Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“Good heavens!”

I never slept so late—it was after ten, and I had patients arriving before nine.

I slipped out of bed, dressed quickly in the frigid room, and then went downstairs. Harriet had the stove going and was making pie crust. Our black-and-white cat Victoria rubbed about my ankles. I scratched her forehead.

“Morning, ma’am. You look much rested.”

“I should have been awake hours ago.”

“Mr. Henry said you weren’t to be bothered. He is seeing your patients for you. Let me pour your coffee and milk. And shall I warm up some of the leftover porridge?”

“Yes, I am famished.”

I sipped my coffee and glanced at The Times . A column about the Prince of Wales reminded me of what Violet had said the night before. “Harriet?” The kitchen was empty, a small pan left on the stove. I rose and gave the porridge a stir, then burned my mouth tasting it.

The kitchen door swung open, and Henry came in wearing his best black frock coat and waistcoat.

“Good morning,” I said.

He stared closely at me. “How do you feel?”

I kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Much better. Can you spare a moment?”

“Yes. Mrs. Scott sent a note saying she could not make her appointment.” We sat down at the table. “Now tell me everything that happened to you last night. You were not yourself. You had quite a grip on me, you know.”

“Poor darling.” Harriet had returned, and she set a bowl of porridge before me. As I ate, I told him all that had occurred. His face grew more and more sober. When I had finished, he took my hand. We were both silent.

At last I said, “You should have told me about the mistress. I would not have been so shaken had I already known.”

“I am sorry. I almost did, but... Sherlock did not want me to worry you.”

“Let me be the judge of that! However did he find out?”

“He deduced it from the disorderly state of Donald Wheelwright’s clothing when he visited Baker Street in the afternoon.”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes. I... I shall not keep such a secret from you again.”

We were quiet again, our hands still clasped. At last he looked up at me. “Do you think Violet is... mentally unbalanced?”

I shook my head. “I do not think she is crazy if that is what you mean. She is under a great strain, and...”

“And?”

“She is not telling me everything. She was so very... odd. She wanted to know if we were going to have children. She asked about it so frivolously, and yet she badly wanted to know. Why?”

“Is that not obvious? It is because she cannot have children of her own.”

I shook my head again. “No, that is too obvious. She really wanted to know what I was going to do. I have never seen her the way she was last night. I always thought her the most self-assured woman I knew.”

Henry’s shoulders twitched. “That business with the spiders would disturb anyone.”

“She said nothing about the spiders. I do not think it was them. I am worried about her, very worried. I shall have to keep a close watch on her. The ulcer would be problem enough, but...”

“You do have a kind heart, Michelle. She was right about that.”

“So do you, my dear, and I hope you are not black and blue from all the squeezing I gave you last night.”

He smiled. “You may squeeze me whenever you wish. Do not worry about squeezing too hard.” Harriet had her back to us, and he raised my hand and kissed my knuckles.

“Oh, Henry. I hope—I hope we never hate each other—or tire of each other.”

He gave his head a fierce shake. “We shall not.”

I bit at my lip and stroked his cheek. “I have dawdled long enough, Dr. Vernier. Lady Brankenbury has an appointment at eleven, and she most assuredly will not be late. Duty calls.”

We went downstairs together, and Henry went to check the morning post. He came back into my examining room with several letters.

“Here is a telegram from Sherlock. Damnation,” he muttered, giving his head a shake. “Mrs. Dalton has flown the coop.”

“Who is Mrs. Dalton?”

“George Herbert’s housekeeper. She must have stolen the necklace after all.”

“Oh dear—although you said she was frightfully underpaid.”

“Yes, but that is not considered grounds for grand theft. On a more cheerful note, he wants to know if we would accompany him to Covent Garden tomorrow for the performance of Il Trovatore . He apologizes for the late invitation and pleads distraction. He even offers to pay for our tickets.”

“How sweet of him. We must go.”

I saw Violet late that afternoon. She had slept ten hours, was much improved and—like me—seemed embarrassed about the night before. I casually mentioned that Henry and I were going to the opera the next day with Sherlock.

Her eyes widened, and she seized my wrist. “Oh, but you must join me! Father Wheelwright has a box at Covent Garden, but he and Donald have some evening meeting, potted meat business. I was debating whether to go by myself. The seats are really very good. Tell Mr. Holmes to save his money. It would be wonderful to have you all as my guests—it would mean so much to me!” Her enthusiasm was catching, and I assured her I would pass on the invitation.

Sherlock, Henry and I—all three of us once again in our finery—paused before the door to Box Three at Covent Garden. Henry knocked. The door swung open, and Violet stood before us, radiant.

“Oh, I am so glad you could come!”

Her silk gown was two shades of blue, an elaborate lace framing her bosom, a split in the skirt revealing a darker blue fabric. Her shoulders were bare, and she wore a black silk choker about her slender neck, a single magnificent pearl in front. To my physician’s eyes, she seemed pale and thin, her ribs showing near the sternum above the curve of her bosom. However, her beauty could not be denied; unlike so many of the women at the opera, her gown and jewels did not clash with her person.

I glanced at Sherlock and recalled Violet saying he had hungry eyes. “I think we are in for a splendid evening,” he said. “Reports of the tenor are favorable, and the principals and the conductor are all Italian.”

Violet laughed. “An oddly chauvinistic view for an Englishman.”

“No, no—it is not chauvinism. Il Trovatore is the quintessential Italian opera, and as such is best left to the natives. One would not wish to hear Signor Vitelli attempting Irish ballads; similarly, Il Trovatore should be entrusted to those who know the language and have the music in their blood.”

“Henry and Sherlock have been telling me something of the plot,” I said. “It sounds very confusing.”

Violet raised her right eyebrow, smiled and shook her head. “Oh, but it is not complicated at all. It is a simple story of revenge. I can explain it to you. I also have two copies of the libretto. Following it should help. Do you know Italian?”

“Some. Henry and I both took up Italian before a trip there. It does not sound like French, but the vocabulary is similar. I also studied Latin for years. I should be able to follow along. However, Sherlock reads Italian better than either of us.”

Violet stared up at him. “Indeed? I am surprised, Mr. Holmes. Somehow I would have thought Italian a bit too extravagantly Mediterranean for a practical Anglo-Saxon nature such as yours.”

“You are mistaken, madam. Even ignoring the Gallic side of my family, what lover of music could neglect the language of Petrarch and Dante? ‘ Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura che la diritta via era smarrita .’”

I frowned slightly. “In the middle of the road of our life, I found myself by an obscure wood that the direct way was marred.”