Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Holmes’ hands hung tightly at his sides, and again I saw longing in his eyes. He had an excuse for staring at her so, but I knew he was appreciating the beauty of her throat, the curve of her jaw. His eyes briefly met hers. Then they both looked away.

“Curious,” he said. “Very curious. Mrs. Wheelwright, would you care to retire?”

She shook her head. “I shall never sleep.”

“I can give you something, Violet. And you must drink some milk.”

“I feel better now.” She tried to smile, but her brown eyes still had a wild glint. Briefly, she bared her teeth. “Mr. Holmes?”

He sat back against the edge of the table. “Yes?”

“Have you... have you ever thought you might be going mad?”

I put my arm on her shoulder. “You must not say such things.”

She laughed. “Michelle is far too healthy—far too sane—to understand, but you... Has the possibility ever occurred to you?”

He stared gravely at her. “Yes.”

“ Ah —I knew it.”

“But I do not allow such thoughts to linger. I do not allow myself to indulge in such fancies. They are a form of... self-deception. Self-punishment.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes.”

She put her hand over her forehead. “If only I could stop my thoughts... It grows so tiresome!”

“No storm lasts forever. It is the penalty we pay for our intellect, for our ability to think better and more intensely than our fellow men. Once our mind undertakes a problem, we cannot rest until it is resolved, until we have our answer, and the wearier we grow, the more frantic our thoughts become. When it is all over, exhaustion and black melancholy often follow.”

Her hand shot out and touched his knee. “Oh, yes— yes ! You do understand—you do.”

I could see his fingers tighten about the table edge, the tendons rising to the surface. “You shall not go mad, Violet. I promise you. Your sufferings will end.”

It was the first time I had heard him address her as anything other than Mrs. Wheelwright. She laughed, a strained sound, but her relief was audible. “Oh, thank you. I hope—I wish...” She put her hand over her forehead. “Oh God, I am so exhausted I cannot...”

I shook my head. “As well you might be. You should go to bed.”

“I shall, but first...” She looked again at Holmes. “Would you do me a favor, Mr. Holmes?”

“Anything you wish.”

“My violin is on the shelf there. Play me something—play some Bach”

Holmes frowned. “ Now? ”

“Yes.”

“But... will it not appear somewhat strange to...?”

“Everyone will think it is me. If anything, it will reassure the servants. They are used to music emanating from this room at odd hours. No one has enough of an ear to tell your playing from mine.”

Holmes gazed at me. “Will you go upstairs,” I asked, “when he is finished?”

“I promise I shall. I merely... I am not up to playing myself, and I want... I want to think about something else.”

I hesitated, and then nodded. Holmes shrugged and walked over to the shelf where the violin sat. He plucked the strings, tuning them, and then tucked a handkerchief and the violin under his chin. The bow slid across the string and swelled into a resonant note, which his quivering fingertips gave a warm vibrato.

“A wondrous instrument,” he said.

The door burst open, and Henry rushed into the room. He wore a bowler hat and his black overcoat, but his shirt collar was unbuttoned. “What on earth has happened?”

I walked over to him and slipped my arm about his waist. “Hush, for a moment, and then I shall tell you everything. Just now we must listen to Sherlock play.”

Holmes raised the bow, then began. I do not much care for Bach’s music. All those melodies going at once frustrate me because I can only hear one thing at a time, only bits and pieces. Nevertheless, Holmes played beautifully. I had always been struck by the passion of his music; only then did he give his emotions full rein.

Violet had closed her eyes and seemed to melt into the chair. Holmes was the only other person I had known who brought such utter concentration to listening; briefly her dark thoughts were forgotten. He finished the piece. She did not open her eyes. “One more, please. Do you know the saraband from the third partita?”

This was more languorous than the first—stately in its sorrow—but I hardly heard it. I was so sleepy. I leaned against Henry, and he drew me close. “Oh my dearest,” I murmured softly. How I wished the long evening were over.

At last Holmes lowered the violin, sighing deeply. “My Stradivarius is no better. It may not be its equal.”

Violet moistened her lips and opened her eyes. “Bring it with you to Norfolk, and we shall see. Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. Your playing is inspired.” She looked at me. “I am very tired.”

“As well you should be.”

There was a polite knock at the door. “Come in,” Holmes said.

The door opened and Lovejoy stepped into the room. “I am sorry for the delay, but Abigail was distraught. You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?”

“In a moment. I want to have a look about the grounds. Would you fetch a lantern? First, however, we need Mrs. Wheelwright’s maid. She is ready to retire?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Henry slipped free of me and put his hat on the table. “What has happened here?”

“You will hear the whole story soon enough.” Holmes gestured with his hand at Violet. “By the way, would you be so kind as to have a look at Mrs. Wheelwright’s throat?”

Henry frowned, then walked over to Violet. She drew in her breath and looked elsewhere. “Good God!” Henry seemed to jump back. “Who has done this?”

Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “That is the question I would most like answered. Have a good look, Henry. I shall want your professional opinion.”

Henry’s examination was more detached than Sherlock’s, but his revulsion was obvious. Brutality disturbed him.

Another brief knock at the door, and Lovejoy reappeared with Gertrude. I helped Violet to her feet. Her eyes were red and puffy—she was utterly worn out. Her fingers brushed aside a strand of black hair. She winced.

“My throat hurts.”

“Have Collins go upstairs with Mrs. Wheelwright and the maid,” Holmes said to Lovejoy. “Collins should examine the room, especially under the bed and in the closets. He should only remain outside while Mrs. Wheelwright is dressing. She is not to be left alone under any circumstances. Have a cot brought up for the maid.”

“Me, sir?” Gertrude’s eyes opened wide.

“Have no fear, miss. You will not be alone. I shall be in a chair in the same room.”

“The same room?” Lovejoy’s voice was faintly incredulous.

Holmes frowned. “Yes. There will be no more mysterious assailants. Please fetch me that lantern now.”

Gertrude and I led Violet to the door. She walked stiffly, stumbling slightly. I released her arm, and she turned, her face a mute appeal. “Michelle...”

“I shall be up in a moment to say good night.”

She smiled weakly. “Thank you.” She turned to Holmes. “Good night, and thank you again for your playing.”

He nodded, then closed the door behind her. Henry took off his coat. “Now, will one of you please explain what has happened!”

Holmes took out a cigarette, which he smoked while I told Henry all that had occurred. When I was finished, Henry shook his head.

“Who—or what—can have done this?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched briefly into a smile. “You think it was the devil, then?”

“I no longer know what to think.”

I shook my head. “Why should the devil need to go around strangling people? I would also expect him to be better at his work.”