Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“It would be very difficult for them. Wheelwright does not seem the type of man to ever willingly step aside. And Sherlock would never...”

She frowned and regarded me curiously. “Would he not?” I gave her such a look that she blushed, which was rare. “I only meant... It is only convention, after all, especially if Donald has a mistress, and... Oh, Henry—you know I am not a wicked person, and they are not wicked either! It does seem so wretched.”

“Perhaps... They might be content with a Platonic relation.” She stared at me so that I laughed, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I know it is hard for you to conceive of such a thing, but there are people, especially women, who lack your passion. Not every man is as lucky as I.”

She smiled, her face still flushed. “I am glad you feel that way, but you saw how they looked at each other. I do not think a Platonic relation would satisfy them. Besides, I have always considered such arrangements absolutely beastly—as if an illicit love were perfectly acceptable, so long as it was not technically consummated! Were you to love another, it would not much matter to me whether... It is the loving itself which would hurt, regardless.”

I kissed her gently. “You needn’t worry.”

“Oh, Henry. I wonder...” After a brief silence, she said, “Perhaps you could speak with Donald Wheelwright and try to probe his thoughts.”

“You are joking.”

“I do not mean you should ask him directly. However, you might sound him out. The poor fellow must be rather lonely, although he seems happier here. He is fond of his dogs and his sport. I do believe he likes the outdoors, and he has never seemed happy in formal dress. You could accompany him when he goes out tomorrow.”

“Possibly.”

My lack of enthusiasm amused her. She had let down her hair, and it spilled onto the pillow. I stroked the thick strand nearest me.

“I must speak with Sherlock tomorrow and give him some papers from Lestrade.”

“There will be plenty of time for that in the morning. Then you and Donald Wheelwright can be off together on the hunt. It may even be agreeable.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “You might bring home a pheasant for our supper.”

Thus it was that after reviewing matters with Holmes in the morning, I found myself plodding through the woods with Donald Wheelwright and his two retrievers in the afternoon. The day was again very fine, another golden autumn afternoon, the clean fresh air invigorating. Given the weather and the retrievers’ canine enthusiasm, it would have taken an effort to be gloomy, and my companion’s spirits lifted once we had left the house.

I realized I had never had a real conversation with Wheelwright or actually been alone with him. He was more at ease in his aged brown tweed jacket, canvas trousers, and battered, shapeless wool hat with almost no brim. I had seen hunters on my country walks whose apparel was as fashionable and spotless as their citywear, but Wheelwright obviously preferred worn and comfortable clothing. He carried his shotgun breech open, and the pockets of his jacket were stuffed with shells. He had offered to lend me one of his shotguns, but I told him I would accompany him as a spectator only. Not only the birds and animals would be safer.

Two or three times I tried to start a conversation, but Wheelwright obviously did not believe in idle chitchat for the sake of avoiding silence. He had a leisurely stroll, yet his legs were so long that each step covered a great distance. I was over six feet tall myself, but I had to work to keep up. In the woods it was cooler, the light dappled, yellow, on leaves or bark or fern where it penetrated the foliage above. My breath formed a white mist, and everything about us seemed damp and decomposed, the odor rich and earthy, overpowering.

“What exactly are you hunting?” I asked.

“Nothing much.” He had relaxed, the customary tension, which showed in his eyes and furrowed brow, completely gone. “If we’re lucky we might scare out a pheasant or a cony. I’m more just walking, as I said earlier. If I really wanted to get a few ducks, I’d go down by the pond and sit, but Goldie and Chieftain like to keep moving. So do I.”

The path opened up, and we came out into a clearing, grass and ferns sloping downward to a big pond below, its waters blue and still under the autumn light. By the pond was an ancient oak, six feet across, its limbs all gnarled and twisted, the lower branches each as thick as the trunk of a normal tree. Most of its leaves were gone, many floating on the waters below. Black forms were perched about the branches, and we could hear the din of the crows, the caws, of their convocation.

Wheelwright stopped to enjoy the view. The golden retriever saw the water and was off like a shot down the hill. She plunged into the pond with no hesitation. The Irish setter trotted down, but only stared curiously at its companion. Wheelwright leaned his gun against a stump and took a silver case from his jacket.

“Care for a smoke?”

“No, thank you,” I said.

Wheelwright took out a very long cigar, then put the case back in his jacket. He glanced at me, the hint of a frown briefly showing. He hesitated, bit off the end of the cigar, spat it out, and struck a match. As he inhaled, he continued to regard me closely. I was again struck by the size of his fingers; they were thicker than the cigar, a good inch across above the knuckles.

“I hope you don’t mind seeing a man bite off a cigar.” From his tone it was difficult to tell whether he was apologizing or warning me not to take offense.

I smiled. “Not at all. Gentlemen are supposed to use cigar cutters, but surely one must make some allowance for this rustic setting.” He stared curiously at me. I glanced down at the pond. “This is a beautiful spot.”

He nodded. “It’s my favorite hereabouts. Care to sit for a moment? We’ve been walking for a while.” He sat on the tree stump. “I usually sit here and have a cigar. I like a cigar. Violet hates cigars.” His eyes clouded over. “It’s one more thing about me she can’t abide.” His voice was bitter.

I sat on another stump—several trees had been cut there—and picked up a small twig. I began to snap off pieces.

Wheelwright sighed. “Yes, this is a good place. The rooks surely like that big tree. Some days when I’m sick of their cawing, I have a shot at them. I’m not really trying to harm them, just scare them off. It works, too. Today they aren’t so noisy.”

I nodded and carefully pulled off a strip of bark from the twig. “I can see how they would get on one’s nerves.”

We both remained silent for a while. The sun felt very warm on our faces, and a faint breeze rustled the dry leaves in the trees behind us. One of the crows spiraled upward from the tree; another followed. With a caw, the higher one swooped and dived at the other. Wheelwright knocked off the cigar ash and ground it into the earth with the toe of his enormous boot. I could smell the oiled leather; the boots were beauties and had been well cared for, no doubt by his valet.

“Tell me, Dr. Vernier...”

“You might as well call me Henry. ‘Doctor’ sounds too formal for this setting. Besides, I grow tired of hearing ‘doctor’ all the time.”

His brow furrowed, then he stared closely at me. He shrugged. “Tell me, Henry, do you ever feel like chucking it all?”

“Chucking it all?”

“Your doctoring, your friends, your family, your house. London. Just giving it all up and going somewhere else—somewhere like this.” His head swept about.

“Well, yes, I have thought about that. Being a physician really is such a hopeless business. We can diagnose, but we simply cannot cure many diseases. And then you have to deal with the hypochondriacs who are not sick at all, but who are always coming to see you. It’s not charitable, I know, but some of them... I almost wish they would get truly sick. It would serve them right.”