Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“What have you to tell me, Mr. Holmes?” He folded his arms and remained standing.

“I cannot tell you who is behind this business, although that is surely what you want to hear.”

“I have been humiliated—humiliated!—and in my own home. Whoever will dare set foot in my house again?”

Holmes sighed. “I share your humiliation. You have no comparable reputation to live up to, and if your friends are so easily frightened away, they are of the fickle sort hardly worth bothering with.”

Wheelwright’s hands formed those two massive fists. “I won’t be talked to that way!”

“Then perhaps I should leave. It has been a long night, and I am rather fatigued.”

Wheelwright’s eyes showed disbelief. Given his size and his position, people would be deferential, but I had never seen Holmes back down before any man. He was brave, it is true, but reckless at times, and the owner of quite a temper. My own instincts were more conciliatory.

“He has not been idle,” I said. “He has figured out how the spiders came to be in the cake.”

A shadow passed over Donald Wheelwright, and his face grew paler still. He glanced down at the cake, and I saw the revulsion strike him anew. “I want that out of here!”

Lovejoy had entered the room behind his master, and he stepped forward, seized the silver tray with the cake, and walked briskly toward the kitchen. Wheelwright sat down and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, his anger forgotten. Remembering how I had felt myself, I sympathized.

“Did you get much sleep last night?” I asked.

His head turned slowly toward me. “No. Very little.”

“Let me leave you something to take tonight. You will feel better after a good night’s rest.”

“Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “What was this about the cake?”

Holmes started to explain, but I stood up. “I must see to my patients.”

“I shall join you when Mr. Wheelwright and I are finished,” Holmes said.

“Very well. Oh, how fares Violet this morning? Michelle will want to know.”

Donald Wheelwright lowered his eyes. “I have not seen her.”

Holmes took out his cigarette case. “She was up all night. I spoke to her before she retired this morning. She appeared quite calm.”

“Calm!” Wheelwright mouthed the word to himself.

I went to the kitchen and found Mrs. Grady, the cook, and her two assistants hard at work. She was a tall woman with large hands and broad shoulders, her black hair shot through with gray. One assistant was peeling potatoes, the other working on pie dough, but Mrs. Grady stood before a large cutting board. She held an enormous butcher knife, her hands bloody, two piles on the wood—one of chopped and one of whole kidneys. Close by sat a bowl filled with cubes of raw beef. Obviously dinner was to be steak and kidney pie, a dish I could not tolerate. Every since my anatomy classes, I could not bring myself to eat either kidneys or liver.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mrs. Grady?”

She gave a resolute sigh. “Much better, Doctor. That drink your good wife gave me made me sleep like a babe. And the mistress and Mr. Holmes both spoke to me this morning and cheered me.”

“Mr. Holmes spoke with you?”

“About the cake. He explained what those devils did. By God—should I ever catch them!” By way of emphasis she brought her muscular forearm down quickly, the blade chopping a kidney neatly in two. “Somehow knowing... knowing it was not my cake—that my cake had nothing to with the frightful business—made me feel so much better. Saboteurs they was, Mr. Holmes said, saboteurs, and he swore he’d catch them.”

“If anyone can catch them, Sherlock Holmes can.”

“And Mrs. Wheelwright told me she would be lost without me, that every woman in London envies her. She is very sweet. She suggested I make the master’s favorite dish by way of... by way of restitution. I pride myself on my sauces, but he likes a steak and kidney pie better than anything. Of course, when the crust is done just right and the gravy the proper thickness, it is a dish fit for a king. The trick is not to overcook the kidneys and make them tough.”

“I am glad to find you so recovered.”

“Someone has to look after the mistress, after all. Mr. Holmes said if I was to leave, who would make sure the food was fit? No saboteurs will meddle with my kitchen again, I promise you.” Again the knife hit the board with a thunk , another kidney lopped in two.

“I shall see to Mrs. Lovejoy next and then Alice.”

“I’ll have Rose here show you to Mrs. Lovejoy’s room. Poor little Alice. Of course Mr. Wheelwright didn’t mean to knock her down, but she’s a tiny thing. Do thank your lady for me, Doctor. I was most upset last night, and she was so kind to me.”

“I certainly shall.”

Rose wiped off her hands on a towel, then led me into the servants’ wing. We paused before a stout door, and I rapped lightly. “Mrs. Lovejoy, it is Dr. Vernier. May I see you?”

“One minute, please.”

“Thank you, Rose,” I said.

She curtsied. “You’re welcome, Doctor. Oh, and Alice is just there, four doors down.”

“Come in,” Mrs. Lovejoy said.

I turned the brass knob and opened the door. The room was dim; the curtains drawn. Mrs. Lovejoy wore her customary black dress, and she lay upon the bed, one hand across her forehead, palm up.

“How do you feel today, Mrs. Lovejoy?”

“Not well, Doctor.” Her voice was tremulous, her eyes wild. “I fear we are all doomed.”

“Surely not. Everyone has survived the evening.”

She sat up abruptly. “The devil is loose in this house, Doctor! The Evil One—Satan himself! He toys with us!”

Her fear and excitement were somewhat contagious, her voice deafening, but I remained cool. “Calm yourself, madam. There are other agents besides diabolical ones.”

“It was no agent—it was Satan, I know it! How else came those filthy vermin—those wretched spiders—into the cake? He breathed upon it! He touched it with his sulfurous breath and left those vile crawling things, his minions of...”

“Do not work yourself up, madam. There is a simpler explanation. Mr. Holmes is certain a cake was prepared with spiders and substituted for the cook’s good one. The devil had nothing to do with it.”

Her eyes abruptly came into focus. “What?” She drew in her breath, then a sharp laugh burst out. Her mouth twisted into a peculiar smile. She turned away, but another laugh slipped out. Her laughter had an ugly edge.

“Please, Mrs. Lovejoy.” I seized her arm. “Please calm yourself.”

“He thinks he is so clever, your Mr. Holmes. Well, I know it was the devil—I know it! There is evil here in this house, and now we must pay. The Fiend will not be satisfied until we are all damned—until we all burn naked with him in the fires of hell! All their pride and money will be no help, then, not against that fire—everyone will writhe and twist—and burn—and scream...” Her voice rose in a deafening crescendo.

“Stop it!” I cried. “ Stop that! ” I shook her.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she put her hand over her forehead. “What? Oh, yes. Yes...” She drew in her breath. “Forgive me, Doctor. I did not sleep well, and...”

“I shall give your husband something for you to take tonight, and I do not want you in here alone in this gloomy room.”

She touched my hand with her fingers. They felt hot but faintly clammy. “Whatever must you think of me?” She stood. “I’ll go and see how the mistress is faring. First I must wash up.” I stared closely at her. “Have no fear, Dr. Vernier. I shall follow your advice.”

She seemed to have recovered, and I was glad to leave her. I wondered about her sanity. Alice was quite a contrast. She appeared so young and healthy, her spirits so good, that I told her she could certainly go back to work. She had a nice goose egg on her head, but her youthful exuberance had shaken off the dark events of the prior evening.