The Web Weaver

“What exactly was the nature of these curses?”

Wheelwright’s tongue appeared briefly at the corner of his mouth. “That she and all she knew would have bad luck, and... die in torment, and...” His face lost some of its earlier ruddy color. “And that she—my wife—would be... barren.”

Holmes took his elbows off his knees and sat back. “And by barren did she mean childless?”

Wheelwright nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Holmes tapped at his knee with his fingertips. “I do not wish to appear insensitive, Mr. Wheelwright, but it must be asked. Do you and your wife have any children?”

Wheelwright’s eyes narrowed, a brief hint of ice showing in their blue depths. “No. My wife... she is... But it was not the blasted gypsy!” His neck grew redder. “We already knew, long, long before the ball... I said I’m not superstitious, and I’m not.”

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “How long have you been married, sir?”

“Nearly eight years.” Wheelwright seemed to grudge each word.

“I see. So the gypsy cursed your wife in particular and everyone else at the party. How very dramatic. The newspaper article comes back to me now. The curse involved general ruin, misery and misfortune, lingering illness, and early death, I believe. A crowd of London’s high society mesmerized by a vengeful gypsy who appears out of nowhere at the ball. Somewhat like Poe’s ‘Red Death.’”

“What’s this red death? I don’t recall her saying anything about any red death.”

“I was alluding to the story by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Who’s he?”

“An American writer of some note. But we digress, Mr. Wheelwright. Something more immediate than the ball has brought you to see me.”

“That’s right, Mr. Holmes.” His big hands formed fists. “Some strange things have happened to several of the people who were at the ball. Harrington himself cut his own throat. It’s enough to make a man nervous. And then... then there was this note...”

Holmes placed his hands upon his knees. “Note? Let me see it, please.”

“It’s... it’s not very... nice.”

“I must see it.”

Wheelwright sighed, then reached into the inside pocket of his frock coat. Holmes opened the brown, folded paper, read it, then handed it to me. The writing was a reddish-brown color resembling dried blood:

By now you know my curse was a true one. Your womb is all ashes and bitterness, and you will have no fruit. Perhaps I shall send the Master himself to claim you. You may burn every light in your home as brightly as can be, but it will not save you from Him. Let your foolish God try to protect you now! Watch out for the black dog, the crow and the spider, for they be my allies. Know that nothing you can do will possibly save you. No man, no power, on earth can help the pair of you. You are doomed. You shall soon meet me and the Master in Hell.

A.

I shook my head. “What deranged creature can have written this?”

Holmes took the paper and held it up to the light. “It, too, is very dramatic, and this appears to be real blood. The aged parchment is a nice touch. I can see why this might unsettle you and your wife, Mr. Wheelwright. Did it come in the post?”

“No. My wife found it one morning.”

“Where exactly?”

“In the library.”

“And how did your wife react to this hateful note?”

Wheelwright hesitated, then shrugged. “She’s not the hysterical sort, but she doesn’t much care for it.”

Holmes’ smile was close to a grimace. “Of course not.” He sat back in his chair and regarded Mr. Wheelwright through half-closed eyes. The big man shifted about in the chair uncomfortably. It was small for him.

“So you have been married nearly eight years?”

Wheelwright nodded. “That’s right.”

Holmes’ eyes were fixed on him. “And I suppose you are... fond of your wife.” I could not be sure, but I thought I heard irony in my cousin’s voice.

“Fond enough. See here, Mr. Holmes, I didn’t come here to have you ask questions about me and my wife. I want this gypsy business resolved, but leave me and my wife out of it.”

“That may hardly be possible given that you both seem to be at the center of the affair.”

“All the same, I won’t tolerate questions about my personal affairs. Violet—my wife—is my business and my business alone.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Wheelwright. You do understand that I will have to extensively question her and your household staff.”

I sat up abruptly. “Excuse me.” Wheelwright gave me a look, which suggested he had forgotten I was in the room. “Your wife is Violet Wheelwright?”

He nodded.

“We have not met before, but my wife is her physician—and her friend, as well. In fact, they are engaged in some charitable actions together today, if I am not mistaken.”

Wheelwright frowned slightly. “The lady doctor is your wife? But she has some French-sounding surname, not Watson.”

“I must clear up a misapprehension, sir. I am not Dr. Watson.” Holmes, I could see, was amused. “I am Dr. Henry Vernier. My wife is Dr. Michelle Doudet. She uses both our names: Doudet Vernier.”

“Ah yes, I forgot to mention Henry’s name, did I not? Now then, when may I question your household, Mr. Wheelwright?”

“Soon, Mr. Holmes.” He withdrew an ornate golden watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened it. “I’m afraid I must leave. I have other business. I shall send word.” He stood up and glanced about the room, obviously displeased with its untidiness.

Holmes also stood. “There is the matter of my fee.”

“I shall pay whatever you wish. Will five hundred pounds be enough of an advance?”

I was impressed, but Holmes nodded politely. “That will do nicely.”

“I have my checkbook. If you have a pen...” He started for the desk.

“You need not pay me now, Mr. Wheelwright. I only...”

Wheelwright had almost reached the desk when he suddenly turned and dashed back behind the chair, moving remarkably quickly for so large a man. His blue eyes were wild, his face very pale. He raised his hand and pointed his thick forefinger at the desk. “Kill it!”

I took a hesitant step toward him. “Are you well, sir?”

“Kill it. Take one of those papers and kill it!” His hand began to shake as he lowered it.

Puzzled, I gazed at Holmes.

“I am sorry to have alarmed you, Mr. Wheelwright. I shall dispose of the spider. You can send me a check later. I believe you said you had an engagement?”

Wheelwright kept his eyes fixed on the desk. “Yes, I do. You... you will be hearing from me, Mr. Holmes. You should... clean your desk.” He strode to the door, glanced behind him at the desk to make certain the spider was not pursuing him, then swiftly closed the door.

I shook my head and returned to my chair. “Your spider will cost you a client one of these days.”

Holmes also sat. “Elephants do not truly fear mice, but the relation in size is about the same with our Mr. Wheelwright and tegenaria. Perhaps I shall have to try to move her, if only for her own protection. Luckily he was too fearful to attempt to kill her himself. So, Henry, Michelle and Mrs. Wheelwright are friends, are they? And what is the lady like?”

“Not like her husband. She is of medium stature and slightly built, a brunette, a vivacious, amusing lady who is also quite beautiful. I would never have suspected such a husband.”

“What of her intellect?”

“She seems most intelligent. And Michelle is not generally fond of stupid women.”