The Web Weaver

tobacco. Although he was seated, he appeared as restless as when he had been pacing. He smiled weakly, the expression gaunt and forlorn.

“I suppose you have been awake all this time,” I said.

He shrugged. He would not meet my gaze. I turned to go.

“Michelle.” His eyes watched me. “I am sorry if I behaved rudely earlier. You will understand all in the morning.”

I smiled wearily. “Maybe I should send Violet down. She will not sleep either. Perhaps you could play chess.”

I was only joking, but he shook his head forcefully. “No.” As I stared at him, his nostrils flared. “I must not. I... I shall see her in the morning. Oh God, how I wish I had never laid eyes on her.”

I was too sleepy for more mysteries. “Good night,” I said.

Violet, of course, was also wide awake, the afghan wrapped about her shoulders. She managed a wan smile. I thought of trying to talk with her, but again I fell asleep. My dreams, while still troubled, were not so bad as before.

When I woke, a cold white light had filled the room, and the coal in the fireplace was nearly gone. Violet was still in the chair, and the clock on the mantel said seven thirty-five. I glanced slowly about. Violet had obviously not slept, and she seemed more fragile than ever, as if one more blow would shatter her.

The door opened, and Daisy looked in. When she saw we were awake, she came into the room. She gave Collins a playful push. He stirred and sat up. “What a night,” he muttered, stretching.

Daisy walked over to Violet and me. “Mr. ’Olmes’d like to see you in the sitting room whenever you’re ready.”

Violet sat up stiffly, raising her chin and showing her long slender neck. The bruises were so ugly. “Get me my lavender dress, the silk one with the lace collar.”

“Very well, ma’am.”

Collins stepped outside. I blinked my eyes, stared distastefully at my shoes. I slipped my feet into them.

“How does your shoulder feel?” I asked.

“It throbs some.”

Violet went to the washbasin and splashed ice-cold water on her face. I felt chilly merely watching. Daisy helped her out of her robe. I went to the window. The snow had stopped, but the sky—and all else—was white, the landscape totally altered, the golden autumnal vista seemingly gone forever. Daisy fastened Violet’s dress in back, helped her with her hair, and then we two went downstairs to the sitting room.

It was faintly cold and smelled of tobacco, but a wood fire roared in the fireplace. Holmes stood before a window. He had changed into his frock coat and striped trousers. Henry wore a tweed suit and looked rested, despite the night in the chair. The Lovejoys sat on the sofa, polite yet wary smiles on their faces.

Holmes stared for only an instant at Violet. She stiffened, and a faint blush showed on her high cheekbones. “Please be seated, ladies.” He gestured at the two plush chairs near the fire. “It is time for me to relate what I have discovered.”

Lovejoy was clean-shaven, his linen white and crisp looking alongside his fine black morning coat. “I do not see why you wish us to be present, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes gave him a frightful smile. “You will soon learn exactly why. You are my special guests.”

Lovejoy was unperturbed, but his wife gave a quick, desperate glance at the door.

“Should not Donald be here?” Violet asked, her hand holding her side.

He looked at her, then looked away. “Not yet.” He stepped over to the fireplace and prodded the logs with the black iron poker, making them flare up. Violet and I had the comfortable chairs near the fire, but they were turned outward, toward the room. The sofa where the Lovejoys sat was before the windows, that long, southern expanse of glass. Henry was seated by the cherry-wood table and the chessboard. Holmes prowled about upon the carpet with its vivid, scarlet pattern. He had changed from his muddy boots to shoes of a glossy black.

“I fear, Mrs. Wheelwright, that I have made some unpleasant discoveries about the two persons who oversee your household.”

Mrs. Lovejoy wore one of her plain black dresses, and she scowled. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lovejoy nodded. “Someone has misinformed you, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes gave them such a look I was glad not to be in their places. “I think not. You, Mr. Lovejoy, I have already seen first-hand playing one Geoffrey Steerford and attempting to sell shares in imaginary oil wells. Your research was well done, your references excellent, the whole business handled with the utmost skill. Yesterday was the deadline for investors, and in spite of my warnings to Inspector Lestrade, you managed to give him the slip. He was supposed to track down your bank accounts and seize the funds, but I am certain you did not come here empty-handed.”

Lovejoy gave us a very sorrowful look, although his wife had gone paler still. “I honestly have no idea what you are talking about.”

Violet stared at Lovejoy, her mouth a taut line. “Can this be true?”

Holmes continued to smile. “As for your wife, in her guise as an ‘Angel of the Lord,’ she has been stirring up prostitutes and servants, enlisting them in blackmail, theft, and extortion.”

Mrs. Lovejoy rose to her feet, her brown eyes blazing. “I...!”

Her husband’s hand shot out and seized her wrist. “Abigail!”

She glanced at him, then nearly collapsed onto the sofa. I would not have thought she could lose any more color, but her face was nearly white. “It’s not true,” she whispered.

Violet licked her lips. “Have you proof of these allegations, Mr. Holmes? The Lovejoys have been with me many years, and I... I must confess I find these accusations difficult to believe.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched. “You are too trusting, madam. As I said, I myself saw Mr. Lovejoy in disguise, and Henry and I saw Mrs. Lovejoy coming out of a brothel near Underton.”

Mrs. Lovejoy gave him a look of absolute hatred. “I often visit brothels as part of the Lord’s work. The poor sinners need our pity.”

“My cousin Henry went to the same brothel and discussed your activities there with one Lucy Jennings. She said it was widely known that you would pay for any sordid and disgusting information, that you were only too happy to blackmail the clientele, especially those of a higher class. She also said you had unusual... ideas about her trade.”

Henry nodded gravely. “She told me all that and more.”

Mrs. Lovejoy’s upper lip curled back. “She was lying!”

“Lestrade also found that you and your associates were well known,” Holmes said. “I am certain you are responsible for the theft of Herbert’s necklace and for Lord Harrrington’s death.”

Mrs. Lovejoy leaped again to her feet. “No! I did not kill anyone.”

Lovejoy seized her wrist again. “Abigail!”

Holmes stared calmly back at her. “You only drove him to it.”

“No.”

Lovejoy stood and took her by the shoulders. “Please, Abigail.”

Violet had also gone very pale. “Why... why would she do such a thing?”

Holmes’ fingertips tapped at his thighs. “There was a great deal of money involved. But let me tell you who these two really are. Lestrade was kind enough to set his clerks to work and sent descriptions of the finalists in the contest down with Henry. The clerks were looking for a man and woman briefly involved in crime, five to ten years ago, who had no subsequent record of arrests. I provided a detailed physical description of the Lovejoys, and I told Lestrade to be especially alert for any persons with a background in the theater.”

“Theater?” Henry said.

Mrs. Lovejoy’s teeth clamped together, while Lovejoy gave a sharp, involuntary laugh.

Holmes nodded. “Yes. It had become obvious that both Lovejoys were consummate actors. I had seen Mr. Lovejoy do Steerford, and then there was Mrs. Lovejoy’s remarkable performance last week after seeing the supposed fiend. Do you recall her excellent diction and impressive volume? Unlike Mrs. Wheelwright, whose voice was hoarse, weak, and strained, Mrs. Lovejoy was deafening. She has a very big voice and has been well trained. Her religious fanatic is quite convincing, but of course it is only another role.”