Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Holmes took a deep breath, then released my arm. “Mrs. Lovejoy?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes. Mrs. Lovejoy.”

Eleven

Henry had behaved so strangely before he left that I resolved to wait up for him. He returned just before midnight, murmured, “Thank God,” and gave me an embrace that took my breath away. I demanded to know where he had been, and when he hesitated, I told him we must not try to deceive one another. Clearly, he was relieved to tell me the truth.

The mention of Underton made the back of my neck feel cold. I listened silently as he related the whole nightmarish story—the tubercular coachman, Sherlock’s performance as a lunatic, the encounter with Ratty and Moley, the disgusting spectacle of the ratting, and the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Lovejoy. My anxiety grew, manifesting itself as a tightness in my throat and chest. When he was finished, I began to weep, an action that surprised us both.

He tried to comfort me—I was not only fearful but outraged. “How could you do such a thing and not even tell me? How could you?”

His own eyes filled with tears as he apologized.

We sat together by the fire a long while. Henry was badly chilled from being wet and cold for so long. We actually fell asleep, and only later did we wake and go upstairs.

The next day, Wednesday, was my day at the clinic. Violet was there although I had told her not to come. She was not squeamish, but the harried pace and the frightful condition of most of the patients were agitating and disturbing. She did not look well. She had grown thinner, gaunter, and although she was still undeniably beautiful, she appeared oddly fragile, vulnerable even—qualities I had never associated with her.

She lasted until mid-afternoon, but then, as I was stitching up a nasty wound in a man’s leg, I noticed her turn absolutely white. The patient, a large, heavily muscled workman, lay unconscious from the ether on my improvised operating table.

I turned to Jenny. The contrast between her and Violet was striking. With her youth and rosy complexion, she radiated health and well-being. “See to Violet, my dear. She is about to faint.”

“I am not.” Even as she spoke, her brown eyes grew glassy, and she swayed.

“Hurry,” I said to Jenny.

Violet let her lead her away. Jenny returned almost at once. She shook her head. “Is Mrs. Wheelwright ill? She does not seem herself.”

“She is ill. I told her I thought she should remain at home.”

Jenny’s concern was obvious. “Is it serious?”

“Not yet, but it could be.”

Jenny shook her head. “I cannot understand it. She has everything, has she not? She is beautiful, wealthy, and clever. And yet, she has always seemed so... sad.”

I glanced at Jenny’s blue eyes, the clear, youthful innocence reflected there. If I could not fathom Violet’s torments, how could I begin to explain them to Jenny? I prayed silently that Jenny and her young man might truly learn to love one another. Recently we had talked again, and at least she knew what the whole business was about.

Jenny nodded at the unconscious man. “Can I help?”

“Yes. We are nearly finished. I am going to wash the wound in carbolic one last time, and then I shall be ready for the dressing.”

She handed me the bandage, keeping her eyes focused elsewhere as she did so. I wondered why—bloody wounds and ugly sores did not seem to bother her—then smiled as the answer came to me. My patient was mostly covered, but his thigh was exposed. Jenny had never seen a man’s bare leg before, that pale skin with the short curly hair. My cultivated medical detachment had inured me to such sights.

Violet did not want to leave, but I resolutely had a cab sent for. She stared so forlornly at me that I gave her thin white hand a squeeze, my own hand rough and red from the irritating disinfectant.

“What is it, Violet? What is wrong?”

“Nothing. I only... I look forward to this time with you, and I was hoping... We must go to Simpson’s again soon.”

“Certainly we shall. But you really should not have come today.”

“No?” The mocking smile pulled at her lips. “I like to come here. It makes me feel... It is the only truly good thing I do. Everything else is...” A laugh slipped from her lips. “It gives me a context for my own ills, my own suffering, and it reminds me how wrong everything is.”

“Wrong?”

She laughed again and stood. “Come and see me soon, Michelle, and perhaps I shall explain.” The evasiveness in her eyes contradicted her words.

It was well after six when I got home, the streets dark and wet, and I had a sudden longing for the sun, for warmth. My patients needed me then more than ever, but it would have been wonderful to flee to the south of Italy or France, somewhere clear and sunny without fog or the stink of coal smoke and soot. However, a delightful smell greeted me as I climbed the stairs—roasting meat, probably a joint of pork. Coming home to a warm comfortable house and a good meal was no small consolation in the dark, wet cold of a London winter.

Henry rose to greet me. In the large purple armchair, his long thin legs thrust straight out, his boots up on the matching ottoman, sat Sherlock Holmes, a wary smile on his gaunt face. Abruptly I was struck by the similarity in appearance between him and Violet—the same unhealthy intensity, the sense of some dark obsession consuming them.

“Sherlock stopped by to tell me about his inquiries, and I invited him to stay for supper.”

“Very well, but I have a bone to pick with you, Sherlock Holmes.” His smile flickered weakly then vanished. “So help me, if you ever take Henry off to a place like Underton again, you will no longer be welcome in my house.”

“Michelle...” Henry began.

“It is one thing to risk your own neck, but it is unforgivable to drag Henry along. I will not have it—do you understand? If anything had happened to him...” My voice shook, and my eyes were awash with angry tears.

Henry took my arm. “It was my choice, Michelle. He told me I need not come—he warned me it was not wise.”

I wrenched free of him. “Then he must have known exactly how foolish you are! Such advice would only convince you all the more.”

“Michelle, it is not fair to blame him.”

“Is it not? Whose wretched plan was it?”

Holmes drummed nervously at the chair arm with his long fingers. “You are harsh, madam.” (I could not remember the last time he had addressed me so formally.) “You forget that he is my cousin and my good friend. Desperate circumstances require desperate measures. This is a dark business, and the risk to everyone involved is considerable. Do you recall what you said to me concerning Mrs. Wheelwright after the opera? ‘I beg of you to save her.’ And I promised you that I would do everything in my power. Our visit last night was part of my effort to honor that promise, and Henry, very bravely, offered to accompany me. Had he not, it is quite possible I would not have returned from Underton alive. Your friend and I are deeply in his debt.”

I clenched my fists, drew in my breath, and all my rage seemed to melt into grief. I took out my handkerchief, sat down and wiped at my eyes. “You always know what to say.”

Henry put his hand on my shoulder. “Michelle, I...”

“Next time please have the simple decency to tell me when you are about to risk your life.”

“I promise I shall.” He stroked my cheek in a way that made me want to cry simply because I did love him. “You must be famished. Perhaps if we ate...”

I stood and put my handkerchief in my pocket. “Yes, I am starved. Let us eat.”