Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Mrs. Lovejoy’s eyes shone with fury, but it vanished at once. “Yes, Doctor.”

I took Gertrude by the shoulder. “Your mistress will soon be well again. I want you to go into the hall and tell everyone that she and Mrs. Lovejoy are in no danger. Everyone should go back to what they were doing. Can you do that for me?

She drew in her breath and squared her shoulders. I doubted she was even five feet tall, and again I felt like a giantess alongside her. “Yes, ma’am—Doctor, I mean.”

“Very good.” She did as I told her. “Close the door,” I said to Lovejoy.

Donald Wheelwright came close enough to the table to pour some brandy, and then he backed quickly away and downed the glass, the muscles of his massive neck rippling. I went to the table and poured some for myself. The brandy was very smooth, but burned slightly. Lovejoy stood beside his wife who sat in one chair, while Violet sat in the other, her mouth twitching as she struggled not to smile.

The door opened, and Sherlock Holmes strode into the room, his top hat and gloves in hand, his black greatcoat sweeping behind him. “What has transpired?”

I had never been so relieved to see anyone in my life. “Thank heavens you have come.” I leaned against the table, supporting myself with my right hand, suddenly aware of how exhausted and disturbed I felt.

Holmes was at my side at once. “You had better sit down.”

“There is nothing the matter with me.”

He pulled out one of the stout wooden chairs. “All the same, there is no reason to remain standing.”

“Thank you.” I sank into the chair and realized my feet were hurting again, despite my sensible shoes. If I had remained at home, I could have slipped out of the beastly shoes and warmed my feet before the fire. Henry was usually only too happy to massage my feet. At the thought of him, something seemed to catch in my throat. I looked up and saw Collins standing near the doorway, his rugged face flushed with excitement, his hands grasping the brim of his top hat.

“Collins?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Could you do me another service and go to my house to fetch my—Dr. Vernier? It is near Paddington Station.”

He laughed. “Have you forgotten how often we’ve driven you there?”

“Oh, of course—forgive me. Do not alarm him, but bring him here at once.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Holmes draped his greatcoat over a chair. He wore his usual black frock coat, the gold chain of his watch dangling between the pockets of his black waistcoat. He glanced at Mr. Wheelwright, who stood before one of the bookcases. “Would you not prefer to sit, sir?”

He shook his head.

“The spider must be gone,” I said. “He would not have lingered.”

“I’ll stand.” The tone of his voice was glacial.

Holmes set one hand on the oak table, his long fingers spread slightly apart. “Collins told me the spider was enormous, no doubt another fine specimen of tegenaria domestica . They can grow nearly six inches across. Quite harmless, however.”

Donald Wheelwright went paler still, his eyes shifting toward the doorway.

Holmes’ eyes swept about the room, his fingers tapping lightly at the table. “Collins told me all that happened. It is regrettable that everyone has gone stampeding through the room and grounds obliterating any hint of a footprint or other evidence.”

“Sherlock, I thought someone might be badly hurt. We could hardly...”

“I understand, Michelle. All the same, it is a pity. Collins said the window was still wide open when he came around the house.”

Lovejoy gave an emphatic nod. “So it was, Mr. Holmes.”

“And the two ladies were lying on the floor. Where exactly were they?”

“Violet was near the open window there,” I said, pointing to the one in the far corner. “Mrs. Lovejoy closer to the door.”

Holmes walked over to Violet. His presence seemed to steady her. She smiled once, a brief twitch, and then stared up at him, brushing aside a strand of black hair.

“Do you feel up to a few questions, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

She nodded. I joined them. “Are you certain Violet?” I put my hand on hers.

“Yes.”

Holmes seized a chair, then sat and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. She looked down and raised her hands to pull together the collar of her dress. “What do you remember?”

“It was blowing hard, and I thought I heard something outside. I went to the windows, and then...” Her voice grew fainter still. “... someone... choked me. From behind. Someone... very strong.” Her mouth tried to smile, but then she slipped her lower lip between her teeth and bit down.

“May I show Sherlock the bruises?” I asked.

She nodded but did not look up. Her hands slipped away from her collar, and I pulled the silk aside. The bluish-green outline of a hand was clearly visible, the fingertips spread slightly apart just before her larynx. Holmes’ eyes widened, his lips pulling back, and he stared up at me. He extended his finger and touched her chin. She averted her eyes and turned the other way. For only an instant, his guard was down. He ran his fingertip along her jaw, his eyes full of longing. Immediately he dropped his hand, stood and swiveled about, putting his hands in his frock coat pockets.

“And you remember nothing more after someone choked you?” His voice had a hint of strain.

“No.” Violet closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.

Holmes’ fingers tapped again at the table. Wheelwright watched impassively like some great sullen mountain—or perhaps a volcano. Holmes glanced at Mrs. Lovejoy. His nostrils flared, then he gave me a conspiratorial glance. He took the brandy decanter and poured more into Mrs. Lovejoy’s glass. “And what can you tell me, madam?”

Her hands began to tremble violently, and suddenly she spilled brandy all over her dress and onto the floor.

“Oh dear,” whispered Lovejoy. He knelt down and sponged at the liquid with his handkerchief.

His wife stared up at Holmes, her hands clenching at the chair arms. “I saw...”

“Now I wish you to remain calm, Mrs. Lovejoy—there is no reason to become distraught.”

“No reason? No reason?” She gave a sharp strained laugh. “No reason—if you had seen what I have...” She closed her eyes, then opened them and stared intently into space. “I was walking down the hallway when I heard a noise coming from the library, a very peculiar sound which made me uncomfortable. I knew the mistress was in there, so I opened the door to see if anything was amiss. The room was very dim, the lamp low, the fiery orange embers in the fireplace hardly visible. Outside the wind was howling. The mistress... was not at the table. The... noise was coming from near the window. She was making that sound!” Her voice had grown steadily louder, and she raised her entire arm and pointed with her forefinger at Violet. “The black thing had its hands about her throat—the sound I had heard was her choking to death!”

“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Lovejoy.”

“I’ll not calm myself—do you not understand what I am saying? The fiend was strangling her! I screamed and screamed! The blackness of hell was about that thing, and it was so tall and had black horns, and—oh, dear God!—it had a tail!” Again her voice had risen to a deafening crescendo, and she gave a shriek, which made me start, and clapped her hands over her face. “Oh, God!” she shuddered. “Oh, God !”

“Please, Mrs. Lovejoy...” Holmes began.

She slowly lowered her hands. “You do not believe me.”

Lovejoy put his hand on her shoulder. “Of course we do, but Mr. Holmes is right—you must not upset yourself.”

“You do not believe me.” Abruptly she stood and stared defiantly at Holmes. “Do you!”