Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

“Perhaps.” I was not convinced, and my face showed it.

Michelle’s eyes filled with tears and she turned away.

That night my uneasiness kept me awake. Michelle was asleep in minutes, but I was up at least two hours longer. As a result, I slept later than usual. After a solitary breakfast I went to the sitting room.

Michelle rose to greet me. Sherlock sat on the window seat playing an informal air on his violin. Violet sat close by, a book on her lap. Gertrude was at a chair by the fire. The day was again spectacularly fair, the green expanse of lawn and the oak forest visible, the light different this early in the day. A small clock showed it was nearly eleven.

“Welcome, slug-a-bed.” Michelle kissed my cheek. “I thought you would never get up.”

Violet seemed more interested in Sherlock than her book. He set down the violin. “This country air does not make one industrious. Rather it has a soporific effect.” He played part of Brahms’ Lullaby. Michelle and Violet laughed.

“You seem full of energy,” I said. “What project will you undertake today?”

He raised his long hand, gesturing at the table. “Mrs. Wheelwright must offer me another game of chess. We are tied at one game apiece.”

“You actually managed to win the second game?” I said. “You were losing.”

“I was lucky.”

Violet gave a sharp laugh. “No, I was stupid—I made a very ill-considered move. You may be full of energy, Mr. Holmes, but I do not know if I am quite ready to start another game. Chess takes such concentration.”

Michelle gave her head a shake. “It is far too lovely a day to be playing chess indoors, especially in November. The weather could change at any time.”

A sharp rap came at the door, and then it opened. Collins was dressed in his formal footman’s garb, and behind him were Donald Wheelwright and old Wheelwright. The two Wheelwrights strode into the room.

Violet’s eyes narrowed, but she stood and smiled, a faintly glacial expression. “Father Wheelwright, what a pleasant surprise.”

The younger Wheelwright gazed about the room. He did not appear particularly happy himself, and I remembered him saying how much he disliked working for his father. “Father had some business to discuss.”

The old man nodded. “We can’t all retreat from our everyday affairs. The potted meat trade requires constant attention. I’d never be where I am today—this house would never be in the family—if I had gone running off to the country all the time.” He turned to Holmes. “And have you discovered who attacked my daughter-in-law, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes shook his head. “No.”

The two men stared at each other. Old Wheelwright wished to compel some explanation, but Holmes would not speak. “It’s a fine business when a lady can be attacked in her own home. Fleeing to the country hardly seems much of an answer. I hope you have not been overrated, Mr. Holmes.”

Violet’s smile had vanished, but Sherlock only smiled. “I hope not.”

Old Wheelwright glanced about angrily, and his gaze fell upon Gertrude. She sat quietly in the chair by the fire, her knitting untouched in her lap. Something about the old man’s thin neck and jerky movements reminded me of a bird, one with a white head and black body. He stepped forward, walking over to her chair. She did not move.

“Here now? What’s this?”

I could see that Gertrude had fallen asleep. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened.

“Sleeping— sleeping? I cannot believe it! Get up, girl! Where are your manners?”

Gertrude leaped up, her knitting tumbling from her lap. She clutched at her black skirts and managed a feeble curtsy. She looked pale and tired. “Good day, sir.” Her voice was hoarse. She made her tiny hand into a fist, and then coughed into it.

“If you worked for me, girl, I’d have you go pack your things.” He turned to his son. “Lax. Very lax. Parlor maids sleeping and staying seated when their master enters the room.”

“The girl is ill. Anyone can see that.” Michelle’s voice was steely and she stared sharply at the old man.

His upper lip curled into a brief smile. “Ill? Ill? That’s no excuse. Servants have no business being ill—not on our time.” He glanced about, but no one said a word.

Gertrude swayed slightly, as if she were about to faint. She coughed again. Michelle went to her side and took her arm. “Sit down, my dear.”

“Oh, ma’am!” Gertrude shook her head, sagging against her.

“Outrageous!” Wheelwright turned to his son. “I hope you’ll deal with her. If you let this kind of behavior go by, you’ll soon have all your household making faces at you behind your back.”

Donald Wheelwright slowly drew in his breath. “She shall be punished.”

“See to it.” The old man strode from the room.

Donald started to follow, then turned to Violet. “See to it.”

Violet’s face was red, but her voice was like ice. “See to what?”

“He’s right. We can’t have servants falling asleep and ignoring our visitors. Make certain it does not happen again.”

“Oh, I shall.” Violet gave a savage laugh.

Wheelwright’s eyes were sullen. He turned and left the room.

Gertrude began to cry. Michelle lowered her into the chair.

“I couldn’t help it,” Gertrude said. “My chest hurts and my head. If I was awake... Someone shoud’ve nudged me.” She turned to Violet. “Oh, ma’am, I’m so sorry! Honestly I am.” She began to cough in earnest.

Michelle put her big hand on her shoulder. “There is nothing to be sorry about. You just sit and stay quiet.”

Violet had not moved from where she stood. Her fists were clenched, and her thin arms shook beneath the silken sleeves. Her upper lip had drawn back, so that I could see her clenched teeth. Holmes’ eyes were full of concern, but he did not move.

“That old... lizard,” Violet managed to say.

Michelle went to her. “The girl has a fever. She should be in bed. Violet?” She seized her arms and felt the violent trembling. “Oh, my dear—it will be all right. Do not...”

“What if she is sick?” A ghastly smiled appeared on Violet’s face. “She must continue to work. She must stand and curtsy. She must... As if she were a machine—as if she were not even alive! They must smile and bow and scrape and serve us like slaves, and if they make the least bit of unpleasantness, they must be thrown out on the street without references and made to starve and suffer.” Her voice was raw with rage. “Of course they are not real people. They are only animals—only insects—grubs.”

Michelle’s big hands gripped Violet’s shoulders. “ Stop it .” Violet’s brown eyes lost some of their wildness.

“You must not let them upset you so. Let’s go for a walk. The air will do us all good.”

Violet nodded. Tears seeped from her eyes, but she rubbed angrily at them. “Oh, yes—let’s do that. Let’s get outside.” She was still trembling.

Michelle had her by the arm. “We shall get our coats and some comfortable shoes. And we must put Gertrude to bed.”

Gertrude was crying and coughing. “Oh, I mustn’t.”

“You will!” Violet exclaimed. “By God, you will.”

She and Michelle led Gertrude out of the room. Michelle turned to me. “Meet us downstairs.”

I nodded. Holmes’ face was pale, his gray eyes showing anger and concern. “He is a foul old serpent,” I said, “full of poison. No wonder Donald does not like working for him.”

Holmes stared at me. “He told you so?”

“On our walk yesterday.”

“Indeed? I want to hear about this walk, but I must change my clothes. If you would care to accompany me?” I told him about our talk near the pond while he changed from a frock coat and striped trousers to a Norfolk suit. At one point I hesitated, then mentioned Wheelwright’s saying I was a lucky man. Holmes smiled.