The Web Weaver

of my escape—my triumph. I’d rather die than stay with him—I’d rather die.” She was smiling, but there was no doubt she meant it.

“Damnation.” Holmes shook his head, teeth clenched. “Whatever am I to do with you?”

The door swung open, and Holmes jerked about, the revolver ready. Donald Wheelwright froze in the doorway, looming there like some great brown mountain, and stared at the gun. Holmes lowered the barrel. “What is going on in here?” He had on his worn tweed jacket and his enormous walking shoes.

Violet began to laugh. A red flush appeared on her cheeks. “I was just explaining to Mr. Holmes that I would rather die than spend another day with you.”

Wheelwright’s brow furrowed, the sullen anger showing in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You must congratulate Mr. Holmes. He has solved the whole mystery—the spiders, the gypsy, everything. He is worth every pound you paid him. You must assure Father Wheelwright that he is most assuredly not overrated.”

“What is this?” Wheelwright asked.

Holmes and Henry stared blankly at him. I knew how they felt. Not only did he appear dangerous, but whatever could we say to him?

“I am the mastermind—I am the evil genius.” She laughed harshly. “I made the whole thing up—along with the Lovejoys’ assistance. Abigail was the gypsy at the Paupers’ Ball, and she left the note in the library.”

Wheelwright turned his gaze on Miss Farnsworth, and she went ashen, her fear obvious. “No, no,” she murmured.

“But you must not blame her—it was my idea—it has all been my idea. I dreamed up the cake with the spiders, and I helped choose them. I knew what a coward you were, how they would reduce the big, strong, masterful Donald Wheelwright to quaking jelly. Watching your face that night made it all worthwhile—watching you run away like some silly little servant girl. And it was Lovejoy who choked me last week after I had found another spider. The spiders were a nice touch. Abigail and I pretended I had been attacked. And last night I tore open my gown with a garden fork and pretended to see the gypsy. It hurt—it hurt dreadfully.” Her voice wavered for a moment. “But I thought of you as I did it. Mr. Holmes was clever enough to find the fork. It’s there on the floor. I’ve also been busy robbing all the pretentious, arrogant fools whose company I have had to endure all these years. I have used a good deal of your money in my schemes, but I have invested so wisely that you are a rich man. Of course, if you had tried to manage the money yourself, we would no doubt be in the poorhouse by now—you could not manage the boiling of an egg.” This struck her as funny, and she began to laugh.

None of us had moved. Donald Wheelwright’s face was red, his eyes fixed on her. “Is this some... joke?” He glanced at the rest of us.

Holmes grimly shook his head. “No.”

He stepped slowly through the doorway, then closed the door and locked it. “You did all this?” He reminded me of people I had treated who had been badly injured but who did not seem to understand that they were hurt.

Violet choked off her laughter. Her face was red, her eyes aflame, and she hissed, “Yes!” and jerked her head in a nod.

“You did?” He could not seem to believe it. “But why?”

“Why? You dare to ask why? Because I hate you!”

“Why?” His voice was a rumble.

“Because of what you did to me—because of the filthy, nasty thing you did to me—again and again. I told you not to touch me! I told you I could not bear it! But you were a brute—an animal. You hurt me so—again and again.” The hysterical mania that had seized her faltered; her lips quivered, her eyes filling with tears.

“Oh, no.” I sighed softly. “Oh, I should have know—I must have known.”

She had married in her early twenties, and like most women of her class—like Jenny—she had known almost nothing. Some women were lucky, but if the man were rough and cruel, the results could be disastrous, akin to ravishment. And there was no escape for the unhappy woman—no way out—legal or otherwise. The man might do whatever he wished with her.

Wheelwright glanced nervously about the room. “I haven’t touched you in years.”

“Thank God for small favors.” Violet laughed harshly. “But you did—you kept at it that first year even though you knew how I loathed it—loathed it. You kept pawing at me. I thought I would go mad each time you touched me. I did not know what to do. I seriously considered suicide. Spiders are no more frightful to you than you are to me. I wanted to die, but then I decided that was foolish. What I really wanted was for you and all your kind to suffer—to feel the same pain and humiliation as I. That was when I decided upon revenge. I would wait and plan and gather you and all the others in my web. I pretended to submit, I seemed to make peace, but all the while I consoled myself by making my plans, by imagining how you and the others would suffer even as your wives, your servants, and your pathetic whores had suffered.” She bared her teeth in a cruel, joyful smile. “Oh, yes, and I made sure I could not bear your child.”

Frightened, I leaped to my feet. “What have you done!”

Violet bit at her lip, surprised. “It was only a simple... device, but it prevents...” Embarrassed, she looked away.

My fists were clenched. “Oh Lord, this is all so pathetically foolish—so absurd.”

For a moment I had feared she might have mutilated herself, but I knew the device she spoke off. Now I understood. She had nearly fainted at the clinic when I had discussed human biology with Jenny and again when I had been stitching up a man’s brawny thigh. Childbirth also made her uneasy. The signs had all been there. I had suspected all along, but I had suppressed the knowledge—driven it from my awareness because I did not want to believe it of my beautiful, brilliant friend.

Wheelwright looked like someone had struck him. “You did not want... a child?”

“No—never—not your child.” Her repulsion was obvious.

Holmes seemed ill—and simply embarrassed. The Farnsworths sat stiffly on the sofa, no doubt glad not to be the center of attention, but still fearful.

Wheelwright made a choking noise. “You call me a... brute... a monster. Look at yourself, woman. Good God—look at yourself.”

Violet glared at him, fierce as ever, but the wild joy was gone. For the first time she appeared truly ugly, her face twisted and deranged by hatred. Holmes had been correct—it was all-consuming. It would devour and destroy her.

“You are the monster.” Wheelwright’s massive hands had begun to tremble. “You. You do not deserve...” Abruptly he lashed out and struck her across the face.

“Mr. Wheelwright!” Henry exclaimed.

I went over to her. She sat in the chair, but her entire body quivered under my hand. Holmes had also stepped forward, a resolute look in his eyes.

Violet’s mouth was bleeding, her laugh pained and sharp. “Go ahead—kill me and be done with it once and for all. Kill me—but don’t bully me ever again, you ugly freak.”

Wheelwright’s blue eyes no longer appeared human, and I crouched down, trying to shelter Violet with my arms. “Do not touch her.”

“You...” His eyes focused on me, along with his rage. “Meddling witch—keep out of this. All of you keep out of this!” he roared, and then his big hand caught me square in the chest, on the sternum, and sent me flying backward.

Violet screamed, “No!”

I landed hard on my backside, the breath knocked out of me. Henry rushed Wheelwright; I heard a sickening thud as the big man’s fist struck him. Henry half turned, toppled, and fell near me.

“Henry!” I cried. I went on my knees to him. “Henry.” I touched his face; I saw the red mark on his chin and jaw that would become a bruise. I took his shoulders and shook him. “Oh, Henry.”

Holmes knelt beside me, his black frock coat spilling onto the floor, and touched Henry on the throat. “The blow has only stunned him.”

“Watch out!” I cried.

He had dropped his guard, and Wheelwright came at him, kicking out with his enormous boot. The revolver flew through the air; Holmes cried out and clutched at his hand. Wheelwright’s head swept back and forth, then he