The Web Weaver

“Oh yes, she took the necklace from me at the mistress’s door and insisted she’d put it on the mistress. Said it was her duty.”

Herbert sat up in the chair. “I recall her now—a very surly girl of lax morals. She was insolent and was not with us for long. You don’t mean to say you actually handed the necklace over to her?”

“What else was I to do?” Mrs. Dalton sobbed loudly, sniffled, then began to cry.

Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her. “Calm yourself, madam. So you suspect this girl, do you?”

She nodded slowly. “I do, Mr. Holmes. She was a bad sort, that one. Always putting on airs, and so proud. She didn’t like the mistress and the master or the rest of us.”

“Why did she not like them?”

“She said...” She glanced warily at Herbert. “She complained about the wages and the treatment she got. She was lucky to have a roof over her head and three good meals a day! Ungrateful, very ungrateful—so many of these young girls are that way nowadays.”

“What were her wages?”

Herbert stiffened. “I hardly think that has any relevance.”

“Let me worry about the relevance. What were her wages, Mrs. Dalton?”

“If the master doesn’t wish me to say...”

Herbert gave a resigned sigh. “You may tell Mr. Holmes.”

She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Seven shillings a month.”

Holmes stared at her, then turned to Herbert. “A month? Surely you mean a week?”

Herbert stared at his hands. “No, those were her wages.”

Holmes looked at Mrs. Dalton. “And what are your wages, madam?”

“I cannot tell you, sir.”

“I wish to know.”

“Well, I’ll not tell you.” Her defiance was manifest in her eyes and her jaw, and she twisted the handkerchief with her big hands.

“I pay her a pound a month,” Herbert said.

A sharp laugh escaped Holmes. “After twenty years service? Perhaps we had best discuss my fee, Mr. Herbert. I expect more than a guinea or two.”

“Mr. Holmes!” Herbert struck the table with his fist. “You shall have whatever you wish. Within reason.”

“Oh, thank you.” He turned to Mrs. Dalton. “So you think this girl might have arranged the theft because of her... ingratitude?”

“I don’t like to speak poorly of anyone, sir, but yes, I do.” She glanced at her employer. “I could make inquiries. Someone may know where she is living now.”

Herbert nodded. “That’s very good of you, Mrs. Dalton. Please do so.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood, but Holmes was between her and the door.

“Tell me, Mrs. Dalton, have you many friends in the neighborhood?”

“Friends?”

“At other houses. Such as the Wheelwrights’.”

She did not falter, but I sensed the wheels turning briefly before she answered. “A few.”

“That is not surprising, since they live so close. And who might these acquaintances be?”

“The cook, Mrs. Grady, is my friend. She’s the best cook in all of London.”

“Anyone else?”

She hesitated and again moistened her lips. “Mrs. Lovejoy I know. A little.”

He stared closely at her, but she would not meet his eyes. “Have you nothing more to tell me, Mrs. Dalton?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you certain of that?”

She nodded, her jaw shifting as she briefly ground her teeth.

“Very well, you may go, but I shall wish to talk to you again soon.”

She drew in her breath, and then seemed to notice the handkerchief in her hand. With a sniffle, she dabbed at her eyes. “A tragedy it is. I only hope I can be of help.”

Holmes closed the door behind her. “Normally one tries to determine who might have a motive for a crime, but if these wages are typical, any of your servants might wish to rob you.”

Herbert grew red in the face. “You do not know the entire story, and there are other compensations—such as the Christmas bonus.”

“Oh, no doubt—no doubt.” He pulled out his cigarette case again, then thrust it back. “I can do nothing more here. I shall return tomorrow.” He picked up his overcoat, draped it over his arm, and then took his hat and stick. “One caution. Have someone keep an eye on Mrs. Dalton. I want her to be here when I return.”

Herbert stood. “Surely you cannot suspect her? As I said, she has been with us for over twenty years—she is part of our family and does admirable work.”

“We shall discuss my suspicions tomorrow, Mr. Herbert. We shall also discuss my fee.”

“I assure you, Mr. Holmes...”

“Tomorrow.”

Herbert tagged along behind us, puffing to keep up. From the sound of his breathing I knew his lungs were not in good condition. Holmes strode down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, then put on his coat as he crossed the mammoth entry room, the black wool swirling about him. Firth nodded weakly at us, while the footman opened the door. Herbert mumbled an apologetic farewell, but his words were lost in a gusty wet wind that assailed us. The rain had stopped, and patches of blue showed in the gray sky as the sun struggled to appear.

“Imbecile,” Holmes muttered. “Stingy imbecile.”

“So you think that Mrs. Dalton might be the thief? She did remind me of my grandmother.”

“That, I believe, is the desired effect. Yes, I suspect her.”

“And not the maid?”

Holmes gave a snort of derision. “That was her mistake. She was too quick to bring up the maid. Far too convenient—a suspect who is not available to confirm or deny Mrs. Dalton’s allegations. Herbert is busy thinking about the maid instead of the fact that Mrs. Dalton is the one person who regularly handled the necklace. Switching it would be a simple matter.”

“Someone else might have opened the safe. You did say anyone might get the combination from the drawer. Why would Mrs. Dalton do such a thing?”

“Henry! Were you not listening? Because he has paid her a pittance for over twenty years! He decorates his wife as if she were a Christmas tree so all of society will know of his riches and success; yet he pays a maid seven shillings a month. And then there is his handling of the necklace. He is an imbecile.”

I seized his arm. “Do slow down a bit. You are practically running.”

“Oh, very well.”

“Did you eat any breakfast?”

“Uh... perhaps. Nothing substantial.”

“It is well past noon. You must be ravenous.”

He took a deep breath. “Very good, Henry. A sound deduction.”

“Unless you are going somewhere else in particular, we might stop for lunch.”

“I am going nowhere but away from this wretched street and the homes of Mr. George Herbert and Mr. Donald Wheelwright. I have had my fill of their company. I know a restaurant close by, a twenty-minute walk, which serves a superb hot corned beef, boiled cabbage, and potatoes with horseradish on the side.”

“That sounds delicious. Then I must be getting home. I shall have much to tell Michelle. I wish I could have seen Violet.”

“Violet,” Holmes murmured. He stopped walking, turned and stared down the street at the elegant row of townhouses with their immaculately groomed lawns and shrubbery, their neat walkways, their red brick and green ivy, their stately trees. He raised his stick and swept the end in an arc to encompass them all. “She does not belong here. She is better than any of them—she is wasted here, wasted.” He closed his eyes and let his stick fall. The iron tip clacked against the pavement. “I am weary, Henry.”

“You will feel better after you have eaten.” We resumed walking. I knew exactly how he felt. I would be