Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

At about three, I grew restless. I set down my book, stretched, and then stood up. “Would you like to go outside for a while? If you do not feel up to walking, we could bundle up and sit on the balcony.”

Violet smiled weakly. “Like all the tubercular patients at the inn. I saw them the afternoon we arrived. They appeared so sad, all of them: flushed, yet ill, wrapped in scarves, bundled in mittens and hats and coats and blankets, all of them waiting to die. No, it is too cold for me even when I bundle up, and the sun hurts my eyes. It makes my head ache.”

“But I have some dark glasses.”

She shook her head. “No. It is too cold and too bright.”

It might make you feel better, I wanted to add. “It seems foolish to have come all this way to the beautiful sunny Alps and then to spend the days indoors before the fire.” I could not keep the irritation from my voice.

She sighed and lowered her gaze. “Perhaps later I shall go out.”

“Perhaps later I shall drag you out.”

She looked up, and for an instant her lips formed the mocking smile that I had not seen for so long. “I do not doubt it.”

No sooner had I picked up my heavy and tedious book, than I heard a rap at the front door. “Who can that be?” Violet did not much care. She continued staring into the fire, lost in some dark reverie. I frowned, then rose and left the sitting room.

Framed in the doorway, against the brilliant exterior light, was a familiar silhouette, a tall form in a black greatcoat and top hat.

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed. I strode forward. “Oh, at last!”

Gertrude gave me a puzzled glance, then said, “Won’t you please come in now, sir?”

Holmes’ eyes searched the room, his nostrils flaring, and then he released his breath in a great white cloud of vapor. He seemed frozen at the entrance. He was very pale, and the brilliant light emphasized his pallor. Dressed all in black, he resembled some type of night creature, some cave dweller, caught in the unaccustomed brightness of day.

“Do come in,” I said.

He thrust forward his leg in the dark wool and his black boot, then crossed the threshold. “ Lasciate ogni speranza ,” he mumbled to himself. He tried to smile. “I... I had to come.”

“It took you long enough! But I am glad you did. Violet will be happy to see you.”

He took off his hat and gripped the brim with his long fingers in the black leather gloves. Despite his smile, his gray eyes swept anxiously about the room.

“Perhaps you can cheer her up. She is so despondent. And it is wonderful to see you. I... I’m sorry about last time.” I took his arm. The muscle was hard and stiff. “Violet needs all the friends she can get. She would never admit it, but I know she was hurt that you would not see her.”

Holmes’ lips drew back. “It was never my intention to be unkind. I may on occasion be curt, blunt, or insensitive, but never deliberately cruel.”

I smiled. “Well, it is good you are here. You could obviously use some fresh air and sunshine yourself.”

“I shall not... I have some business in Geneva, and I thought I might stop on my way. My visit must be brief.”

Holmes was skilled at deception when he wished to be—when he was playing a part or uncovering some hidden fact—but that afternoon he did not seem to be trying very hard. He appeared almost ill, what with his pallor and the shadows under his eyes, and he was so thin. All in all, he, disturbingly, resembled Violet.

Still holding his arm, I started for the sitting room door. He moved reluctantly and quite slowly.

“You must promise me one thing,” I said. “You must not upset Violet. You must not be curt, blunt, or insensitive today.”

He stopped and gave a quick shake of his head. “Do you know me so little, Michelle?”

He seemed so hurt that I was sorry and immediately backtracked. “Of course I know you would not deliberately be cruel, but you must...” I smiled. “Today you must be charming.”

He made a frightful grimace. “I have never been charming in my life.”

I laughed. “Yes, you have, although it is a charm peculiar only to you. Oh, pay no attention to me, but do be gentle with Violet. She is sorry for what she has done, I can tell you that. Can you not...?” I paused before the door. “Oh Sherlock, can you ever forgive her?”

“Yes.”

I went through the doorway. “We have a visitor from London.”

Violet turned slowly and saw Holmes. Her eyes abruptly widened, her lips parting, a fierce energy animating her face. Holmes froze again. The two of them stared hungrily at each other, their inner passion revealed only for an instant, as if two suns had suddenly flared up in the confines of the small room. Violet bit at her lip. She lowered her gaze, her eyes desolate. Holmes had not moved, but seemed paler than before. I gave him a nudge, but he seemed made of stone and incapable of motion.

The vast silence which had filled the room made me uncomfortable.

“Henry has just stepped out. He should be back shortly. He will be glad to see you, Sherlock.” Sensing an opportunity, I added, “Perhaps I shall go and fetch him.”

That moved them, but not as I had hoped: The prospect of being alone together clearly terrified them. Holmes’ eyes had opened wide in disbelief, and Violet’s delicate, shapely hand gripped at the chair arm.

“You need not trouble yourself,” Holmes said weakly.

“Oh, very well.” I walked over to a chair near the fireplace and sat down. My moving seemed to stir Holmes. He slipped his top hat under his arm, then pulled off his gloves and put them in the hat.

Gertrude stepped into the room. “Let me take your things, Mr. Holmes.”

He nodded solemnly, handed her the hat, then took off his greatcoat. “Thank you, Gertrude.” He strode to the fire and rubbed his hands briskly before it. Neither Violet nor I could see his face.

“What’s the news from London?” I asked.

“Nothing of interest. The weather is even colder and drearier than when you left, the rain and fog unceasing. Good cheer for the New Year is difficult to come by. And there are no cases of particular merit, nothing to divert me now that...” He squared his shoulders, drew himself up, and then turned to face us. “And how are you faring, Mrs. Wheelwright?”

Violet shrugged. “As well as might be expected.” She would not look him in the eye.

“I hope you will soon be recovered.”

As soon as his words faded away, I sensed the all-encompassing silence lurking nearby. “I doubt,” I said, “that you have remained completely idle.”

“No, thank heavens. Ennui has always been the bane of my existence. Lestrade needed some help finishing up what he had bungled.” He had begun to pace, but he glanced warily at Violet. “I managed to dredge up Herbert’s diamond necklace. It cost him about a third of its purchase price to get it back, and now he has it up for sale.” He smiled. “This time it is safely stowed in the bank. Would it disturb you ladies greatly if I smoke a single cigarette?”

Violet shook her head. “It is a beastly habit,” I said, “but go ahead.”

He withdrew a cigarette from his case and struck a match. “There has been work to do, but not enough, and nothing of real complexity. I have been...” He was pacing again. “Solving a challenging case is always satisfying, but the inevitable disappointment soon follows. The greater the challenge, the greater the disappointment. Rarely does anything of equal interest turn up. One is weary, one is restless, but there is little of merit to occupy the brain. Instead it continues to race on, to spin out lunatic reveries or veer off into odd, dark corners.”

Violet had raised her dark eyes and was staring intently at him.