The Web Weaver

turned and yanked Violet up out of the chair by her arm. She screamed, the sound raw and strained. He hit her face again, twice, his big hand like a flat club.

“Stop it!” I shouted.

Holmes stepped past me and his thin arm in the black sleeve rose, his fist striking Donald Wheelwright on the side of the jaw. Holmes groaned from the impact. Wheelwright released Violet, and she collapsed at his feet. Wheelwright shook himself dully, his nostrils flaring. Holmes stepped back and raised his fists in a boxer’s stance.

Wheelwright’s breathing was labored, and he touched his chin with his fingertips. “You bastard. I’ve seen how you look at her. You were in on it all.” His eyes were half closed, ominous slits with blue slivers in them.

Sherlock was very pale. “That is nonsense—utter nonsense.”

Wheelwright’s hands formed fists. “So you want to box?” He rushed Holmes, a right jab thudding off his shoulder, and then he had him wrapped in his arms. Wheelwright staggered forward.

“Stop!” I cried. I glanced about. The Farnsworths had risen, but they were terrified and would be of no help.,

“Michelle.” Violet held out her hand to me. I helped her up. Her mouth was bleeding, her eye starting to swell. She swayed and I caught her.

Holmes writhed about, managing to slip one arm free. Wheelwright crashed him into the table, sending chess pieces flying. Sherlock’s long legs and shoes thrashed about. Wheelwright grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head twice against the wooden surface.

“He will kill him!” I cried. I let go of Violet and went to them.

Wheelwright was bent over Holmes, his huge hands wrapped about his throat. Holmes was unconscious from the blows to his head. His face was red, and Wheelwright’s thick ugly fingers were choking the life from him.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Stop.” I pulled at Wheelwright’s arm, but I could not budge him. I struck him once with my fist, but it was as if I were a mosquito or fly, hardly worth his notice. He did resemble an animal: his mouth open, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, and that terrible, all-consuming rage in his eyes.

“Please!” I cried. “Please—you are killing him! He did nothing—I swear he didn’t! Let him go!”

I do not think he even heard me. I glanced in desperation at the Farnsworths, but James appeared paralyzed, unable to move, while Abigail had hidden her face against him.

I heard a dull thud, and something splattered my face. Wheelwright’s jaw dropped, and his frame quivered. I looked about. This time I saw Violet’s arms swing around in a great arc, both hands holding the black poker from the fireplace, her own lips drawn back, teeth bared, her dark eyes raging. The poker again struck Wheelwright at the base of the skull. More blood flew, and this time he fell. The table collapsed, Holmes sliding off, and the two men lay unconscious on the floor.,

I knelt down and fumbled at Sherlock’s collar. I felt a pulse and could tell he was breathing. He would have a terrible bump at the back of his head. Wheelwright lay on his side. His eyes were open but blank, all the anger and hate and life gone from them.

“Oh, dear God,” I murmured. I tried to turn him, but I could not move him. I felt at his throat but could find no pulse. I used both hands to pull at his arm, and he flopped onto his back. I opened his jacket and put my ear against his chest. My own heart was throbbing, but all was silent.

With a sigh I rose onto my knees. “He is dead.” I looked up at Violet. “He is dead, Violet.”

She gave a sharp terrible laugh and let the poker fall. “Oh, good,” she said. “Oh, good.” She laughed again, then bit savagely at her hand and staggered back.

I stood slowly. “That part of the brain controls unconscious functions like respiration and the heartbeat. The first blow must have been mortal.” My words sounded strange, curiously remote. “I cannot believe it.” I touched my face and felt something damp. Glancing down, I realized blood had splattered my yellow silk dress, my fancy dress, which I had worn since yesterday afternoon.

Someone began to cry loudly—Miss Farnsworth. She was on the sofa, her face in her hands. Her brother tried to comfort her. Violet made a pained noise, something between a laugh and a sob. She bent over and picked up the revolver, which her husband had kicked from Holmes’ hand. “I did not even see this.” She put her left hand over her bloody mouth while her right held the revolver, the barrel pointed at the floor.

“Violet, we must get away from here at once,” Farnsworth said. “There is not an instant to lose.”

Violet looked at me. She said, “Go ahead and leave. I always meant to give my share to the Angels. I am staying here. It does not matter now.”

Farnsworth shook his head. “Are you mad? There is over half a million pounds. You said you wanted to be free. This is your chance. Come.”

She shook her head. “No.” She laughed. “I can never be free now.” She stared down at Wheelwright’s corpse.

Abigail Farnsworth rose, but she appeared weak. “Please come, Violet—before it is too late.”

“No.”

Farnsworth stared at Violet. “We cannot leave you here. You could be tried for murder.”

“No!” I said. “It was—he was killing Sherlock—he would have killed him.”

Farnsworth gave a pained smile. “I would not want to argue the point with the police.” He slowly approached Violet. “You must come with us—you’ll thank me tomorrow.”

His sister nodded. “Yes, Violet. We have accomplished all that we intended. The wretched men got what they deserved—all of them.”

Violet’s hand seemed to rise of its own accord, floating lazily upward so that the revolver pointed at Farnsworth. He stopped moving. Violet smiled. “Thank you, James, but I have other plans.” She motioned toward the door with the barrel. “Our acquaintance has been a pleasant one, of mutual benefit, and I shall miss you. You both shared my hatred of injustice and played your parts well. Now please go.”

Abigail was distressed. “But, Violet...”

“Will you leave me be!” Violet cried. “Do go! I would not want to shoot you, but I am so tired I cannot think well. My father taught me about revolvers. And Abigail, I know I can rely on you—distribute my share amongst the Angels. Now goodbye.”,

Farnsworth shook his head. He had played the butler for so long he tended to slide back into the role. “A pity. Mr. Holmes was correct. We are only two hack actors. We could never have managed without you. Goodbye, Violet.”

He strode toward the door, drawing Abigail Farnsworth after him. “My gypsy was not hack work,” she said. Farnsworth unlocked the door, then carefully shut it behind them.

I felt dizzy. Everything had happened so fast. Only about fifteen minutes had passed since Donald Wheelwright had come through the doorway.

Violet smiled briefly, her hand trembling. She walked over to a chair by the fire and sat. “Michelle...” Her voice shook, and her eyes were full of tears again. “Oh, God.” She raised the revolver and put the barrel under her chin.

“Violet,” I moaned as fear swept through me, a sudden chill at the nape of my neck, “whatever are you doing?”

“Do you not see? This is the way it was always meant to end. I understand that now.”

“No.” I shook my head. “No, it was most assuredly not meant to end this way.” My mouth felt dry, my hands icy. The dread had returned.

“I’m sorry, Michelle, but...”

“Violet—in God’s name, if you apologize to me one more time, I swear I will strangle you!”

We stared at each other, and then she laughed. “My poor Michelle. I cannot blame you. I shall... I shall try not to apologize again. Can I not make you understand? He hurt me so many times—again and again. I could do nothing. My life has been a nightmare, and now... I am glad I killed him, but I am sorry he is dead. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.” I took a step forward.

“If you come any nearer I shall surely press the trigger. Perhaps I shall press it anyway. My head does hurt, and my stomach. Oh, it will be good to be dead, to be free, finally, of hate and fear and pain—all this pain.”

“No, Violet.” My own eyes were full of tears. “It is not good to be dead—it is good to be alive. You are free