The Web Weaver

“Please sit down.”

She swayed. “I am dizzy.” She sat, then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. I noticed her other hand slip down and clutch at her side.

My own eyes filled with tears, and I glanced at Henry. It was so unfair—I had never seen her so happy.

He pulled at the corner of his mustache. “Perhaps we should make it another night, Sherlock.”

“Not on my account!” Violet said. “I shall...” She took a deep breath, and I could see her will exert its customary force. “I shall go home. Collins is waiting out front for me, but you two must join Mr. Holmes. I only wish—how I wish...!” She paused. “I only wish I could accompany you.”

Holmes looked at me, his face a mute appeal.

“I think it would be best for her to rest,” I said.

Violet closed her dark eyes, the nostrils of her aquiline nose flaring. “I shall go home. You have had enough outlandish behavior from me for one evening.” Her mocking smile had returned. She handed me the handkerchief. “Please, let us go.” She stood up.

I followed her, ready to catch her should she stumble. Sherlock and Henry were behind us, two tall figures in their black tailcoats and trousers.

“Do not be glum on my account. I am quite recovered.”

“Be sure to eat some soup or something when you get home.”

“I shall, Doctor. Did you like the opera, Michelle?”

“Oh, yes, but it was sad. I see why you said it should be called The Gypsy.”

“And the plot was not too difficult?”

“No. It was, as you said, a simple story.”

“I also enjoyed myself.” We reached the bottom of the stairs, and she took my arm with one hand, then half turned. “I know Mr. Holmes enjoyed himself.” She slipped her other hand about his arm.

He stiffened slightly, allowing a brief smile. “I am in your debt, madam. The seats were perfect. It was a performance—an evening—which I shall always treasure.”

Violet’s smile softened. “I believe you mean it. As for me—you have no idea how wonderful it was. True, the box is a fine one, but if you had had to sit through so many performances listening to Father and Mother Wheelwrights’ insipid chatter—at least Donald sleeps quietly and does not snore.”

I smiled. “Poor Violet.”

“It is very distracting. You understand, do you not, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes.”

We had lingered in the box, and most of the crowd had left by the time Henry and Sherlock got our coats and we had stepped outside. The rain had stopped, and the cool air felt good on my face after being inside for so long.

“Thank you so much, Violet,” I said. “It was wonderful.”

“Superb,” Henry added.

Violet smiled, her eyes bleak. “You are welcome. There is Collins.”

“I shall see you tomorrow,” I said.

“Oh, Michelle, you need not.”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

Violet stared past me at Holmes. He had on his black top hat and greatcoat. His pale thin face stared down at her, but he did not speak. The gas lamps before the theater were bright enough that I could see the flush return to her cheeks. “Mr. Holmes,” she began rather loudly.

“Yes?” He looked puzzled.

“I thank you—thank you—for a most pleasurable evening, and for...” Her voice died away.

“As I said, it is I who am in your debt.”

“No—no—it is I who...” She drew in her breath. “Thank you for being so charming, for reminding me that not all men are—for reminding me that men can also be intelligent and love art and music and the beautiful.” Her small hands quivered before her, then reached out and seized his big hand. I do not know which of them was more surprised. They stared at one another, their eyes devouring each other, briefly paralyzed. Henry looked at me in disbelief. Abruptly, Violet raised Sherlock’s hand, squeezing it tightly, then releasing it. “Goodnight.” She turned and fled, her heels clattering upon the pavement as she strode toward her carriage. Sherlock’s lips had parted, his eyes still fixed on her.

Henry put his arm about me, shielding me from the wind and drawing me close. “This has been quite an evening,” he murmured. “Sherlock, I could certainly use those refreshments—especially something liquid.”

Holmes stared curiously down at his hand in its black glove and drew in his breath. “An excellent suggestion, Henry. I know a place close by if you would care to walk.”

“Let us walk,” I said.

We hardly spoke. I slipped my hand about Henry’s arm and stayed close to him. The restaurant was warm, brightly lit, and full of opera-goers. We remained morose and silent until the drinks came. I sipped my liqueur and felt it heat my mouth and throat.

“I wish...” I began. “I wish Violet could have come. And I wish she felt better and—I wish this nightmare were over, the old gypsy woman found, and Donald...” I took a big swallow, then coughed. “Oh, pardon me, but I do hope, Sherlock, that you soon figure out who sent those terrible notes.”

Holmes sat back in his chair and placed the tips of his fingers together. “I know who the gypsy was.”

Henry leaned forward. “You do!”

Holmes smiled sadly. “Yes. It is rather obvious. Do you recall that the letters were signed with an A? The A stands for Azucena.”

Henry and I stared at him. “Sherlock, what do you mean?” I could not keep the annoyance from my voice. “Azucena was the character in the opera. She is not a real person.”

“Oh, I am quite aware of that, as was the person who played the gypsy. However, Azucena was the model for her character. I suspected some such scheme, but the realization struck me as a certainty in the second act. The gypsy at the ball was described as being almost exactly the same, her costume identical.”

“You are only guessing!”

“I do not guess, Michelle.” His voice was cold, but then he smiled and shrugged. “I rarely guess. I am absolutely certain Azucena was the inspiration for the gypsy and her curse. ‘Mi vendica,’ remember? ‘Avenge me.’ This is more of the strange humor as with the cake and the spiders. Signing the letters with an A is some person’s idea of a clever joke.”

“It is not my idea of a joke—it is hardly funny.”

He stared innocently at me. “You think not?”

“No. Is this just a game to you?”

Henry took my arm. “Michelle...”

“It is no game to me! Violet is my friend, and she is so sad and sick—oh, Sherlock, you must help her. I beg of you—the strain is tearing her apart.”

“She is a strong woman,” Henry said.

“You would not say so if you had seen her two nights ago! She is strong, yes, but so much of it is an act. I am worried to death about her. Please, Sherlock.”

He had grown very pale. He ran his long fingers through his black, oily hair, and then set his hand on the table. “I shall do everything I can to save her, Michelle. Believe me, I would...” His fingers touched his glass, caressed it briefly, then circled the rim. “One way or another, she is in grave peril.”

“One way or another—what do you mean?”

He sipped his whiskey and soda. “La diritta via era smarrita. I promise, I shall save her.” He obviously meant what he said, but I had never heard such quiet desperation in his voice.

Nine

We had seen Il Trovatore on Wednesday evening. Saturday