Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Wheelwright made a choking noise. “You call me a... brute... a monster. Look at yourself, woman. Good God—look at yourself.”

Violet glared at him, fierce as ever, but the wild joy was gone. For the first time she appeared truly ugly, her face twisted and deranged by hatred. Holmes had been correct—it was all-consuming. It would devour and destroy her.

“You are the monster.” Wheelwright’s massive hands had begun to tremble. “You. You do not deserve...” Abruptly he lashed out and struck her across the face.

“Mr. Wheelwright!” Henry exclaimed.

I went over to her. She sat in the chair, but her entire body quivered under my hand. Holmes had also stepped forward, a resolute look in his eyes.

Violet’s mouth was bleeding, her laugh pained and sharp. “Go ahead—kill me and be done with it once and for all. Kill me—but don’t bully me ever again, you ugly freak.”

Wheelwright’s blue eyes no longer appeared human, and I crouched down, trying to shelter Violet with my arms. “Do not touch her.”

“You...” His eyes focused on me, along with his rage. “Meddling witch—keep out of this. All of you keep out of this!” he roared, and then his big hand caught me square in the chest, on the sternum, and sent me flying backward.

Violet screamed, “No!”

I landed hard on my backside, the breath knocked out of me. Henry rushed Wheelwright; I heard a sickening thud as the big man’s fist struck him. Henry half turned, toppled, and fell near me.

“Henry!” I cried. I went on my knees to him. “ Henry .” I touched his face; I saw the red mark on his chin and jaw that would become a bruise. I took his shoulders and shook him. “Oh, Henry.”

Holmes knelt beside me, his black frock coat spilling onto the floor, and touched Henry on the throat. “The blow has only stunned him.”

“Watch out!” I cried.

He had dropped his guard, and Wheelwright came at him, kicking out with his enormous boot. The revolver flew through the air; Holmes cried out and clutched at his hand. Wheelwright’s head swept back and forth, then he turned and yanked Violet up out of the chair by her arm. She screamed, the sound raw and strained. He hit her face again, twice, his big hand like a flat club.

“Stop it!” I shouted.

Holmes stepped past me and his thin arm in the black sleeve rose, his fist striking Donald Wheelwright on the side of the jaw. Holmes groaned from the impact. Wheelwright released Violet, and she collapsed at his feet. Wheelwright shook himself dully, his nostrils flaring. Holmes stepped back and raised his fists in a boxer’s stance.

Wheelwright’s breathing was labored, and he touched his chin with his fingertips. “You bastard. I’ve seen how you look at her. You were in on it all.” His eyes were half closed, ominous slits with blue slivers in them.

Sherlock was very pale. “That is nonsense—utter nonsense.”

Wheelwright’s hands formed fists. “So you want to box?” He rushed Holmes, a right jab thudding off his shoulder, and then he had him wrapped in his arms. Wheelwright staggered forward.

“Stop!” I cried. I glanced about. The Farnsworths had risen, but they were terrified and would be of no help.,

“Michelle.” Violet held out her hand to me. I helped her up. Her mouth was bleeding, her eye starting to swell. She swayed and I caught her.

Holmes writhed about, managing to slip one arm free. Wheelwright crashed him into the table, sending chess pieces flying. Sherlock’s long legs and shoes thrashed about. Wheelwright grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head twice against the wooden surface.

“He will kill him!” I cried. I let go of Violet and went to them.

Wheelwright was bent over Holmes, his huge hands wrapped about his throat. Holmes was unconscious from the blows to his head. His face was red, and Wheelwright’s thick ugly fingers were choking the life from him.

“Stop!” I shouted. “ Stop .” I pulled at Wheelwright’s arm, but I could not budge him. I struck him once with my fist, but it was as if I were a mosquito or fly, hardly worth his notice. He did resemble an animal: his mouth open, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, and that terrible, all-consuming rage in his eyes.

“Please!” I cried. “ Please —you are killing him! He did nothing—I swear he didn’t! Let him go!”

I do not think he even heard me. I glanced in desperation at the Farnsworths, but James appeared paralyzed, unable to move, while Abigail had hidden her face against him.

I heard a dull thud, and something splattered my face. Wheelwright’s jaw dropped, and his frame quivered. I looked about. This time I saw Violet’s arms swing around in a great arc, both hands holding the black poker from the fireplace, her own lips drawn back, teeth bared, her dark eyes raging. The poker again struck Wheelwright at the base of the skull. More blood flew, and this time he fell. The table collapsed, Holmes sliding off, and the two men lay unconscious on the floor.,

I knelt down and fumbled at Sherlock’s collar. I felt a pulse and could tell he was breathing. He would have a terrible bump at the back of his head. Wheelwright lay on his side. His eyes were open but blank, all the anger and hate and life gone from them.

“Oh, dear God,” I murmured. I tried to turn him, but I could not move him. I felt at his throat but could find no pulse. I used both hands to pull at his arm, and he flopped onto his back. I opened his jacket and put my ear against his chest. My own heart was throbbing, but all was silent.

With a sigh I rose onto my knees. “He is dead.” I looked up at Violet. “He is dead, Violet.”

She gave a sharp terrible laugh and let the poker fall. “Oh, good,” she said. “Oh, good. ” She laughed again, then bit savagely at her hand and staggered back.

I stood slowly. “That part of the brain controls unconscious functions like respiration and the heartbeat. The first blow must have been mortal.” My words sounded strange, curiously remote. “I cannot believe it.” I touched my face and felt something damp. Glancing down, I realized blood had splattered my yellow silk dress, my fancy dress, which I had worn since yesterday afternoon.

Someone began to cry loudly—Miss Farnsworth. She was on the sofa, her face in her hands. Her brother tried to comfort her. Violet made a pained noise, something between a laugh and a sob. She bent over and picked up the revolver, which her husband had kicked from Holmes’ hand. “I did not even see this.” She put her left hand over her bloody mouth while her right held the revolver, the barrel pointed at the floor.

“Violet, we must get away from here at once,” Farnsworth said. “There is not an instant to lose.”

Violet looked at me. She said, “Go ahead and leave. I always meant to give my share to the Angels. I am staying here. It does not matter now.”

Farnsworth shook his head. “Are you mad? There is over half a million pounds. You said you wanted to be free. This is your chance. Come.”

She shook her head. “No.” She laughed. “I can never be free now.” She stared down at Wheelwright’s corpse.

Abigail Farnsworth rose, but she appeared weak. “Please come, Violet—before it is too late.”

“ No .”

Farnsworth stared at Violet. “We cannot leave you here. You could be tried for murder.”

“No!” I said. “It was—he was killing Sherlock—he would have killed him.”

Farnsworth gave a pained smile. “I would not want to argue the point with the police.” He slowly approached Violet. “You must come with us—you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

His sister nodded. “Yes, Violet. We have accomplished all that we intended. The wretched men got what they deserved—all of them.”