

Holmes turned again to the fire. “You are a woman of extraordinary talents. Unfortunately, they were wasted—there was no worthy outlet for them. And there is your... phenomenal beauty. Even I cannot resist it. But what have I to offer? I have reached my fortieth year, but it feels more like my seventieth, my three score and ten. I am a confirmed bachelor like those old men with long white sidewhiskers, black cloaks, and tall hats—everything long out of fashion—who totter through the
park clacking at the walkway with their sticks. My hours are irregular, my habits fixed and eccentric, and my interests bizarre and fantastical. I could not, in good conscience, wish one such as myself on any woman, let alone one so remarkable as you. I have spent my life pursuing evil and dealing with perverted and deranged creatures. It has taken its toll. I am not... I am barely fit for company such as yours. My heart is not capable of normal human affections, and then there is my appearance.” He laughed sharply. “Perhaps it is my occupation which has made me resemble some lean and hungry bird of prey with a monstrous beak.”

I stared at him in disbelief. Violet appeared exhausted by her own earlier outburst. The silence filled the room, a great gray, deadening thing that reminded me of the web I had dreamed about at Norfolk, the web binding and suffocating Violet and Sherlock. I waited, hoping one of them might break free, but it was no use.

At last I said, “That is utter and complete nonsense, Sherlock!”

He took a final draw on his cigarette and threw the butt on the fire. His shoulders were slumped, his long thin hands dangling at his sides, white alongside the black frock coat. “The truth is rarely pleasant.”

“The truth?
The truth?
You dare to call that ugly drivel the truth? You are no such homely freak, and besides, women are intelligent enough not to love men only for their appearance. Have you forgotten how Susan Lowell could love the maimed Erik?”

“Because she was blind.”

“Do you think so little of her? Do you think she could not have loved him otherwise?”

He shrugged. His eyes shifted briefly to Violet, who had, almost reflexively, turned again to the fire. “What I think does not particularly matter.” He took out his watch and glanced at it. “Mrs. Wheelwright, I wished to pay my respects and let you know I hold no grudge against you. To the contrary, I admire you greatly, and you did save my life.
Unfortunately, as I told Michelle, I have business in Geneva, and I fear I cannot linger.”

Violet stared dully at the fire. “I understand.”

I was astounded. “You are not leaving? You have not even seen Henry.”

“I had hoped to catch the four-thirty train so I could be in Geneva before eight. If you would be so kind as to have Gertrude fetch my coat.”

I stared at him, but his eyes would not meet mine. The silence began to settle again, gray and terrible. I would still breathe, but the filaments were slowly settling, winding about Sherlock and Violet, slowly binding them. It was only a matter of time. A sense of dread washed over me. I wanted to rise from the chair, but I felt suddenly as if I could not move.

“I shall fetch her. You need not trouble yourself.” He started for the door.

Can they both be so blind—so ridiculously stupid? I asked myself, the silence gathering again, somehow more deafening than a clap of thunder.

“No—
no
! It shall not be—I will not let it!” I stood and savagely pushed over my chair. The crash made Violet start. She and Sherlock stared at me.

Gertrude appeared in the doorway. “Ma’am, is anything...?”

“I have matters under control, Gertrude. Please close the door.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Neither Violet nor Sherlock could meet my gaze. “I cannot bear it. You two will drive me mad! I cannot believe a grown man and woman can be so foolish. Perhaps you deserve to be the poor shriveled-up, desiccated creatures you pretend to be, for that is certainly where you are headed. I will not allow it because I know you love one another. You talk as if you had ice in your veins and withered hearts when your love is obvious to anyone with eyes in their head. I could see it. Henry could see it, and even Donald Wheelwright could see it. Both of you have fire in your veins, not ice.”

Holmes’ face was flushed. “I was not meant for a conventional life.”

“Of course you were not! And neither was Violet! You could not abandon consulting detection and become a banker living in a tidy house in the suburbs, nor could Violet take up knitting and raise a dozen angelic children. I would not wish such a fate on you—no more than I would wish it on Henry and me. Neither a conventional marriage nor what Sherlock calls a vulgar affair will do—you are both too decent.”

Violet laughed harshly, her face flushed. “‘Decent?’—
I?
”

“Yes! Your decency was what drove you to your crimes. What more is decency than the desire for justice and the hatred of injustice? Your acts came more from an excess of decency rather than a lack of that virtue. No, I do not expect the ordinary, but neither do I expect you to throw away your one chance for happiness—for love. You are nearly there! Do not suffocate yourselves. It is not so difficult as you believe.”

I turned to Violet. “You made a dreadful mistake—you took the wrong path, but you are being offered something few people get—a second chance.
Take it
—redeem yourself. Make something of your life. Sherlock will help you. Your husband was a brute, but you must know Sherlock would never hurt you. Again, these things are simpler than you think if you will but love one another.”

I paused to draw in my breath, my eyes sweeping about. I walked over to Sherlock. He wanted to retreat, but he watched me warily.

“Do you love Violet?” I asked.

“What?”

“A simple yes or no will suffice.”

His tongue flickered across his lower lip. “I... I am not sure I know what love is.”

“I think you know very well what love is, and I want an answer, not more equivocating, or quibbling, or philosophizing.
Yes
or
no
?”

His eyes stared past me at Violet. At last he said softly, “Yes.”

I strode over to Violet, who shrank back into the chair. “Do you love Sherlock?”

“I... I honestly do not know if... if I can love any man.”

Her confusion appeared genuine, but I would have none of it. “Well, if you could love any man, would Sherlock qualify, or is he too peculiar—too homely—too eccentric—to put up with?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no—
no
.”

“Very well, then I shall vouch for you.” I folded my arms. Both of them were staring at me. “Now then, it is customary after a declaration of love to embrace the beloved. Sherlock?” He stood with his big thin hands hanging awkwardly at his sides, his face still flushed.

I went over to Violet and put my hand on her shoulder. “Violet?” She stared up at me, her lips parted slightly, her dark eyes still anguished. “I... cannot. I...” Her voice was barely recognizable.

Holmes drew in his breath through his nostrils and squared his shoulders. “I really must be going.”

I bit at my lip and shook my head.

He was nearly to the door when Violet’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. She stood and strode quickly forward. Holmes heard her, paused, and then turned. Her arms swung about him, and she buried her face in his chest. I thought he might fall over, but he caught his balance and embraced her. Violet’s shoulders were shaking.

“Don’t,” he murmured. He touched her hair, the back of her neck, with his slender fingers.

“Oh, my heart will break,” she said. “I do love you—I swear I do—almost from the very first. That was why it was so hard—so dreadful. If there had been any way—if I had not been married to Donald—I would have stopped it—stopped everything! But now... You must believe I love you—
you must
.”

I sighed. “I am going out,” I said softly.

Violet drew back slightly from Holmes, her head turning toward me. “No, Michelle.” She stared up at him again, her arms still clasped about his back. “She cannot understand—she never will—but you can. I am not worthy of you—I...”

His gray eyes widened. “Not worthy?”

She shook her head. “No—not now. I am so very sorry, but that counts for nothing. I cannot... I must find some way to make up for what I have done. I do not know how I shall do it or how long it will take, but I must find a way. I was married to him for eight years, and although I hated him and was never happy—although I was miserable every minute—absolutely trapped—I still cannot... One cannot wave a wand and make eight years and all my crimes vanish. I must—I shall try to find a way, but...”