The Web Weaver

One

On a cool rainy afternoon in early October I decided to pay a visit to my cousin Sherlock Holmes. Having just visited an ailing patient who lived near 221B Baker Street, I was dressed most formally in a black frock coat and top hat, my medical bag held in my left hand, my umbrella in my right hand.

The long-suffering Mrs. Hudson smiled when she saw me. “Good day, Dr. Vernier. Please come in. Mr. Holmes has never been... tidy, but brace yourself.”

The thick, sweet odor of pipe tobacco filled the room, and the disorder was monumental, even worse than usual. Some problem must be under consideration. Stacks of newspapers and books covered nearly every surface, volumes large and small. Holmes himself sat on the sofa, pipe in hand, his gray eyes frowning down at the massive tome upon his lap. He wore his favorite dressing gown, an ancient one of faded purple wool.

“One moment only, Henry, and then I shall attend you.”

I nodded, then gave Mrs. Hudson a sympathetic smile as she took my hat and coat. A coal fire was going, and I stretched out my hands to warm them. I glanced at Holmes’ desk, stepped closer, and noticed that the newspaper was a notorious scandal sheet.

My eyes caught the merest suggestion of movement. Oddly enough, one end of the desk had been left clear, and a fly was buzzing faintly and trying to move across a triangular-shaped, opaque surface, which I soon discovered was a web. A spider appeared and ran down from the corner of the web and seized the fly, which buzzed more loudly and tried, in vain, to escape.

“Good Lord,” I murmured, taking a step back. I did not much care for insects and spiders. I wondered if it would be permissible to roll up one of the newspapers... “Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson has been remiss in her duties— there is a filthy spider on your desk.”

“Do not disturb her.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“No. The spider.”

“The spider? But surely...?”

Holmes slammed his book shut loudly. “Very well, Henry. You have my attention.” He stood and walked over to the desk. He seemed paler and thinner than the last time I had seen him. He withdrew a magnifying class from a niche in the desk and bent to peer at the spider. The frantic buzzing of the fly had begun to subside. “She has him nearly bound. Would you care to have a look?”

“No, thank you. I do not much care for spiders.”

“That is unfortunate. They are remarkable creatures.”

“Perhaps. How long has that one been there?”

Holmes drew in on his pipe and rubbed thoughtfully at his chin with the fingertips of his left hand. “Almost a year.”

“Almost a year?”

A smile pulled at his lips. “You seem to doubt your hearing today. It has been a battle royal. Mrs. Hudson has most definitely not been remiss in her duties. She takes this innocent creature here to be the very symbol of the encroaching filth that God put women such as her on this earth to destroy. Our war, too, has lasted over a year. At first she asked me daily if she could not remove the vermin. Despite my instructions, I think she would have killed the spider long ago had I not threatened to seek other lodgings should she do so. I have told her that other spiders are fair game to her broom or dust mop, all save this one.” My perplexed expression made him laugh. “Come, Henry—have you never had a pet?”

“You know we have Victoria.” Victoria was our cat whom Michelle had most irreverently named.

“Then consider this small carnivore my pet. She is a prime specimen of tegenaria civilis, the common British house spider. She is a lady of great courage and determination, as well she must be to survive the undeserved hatred and abomination of the female of our species.”

“Not only the female!”

“As a physician, you should know that the fly is the great enemy of mankind. The fly is the carrier of infection and disease. The spider is our ally. Do have a look at her.”

Unenthusiastically I took the glass. The spider seemed immense, small hairs coverings its legs, spots covering its back. The fly was half smothered in silk, yet it still shook periodically, and I heard a faint buzz.

“Disgusting.” I set down the glass and turned away from the desk, hoping to steer us away from the spider.

Holmes smiled briefly. “I had no idea you were so fond of flies.”

“I am not fond of flies!”

This made him laugh. “Come, let us sit down. You need not watch her devour her prey.” I sat in one of the armchairs near the fire, while Holmes took the other and crossed his legs. “You look the very model of a prosperous physician today, Henry. And how is Michelle?”

“Now there you have the prosperous physician. Luckily avarice is stronger in my disposition than male pride. Her practice is thriving, and she makes far more money than I. Several women of the upper class have discovered that they prefer a woman physician, and she has become quite the rage. She will soon have to begin turning away patients. Only last week she snared Lady Connely. Old Thurswell must be furious. He has preached against women doctors for years. To have his wealthiest patient snatched away by a female half his age... It is rather delightful.”

Holmes laughed. “Come, Henry, you make her sound like my friend tegenaria civilis with her fly. I am glad to hear you are both prospering. What of her work with the less fortunate?”

“She would turn away Lady Connely first. She has made a vow that for each rich patient she takes on, she will have a poor one in the balance. We both still work at the clinic weekly.”

“I wish all physicians shared your charitable sentiments.”

“And you, Sherlock—what is all this? It does seem a bit... messier than...” A gesture with my hand took in the books and papers scattered about.

“I have been working on a puzzle, a very curious one.” He sat back in the chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Tell me, Henry, did you ever read Watson’s story, The Final Problem?”

“Given your attitude toward his stories, I have always scrupulously avoided them. Is that not the one, however, where you die at the end?”

Holmes was amused. “Yes. At the Reichenbach Falls. And have you heard of Moriarty, Professor Moriarty?”

“No, I have not.”

“He is my arch-enemy, the Napoleon of crime, Watson has me calling him.”

“Does this Moriarty have any basis in reality?”

Holmes set down his pipe and leaned forward, his eyes suddenly bright. “Ah, that is the question—that is the puzzle. Even a week or two ago I would have told you he was a complete fiction. I would have been adamant. Watson’s stories to the contrary, most crimes and criminals are stupid. Only very rarely does a man of first-rate intelligence turn to crime. Most often we have only drunken ruffians or groups of them who bash in someone’s head, snatch a purse, or rob a bank. The true criminal genius is rare, and the notion of an evil mastermind behind the crime in London is a silly one. Watson has me comparing Moriarty to a huge spider at the center of an evil web sensing every motion, every criminal movement, in this great metropolis. Of course, I would never have come up with such an obviously preposterous metaphor.”

“Why preposterous?”

Holmes shook his head. “You know nothing about spiders either. Only a female spider can spin a web; only she sits waiting for her prey—and not necessarily at the center. If Moriarty were a woman, the metaphor might have made sense, but for a man, it is a foolish one.”

“Perhaps poetic license...”

“I do not take poetic license with the natural world! If Watson wished to make such an inane metaphor, he should have had it coming from his own mouth.” His face had grown quite red. “Pardon me. My irritation with