The Web Weaver

She swayed briefly, and I seized her shoulders with both hands. I was accustomed to Michelle, and by contrast, there seemed almost nothing to this girl. I doubt she weighed more than eighty pounds. Perhaps she was consumptive. “Sherlock!” I exclaimed. “Be merciful—she is only a child.”

“She is no child, and she was hardly merciful to Lord Harrington. Now get me that note.”

She drew in her breath, and I released her. Her eyes still glistened with tears. “Thank you,” she mumbled. She walked over to a bureau, opened the bottom drawer, dug around a bit, and then withdrew a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Sherlock.

“Please sit down,” he said.

She collapsed into the chair and began to weep in earnest. Sherlock opened the note. I stood behind him where I could read it. The writing was very small and filled the entire page.

My dear Harriet,

When you read this, I shall be no more. Forgive me, my dearest, but my life has become such an agony that I can no longer bear it. This seems the only way out, the only honorable refuge after so dishonoring you, myself, and my friends.

Should anyone approach you after my death with stories about my baseness, know that in my heart of hearts, I have loved you and you alone. I have been weak; I have been heir to the sins of the flesh that so beset Adam’s descendants; but you have always been my inspiration, a beacon of light and virtue shining through in all this wretched darkness. Words cannot convey the disgust I feel toward myself for my actions. I cannot explain why a man with a wife such as you would fall into the mire. The weakness is mine and mine alone. Do not blame yourself, my darling. I bear sole responsibility. Had I been stronger, had I not erred at an early age, perhaps I could have resisted the devil, but I could never forbear wicked pleasures. Now I pay the price for my worldly sins. If only I had followed my angel, none of this would ever have happened. No one else ever meant anything to me. Always remember, my dearest wife, that you and you alone were the one true love of my life.

As for my friends, I hope they too can forgive me, for I fear I have let loose a devil amongst them. This demon took advantage of my weaknesses. He made me a fortune, knowing full well he meant to reclaim it, and he introduced me to the harlot who would ensure my downfall. I cannot be certain, but I believe he is planning the general ruin of others. Denounce ________ my dearest. The children of Israel are known for their rapaciousness, but no Jew exults so in the destruction of their victims. It is all money with them. Not so with this ghoul, this vampire: he most desires blood, not money. Warn the others to have a care. He and that gypsy must truly be infernal agents. I can fight them and my own weak nature no longer. I pray that some day the Almighty and you, my dearest, will forgive me.

With all my love,

Joseph

I shook my head. “The poor, tortured devil.”

Holmes had finished reading before I had. His lips twisted. “His brother was correct about his being long- winded. Little wonder he could not accept a note which said merely, ‘I cannot go on.’”

I shook my head. “Have you no heart at all?”

“I have heart enough, but my brain grows weary with human stupidity. All these professions of love—what good are they coming from a dead man? If he loved his wife so much, why did he not live? These pathetic, trite scrawlings are small consolation indeed.” He turned to the girl weeping on the chair. “We are nearly finished, Miss Morris, but you must honestly answer a few questions first. You had decided to blackmail him, had you not?”

She raised her head. Her eyes were red, and her nose was running. She sniffled and wiped at her face with her sleeve. “It wasn’t my idea! They told me to do it. How was I to know ’e’d kill himself?” Her hysteria had weakened her studied articulation.

“Who are ‘they’? Your aunt?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, and her friends. The Angels.”

Holmes frowned slightly, his gray eyes suddenly hot. “Angels? Of the Lord?”

She nodded again. “I didn’t want to do it. He was always a nice enough sort. Peculiar if you take my meaning, but harmless. Half the time he didn’t want to do nothing but stare at me. They said we could retire on the money, and so we shall.”

“How much did you ask for?”

She licked her lips. “Five thousand pounds.”

“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “And he gave it to you?”

She nodded, then her mouth twitched, and she sobbed once. “Why’d he have to do it right when I was there? Why? I didn’t mean no harm. He gave me the five thousand, then called me devil and ’ore. He had a razor, and I thought for sure he’d murder me, but he opened up ’is own throat instead. Oh God, there was so much blood! And he was choking terrible and...” She covered her face with her hands and wept loudly.

Holmes ran his long fingers up his forehead and through his oily black hair. “Yes, it is all perfectly clear. You came to collect the money, and perhaps to threaten him and ask for more.” She shook her head wildly. “Regardless, he knew you and auntie would never let go once you had your talons in him. He paid you off, then cut his own throat. You may have been upset, but you retained enough presence of mind to take this note, then scrawl ‘I cannot go on’ upon a piece of his stationery. Afterwards you fled the house.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Very well, Miss Morris. One last thing. You must tell me whose name has been scratched out on the note.”

She raised her face. Her eyes were all puffy, and she looked even younger than twenty. She was genuinely surprised. “Scratched out?”

Holmes stood up and approached the chair. She scrunched down. He thrust a finger at the paper. “Here.”

“But I didn’t do that. It was Auntie. She said we might sell the note later.”

“What was the name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Holmes gave a great sigh, folded the note and put it in an inner pocket of his jacket. “I honestly do not want to turn you over to the police.”

This brought on a renewed outburst; she covered her face again, sobs shaking her slight frame.

“Sherlock, do not bully her. She is already frightened half to death.”

He glared angrily at me. “I must have the name. Compose yourself, Miss Morris.”

“I cannot remember! Oh God, I would tell you if I could!”

I shook my head at Holmes. “You have her so upset she can hardly think.” I walked over and put my hand on her shoulder. “Now then, Miss Morris, please calm yourself—please. We are going soon, and we will not harm you. Think, though, can you not recall the name? Please try.”

She gazed up at me, and I felt an inner pang. Perhaps I am a weakling, but I cannot bear to see a woman suffer. “I... I cannot remember it. Auntie will be very angry with me if...”

“She need not know. Please try to remember.”

She stared at me; she did seem calmer. “Turnford?” she murmured. “Turn? Or something like it. Stuh...”

Blows rained upon the door, and she clutched at my arm, wincing in terror. “Do not let them take me!”

“Open this door!” The old woman’s immense lungs made her voice boom, and I recalled the wolf in the fairy story who could blow down doors. “Your ten minutes is up!”

Holmes sighed and withdrew his revolver. Miss Morris squeezed my arm more fiercely. “Do not murder me!”

“He will not hurt you.”

Another blow made the door shudder in its hinges. “Open, I say!”

“One minute, madam,” Holmes shouted. “Turn the key, Henry, and then retreat as quickly as you can.”

I glanced down at the girl, then slipped my hand inside my coat and pulled out one of my cards. “You need to get away from that old monster. My wife and I can give you refuge. By now you must know that you have chosen wrongly.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes.”

I gave her the card, and then gently pried her hand loose from my arm. “You are very young. It is not yet too late.”