Sam Siciliano - The Web Weaver

Violet raised a gloved finger and pointed. “I would not touch it,” she muttered, “let alone eat it.”

At last we came to our destination. Above the ornate facade of the first floor were metal letters a good three feet tall, SIMPSON’S, and alongside, only slightly smaller, TAVERN & DIVAN. The carriage door swung open and Collins helped us down. A blustery wet wind wound its way through the people and carriages, knocking a hat or bonnet astray here and there.

“Give us two hours, Collins. I am sure you and Blaylock would like to take some refreshments yourself.”

Collins grin blossomed as he tipped his top hat. “Yes, ma’am!”

Simpson’s was warm inside and brightly lit. Violet walked past some waiting people to an oaken counter. Although her height was only about five foot two or three inches, a half-foot shorter than I, she seemed to feel tall. The authoritative man behind the counter had an enormous mustache and a completely hairless head, its dome glowing under the lights.

“Good evening, Oswald. We are ravenous. Can you seat us soon?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Wheelwright. And Mr. Wheelwright?”

“He should be along shortly, if he is not detained.”

Fetched by Oswald’s nod, a waiter in a black suit appeared. “Give them a table on the second floor,” Oswald said.

Violet gave him a radiant smile, which breached his stern exterior. “Thank you very much.”

I frowned. “I thought you said Donald had a meeting to attend.”

Violet smiled halfway up the stairs. “He does.”

The dining room upstairs was quieter, but no less spacious and inviting. Chandeliers with gas-lit globes hung from the ceiling; spotless linen, sparkling silver, and glasses were at every table. The quiet murmur of voices and utensils in action was pleasant after the noisy street.

The waiter gestured at a table. “May I take your coats, ladies?”

It was quite warm, and I nodded.

“Certainly,” Violet said, turning her back to the waiter.

I stiffened, then suddenly lunged for Violet’s coat, seizing the lapels even as the waiter tried to slip it off. “No!” I exclaimed. Violet looked as if she doubted my sanity. I mouthed the words “your dress!”

She tipped her head back. “Ah.” She turned away from the waiter who was staring at us. “I am rather cold, after all, but my friend has a robust constitution. You may take her coat.”

“Oh, I shall wear mine, too.”

“Do not be foolish, Michelle.”

The waiter approached hesitantly, waiting to see if I would again change my mind, then helped me out of my coat. He seated first Violet, then me, and set a menu before each of us. “I’ll be back in a moment ladies.”

“We know what we want,” Violet said, glancing at me. I nodded.

“Very well, ladies.” He took out a small notepad.

Violet pushed the menu aside. “I shall have the large roast beef special, rare.”

The waiter’s forehead creased. “The large, madam?”

“Yes. I have a tapeworm and must eat for two.” She said this so seriously I could not repress a laugh. I covered my mouth.

“And you, madam?”

“The regular roast beef, well done—preferably an end piece.”

“And I would like a pint of the house stout,” Violet said.

Usually I drink claret with roast beef, but I said, resolutely, “And I shall have the same.”

The waiter’s forehead wrinkled again. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded and fled. Another laugh slipped from my mouth. An elderly couple at the table next to ours regarded us warily.

Violet placed one hand graciously over the other. “Why, Michelle, whatever is the matter?”

“I had no idea dining at Simpson’s with you would be such an adventure!”

Violet smiled, and took a sip from her water glass. “I must confess to feeling rather silly. Donald is always so stuffy when we dine out. While the cat’s away, as they say.”

“You seem to have recovered from your faint. You gave me something of a scare.”

Violet’s smile withered. “Oh, that. I was such an idiot. I do not approve of fainting.”

“I am glad you feel better.” I took a bite of a bread roll. “Oh, I am starving.”

Our waiter reappeared, set two large glasses of stout on the white tablecloth, and again fled. Violet took a hearty swallow, while I sipped. The liquid was almost black. “It is very... substantial,” I said.

Violet took another swallow. “I like stout. My father and I used to drink beer together.”

“Your father?”

“Yes. We used to drink beer together because Oxford dons and their daughters are not supposed to drink beer.” She took a roll from the basket. “Thank you for coming with me.” Again she smiled, but then, as she looked about, the corners of her mouth fell. “I fear we are not to banish men this evening after all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your husband was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, and now he and another man who somewhat resembles a human ferret are headed our way.”

I turned and saw Henry approaching, Sherlock Holmes behind him. Henry seemed amused, and I wondered how long he had been watching us. Sherlock appeared thinner than I recalled, his gray eyes curiously wary, his mouth stiff.

I smiled at Henry and briefly took his hand. “Here I was, thinking you were at home starving to death or eating cold and greasy mutton.”

“Sherlock invited me to dine with him. We have just finished and were enjoying the amusing spectacle of the two of you being seated. You seem to be having a splendid time. Perhaps we should be leaving—we don’t wish to intrude upon your meal.”

Holmes nodded brusquely. “Yes, this is obviously meant to be a festive evening, one reserved for the female of the species.”

Violet was surprised. She stared up at them, reflected for a moment, and then smiled. “Oh, do sit down for a moment.” She laughed. “I am not an utter churl. I shall give you five minutes or so, and then you will be banished.”

I put my hand on Henry’s arm. “You know my husband, Henry. This is his cousin, Sherlock Holmes.”

Violet dropped her roll, and her nostrils flared. “ The Sherlock Holmes?”

Obviously pleased, Holmes bowed from the waist. “The same.”

“This is my friend, Mrs. Violet Wheelwright.”

Holmes nodded, his eyes fixed on her. His nostrils also flared. He pulled the chair out, sat, and crossed his legs.

Violet tore a small piece from her roll. “I have followed all your exploits with great interest, Mr. Holmes.”

“Indeed? Then I must warn you that Watson’s narratives are mostly fiction.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear it. I feared we were in for some tedious deduction.”

Holmes’ dark eyebrows rose. “Tedious deduction?”

“I must confess I find all the deductions less than convincing. No doubt that is the fictional part to which you refer.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “That is the only part he has right.”

“Oh dear, then I suppose we are in for some deducing. You will no doubt know where Michelle and I have been, on account of the unusual mud on my skirt.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched briefly into a smile. “You are skeptical of the art of deduction?”

Violet put another piece of bread in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Moderately skeptical.”

Henry toyed with the end of his mustache. “Have a care, Violet. You are hurling down the gauntlet.”

Holmes shook his head gravely. “No, no, good taste forbids.”

Violet gave him a quizzical look. “Good taste?”