Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

I lowered my gaze, unable to bear his leering visage. “Mr. Wheelwright, you had better leave.”

“Your cousin is a hopeless case. I could see that at the dinner. The great consulting detective—the finest mind in England, as the newspapers put it—reduced to quivering jelly by a mere woman. I had hoped for better from you, Doctor. You have a woman of your own, a pretty enough one. She need never know...”

“Get out of here!” I roared, leaping to my feet. “Get out before I give you the thrashing you deserve!”

His smile vanished, uneasiness appearing in his eyes: he saw that I meant it. “Very well, sir.” He stood. “There is no reason to be abusive. You need not take that tone with me.”

“No? You are the most morally repugnant... You spy on your own son, do you not? How much are you paying Lovejoy?”

His smile was wary. “I suppose Holmes discovered that. Maybe he is worth his fee. I’m Donald’s father after all. Someone has to look after him, the poor fool. He can’t seem to take care of himself.”

“Why do you not simply talk to your son instead of spying on him?”

Wheelwright seemed genuinely surprised. “Because I want the truth.”

“Oh, I doubt that. And is Violet mad, or are you only trying to drive her mad?”

“There’s no need for me to do anything. She’s been that way for many years, ever since her marriage. She hides it well, but I can see—I can see.”

My head had begun to hurt, and I put my hand on my forehead. “Go away—leave now .”

His contemptuous smile returned. “Very well, sir, but you might tell your cousin that if he gets in my way I shall crush him. I have broken far better men than he.”

“And he has been threatened by far better men than you—good day, Mr. Wheelwright.”

He turned and walked out of the door.

A decanter of brandy, usually reserved for medicinal purposes, was on my desk. I poured a large glass, my hands shaking, and took a big swallow. I stared out the window at the gray, rainy sky and tried to calm myself.

“Deliver us from evil,” I murmured. A shiver snaked its way along my spine, and I took another swallow of brandy.

The next day, Wednesday, I arrived at Norfolk on the three-fifteen train. Collins and Michelle were waiting at the station. Collins smiled as Michelle gave me an embrace that would have crushed a smaller man. It seemed as if we had been apart much longer than four days.

The sun was out, the day cold and clear, the air marvelously fresh after London. Michelle wore a beautiful purple coat with sable collar and cuffs. Her face was slightly sunburned, the few freckles on her nose and cheeks clearly visible. She wore black leather gloves, which hid her powerful hands. Looking at her made me briefly forget Sherlock, the Wheelwrights, and Lovejoys—I was only conscious of my desire for her.,

“You look well,” I said. “The country air must agree with you.”

She slipped her hand about my arm. “How I have missed you! Now everything is perfect. We have been having a wonderful time. Violet seems much better. It is good for her to be away from London. Donald Wheelwright tramples about the woods every day with his dogs and shoots at various birds and animals. In the meantime, I...” She stopped abruptly, glancing sideways at Collins, who was carrying one of my bags.

Noticing the silence, he turned to us. “I’ll fetch the cart, ma’am. No need to walk all that way.”

“Thank you, Collins.”

We watched him start down the cobbled street. “What were you saying?”

She smiled wryly. “I have been chaperoning Sherlock and Violet. They are such good company. They have brought along their violins, and they play beautifully together. We’ve gone for walks in the woods. The forest is so beautiful. We saw a deer yesterday. The two of them have also been playing chess. Violet won the first game.”

“ What? ”

She laughed. “You should have seen the expression on his face. He was ahead by a rook, when she checkmated him.”

I glanced quickly about, and then kissed her on the lips. She pressed her fingers into the small of my back. “I have been longing for you,” she said.

Collins came down the street driving a dogcart. He stopped, then hopped down, opened the door, and helped Michelle up. I got in and sat across from her. Since the carriage was open to the air, I could savor the sunny weather. Within five minutes we were out of the village following a country road winding about a pastoral setting.

We entered a forest of gnarled, ancient oaks, their trunks massive, a yard or two across. Many of the leaves were still on the trees, all bronze, russet, or reddish; others had fallen and formed a thick carpet. The air had a moist, fecund smell, a heady odor of fresh earth and rotting leaves. The branches themselves were long and twisted, nearly black. It seemed the kind of forest where Oberon, Titania, and Puck dwelt, where fairies would dance under moonlight. Gradually the trees thinned, the road dropped and curved, and ahead at the summit of a vast expanse of lush green lawn was an enormous house of gray stone.

“Good Lord,” I murmured. “That is where we are going?”

“It has only fifty rooms or so. Somewhere they will find a place to put you. The great hall appears to be something from Ivanhoe .”

I shook my head. “There are those that aspire to great wealth and such houses, but I keep thinking in practical terms of the difficulties in maintaining such a residence.”

Michelle nodded eagerly. “The rooms are cold and drafty. Already I miss our little house and Harriet and Victoria. How are Harriet and Victoria, by the way?”

“They are both well, but they miss you. Victoria wanders about the house yowling pathetically.”

“Poor dear.” She reached out and took my hand. “I am glad you do not wish to be horribly rich. Violet is the first wealthy friend I have had, and I do not envy her.”

I glanced at the back of Collins’ neck. “You would not want your own huge room far from mine, and your own bed?”

She frowned. “Absolutely not!” She smiled and squeezed my hand.

The house was imposing, but melancholy. The gray stone was colorless and forlorn, and the rooms inside were huge—and as Michelle said, cold and drafty. The fire burning at one end of the great hall was large enough for roasting an ox, yet it hardly cut the chill. Somber, uninspired paintings hung from the walls, mostly bucolic pastorals in gaudy antique frames. Portraits of several generations of ancestors would have been more appropriate, but the Wheelwrights were a youthful dynasty. However, before the dining table in the place of prominence was a painting of the elderly Wheelwright and his wife. The artist had the features exactly right, but as there was no hint of malice or avarice, the Wheelwright on canvas appeared to be only some saintly relative of the old scoundrel.

As we crossed the chamber, our footsteps echoed faintly. “Most of the rooms are still closed up,” Michelle said. “There are only about twenty servants here. The rest are coming down early next week with the Lovejoys.”

“I would not expect the Lovejoys.” I tried to keep my voice low, but the room seemed to echo my words. Before we had parted, I had briefly told her what Holmes had revealed about the butler.

Michelle had pulled off her gloves. She gave me a curious look. “No?” One of the maids was nearby polishing the silver. “We shall have to have a talk,” Michelle said.

Collins had left us earlier. I took her hand and kissed her palm. “Talk is not exactly what I had in mind.”

She stroked my cheek and gave me a look, which made it plain that she was of like mind. “We should go see Sherlock and Violet.”