Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“But how...? And why?”

“The ‘why’ is simple. He was talking about raising a million pounds. As for the how, as the head servant he is not closely supervised and can frequently be out on business. He maintains the Steerford establishment conveniently nearby, but is rarely at home there. As Steerford he can use the oil well as his excuse for being absent.”

“And is Mrs. Lovejoy a party to this scheme?”

He smiled. “It is not likely they came up with two such devious schemes independently. Devious and lucrative—the Angels of the Lord dabble in at least robbery and extortion. The Lovejoys’ positions give them access to valuable information. At dinner parties they no doubt keep a sharp ear open, and the servants in higher-class households maintain a network of gossip. A talkative footman can spread a rumor about half the households of London in a mere week.”

“Then you think Mrs. Lovejoy’s hysteria is only an act?”

Holmes gave a gruff laugh. “I thought so from the first. She is a bit too histrionic.”

“But... but this business with Violet—is it also their doing?”

Holmes frowned. “That is a puzzle. It makes little sense, as it draws attention to them and there is no profit in it. If not for the threats against Mrs. Wheelwright, I most likely would never have discovered Mr. Steerford or the Angels of the Lord. As for this evening, neither of them could be the perpetrator; a third person must be involved. However, none of the male servants were alone at the time.”

“Could the Lovejoys have some grievance against Mrs. Wheelwright?”

“If they do, they are the only people in the house—with one exception—who do. As you know, I have questioned the servants extensively. They genuinely like their mistress.”

“Who is the exception?”

“Her husband. Then, of course, we must not forget her father-in-law. I believe the old man is paying Lovejoy for information about his son’s household.”

“What!”

“This came out in my interviews with the servants. Old Wheelwright is a frequent visitor, and after his arrival he always speaks briefly and privately with Lovejoy.”

“Then it must be the old man—he is behind the threats against Violet. And perhaps it goes further still...”

“Let me remind you that the last time you were equally certain the person in question was Miss Ladell.”

“But I had never actually met her, while old Wheelwright is obviously despicable. Spying on his own son! Even so, this thing tonight remains baffling, and I suppose the old man has so much money he could not be involved in the Lovejoys’ schemes.”

Holmes gave a dry, hollow-sounding laugh. “There you are wrong. Men such as Wheelwright can never have too much money. There is no limit to their greed—it is bottomless and irrational. All the same, the Angels do not fit his style, nor does Steerford. Direct annihilation was always his stratagem in the potted meat trade, a full frontal assault upon his opponents.”

We were both silent. I could hear Michelle breathing deeply and regularly. At last I spoke. “Perhaps it is time to confront Lovejoy and his wife.”

“Absolutely not!” His voice was sharp. “Tell no one except Michelle.”

“Not even the Wheelwrights?”

“Especially not the Wheelwrights. Mr. Wheelwright would want to thrash someone. Let us keep the Lovejoys guessing. They do not know for certain whether I recognized Lovejoy.” Holmes ran his fingers back through his hair. “I shall write Lestrade a note, which I want you to deliver. He will be keeping Lovejoy under surveillance and preparing to spring a trap before the fifteenth. I am hopeful that we may finally discover the Lovejoys’ true identities; Lestrade’s clerks are searching the police files. When you depart in three or four days, Lestrade should have some news for me. He will also be pursuing my suggestions concerning the Angels of the Lord.”

“What if Lovejoy does not remain behind?”

Holmes laughed. “He will find some excuse to stay here. I only wish I could do the same.”

“Why?”

“Because Lestrade is a mediocrity! The whole thing could slip through his clumsy fingers. And there are too many details unresolved. If I had another week... I shall also have you visit a brothel.” He smiled at my look. “For information only.”

“Oh.” There was a faint stir of wind, which rattled the windowpanes. “You have made considerable progress in this case. I would not have believed it.”

Sherlock frowned, the fingers of his right hand drumming relentlessly at the table.

“What is the matter?”

He finally raised his eyes. “Things still do not add up.”

The attack on Violet had occurred on a Friday night. Michelle, Holmes, and the Wheelwrights left the next day. I was busy over the weekend with Holmes’ tasks, then on Monday and Tuesday I handled our combined medical practice and prepared for my own departure. From morning to evening, I saw one patient after another.

A few days without Michelle always made me morose, and my last patient on Tuesday was a sweet old lady who was slowly dying of cancer. After she had left, I sat alone in my examining room, my head slumped wearily, my elbow on the desk, forehead against my palm, fingers in my hair. A rap sounded at the door. “Yes?”

Harriet’s face appeared, a crease between her dark brows. “Doctor...” Behind her I saw the pale thin face of old Wheelwright, a faint smile pulling at his bloodless lips.

Oh Lord, I thought, a twinge of fear flickering through my chest.

“Come in, Mr. Wheelwright. Thank you, Harriet.”

He silently stared down at me, his top hat held in his aged, trembling fingers. “I do not suppose you have come to see me about a medical problem.”

His smile intensified. “ I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean.”

“I thought not. What, then? Have a seat if you will.”

He slowly sat down upon the edge of a heavy oak chair. “It’s about my daughter-in-law. Do you believe me now?”

“Believe what?”

“That she is a lunatic.”

I had the sudden urge to strike him, to plunge my fist into that smiling mouth of brownish-yellow teeth. The intensity of my repulsion caught me by surprise, and I had to compose myself before I could speak. “No, I do not. Someone tried to strangle her last week.”

“She imagined the whole thing.”

“She did not—I saw the bruises on her throat. They were shaped like hands.”

“No one told me about any bruises—that’s impossible.”

“I saw them, sir. They were real enough.”

His white brows had bunched up over his nose. “No matter, no matter. She is still a lunatic.”

Again I had to restrain my anger. “It has been a long day, Mr. Wheelwright. What exactly do you want from me?”

He stared closely at me. “I want your assistance in committing my daughter-in-law.”

My eyes widened, and a peculiar fear now contended with my fury. “ You are mad, not her! Most asylums are still in the Dark Ages. I would not have my worst enemy committed, let alone a beautiful and intelligent young woman like Violet.”

His smile grew contemptuous. “Beautiful, eh? It always comes back to beauty, doesn’t it?”

“I can well believe you have no feeling for beauty.” My voice shook.

“What good is it, Doctor? Tell me that. My age has finally freed me from all such snares. You are a respectable man, a married man. Her beauty is of no use to you—all it does is stir you up and make you behave stupidly. Otherwise, you would realize that I could make it very much worth your while to help me. If my son were free, he could marry again, marry someone who could bear him a child. What do you want? Money, prestige? They are yours for the asking, and believe me, it would be for the best. She is quite mad, you know.”