The Web Weaver (36 page)

“Poor dear.” She reached out and took my hand. “I am glad you do not wish to be horribly rich. Violet is the first wealthy friend I have had, and I do not envy her.”

I glanced at the back of Collins’ neck. “You would not want your own huge room far from mine, and your own bed?”

She frowned. “Absolutely not!” She smiled and squeezed my hand.

The house was imposing, but melancholy. The gray stone was colorless and forlorn, and the rooms inside were huge—and as Michelle said, cold and drafty. The fire burning at one end of the great hall was large enough for roasting an ox, yet it hardly cut the chill. Somber, uninspired paintings hung from the walls, mostly bucolic pastorals in gaudy antique frames. Portraits of several generations of ancestors would have been more appropriate, but the Wheelwrights were a youthful dynasty. However, before the dining table in the place of prominence was a painting of the elderly Wheelwright and his wife. The artist had the features exactly right, but as there was no hint of malice or avarice, the Wheelwright on canvas appeared to be only some saintly relative of the old scoundrel.

As we crossed the chamber, our footsteps echoed faintly. “Most of the rooms are still closed up,” Michelle said. “There are only about
twenty servants here. The rest are coming down early next week with the Lovejoys.”

“I would not expect the Lovejoys.” I tried to keep my voice low, but the room seemed to echo my words. Before we had parted, I had briefly told her what Holmes had revealed about the butler.

Michelle had pulled off her gloves. She gave me a curious look. “No?” One of the maids was nearby polishing the silver. “We shall have to have a talk,” Michelle said.

Collins had left us earlier. I took her hand and kissed her palm. “Talk is not exactly what I had in mind.”

She stroked my cheek and gave me a look, which made it plain that she was of like mind. “We should go see Sherlock and Violet.”

“I suppose so,” I said reluctantly.

She took my hand and led me up the massive stone staircase. “Violet has a knack for finding a comfortable room and appropriating it.”

“This house has some comfortable rooms?”

“Our bedroom is rather nice.”

“Why do you not show it to me?”

Her fingers tightened about mine. “Do not tempt me.”

“Sherlock once told me the afternoon was reserved for loose women and their customers. I told him that he was... ill-informed.”

“Harriet is only too happy to have the afternoon off, but with so many maids...” Her voice was wistful.

Violet’s sitting room did seem different from the rest of the house. It faced south and had been converted to a sunroom, a row of windows letting in the warm autumnal light. A wood fire blazed in the fireplace, and a thick, reddish, patterned carpet covered the cold stone floor. A velvet sofa was against the wall with all the windows, and two matching chairs were close by. Sherlock and Violet were seated at a cherry-wood table, a chessboard between them. Gertrude sat on the
sofa embroidering, her white apron and lace cap contrasting with the black dress.

Violet smiled at us. Her color was better, and she wore an electric blue dress with a high collar, no doubt selected to hide the bruises on her throat. Holmes’ brow was furrowed, and he kept his eyes fixed on the chessboard. His heavy tweed suit had a gray herringbone pattern. He was playing black, and he was down to two pawns, a queen, and a rook, while Violet had her queen, two rooks, and a pawn.

“I found this man at the train station, and I thought I would bring him home with me.” Michelle slipped her hand about my arm.

Violet kept smiling, but a faint wariness showed in her dark eyes. “Perhaps he will make some impression on Mr. Holmes, who has been staring at the board for some ten minutes. He would be saving himself some grief if he simply resigned.”

“I never resign.” Holmes slid his rook the length of the board and raised his eyes. “Henry, how good to see you.” His smile was warm. “I trust your time in London was well spent?”

“Very well spent.”

His gray eyes narrowed. “I am eager to hear about it.”

Violet moved her queen. “You did exactly what I wanted. Check.”

Holmes glanced at the board, his smile vanishing. “Blast it! How could I have...?”

Michelle folded her arms. “It is most impolite to play chess when you have guests. You must both be charming now.”

Violet smiled. “Of course you are right, Michelle. Our game can wait. I shall give Mr. Holmes a respite, although I fear it will be of little help.” She stood up.

“Sherlock,” Michelle said sternly.

