Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“Turn up the lamp!” I cried, then went to Violet and knelt beside her. I pressed my fingers against her throat and felt a pulse. “Thank God!” I stood.

Light from the lamp on the table flooded the room, revealing the rich brown of the oak table and chairs, the deep hues of the oriental carpet. Another gust of wind swept into the room, moving the draperies on either side of the open window.

“Close that window,” I said. “It is freezing.”

Collins nodded, then his face suddenly scrunched up, even as his eyes widened.

“ Uhhhh ... ! ” a man cried behind me.

I turned and saw the expression of absolute terror on Donald Wheelwright’s face, even as he staggered backwards out of the room. I looked about, expecting to see blood pouring from Mrs. Lovejoy’s skull, but the movement was what caught my eye, the impression of something black scuttling across the floor. The spider was the twin of the big one in the birthday cake. The creature darted under the table, vanishing into the shadows.

Collins grabbed a heavy volume. “Filthy bugger!” he snarled, then dropped down onto his knees and pursued the spider under the table.

“Forget the spider!” I knelt beside Mrs. Lovejoy and put my fingers against her throat.

“Is she...? Lovejoy’s voice broke, and for once his impenetrable calm was gone.

“She is alive. Help me get her up.”

Her head lolled about as we lifted her, and she moaned softly. We set her in one of the big red-velvet chairs. Her face was pale, the part in her black hair revealing the gleaming white line of her scalp. She wore the usual severely cut black dress.

I turned to Collins, who had reluctantly set down the heavy book. “Help me with Mrs. Wheelwright.”

We lifted Violet gently and set her on another plush chair. Her undergarments rustled, but she seemed so light, so little of her under the blue silk of her dress and all those petticoats. Long strands of black hair had come loose—one hung down across her face. I touched her neck, and she winced and opened her eyes.

“Michelle—what are you doing here!”

“I came to see you, my dear.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” She closed her eyes and tears seeped from under the lids and down her cheeks. Her mouth half opened, then twisted and clamped shut. I felt her thin chest quake under my hands.

“Violet—what is it? Where do you hurt?”

She said nothing, only turned and tried to hide her face in the side of the chair.

I sighed and glanced about. Collins appeared as consternated as I. The cook and Gertrude had come into the room, and the cook was sobbing loudly again.

“Go fetch Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I said to Collins. “He lives at 221B Baker Street. Get him here as fast as you can.”

Collins was relieved to have a course of action. “Yes, ma’am—I’ll take the very best pair and be back before you know it.”

I sighed again and turned to Violet. “What is wrong, Violet?” I set my hand lightly on her shoulder. “No one will hurt you, I promise. Are you in pain?”

I saw the familiar signs of her struggling to master herself, but for once her will did not seem up to the task. “My neck hurts.” Her voice was hoarse.

The collar of her dress was high and tight; my big fingers fumbled at the tiny buttons as I softly cursed their manufacturer. When I had the dress unfastened down to her bosom, I spread the blue silk apart. “Dear God,” I whispered. The fear and loathing I felt were like a pain, a wrenching spasm deep inside me.

The entire side of her throat was bluish-purple, the bruise forming the pattern of a hand. Very gently I tipped her head the other way and saw the same pattern on the other side. Her face had a strange, wild smile, which made her almost unrecognizable. I closed my eyes, then stood up and turned away. For the first time in my life, I thought I might actually faint. Mrs. Grady was still crying.

“Do stop that!” I snapped at her.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she sobbed.

“Go into the hall, please.”

Gertrude appeared frightened but not hysterical.

“Gertrude, could you get me some brandy and bring it here?” She nodded.

Violet turned away again and buried her face in the chair. I put my hand on her shoulder and felt her body quiver from the force of her silent weeping.

“Violet— please . You mustn’t. You are safe now.”

“Is she hurt?” Donald Wheelwright had appeared in the doorway.

“Not seriously.” I could not keep the contempt from my voice. His terror of spiders was ludicrous. For such a giant to fear a harmless insect... I turned to Lovejoy. “How fairs your wife?”

“She appears to be breathing normally.”

I probed at Mrs. Lovejoy’s skull but found no bumps. “Perhaps she only fainted.” I took some smelling salts out of my bag, unscrewed the cap, and passed them back and forth under her nose. Her eyelids sprang open; she gasped and looked about.

Lovejoy clasped her hand tightly and pressed it to his chest. “Oh, my dearest, oh thank God!”

“Oh, Jonathan,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering. She smiled, then closed her eyes. Abruptly, she sat up and stared about. “The mistress! The mistress! Oh, God help us all!”

“Calm yourself, Mrs. Lovejoy,” I said. “She has not been harmed.”

She stared up at her husband. “Not harmed? But where is... it ?” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands.

Lovejoy and I looked at each other in confusion. “Abigail, dearest, to whom do you refer? What is ‘ it ’?”

She let her hands fall, her brown eyes opening wide. “Father in Heaven, protect us! Angels of God defend us!” Her voice was loud and piercing.

I glanced at the doorway. Mr. Wheelwright still stood there, filling the frame. Behind him was Gertrude. She obviously did not dare tell him to move aside.

“Please come in, Mr. Wheelwright,” I said, “or go into the hall.”

He frowned and took one reluctant step forward, then another, his eyes searching the floor. Gertrude walked past him and set down the silver tray bearing a decanter and glasses on the table.

I poured half a glass and gave it to Mrs. Lovejoy. “Drink this.”

Wearily she shook her head. “I do not drink spirits.”

“Consider it a medicine.” I gave her my most authoritative stare. “Drink it. Now .”

She took the glass reluctantly. Lovejoy said, “Drink it down, dearest. The doctor knows what is best.” She took a sip, coughed once, then took another sip.

I poured another glass and walked over to Violet. She was turned about in the chair, her face pressed against the velvet back, her right hand gripping the top. “Violet.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Violet.” I tried to turn her forward, but her hand clutched at the chair. “Violet, what is wrong with you? Look at me. This is foolish.”

At last she let me turn her. Her face was red, her eyes swollen. “I feel so... awful.” Her lips twitched and started to form a grimace.

“Do not smile that way.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “Drink this.”

She took a big swallow and began to cough, her hand clutching her side. “Sip it. No...” I pulled the glass away. “Take small sips.”

I took a deep breath myself. Gertrude stared in horror at her mistress’s neck. “What... what did that to her?”

“The fiend!” shouted Mrs. Lovejoy. “The fiend from hell!”

Gertrude gave a sharp cry and stepped back. I heard other cries and talking in the hallway. Much of the household staff must have gathered there.

“The black man—I saw the black man—I saw the devil!”

My skirts trailed behind me as I spun about. “You keep silent! Not one more word, or I shall gag you myself!”