Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Michelle took Violet by the arm. “Show me,” she said.

Violet slowly opened her hand, revealing the three bloody marks on her bare shoulder. “Merciful God,” Collins muttered.

“Who did this?” Michelle asked.

Violet stared past her at Donald Wheelwright, his tall form rising above all the others.

“The gypsy,” Violet whispered. “It was the gypsy.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Lovejoy. “Not here .”

“She was at the door, calling to me, beckoning to me. When I stepped outside, she grabbed me. She was... so strong.” Violet stared into the darkness like a woman possessed; I do not think she saw any of us. “‘Now I’ve got you,’ she said. She dragged me away, and I fought her, but she was too strong. She pulled me here, and then I heard someone call my name. She was angry. Her eyes were red and glowing. Her fingers were like claws with long ugly nails. She... she scratched me.” Violet’s breath caught; she almost choked and began to weep. “It hurts—it hurt me so.”

Donald Wheelwright stared dully at her, his eyes wider open than usual. His mouth twitched to the right.

Michelle put her arm about Violet. “We must get you inside. It’s freezing, and I shall treat the wound.”

“You won’t hurt me?” Violet sounded suddenly like a child.

“Of course I shan’t hurt you.”

Wheelwright folded his arms. “Mr. Holmes, you are off the case.”

Holmes stared at him, but said nothing.

Violet bared her teeth briefly like a dog. “He has done a better job protecting me than you ever have!”

Wheelwright thrust his jaw forward and lowered his big hands. He turned again to Holmes. “You are to leave. Immediately.”

Violet laughed harshly. “You cannot just send him off into a blizzard! You cannot!” Michelle had to hold her back. As if to reinforce her words, a sudden gust blew snow into our faces.

“I’ll do whatever I want. He can leave—they can all leave.”

“But you cannot!”

“Mr. Wheelwright.” Holmes’ voice was loud, but restrained. “This is your home, and should you wish us to leave, that is surely your prerogative. I can well understand your frustration. This is the most baffling case I have ever encountered.”

“But, Sherlock...!” I began angrily, aware of all he had discovered about the Lovejoys.

“Please do not interrupt, Henry. As I was saying, Mr. Wheelwright, I shall gladly leave, but I respectfully request that you let me remain until the morrow. I would like to have a look about. Then too, I would not care to face the road on such a foul night. All I ask for is simple courtesy. I shall leave first thing in the morning.”

Wheelwright drew in his breath. “Oh, very well.”

Violet laughed, then said sarcastically, “‘Very well’?”

Holmes turned to her. “Please remain silent, madam. You are not well.”

Wheelwright shivered and clutched at his arms. “I wouldn’t put a dog out on a night like this. But I want you gone in the morning. All of you.” His gaze encompassed Michelle and me. “I’ll have my house to myself at last.”

“Certainly,” I said, relieved.

Michelle glared up at Wheelwright, her arm still about Violet. “But I am her physician.”

Wheelwright shook his head. “I don’t care about that. She isn’t dying. We’ll be back in London soon. No point in staying here now. It doesn’t seem to much matter where we are.” Fear had crept into his voice. He turned and stalked back toward the house.

“For God’s sake,” I said. “Let’s all get inside before we freeze solid.”

We started up the path, the snowflakes stinging our cheeks, the gravel faintly slippery from the snow. Violet began to cry, softly at first, then in great sobs. Even Michelle could not comfort her.

We went in the front door, and the calm and warmth were a relief. Michelle led Violet upstairs to the great hall. Holmes took Collins by the arm. “I shall need a lantern, possibly two of them. Bring them back here in about five minutes.”

“I’ll see to it, sir.”

“Wait, Henry.”

Sherlock and I were alone in the alcove, the feeble light from the great hall up the stairs spilling out near our feet. Holmes had blood on his formal clothes, vivid red splotches on the white shirt—Violet’s blood.

From above we heard old Wheelwright’s shrill voice. “Outrageous— outrageous —I’ll not stay a minute longer in this madhouse, not a minute longer!”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Would you help me search the grounds?”

“ Now? ” My dismay was obvious.

“Yes. The snow will soon hide everything; we must get to work at once.”

“But what...?

“On the other side of the stone wall where we found Violet is a tangled slope of vegetation—ferns, rhododendrons, and other growth. I want to have a good look about.”

A sudden dread caught at my throat. “The gypsy! You do not think...?”

His laugh was harsh. “No, it is not the gypsy we seek. Get your overcoat, a hat, gloves, and some decent shoes, and meet me back here.”

“But what are we looking for?”

When he told me, I thought he was joking.

It was cold, dark, and snowy when we went back outside, a regular blizzard commencing. As we trampled about in the brush, lanterns in hand, I wondered if the strain had finally been too much for my cousin. I managed to thwack myself in the face with a rhododendron branch and was ready to go back inside, but I decided to humor him. We had been out for about forty minutes when he stumbled across exactly what he had told me we were searching for.

Fifteen

Icould do nothing with Violet. I thought it might help once we were alone together, but she continued to weep loudly. “Can you tell me anything?” I asked. She said something about being lost. I could understand how frightened she must have been.

Because Gertrude was ill, another maid had joined me, a girl only a little older, whose name was Daisy. She was so upset that she was of little help. Violet’s shoulder was a bloody mess, her lovely dress ruined.

At last I managed, with Daisy’s feeble assistance, to remove the dress. Daisy choked out “Lord” and turned away. I gave my head a shake. Violet’s slender throat still had those ghastly handprint bruises, their color now dark and purplish, and her left shoulder was torn open, the cuts beginning in back, coming all the way over the shoulder and extending to the pectoral muscle above the breast. Gently I bathed the wound with hot soapy water. Bad scratch marks I had seen before, but these appeared too narrow and deep to have been made by fingernails. Perhaps they should be stitched up, especially the center one, but I was uneasy about anesthetizing Violet and working on her. Certainly they needed to be disinfected, but that would sting badly. “You won’t hurt me?” Violet had pleaded. I considered asking Henry to care for her.

The tears continued to flow from Violet’s eyes, but she seemed somehow calmer.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I should put something on those cuts, but it will hurt.”

“Oh, go ahead if you must.” Her mouth formed an ugly smile. “I deserve it.”

“Do not say such things!”

I was genuinely angry, and it sobered her. “Go ahead then.”

“Perhaps I shall ask Henry.”

“I’d rather you did it. Just get it over with.”

I drew in my breath, doused a clean cloth from my bag with an iodine solution, and then said: “Hold on.”

The muscles of her arm went rigid, and she moaned through clenched teeth. Involuntarily she tried to pull free of me, but I had her firmly in my grasp. I worked as quickly as I could. When I was finished she began to tremble, her thin arm quaking. I put some gauze over the cuts and taped it in place. My hands were steady, but I felt terrible.