Reluctantly he turned away from the board. “Oh, very well.”

Violet stepped over to the windows. The view was stunning, the long
expanse of lawn and the foliage of the oak forest all golden and glowing from the sinking sun. Her violin lay upon a window seat, and she reached out tentatively and touched it with her white fingers. She was turned from us. Holmes was watching her, an unfamiliar longing in his eyes.

“If you would like to play, that would be nice,” Michelle said.

Violet picked up the violin and the bow. “I would have thought by now that my playing had lost whatever meager charm it possessed.”

Michelle shook her head. “Not at all.” She led me to the sofa. Gertrude started to get up. “Oh, stay put, my dear—there is room for all three of us.”

Gertrude was surprised. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Violet closed her eyes and drew the bow across the strings. The note was like a long, tremulous sigh. Something softened in Violet’s thin face, the tension easing. She had been so weary or ill the last few times I had seen her that I had forgotten what a lovely woman she was. Her fingers were long, delicate, and graceful as they moved across the strings.

Michelle’s beauty was somehow robust and muscular—cheerful, like her. She radiated health, strength and—although this may sound biased—goodness. There was nothing delicate or refined about her, although she was quite pretty. Her skin was very fair, her hair a light brown verging on red. Violet also had fair skin, but her hair was absolutely black, her aquiline nose, brown eyes and full lips strangely exotic. Somehow, despite her beauty, intelligence and strength of character, she remained oddly vulnerable.

She began the Bach partita I had heard her and Sherlock play in London. The instrument did have a warm tone, but that particular afternoon the music had a plaintive, even sorrowful, resonance. Holmes could always close his eyes and be swallowed up by music, but I was too earthbound, too easily distracted. All the same, that day I was moved. It was not merely the music, but the sight of Violet, the
languorous tenderness in her beautiful, pale face as she caressed the strings of her Guarnieri.

When she finished, she lowered the violin but did not open her eyes.

“How beautiful,” Michelle murmured.

Holmes was staring at Violet, his gray eyes consuming her. Anyone could have seen that he was totally and hopelessly in love. I stroked the end of my mustache. How ever would this end? She probably felt the same way, but she was a married woman. I knew my cousin too well to think he could ever be part of some sordid, adulterous affair.

Holmes stood and seized his own violin from the end of the table. Hearing him, Violet opened her eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief, and tucked it and the violin under his chin. “Play the partita again,” he said.

Violet closed her eyes and played. Holmes hesitated, and then began. I knew he played well, but I had not realized he could improvise so spectacularly. He picked up fragments of the melody, spun them out, raised or lowered them an octave, slowed them down or sped them up, all the while managing to harmonize with Violet. The Bach was difficult enough, but his contrapuntal accompaniment was that of a virtuoso, truly inspired. Near the end, his melodies merged with hers, and the final notes were in unison.

Michelle clapped her hands loudly. “Oh, bravo!”

Violet opened her eyes and stared up at him, a faint flush lingering on her cheeks. “That was very good, Mr. Holmes.”

Oh, dear God, I thought—she does love him.

We dressed for dinner and ate that evening in the great hall, our conversation drifting into the vast expanse overhead, echoing back faintly. The room was chilly, all the courses tiresome. Donald Wheelwright was silent, his great sullen presence casting an air of gloom over the meal. Holmes and Violet were reserved, and I was relieved to see that the feelings, which had seemed transparent earlier, were well hidden.,

Wheelwright might have a mistress whom he had set up in her own house; he might no longer love his wife; yet I was fearful of what he would do should he discover that Violet loved another. His size certainly contributed to the impression, but he had always seemed dangerous to me, someone I would not wish to anger.

The evening dragged on, and at last I pleaded fatigue from my journey as an excuse to retire early. Michelle looked at me, then made a similar excuse. Holmes appeared faintly amused. It was some time before Michelle and I were in a mood for conversation. I told her of the realization that had struck me that afternoon.

“I am so happy for them,” she said with great enthusiasm.

I stared curiously at her. “Why? I cannot see any way that they might...”

“Somehow they will find a way, I know it.”

