The Web Weaver

“What is it?” she asked.

“I should put something on those cuts, but it will hurt.”

“Oh, go ahead if you must.” Her mouth formed an ugly smile. “I deserve it.”

“Do not say such things!”

I was genuinely angry, and it sobered her. “Go ahead then.”

“Perhaps I shall ask Henry.”

“I’d rather you did it. Just get it over with.”

I drew in my breath, doused a clean cloth from my bag with an iodine solution, and then said: “Hold on.”

The muscles of her arm went rigid, and she moaned through clenched teeth. Involuntarily she tried to pull free of me, but I had her firmly in my grasp. I worked as quickly as I could. When I was finished she began to tremble, her thin arm quaking. I put some gauze over the cuts and taped it in place. My hands were steady, but I felt terrible.

The maid had collapsed on the bed, her face hidden in her arm. “Daisy,” I said, then more sharply, “Daisy.” She looked up. “Get me a robe for Violet, something warm—wool, not silk.” I handed her a clean handkerchief.

“Yes, ma’am.” She sniffled loudly.

“It is finished.” I helped Violet to her feet. She swayed, then reached out and embraced me.

“Thank you, thank you for everything.”

There seemed little of her left. I stroked her hair briefly, struggling with my own emotions.

Daisy brought me a cream-colored robe made of very soft wool. We helped Violet into it and put her in a chair before the fire. Daisy added a piece of coal. Violet sat huddled in the chair. She was still crying—she had never really stopped. Her right hand was pressed against her stomach.

“Get me some brandy,” I said to Daisy, “and something to eat. Some bread and soup. Enough for two.” She started to leave. “Thank you, Daisy. I know this is very hard.”

She smiled and curtsied. Her eyes were puffy.

After she was gone, I sighed deeply and glanced at Violet. Slowly, I walked over to the window. “Very hard,” I whispered to myself. My hands never shook, but somehow I wished they would. The windowpanes rattled from the wind. Outside everything was whiteness: the sloping lawn before the house covered with the snow, the blank featureless sky, the shreds of snow hurtling slowly past the glass.

I swallowed and thought, yes, for once you are truly afraid. Sherlock had seemed so certain the gypsy could not be real, and yet somehow she had dragged Violet from the house and ripped open her arm. The Lovejoys had been in the hall the whole time—I had seen them. And how could an old woman be so strong? Perhaps there was some evil power that... My mouth went dry, and I clenched my fists.

No—no. I would not believe such a terrible thing until I had absolute proof. It was curious. I believed in a loving God, but tales of the devil, of witches, ghosts, and the supernatural, had always made me skeptical. Perhaps the gypsy had been a man dressed as a woman—that would explain the gypsy’s strength. And Violet was not strong—it would not be hard to pull her about. I could do it easily. I stared out into the white chaos whirling beyond the glass, my fists tightening. Try it with me, I thought. Show yourself and try yanking me about.

I heard the door open, and I turned away from the chill of the window. Daisy had a large tray, and I could smell the soup—something with leeks, if I was not mistaken. I realized I was starving.

I took a drink of brandy, considered offering Violet some, but decided against it. I did not like the way she clutched at her stomach. The soup was a vichyssoise: chicken broth, leeks, and cream, just the thing for Violet. She resisted briefly, but finally took the soup and ate very slowly. Mine was gone almost at once, and I thought briefly how hot food would mitigate most of life’s pains and tragedies. My appetite whetted, I sent Daisy back to the kitchen. The dinner in shambles, the cook was happy someone was hungry; Daisy returned with pork tenderloins in a mushroom sauce, which I gobbled up while Violet worked on her soup.

Full at last, I set down the tray, unfastened my wretched fashionable shoes, and slipped them off, sighing contentedly. Violet ate mechanically, her eyes fixed on the glowing coal in the fireplace. I felt warm and comfortable now, much better, and my eyelids grew heavy. It was selfish, I knew, but it would be so good to get back to my own home and my practice. There was something... suffocating about the Wheelwrights’ household. No wonder Violet could not bear it. I closed my eyes and began to dream at once, something where the blue of the pond was obscured by falling snow... I jerked open my eyes and sat up. If I fell asleep, I would be out for the night.

Violet had put down her soup bowl and was staring at me. She looked dreadful—pale and ill—her eyes were red, their lids swollen. At least she had finally stopped crying.

I smiled sadly. “How do you feel?”

Her lips tried to form the usual mocking smile, but she hardly seemed herself. “My stomach still hurts, almost more than my shoulder. I do not think I was cut out for...”

“Let me give you something to help you sleep.”

She shook her head resolutely. “No. I do not want anything. I do not deserve it.”

“What has deserving to do with anything?” My voice was sharp.

“No. I shan’t take anything. Not tonight.” She stared wearily at me. “How I shall miss you.” She bit her lip, struggling to hold back her tears.

“But you will be returning to London soon, and I shall see you straight away. You are my patient, and you will find I am not easy to shake off.” She smiled, but the tears began again. “Oh, Violet.” I had a sudden longing to see Henry, to talk to him—and to Sherlock. Perhaps they had discovered something. “I shall be back in a little while.” I stood.

Violet appeared genuinely frightened. “Promise me—no—no more promises! Please stay with me tonight—do not leave me alone. You can go, but please come back.”

“I certainly shall, and before I go I’ll have Daisy fetch Collins.”

Daisy sat up. “Oh, he’s in the hall, ma’am, right by the door.”

“Good. I shall send him in.” Violet stared forlornly at me. I squeezed her hand—she felt icy. “I shan’t be long.” I took a candle from the table.

Collins was leaning against the wall near the door. I asked him where I might find Henry and Sherlock, and told him to go into Violet’s room. As I went down the corridor, the flickering candle cast strange shadows upon the wall, its light a feeble thing. Briefly I thought of the gypsy.

Holmes and Henry were in Violet’s sitting room on the second floor, the room in which I had spent many a pleasant hour. Henry sat near the fire, half asleep, while Sherlock paced. Rarely had I seen him so agitated. He reminded me of one of the big cats at the London Zoo, nervously circling its small cage. He still had on evening dress, but he and Henry both wore heavy, soiled boots.

I took Henry’s hand. “You look tired. Where have you been?”

He related how they had spent nearly an hour outside searching the grounds and what they had to show for it.

I frowned in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Sherlock.” He strode by, hardly seeing me. He was circling the table where the wooden chessboard was still set up, hands behind his back, one grasping a bony wrist. I stepped before him. “Sherlock, do you understand any of this?”

His gray eyes glared furiously, and I thought briefly he might push me aside. He drew in his breath. “Yes.”

“But you told Donald Wheelwright you were baffled.”

His mouth formed an ironic smile. “I did not want to be cast out into the wilderness. Not yet.”

“You know who the gypsy is?”

“Yes.”

“And who has attacked Violet?”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently.

I stared at him. Henry had sat up in the chair. “Please explain.”

“I shall tell you everything in the morning.” He stepped around me and started pacing again.

“Sherlock—please!”