Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“You do not believe it was an accident, Mr. Holmes?”

“I do not. One accident might be a possibility, but that would not explain the cayenne pepper.”

Old Wheelwright gave a snort of laughter. “Probably some sly devil’s idea of a joke.”

His wife’s eyes widened in horror. “A joke— a joke! ”

The old man turned to his son. “By the way, I’ve done some checking on that Steerford fellow. Can’t find out anything bad about him, but I wouldn’t give him a penny.”

Mr. Herbert was talking with Henry, but he suddenly turned toward the Wheelwrights, his interest all too obvious.

Wheelwright raised a bony finger and tapped the side of his nose. “I trust my nose, and it tells me things don’t smell right.”

“But Steerford comes highly recommended, and he seems a decent enough chap,” Herbert said. The two Wheelwrights stared silently at him, their disapproval evident. Although they were not physically alike, something in their gaze—in the expression itself—was uncannily similar. Herbert reddened slightly. “Begging your pardon, that is—if I might intrude.”

Violet smiled at him. “Such conversation is reserved for that time after the ladies depart. Finance and tobacco go well together, but monetary matters should never be mixed with food. Indigestion is sure to result.”

Herbert laughed, his stout body quavering. “Your point is well-taken.”

I had finished eating, and the serving girl asked if she might take my plate. I nodded. Herbert was telling Henry about some business difficulties. I pretended to listen, but the Reverend Killington was difficult to ignore. He was explaining to Violet and the two elderly ladies that the decline in British civilization was caused by women turning from the old ways and their proper sphere. Violet showed the patience of a saint, but I had to fight to keep my temper. The Reverend obviously meant me to hear—he wished to provoke me—but I would not give him the satisfaction.

Holmes had dissected his quail with all the skill of a surgeon—only tiny bones remained. Now he seemed to be listening to several conversations at once, probably in the hope of discovering something significant. He was like some predatory creature waiting silently and patiently.

At last Killington turned directly to him. “Do you not agree, Mr. Holmes? Does not this outrageous behavior of these contemporary females disturb you? Wherever will it all end?”

Holmes gave a slight shrug. “Such matters are hardly my concern. Nor do they much interest me.”

Violet’s mouth formed the familiar mocking smile, but her dark eyes were not so detached. “You are lucky, Mr. Holmes. We ladies are rarely allowed the luxury of disinterest.”

Killington’s eyes widened in disbelief. “The public morality does not interest you, sir?”

“Frankly, Reverend, it does not.”

Killington, all too briefly, seemed at a loss for words.

After the plates had been carried away, Lovejoy entered pushing a cart bearing an enormous chocolate cake covered with small flaming candles. Several ah s were heard. I was speaking with Violet, who had not seen the cake. “Whose birthday is it?” I asked.

“Birthday?” She set down her water glass, touched her lips with her napkin, and looked over her shoulder. “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I am not to be spared, after all.” She turned to her husband. “Have I you to blame for this?”

He said nothing, but a faint smile played about his lips. Perhaps he has some feeling for her after all, I reflected.

Donald moved his chair aside, and two of the maids set the cake on its silver tray before Violet. I had never seen such a large cake; it was nearly two feet wide.

Mrs. Lovejoy stood smiling nervously behind her mistress, her pale face contrasting with her black dress. “Begging your pardon,” she said timorously. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen.” The room grew silent. “Today is a special day, our beloved mistress’s thirtieth birthday, and this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. She insisted there be no fuss, but it was not difficult to convince her to have her favorite dessert served—cook’s special devil’s food, six-layer chocolate cake.”

“Devil’s food,” Killington muttered darkly.

“We hope you will all join us in a birthday song.”

Everyone sang. Violet rolled her eyes upward and sat silently, the mocking smile pulling at her lips. When we finished, there was applause. “Blow out the candles, ma’am,” said Mrs. Lovejoy.

Violet looked at Henry and me. “Given Pasteur and Dr. Lister’s theories, I doubt our house physicians will approve of my spreading microbes, but I swear I am in good health.” Everyone laughed, and she blew the candles out.

“Well done!” Herbert said, and there was yet more applause.

Mrs. Lovejoy took a plate and a silver knife. “The first piece is for you.”

“Let me get it. Besides, that way I can make sure it is large enough.” This statement drew more laughter.

Violet sat almost directly across from me, and I saw her thrust the knife into the chocolate cake. Her dark eyebrows plunged, a puzzled look on her face. “How odd. Something is...” She used a silver cake server to take out the thick piece she had cut. Instead of a complete triangle, a wedge, there was only the outside part of the cake, a chunk that left a notch showing in the cake. “I believe...”

Things happened so suddenly then that they remain a blur of impressions. Mrs. Lovejoy clapped her thin white hands to her face and screamed, a hideously loud and piercing sound, and staggered back. Violet shoved the cake away from her. Donald Wheelwright moved faster than I thought so large a man possibly could—he hurled his chair aside and backed away, knocking over one of the maids. Everyone else at our end of the table rose except for Holmes, who leaned forward, entranced.

Out of the opening in the cake had come the largest spider I had ever seen, a monstrous black thing, its torso an inch across, its slender legs giving it a breadth of four or five inches. Smaller brownish-black spiders poured from the cake, but they were not so fast as the big one. He ran madly for the other end of the table, the white linen providing a dramatic backdrop for his sinister, sable form. As he proceeded on his erratic path, chairs were upended and people backed away wildly from the table.

Half the people in the dining room—not all of them women—seemed to be screaming. “Oh God!” I heard Henry cry. More chairs fell over with bangs; water glasses, coffee cups, and saucers smashed.

Insects do not usually disturb me, but I was startled. Seeing them swarm from the cake like maggots from a corpse was unbelievably nasty. A wave of revulsion passed over me. For an instant I too wished to flee, but I forced myself to master my fear. Sherlock, Violet, and I were the only ones still near the table. Violet stared at me, then grabbed for her chair and sank down.

Sherlock’s face was flushed, his eyes filled with excitement. “Incredible!” he exclaimed. “ Incredible . I have never seen such a specimen of tegenaria .”

A hand grasped my arm tightly. “Lord, Michelle—get away!”

I turned. Henry was ashen.

“They cannot hurt us.”

“For God’s sake!— humor me .”

I stepped back. A brawny maid swept into the room; her stout hands raised a broom overhead, her grim eyes resolute.

“Kill them!” a man shouted, his deep voice shrill. “ Kill them all! ” It was Donald Wheelwright. He seemed to have completely lost his reason and reminded me of a frightened horse or dog, terror manifest in his visage.

The maid would have probably demolished the cake, but Holmes seized the broom handle. “Have a care—you must not disturb the cake!”