The Web Weaver

Watson is only too ready to come to the surface. People are always comparing men to savage creatures such as wolves or spiders, but in reality, man is the only animal capable of true evil. There is no malice in the wolf or spider. I watched my spider devour her mate.”

“What?”

“Yes, she is one of the varieties which frequently consumes the male. The male is much smaller than the female. The female tegenaria will devour other spiders of either sex or even her own children after a certain age. It is curious how the roles of the sexes are reversed with spiders and humans. But I digress. I was telling you about Moriarty and the foolishness of the notion of a mastermind behind much of the crime in London.”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, I am no longer convinced it is so foolish an idea.”

His smile vanished, and as I stared into his gray eyes, I felt a kind of chill about the heart. “Good Lord,” I whispered.

“I am not certain, Henry. Perhaps I am wrong—I hope I am wrong.” He tried to draw on his pipe, but it had gone out. “Blast it.” He set down the pipe, stood, and walked to the large bow window overlooking Baker Street. “The past several months I have had a growing sense of... uneasiness. I thought at first it was only nerves, but now I think I had begun to sense a pattern, a shape—a web, if you will.” He glanced over at his desk. “Forgive me, tegenaria. Something is happening, I believe, but still it eludes me. It began only as an intuition, but I have been pondering the problem, reading over the papers for the past several months, checking certain leads, certain odd crimes. There may indeed be a Moriarty. It is ironic.” He laughed.

“What is?”

“If it were not for Watson’s preposterous creation, I might never have hit upon the idea. Two weeks ago I asked myself, what if there were a Moriarty? Only then did I begin to sense the pattern. So far I have no idea what kind of person he may be. If this pattern is real, then a major intellect, a truly imposing mind, is behind it. The design is intricate and very subtle. He is the opponent for whom I have always longed.”

I frowned. “How could you long for such a monster?”

“Have you never wanted to slay a dragon?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

Holmes leaned upon the windowsill, staring down at the street below. “Now what have we here? A visitor, if I am not mistaken. He would have given the cabby’s poor horse a workout. A little under eighteen stone, I would say. His clothes proclaim him a gentleman, but he has the physique of a boxer or stevedore. Ah, yes! He is at the door. I am tired of musing over insubstantial cobwebs, and it has been frightfully dull of late. Perhaps he has an interesting case for me.”

“I suppose I had better be going.”

“Not at all, Henry. You can play the part of Watson. Most of my clients expect to find him at my side. Besides, it is too early for supper. From what you told me of Michelle, she is probably engaged for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Yes, it is her day at the clinic. Very well, I shall stay. Medicine has also been rather dull of late. Let us hope your visitor has some interesting tale to relate.”

Holmes took off his dressing gown while he walked to his bedroom, and he returned wearing a frock coat, just as Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door: “Mr. Holmes, there is...”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I know. You may send in Tiny.”

She rolled her brilliant blue eyes and withdrew.

Despite Holmes’ description, I was not prepared for the bulk of the man who entered, his head barely clearing the doorframe. He wore formal dress, the ubiquitous black frock coat, waistcoat with gold watch chain showing, and striped trousers, the toes of his boots shiny, but all in all, he did not appear at home in his grand apparel. He had a slightly frumpled look, his tie askew, an errant lock of hair almost standing up.

At one time, he must have been a superb physical specimen, but now, nearing forty, he had the look of a man in transition toward corpulence. His shoulders were still broad, but his waist was thick, his neck too fleshy and full under the square chin. All the same, at a good six and a half feet tall, with an eighteen-inch neck, fingers thick as sausages, and a weight nearer three-hundred than two-hundred pounds, he was an imposing figure. His hair and mustache were light brown, his eyes blue, his skin fair with a tendency toward redness. His gaze shifted from me, to my medical bag, to my cousin.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes. I am he. What may I do for you, Mr.—?”

“Wheelwright, Donald Wheelwright.” His immense paw briefly swallowed Holmes’ long, delicate fingers.

“This is my cousin, Mr. Wheelwright. As you noted, he is a physician.”

Wheelwright’s hand now swallowed mine. It felt sweaty, big, very strong, and I noticed the reddish-brown hair on the back. “Dr. Watson,” Wheelwright said softly.

I raised my eyebrows. Holmes’ gray eyes had a wicked gleam, and he turned Wheelwright aside before I could apprise him of my true identity. A very faint, floral scent touched my nostrils. I glanced at my hand and sniffed cautiously. Lavender?

“Now then, Mr. Wheelwright, do be seated and tell me how I can be of service.”

Wheelwright sat warily, and the chair was dwarfed with him in it. He gave a sigh, and his mouth stiffened. “I— This is a black business, Mr. Holmes. I usually like to keep my affairs private, but... My safety and my wife’s safety are at risk, and the police don’t seem to be of much use. I didn’t quite know where to turn, but I was told you were the very best for this type of deviltry. I’m not superstitious, mind you, but all the same...”

“Who has threatened you, Mr. Wheelwright?”

His eyes showed a sudden coldness. “Who told you I had been threatened?”

“You did, albeit in a roundabout manner.”

He nodded. “I see. Well, there have been letters, and... See here, did you ever hear about the business with the gypsy at Lord Harrington’s ball?”

Holmes’ fingers tapped at his leg, and he frowned. “Was that nearly two years ago?”

“Yes, that’s right. Two years in January it will be. You know about it then?”

“Only vaguely. Something about a gypsy curse, was it not? I saw a brief article in one of the papers. Tell me about it, Mr. Wheelwright.”

Wheelwright sighed and shifted restlessly in the chair, which creaked ominously. “She was— There was this old hag. She appeared during the dancing. This was the Paupers’ Ball, and we were all in costume. She told us we should be ashamed—as if having money was a fault—and then she said how wicked we were. She had a piercing voice that got a grip on you, and at first no one was quite sure whether she was part of the entertainment. She came down the stairs and cursed everyone and wished the most terrible things on us all. And then...” His mouth stiffened, his brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “It was not wise. My wife tried to talk to her. The gypsy began to shriek at her. Finally, Harrington’s servants seized the gypsy and threw her out. The party was spoilt, though.”

Holmes gave a sharp staccato laugh. “Yes, I’ll wager it was. What did the gypsy look like?”

“Like a gypsy.”

Holmes forced a smile. “And what does a gypsy look like? What did this particular gypsy look like?”

“An old hag, as I said, in a bright dress—red, I believe. She had a hooked nose and bad teeth. Oh, and she wore big round golden earrings. What an old witch.”

“But her voice was piercing rather than feeble?”

“Oh, yes. Everyone in the hall could hear her.”

“And your wife confronted her?”

He gave his head a shake. “She was across the room from me, or I’d have stopped her. You don’t try to reason with a lunatic.”

“And what did Mrs. Wheelwright say to the gypsy?”

“She told her that our being dressed up meant no... disrespect, and that only the Almighty could punish, and she even...” He drew in his breath. “She asked the old hag to pray with her for God’s mercy.”

“And the gypsy did not take kindly to these suggestions?”

“No, she was still cursing my wife as they dragged her off.”