Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Holmes and Violet stopped abruptly. A squirrel ahead of us on the path dug about and produced an acorn. He glanced up and sprang to the nearest oak, running around and up the massive trunk. The tiny head with the acorn in its mouth stared warily at us.

Violet laughed, then resumed walking, her hand still holding Sherlock’s arm. “That squirrel reminds me of a time I went walking with my father long ago, oh so long ago.” She was briefly silent. “Somehow... something about you reminds me of him.”

“I fear,” Holmes said, “that I know more about footprints, bloodstains, and tobacco ash than flora and fauna.”

“Oh, but it is the same love of minutiae in either case. A walk with him could be tedious, a kind of school lesson. He would be telling me the name of that moss there and what side of the tree it typically grows on. His specialty, however, was spiders—or beetles, rather. He knew everything about them both. Oh, and he was a very good chess player. He taught me the game.”

“Ah—then, he was a very good chess player indeed.”

She laughed. “I remember the first time I beat him. I was only about twelve years old, and I think he was even more surprised than you were.” She was silent again. “I took up with Donald shortly after he died. I must have been truly desperate.” A hint of sarcasm had crept into her voice. “I do miss him—my father, that is. Not every day, but often. Is it not odd—how you can still miss someone after almost ten years? How can you still love someone after all that time? If you truly love someone, you cannot ever stop, while if you have never loved someone...” Her voice broke. “Forgive me—I—I’m being so foolish today. I cannot understand...”

“Your feelings for your father do you credit,” Holmes said. “I am certain he was a worthy man.”

We were behind Violet and could not see her face; she made a sound between a laugh and a sob. “There are so few.”

The path came out at the same pond Donald Wheelwright and I had visited the day before. I recognized the gigantic oak, but the crows were gone that day.

“What a lovely spot!” Michelle let go of my arm and looked about. “A perfect place for our picnic. Is anyone else hungry?”

Sherlock and Violet stared at her curiously, too polite to say no. I laughed.

“Michelle is not a woman of delicate appetites.” I squeezed her shoulder, then set the basket on a tree stump and opened it.

Michelle blushed. “If no one else is hungry...”

“But I do not like women of delicate appetites,” I said. “There are very good-looking sandwiches here. Ham and cheese, or boiled beef and mustard.”

“Nor do I,” Violet said. “I shall have ham and cheese.”

We divided up the sandwiches. The cook in her wisdom had also packed four bottles of beer (which explained the basket’s weight). We sat—Michelle and I sharing one stump, Violet and Holmes another—ate our sandwiches and drank our beer. There were pippin apples and russet pears for dessert. I cut them into quarters and passed them out.

When we had finished, Violet put her hand over her mouth and fought back a yawn. Her gloves lay on the ground; her skin was white, her fingers thin and delicate. “I am so very tired. I could lie down here and sleep for the rest of the afternoon.”

“So could I,” Michelle said.

Holmes smiled. He had removed his hat and the sun gleamed off his high forehead and black, oily hair. “Does Morpheus also beckon to you, Henry, or does he only tempt the gentle sex?”

“Having slept until nearly ten, I am immune to his charms.”

Violet had scrunched up her nose at the phrase “gentle sex,” but she again covered her mouth and suppressed a yawn. “This is a lovely, lovely place, and the picnic was a wonderful idea, Michelle. Thank you so much.”

Michelle smiled. “You’re quite welcome.” The intensity of Violet’s gratitude left her puzzled.

“I only wish it could last forever—that we could stop time at this instant.”

Holmes smiled.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I fear we would grow frightfully bored.”

“But we would also be frozen.”

“Then why bother—what would be the point?”

Violet gave him a mocking smile. “I see you insist on being logical and literal. It is so splendidly beautiful here, and I am enjoying your company so much—all three of you. It is nice not to have to pretend, not to have to work at being a fine lady, and... Oh, I suppose it is only because I do not want to go back—not ever—it is so perfect!” She clenched her fists and said this rather fiercely. “Forgive me, but my life is such a nightmare, and I feel as if—for once—I am awake. Only it cannot last. The nightmare will return.” Her face had grown flushed, and her eyes had an unhealthy gleam.

“Oh, Violet,” Michelle said. “Is it truly so terrible for you? I cannot... I cannot understand.”

Violet laughed—a pained, hollow sound. “No, you cannot. It is all one rather ghastly dream everywhere I look. There is my life with Donald: people always watching me—all those servants—and then our whole dreadful social set. The business with the spider cake has one good side: I may never have to give another dinner party! Who would come? All that planning and arranging; all the pretentious menus and food; all that polishing and cleaning—so that a few vicious, rich, ugly people can meet and compare jewels and finery. The men smoke and boast, the women gossip and titter. It is all so banal—so petty—their minds so hopelessly trivial and polluted.”

We had grown very still, but she hardly seemed to see us. “But I have no right to complain. There are all those others—the poor, the sick, the miserable—the great mass of London that we see at the clinic and on your rounds, Michelle. For every woman in her fine gown and jewels, there are a thousand malnourished wretches in rags. Families living in rat holes too dark and filthy for animals—for rats, even!” She laughed. “Then there are the lucky ones with jobs, the masses who slave in the factories day after day for a miserable pittance, or people like the woman who drugged her own babe to keep him silent so she could do her sewing work. Do you recall, Michelle?” Her dark eyes burned. “Do you?”

Michelle nodded. Her eyes were full of tears.

“Poisoning her own baby to keep it quiet. And then there are all the thieves, and our miserable prisons, and the workhouses. Their humanity has been taken from them. We treat them worse than slaves. ‘Lax, lax!’” She laughed savagely. “They call this the greatest nation on earth. They speak of evolution, progress, and survival of the fittest. They boast so, and it is only a cesspool, a filthy cesspool.

“Oh, but I must not forget the whores.” She rose slowly to her feet. “All the whores—old or young; fat or thin; inexpensive or very dear; male or female—someone for every taste, every appetite. No act is too vile or disgusting that you cannot pay...” She choked off her words and clenched her fists. “Lord Harrington, the great Lord Harrington, had his little whore—they all do, every one of them! That is why it is all part of the same nightmare—all the same—all the same!”

Michelle groaned and hid her face against my shoulder. I put my hand on her hair. “Don’t,” I said both to her and Violet.

Violet put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, God—oh...” She bit into her hand so hard I thought she would draw blood, but Holmes yanked her hand away. She stared up at him.

“One can always find reason to despair. One can always transfer the inner darkness to the outside.”

Some of the fury went out of her eyes, and she grew pale. “But it is so dreadful.”

“Of course it is. Men do have a great capacity for evil. At least we no longer hang a man for stealing a loaf of bread. Nor do we cut off his right hand.”