Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“There might be a possibility—a slim possibility—but for one thing.”

“What one thing?”

“The fact that Mr. Steerford was not who he appeared to be—the fact that he was in disguise.”

“ What? ” Henry and I exclaimed in unison.

Holmes laughed. “Can you both be so blind? Did you not notice his resemblance to me? I refer to the spectacles, all the false facial hair—mustache and beard in his case. I must admit, his disguise was well done, a professional job. The beard hides all manner of distinctive marks on the chin.”

“Ah...” I said. “And his voice...”

“Exactly. Pitched far higher than normal. He used falsetto for emphasis.”

Henry made one hand into a fist and struck his knee. “Oh, I feel like a very idiot.”

“As I said, he is quite good, and you are certainly not the first to be duped. I do believe he is close to his goal of a million pounds.”

“Good heavens,” Henry murmured. “There has never been such a theft.”

“Whoever can he be?” I asked. “And why would he need to disguise himself?”

A patch of yellow-white light suddenly illuminated Holmes’ face, revealing the fierce glee in his eyes. “I believe I know exactly who Mr. Geoffrey Steerford is.”

“ Who? ” Henry asked. “ Who? ”

“I really must verify my suspicions. It is a bit premature to tell you.”

I reached out and squeezed his bony knee. “Sherlock—you must tell us!”

“All in good time, Michelle. All in good time.” He gave a short laugh. “And of course, I shall have to be on guard myself.”

“Why?”

“Because our friend, Mr. Steerford, undoubtedly recognized me, even as I recognized him.”

Twelve

Ihad not seen Violet since Wednesday afternoon when she had left the clinic; Friday, after supper, I resolved to visit her. Henry was surprised but did not try to dissuade me, probably because he knew how headstrong I could be. He only said, “Try not to be too late.”

Since I worked during the day, I was spared many boring hours and the snobbish warfare of ladies’ afternoon social calls. I could avoid spurning or being spurned, and no silver tray sat near our door for ladies’ cards. Because Violet was a patient, I had a ready excuse for calling at so odd an hour.

The rain of the past week had ended, giving way to a cold, blustery wind, which howled mournfully and sent flying everything not fastened down. Someone’s newspaper had escaped, and the pages were scattered about the street. The wind seized a page and hurled it onto our neighbor’s lawn. The barren black tree branches swayed. I shivered, thought how nice it would be to spend the evening with Henry, and then stepped into the waiting hansom.

Once we were off, I leaned against the side of the swaying cab and closed my eyes. My feet hurt, and I had the beginning of a headache. The week had been so busy, and I was still tired from being up so late Tuesday night. A quiver of fear flickered about my chest as I remembered the risk Henry and Sherlock had taken. How I wished the whole wretched business with Violet were resolved, the threat against her lifted.

If only she were free. She was one of the few women whose company I enjoyed. I need not try to hide my intellect; I need not titter or giggle; I need not feign a fascination with the latest fashions from Paris or the latest gossip about Lord and Lady So-and-So. And Sherlock was a sweet man, although I could never tell him such a thing to his face. Such a curious blend of intellect and innocence. The worst of it was that they needed one another: each seemed strangely incomplete. The law and custom that bound Violet in her marriage were wrong; no good could come of it, I was certain.

Such thoughts made my head hurt all the more, and I tried to set them aside. The wheel of the hansom went through a pothole; the cab sagged, then threw me to the left, the springs groaning. I thought longingly of Violet’s carriage. No doubt she would offer to have me driven home.

The wind was even stronger before her house. The giant maple groaned and shook. A crow rose cawing from a limb, black against the pinkish-gray sky. The ivy along the brick front rustled and fluttered. I wrapped my coat tightly about me.

A shapeless, muted cry merged briefly with the wind, taking on a human timbre. I stopped and wondered what it might be. The sound ceased abruptly, leaving only the moan of the wind. It had been so faint, I wondered if I had only imagined it. My hands felt cold. I made fists with them.

I strode quickly to the front door and pressed the bell. Up close the rustle of the ivy was even louder, as if each leaf were alive and struggling to escape. Hurry, I thought, and rang the bell again.

I waited and waited, but at last I turned the knob and pushed open the heavy door. Glancing over my shoulder, I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Strangely relieved, I set down my medical bag and pulled off my gloves. “Hello?” I cried. “Good evening!” The entrance way was very dim, an oil lamp burning in the room next door.

At last I heard the rapid patter of footsteps, and the little maid Gertrude came toward me, her handkerchief clutched in one hand. “Oh, thank heavens!” she cried. “It’s Providence surely! Oh, please come in—someone’s been murdered!”

“Murdered! Are you certain?”

“Oh, just come, ma’am! Please!”

I took my bag and followed her to the hallway. A group had formed before the library door: the footman Collins, Mr. Lovejoy, Mrs. Grady the cook, and looming over them all, Donald Wheelwright. He hammered at the door with his massive fist. “Open up, I say! Open up!” He put his hand on the brass knob, and then slammed his shoulder into the wood. “It’s no good. It won’t open.”

“What has happened?” I asked.

Wheelwright glanced at me, puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see Violet. What has happened?”

Lovejoy appeared only faintly perturbed. He had on his usual black morning coat and striped trousers; his black hair was parted neatly on the left side, not a hair out of place. “Mrs. Wheelwright was reading in the library, and I was speaking with Mr. Wheelwright when we heard a dreadful cry.”

Mrs. Grady sobbed loudly. “Someone’s killed, I know.”

“Oh, I hope not!” said Gertrude.

I looked about. “Where is Mrs. Lovejoy?”

Lovejoy swallowed once. “She may be in there.”

“We must break in the door!” Wheelwright exclaimed.

Lovejoy shook his head. “There is no need. Collins and I can go around the outside. The library windows are only about five feet above ground. We shall be able to enter.”

“For God’s sake, then—hurry!”

The two men went quickly down the hall. Wheelwright ran the thick fingers of his right hand through his hair, then slammed his fist against the door, a rumbling snarling sound issuing from between his lips. I took a step back—he always made me uncomfortable. A blend of fear and anger showed in his eyes. He had on evening dress—a black coat with tails, white shirt and tie, and glossy patent leather pumps of a size so large I had never before seen their like.

“I thought I heard something from outside the house,” I said.

The cook shook her head. “I never heard such a sound before in my whole life! Horrid it was—simply horrid. Oh, what if the mistress is...?”

Gertrude began to cry.

“We must wait and see,” I said.

Wheelwright lashed out at the door, striking it with his palm. “What the devil is keeping them?”

Again I stepped back, a cold feeling at my neck. The door swung open, revealing Lovejoy’s pale face. Wheelwright hesitated, suddenly frozen, and I stepped past him. A tall window at the far end was open, and the frigid wind touched my cheek. Papers from the table had already been blown on the floor. Collins stood at the end of the table, fear showing in his eyes. On the floor lay Violet and Mrs. Lovejoy, both of them unconscious.