Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Henry helped me off with my coat. Holmes watched me sadly; at last he stood. I had taken Henry’s arm, and as Sherlock started by, I slipped my other hand about his arm. I felt him stiffen, and then he gave a tired, yet relieved sigh.

“Next time I shall come along,” I said. “Henry is not the only one with dramatic abilities.”

Holmes smiled briefly. “I know that.”

We all laughed. “I could play the part of a prostitute. I have seen enough of them at the clinic.”

We sat down at the dining-room table. Harriet had put out the silver candelabrum that my mother had given us, as well as our best silver and china.

“You may have your histrionic opportunity sooner than you imagine,” Holmes said. “However, the part is suitably respectable.”

Harriet filled my bowl with the rich bean soup in broth, which was her specialty. “Thank you,” I said. “It smells even better than usual.”

“I put in a bit more pepper,” she said.

I took a quick spoonful then turned to Holmes. “Of what role are you speaking?”

Holmes opened his linen napkin with a flourish. “That of the respectable wife of a wealthy merchant dealing in Scottish whisky.”

Henry’s eyebrows sank inward. “What merchant?”

“You are to play the merchant. After Mr. Blackdrop and Heinrich Verniger, I thought it well time for you to portray someone of a higher class.”

“And what part will you play?” I could feel each spoonful of hot soup improving my spirits.

“I shall be Henry’s elderly father.”

“And who will be the audience for our performance?” Henry asked.

“Mr. Geoffrey Steerford.”

Henry set down his spoon. “You have arranged a meeting so quickly?”

“I have, although it took me much of the day. Mr. Steerford is a hard man to see. He appeared in London about two years ago and has been selling shares in some enterprise, which has attracted considerable capital. The venture is both secretive and exclusive. I could not discover its exact nature, but the minimum investment is one thousand pounds, although ten thousand is not uncommon.”

“Good Lord,” Henry murmured.

“I began the day with a visit to Lord Harrington. He gave me the names of several investors, one of whom owed me a favor. I visited this person and obtained a letter of introduction for a prosperous merchant—a fictional one. Next I went in the guise of a servant to Steerford’s residence, which is not half a mile from those of the Wheelwrights’ and the Herberts’. Steerford was out, but I arranged an appointment for my master tomorrow afternoon.”

“Who is this master?” I asked.

Holmes smiled. “The wealthy whisky dealer Mr. Robert Carlyle.”

Henry choked back a laugh, barely keeping his soup down. “Am I any relation to Thomas?”

“No, but we do have Scottish roots.”

“Perhaps I shall wear a wig,” I said. “I have always wanted to try black hair.”

Henry shuddered. “God forbid.”

“You and Henry need not bother to disguise yourselves, but I must alter my appearance. Steerford may be someone I have met before under a different name. Then too, Watson’s narratives and Paget’s drawings—highly idealized though his renderings may be—have made me much too well-known.”

“When are we to meet Mr. Steerford?” I asked.

“Would tomorrow afternoon at four be possible? I know you are very busy, Michelle, but Mr. Steerford had few openings and is unavailable in the evenings.”

“I shall manage somehow.”

Henry glanced at Holmes. “And what of the Lovejoys?”

“I have discovered nothing. Their having no traceable past is, in itself, suspicious. I have telegraphed a police detective of my acquaintance in Liverpool and asked him to make some inquiries. I am not hopeful.”

Henry shook his head. “I have never been so surprised to see anyone in my life. What could Mrs. Lovejoy have been doing in a brothel?”

Holmes took a spoonful of soup. “It must be as Ratty suspected. She was stirring up the employees. Madam Irene must be a partisan of the Angels.”

I frowned. “I cannot believe... Perhaps Mrs. Lovejoy was only there on a visit of mercy. She is a religious woman.”

Henry again shook his head. “But the hour—that is not the time one would choose for a charitable visit to a brothel—not during the prime shift, so to speak.”

“Please, Henry.”

“Well, it is true. And her manner was furtive. I wonder... That woman has never seemed quite sane. The morning after the spider cake she was positively deranged. Maybe she is mad but dissembles well. She could have some irrational grudge against Violet.”

I bit at my lip. “I suppose it is possible, but Violet treats all her servants so well.”

“The person behind this business is quite sane,” Holmes said. “Only a capable mind of extraordinary power could have concocted these schemes. And as I have noted before, the person has a peculiar sense of humor, not mad, but... deviant.”

“Who can it be?” Henry could not keep the exasperation from his voice. “The Lovejoys seem so plain, and neither Donald Wheelwright nor his mistress is a mental giant. Perhaps none of it is related—the gypsy’s curse, Lord Harrington’s suicide, the theft of the necklace, and the threats against Violet.”

Holmes smiled coldly. “Ratty knew better. A rat has a remarkable sense of smell.”

“Is that why they sniff about so?” Henry repressed a shudder. “Let us not discuss rats—not after last night. Perhaps... Old Wheelwright is very shrewd and would like Violet out of the way. Could he be behind all this villainy?”

Holmes was briefly silent. “It is certainly possible. I consider him a suspect in the Wheelwright affair, but it is nearly inconceivable that he has any connection with the Angels of the Lord. Even in the case of the Wheelwrights alone, I sense a powerful and curiously subtle intellect. Then there is the dark humor I have commented upon. Old Wheelwright is simply too vulgar—too grasping and rapacious—too dull.”

“It might be best,” I said, “to simply ask Mrs. Lovejoy what she was doing near Underton last night.”

Holmes set down his soupspoon and shook his head curtly. “That is the one thing you absolutely must not do. It would put her on her guard.”

“We could question Violet about the matter.”

“ No. ” He gave his head another resolute shake.

“But why?”

He hesitated, licked his lips, and then dabbed absentmindedly at his mouth with his napkin. “It is... too risky. Mrs. Lovejoy would certainly notice any change in Mrs. Wheelwright’s manner toward her.”

Harriet marched in bearing the steaming joint on a platter and set it before Henry. He inhaled deeply. “Superb, Harriet—truly superb!”

She smiled at him. “Thank you, sir.”

Henry ran the long blade of the knife over the steel a few times, then began to carve. Harriet was a wonderful cook (unlike me), and we ate very well, although we spurned elaborate sauces and many courses. If one ate everything served at a dinner like that at the Wheelwrights’, indigestion—or worse—was guaranteed.

Henry put the brown meat from the outside on my plate; he knew I liked it best. Then he heaped meat on Holmes’ plate. “We must fatten you up, Sherlock,” he said. “You are looking thinner than ever.”

I nodded. “Henry is right. I saw Violet today and thought the same thing: I wanted to bring her home and let Harriet help me fatten her.”

Holmes paused, fork in hand. “Mrs. Wheelwright did not look well?”

I sighed. “She did not.”

His gray eyes somehow stared through me. “This case may be the high point of my career, and at last I sense the threads coming together. All the same, sometimes I wish I had never heard of the Wheelwrights.” His voice was suddenly harsh, and he paused. “Other times I feel that I would have missed...” His eyes shifted and noticed us both staring at him. “Forgive me. I too am weary. And hungry.” He cut off a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.