She seemed so pleased, so happy, I did not want to tell her outright that the situation seemed hopeless. Michelle was the optimist, while I had a jaundiced view of humanity. All in all, we balanced each other out, and her cheerfulness was one of the very qualities that had attracted me to her. Nevertheless, I felt I must warn her.

“It would be very difficult for them. Wheelwright does not seem the type of man to ever willingly step aside. And Sherlock would never...”

She frowned and regarded me curiously. “Would he not?” I gave her such a look that she blushed, which was rare. “I only meant... It is only convention, after all, especially if Donald has a mistress, and... Oh, Henry—you know I am not a wicked person, and they are not wicked either! It does seem so wretched.”

“Perhaps... They might be content with a Platonic relation.” She stared at me so that I laughed, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I know it is hard for you to conceive of such a thing, but there are people, especially women, who lack your passion. Not every man is as lucky as I.”

She smiled, her face still flushed. “I am glad you feel that way, but you saw how they looked at each other. I do not think a Platonic relation would satisfy them. Besides, I have always considered such arrangements absolutely beastly—as if an illicit love were perfectly acceptable, so long as it was not technically consummated! Were you to love another, it would not much matter to me whether... It is the loving itself which would hurt, regardless.”

I kissed her gently. “You needn’t worry.”

“Oh, Henry. I wonder...” After a brief silence, she said, “Perhaps you could speak with Donald Wheelwright and try to probe his thoughts.”

“You are joking.”

“I do not mean you should ask him directly. However, you might sound him out. The poor fellow must be rather lonely, although he seems happier here. He is fond of his dogs and his sport. I do believe he likes the outdoors, and he has never seemed happy in formal dress. You could accompany him when he goes out tomorrow.”

“Possibly.”

My lack of enthusiasm amused her. She had let down her hair, and it spilled onto the pillow. I stroked the thick strand nearest me.

“I must speak with Sherlock tomorrow and give him some papers from Lestrade.”

“There will be plenty of time for that in the morning. Then you and Donald Wheelwright can be off together on the hunt. It may even be agreeable.” She laughed at the expression on my face. “You might bring home a pheasant for our supper.”

Thus it was that after reviewing matters with Holmes in the morning, I found myself plodding through the woods with Donald Wheelwright and his two retrievers in the afternoon. The day was again very fine, another golden autumn afternoon, the clean fresh air invigorating. Given the weather and the retrievers’ canine enthusiasm, it would have
taken an effort to be gloomy, and my companion’s spirits lifted once we had left the house.

I realized I had never had a real conversation with Wheelwright or actually been alone with him. He was more at ease in his aged brown tweed jacket, canvas trousers, and battered, shapeless wool hat with almost no brim. I had seen hunters on my country walks whose apparel was as fashionable and spotless as their citywear, but Wheelwright obviously preferred worn and comfortable clothing. He carried his shotgun breech open, and the pockets of his jacket were stuffed with shells. He had offered to lend me one of his shotguns, but I told him I would accompany him as a spectator only. Not only the birds and animals would be safer.

Two or three times I tried to start a conversation, but Wheelwright obviously did not believe in idle chitchat for the sake of avoiding silence. He had a leisurely stroll, yet his legs were so long that each step covered a great distance. I was over six feet tall myself, but I had to work to keep up. In the woods it was cooler, the light dappled, yellow, on leaves or bark or fern where it penetrated the foliage above. My breath formed a white mist, and everything about us seemed damp and decomposed, the odor rich and earthy, overpowering.

“What exactly are you hunting?” I asked.

“Nothing much.” He had relaxed, the customary tension, which showed in his eyes and furrowed brow, completely gone. “If we’re lucky we might scare out a pheasant or a cony. I’m more just walking, as I said earlier. If I really wanted to get a few ducks, I’d go down by the pond and sit, but Goldie and Chieftain like to keep moving. So do I.”

The path opened up, and we came out into a clearing, grass and ferns sloping downward to a big pond below, its waters blue and still under the autumn light. By the pond was an ancient oak, six feet across, its limbs all gnarled and twisted, the lower branches each as thick as the
trunk of a normal tree. Most of its leaves were gone, many floating on the waters below. Black forms were perched about the branches, and we could hear the din of the crows, the caws, of their convocation.