The Web Weaver

“It takes more than a few bugs to ruffle my feathers.”

“Your son does not seem to share your attitude.”

The old man’s smile changed to a scowl. “He’s a fool—a silly fool—a woman. I’ve told him so from the time he was a boy, but he won’t listen to me.”

“One cannot always control one’s fears. It is not a matter of mere will.”

“Nonsense.” Wheelwright’s jaw snapped at the air. “But that’s not what I wanted to speak to you about.”

“No? What then?”

“My daughter-in-law, Doctor. She is a lunatic.”

“What?”

He smiled again. “Oh, you’re taken in like all the others, but it’s true, you know.” He watched me closely, but I said nothing. “She’s beautiful, I admit that, but quite mad. Soft and weak, too, like a woman. It wouldn’t matter so much if she wasn’t barren. Women aren’t good for much else, not really, not if you don’t care for the filthy business.”

I gave him a look of utter astonishment, and my face grew warm.

“Come, come, sir—we are men, are we not?”

“I— I do not share your views.”

“As you will. All the same...” His eyes watched me very closely. “My son’s marriage is... ridiculous. Always has been. Your wife is her doctor. If he could be freed, I would be most grateful, most grateful indeed.”

“What are you talking about?”

He sighed wearily. “I’ve misjudged you. I should have known. You’re no better than all the others. Your cousin is worse yet. No help from the great Sherlock Holmes. Being able to resist a woman’s charms is a genuine talent, one all too rare. Good day to you, sir.” He nodded and walked past me down the hallway.

I stared dumbly at him. The brief conversation left me feeling oddly disgusted. I went downstairs and found Holmes and Lovejoy by the entranceway. Holmes had put on his black tailcoat. “There you are,” he said. “How are your patients?”

“Mostly better.” I opened my medical bag. “Mr. Lovejoy, this small vial contains a sedative. Give your wife about five drops in a glass of water at bedtime, twice that for Mr. Wheelwright.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Very good, sir. Five drops and ten.”

“And should your wife behave at all... strangely, send word at once to me or my wife. She should be better tomorrow.”

“I am sure she will be. I shall try to persuade her we are in no immediate danger from the devil. I shall see to your coats, gentlemen, and have the carriage brought round.”

I turned to Holmes. “Did you see Mr. Wheelwright, Senior? Count your blessings, if not. He behaved most curiously.”

Holmes’ eyes narrowed. “I shall want to hear about it.”

“I see you survived your conversation with his son.”

“Yes. Your mentioning the cake seemed to de-fang him. We discussed—” he looked around, but we were alone—“the Lovejoys and his household affairs. They have his complete confidence, although the wife is something of a fanatic. He also does not consider it unusual that Mrs. Wheelwright handles nearly all his finances. She also has his confidence.” He smiled ironically.

Lovejoy and a footman returned with our coats and top hats. We put them on and stepped outside. The overhang of the roof sheltered us from the cold incessant drizzle. The doors behind us opened again, and a different footman rushed up to us, his face flushed. The Wheelwright footmen were spared gaudy antiquity, but this fellow had powdered hair, white stockings, a red jacket, and buckles on his shoes.

“Mr. Holmes—Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Ah, thank heavens! I tried Baker Street, but your landlady said you’d been out all night. Please, sir, you must come at once—the master is powerful upset. The house is just down the street—number twenty-seven.”

Holmes’ gray eyes stared wearily at him. “And who is your master?”

“Mr. George Herbert.”

Holmes closed his eyes. “Blast it. We shall walk. Twenty-seven, you said?”

“But I can bring round the carriage straight away.”

“I prefer to walk.”

Holmes had long legs and set a quick pace; I always had to work to keep up with him, my own stride being more leisurely. “What can Herbert want?”

“Do not be obtuse, Henry. I must say he has acted quickly. He was probably at the jeweler’s shop as soon as it opened.”

“Good Lord,” I murmured. “The necklace.” The rain was cold on my face.

“Yes. He has had it appraised. Now he too will want miracles from me.”

“Out of one madhouse and into another,” I said. “Mrs. Lovejoy seemed close to a mental breakdown. She rather worried me. I wish I could have seen Violet. Did you spend any time with her during the night?”

Holmes abruptly stopped walking and stared at me, his eyes incredulous.

“I only meant—Sherlock, you know what I meant. As neither of you slept, I only wondered... Forgive me, it was an impertinent question.” My face felt flushed.

Holmes gave a snort of laughter. “No, it was an honest one. She spent most of the night in the library, while I was in the dining room smoking and thinking. She did come to visit me at about four in the morning. We shared a cup of warm milk in the kitchen. It was remarkably peaceful after the pandemonium the evening before. I am sure Mrs. Grundy or the Reverend Killington would not approve of my being alone with a married woman, but I assure you I was the perfect gentleman.” His voice had a faint hint of irony or contempt.

“There can be no question of that.”

“She said we must speak of other things than spiders and gypsies; otherwise she would never be able to sleep. We talked about... many things. Do you recall Michelle mentioning Mrs. Wheelwright’s occasional dyspepsia?”

“Yes.”

“She tried to hide it, but she did appear to be suffering from some pains. I noticed her pressing her hand against her side. The warm milk seemed to comfort her.”

I frowned. “I do not like that. She could have a stomach or duodenal ulcer.”

“She is quite a remarkable woman,” he said. We had arrived at the house numbered twenty-seven.

“In what way?”

“In every way.”

Holmes used the ornate brass knocker to rap at the front door. Another distraught-looking footman in the same ostentatious red livery opened the door. We followed him upstairs. A door opened and Emily Herbert stormed out followed by a matronly old servantwoman. Mrs. Herbert had clenched her fists, and her eyes were furious. When she saw Holmes, her lips drew back to reveal her large jagged teeth. She managed a nod, but said nothing.

The old woman dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

We stepped into the library. George Herbert was seated in a large armchair with the necklace on the table before him. Also present was an elderly man with wavy white hair curling over his outstretched ears. From his formal dress, I surmised he was the butler. He clasped the cupped fingers of one hand with those of the other, then repeated the motion with his hands reversed. He had brown age spots below his knuckles.

“Thank God you’ve come, Mr. Holmes.” Herbert’s face was pale, his thick neck ballooning out from the tight, starched wing collar. “It was exactly as you said. That thing is a fake, a well-made one, but a fake all the same. Whatever am I to do?”

Holmes’ mouth drew into a tight line as he started to remove his overcoat. At this, the elderly butler staggered to his feet to help. The old man set the overcoat on a chair, then arranged the top hat and walking stick.

“You ask me whatever are you to do. Well, it is too late for me to tell you. You have already further bung... mismanaged things.”

Herbert was surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, sir, that by now everyone in your house knows the necklace has been stolen and the news is well on