The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano

Wheelwright.”
    “It has, Mr. Holmes. In the future I hope to provide less fertile ground for deduction. I do trust we shall meet again.”
    Holmes’ smile was brief and harsh. “Oh, we shall, madam.”
    Henry appeared rather grim. He touched my shoulder and said, “Do not be too late.”
    I put my hand over his. “I shall not.”
    Violet and I watched them leave. Violet put a piece of meat in her mouth and chewed slowly.
    “My comment about bloody tissue was unwise. I may never eat roast beef again.”
    I laughed. “Now that the men are gone, you need not finish.”
    “Donald always orders the large portion. I have always wonderedif I could eat so much. I have learned that I can, but it seems a hollow triumph. Well, hardly hollow, since I am completely stuffed. I fear I must forgo dessert.”
    “Not I. They have a very good cream cake.”
    Violet resolutely swallowed the last bite and pushed the plate back several inches. “You never told me you were related by marriage to Sherlock Holmes, Michelle. He is not so handsome as Mr. Sidney Paget draws him, but he has a most interesting face. He certainly startled me with his deductions.”
    “You seemed rather upset, my dear. What is this strain you spoke of?”
    Violet gazed at me, and I could sense the wheels, the small gears, turning inside. “I shall tell you another time. This is still our night out. We must not spoil it with seriousness.”
    “I hope the men did not ruin it for you. I have had a wonderful time.” I reached over and grasped her hand with my big fingers, which were reddened from carbolic acid.
    “I, too, Michelle. You are very good company. We must see each other more often. Too many of my acquaintances are vapid and ineffectual, wearisome to be around.”
    “Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”
    The waiter came, and I ordered dessert. We lingered afterwards talking until I realized that it was nearly half past eight. Violet insisted on driving me home. My house near Paddington Station was not far. In the carriage I began to yawn, and she complained, jokingly, that it was contagious.
    Climbing the stairs to the second floor was an effort. Henry was waiting for me in the sitting room. We embraced, and he initiated a kiss, which made me briefly forget my fatigue.
    “Oh, Henry, a day around women makes me appreciate you all themore. I enjoy the company of my sex, but I could not live with them day after day.”
    He ran his fingertips along my cheek. “I feel the same about men.”
    “Oh, my feet hurt.”
    He kissed me again. “Do sit down.”
    I lay on the sofa. He sat at the far end and began undoing the buttons on my right boot.
    “The clinic was a madhouse today,” I said. “These were supposed to be sensible shoes, but they are still not comfortable. You and Sherlock were oddly grim before you left the restaurant.”
    Henry slipped off my boot and began to massage my instep. Only one lamp was lit, but a big piece of coal glowed in the fireplace. His eyes stared at the fire, his mouth taut beneath the thick mustache.
    “Do not stop,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Massaging my foot.”
    “Oh.” His fingers worked at my foot through the thick stocking. “Donald Wheelwright came to see Sherlock today.” He told me about the visit: the gypsy curse, the note and Mr. Wheelwright’s reaction to the spider.
    When he finished I murmured, “How horrible.”
    We were both silent. I tried to make sense of what he had told me, but it made my head hurt. “Henry, I do not think that Violet... She may not much care for Donald.”
    “From what little I saw of him, I can see why.”
    “I cannot understand how she could have married such a man. Someone like Sherlock would be perfect for her.”
    Henry smiled. “She made quite an impression on him, despite himself.”
    “I could see that. I wonder how Donald feels about Violet.” Henrygazed again at the fire, and his mouth seemed to slump. “What is wrong?” I asked.
    He hesitated. “I... I do