The Web Weaver

me some.

“Thank you.” I turned to Holmes. I did not want to look at the cake. In spite of myself, it set my insides crawling again. “Have you discovered anything?”

“Yes, but it is most frustrating. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort to humiliate me, and...”

“Humiliate you?”

His gray eyes showed anger, and he stubbed out the cigarette in a huge crystal ashtray. “Yes.” He pointed at the note from the cake. “This was meant for me as much as the Wheelwrights.”

“Could this person have known you would be present?”

Holmes gave an annoyed snort. “Do not be obtuse. Of course they did. This has all the marks of an inside job. I always considered the gypsy story ludicrous, and this is further confirmation. It should be one of the servants, but what servant would go to such ridiculous lengths? Someone has a peculiar sense of humor.”

“Humor?” I set down my coffee cup. “You call that humor?”

“It is very black humor, but humor all the same. Did it never strike you as amusing last night? To see the cream of London society, all those ladies and gentlemen in their finery, reduced to a hysterical mob, knocking furniture, glasses, and each other aside in their panic to escape? Once some time has passed and your own fears have dwindled, you will see the comical side.”

“I do not think so. You have a peculiar notion of the comical.”

He frowned. “You mistake me if you think I could ever condone such a thing. The people’s fear was all too genuine. Comical it may have been, but cruel, as well. It was not a trivial matter to pull off. We are dealing with a very clever and determined person. I simply cannot believe it was a mere servant. Have you given any thought as to how the spiders came to be placed in the cake?”

“I... I suppose someone in the kitchen...” Again my intestines seemed to writhe. “Yes, it must have been one of the cooks who...”

“But how would this person have placed live spiders inside of a cooked cake? It would have been quite a project. To begin with, many spiders were captured—this in a house reputed to be free of spiders. Then the entire center of the cake was hollowed out so that it resembled a tube cake. The spiders and the message were put inside, then the open center was covered with a circle of stiff paper and the whole thing frosted over. Such a cake would take considerable time to prepare, yet the cook and her assistants made the cake in the early afternoon, working together. It was placed in the pantry off the kitchen. They all swear the cake was a normal one. Once made, you could not easily tamper with such a cake; sabotaging it would be a difficult and messy business. So how did the spiders get into the cake?”

I frowned. “I had not thought... I do not know.” I could not repress a shudder.

“What is it, Henry?”

“I was thinking about someone trapping all those spiders, especially the big one. What a loathsome monster.”

“They were all harmless, Henry, and they too are to be pitied.”

“I hope you are joking!”

“Not at all. They were taken from their natural habitat, stuffed into a cake, and then most of them were slaughtered unnecessarily. They committed no crime. That theatrical performance last night says far more about the nature of humans than that of spiders. The big one was a beauty, an extraordinary specimen of tegenaria domestica, also called ‘the cardinal’ because one of its distant relations so frightened Cardinal Wolsey. At least the big spider appeared to escape with its life. This business with the cake was concocted to frighten and to appear supernatural. We were meant to think the spiders appeared in the cake by diabolical means.”

I could not restrain another shudder.

Holmes laughed. “Come, Henry—you must know better! Does the devil stoop now to culinary maleficence? Brimstone in the biscuits, sulfurous sauces, and the like? No, no. The cook insisted last night and again this morning that the cake was not hers. This morning she was calmer, and I tried to stimulate in her a sense of outrage. She said the color of the frosting there is wrong; she tasted it and said it could not be hers, as it was made with lard, not butter. Now do you see how it was done?”

“No.”

Holmes sighed, nostrils flaring. “They switched cakes. The pantry had a door to the outside; someone came in and substituted that cake with the spiders for the benign one.”

“But that would...” I frowned. “You are correct about the trouble involved. Why on earth...? And it must have been someone in the household, someone who knew exactly what kind of cake was to be served.”

“Yes!”

“But what servant would have the time—or the money—to construct such a cake?”

“Now you begin to comprehend my frustration. Of course, the results of this extraordinary effort were spectacular. One must grant our opponent that. No one who attended will ever forget last night’s party.”

“One can imagine an angry servant slipping soap in the potatoes, but the cake is on a different scale altogether. Who can have done it?”

Holmes took out his silver case and withdrew a cigarette. “There is a familiar suspect in affairs where the wife has been mysteriously threatened.” I stared incredulously at him. “You do not catch my meaning?” He said softly, “The husband.”

“You cannot be serious!”

“It is a possibility which must at least be considered.”

“I have never seen a man so frightened in my life. He was nearly out of his mind. How could he ever devise such a plan? Moreover, he came to you.”

“That could be meant to distract us. However, you have pointed out the main problem. I also doubt he could have ever willingly gone along with such a scheme given his dread of spiders. Quite a foolish dread—I cannot say they would not hurt a fly, but humans had nothing to fear from that batch. Perhaps Wheelwright had an accomplice, one whom he let improvise.”

“I would not want to be that accomplice when Wheelwright gets hold of him.”

Holmes laughed, knocking off a long cigarette ash. “Quite so, but who else might have the imagination—and the resources—to concoct such a scheme? None of the servants, except possibly Lovejoy or his wife, seems likely.”

“But Mrs. Lovejoy was hysterical, and why would they do such a thing?”

Holmes suddenly slammed his fist against the table, rattling our cups and saucers. “How should I know?” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Pardon my bad temper, but I... Perhaps it is only egotism, but I almost wonder if I am not the real target of this business, the Wheelwrights mere pawns. Perhaps it is—” his lips twisted into a weary smile—“...my Moriarty.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Again, I had the odd sensation of something crawling about in my belly, and I wanted to leave the Wheelwrights’ house. Holmes had focused on the comical side of the infected cake, but to me the black side was far more evident. Only a deranged mind could have dreamed up so cruel a trick. Holmes had many enemies, and Watson had made him famous. What if a criminal genius had determined to humiliate and destroy him? I took a final swallow from my cup. “I do not think you are being egotistical.”

Holmes stood, raised his long arms overhead, and yawned as he stretched. “I am truly tired. I wish I could leave.”

“Why do you not?”

“I do not wish to postpone an unpleasant encounter with Mr. Wheelwright.”

As if on cue, the door at the far end of the room opened, and Donald Wheelwright strode toward us. He was pale, and he had a small nick on his right cheek where he had cut himself shaving. One look into his eyes, and I knew we were in for trouble. His dress was immaculate: black frock coat and waistcoat, gray satin cravat with a diamond pin, striped trousers, black boots with pointed toes, everything brushed and pressed. I realized abruptly the difference between then and the first time I had seen him—he had been disheveled that afternoon.

“What have you to tell me, Mr. Holmes?” He folded his arms and remained standing.

“I cannot tell you who is behind this business, although that is surely what you want to hear.”

“I have been humiliated—humiliated!—and in my own home. Whoever will dare set foot in my house