The Web Weaver Read Online Free Page A

the ball?”
    “The author of the note probably has no relation to the gypsy, but that affair also seems suspicious. An old gypsy cursing all of well-to-do London is simply too dramatic, too sensational. I always suspect reports of anything even faintly supernatural, and this is very dubious. I shall be interested in meeting Mrs. Wheelwright and hearing her version of the events. Wheelwright certainly has no flair for storytelling.”
    “I think she will please you. She is remarkably beautiful, but her wit and liveliness are what captivate one.”
    Holmes laughed. “You make her sound a very paragon. I suppose I must guard my heart, for she is, after all, a married woman.” His irony had a weary edge.
    I sighed but said nothing. I could think of no rejoinder.
    “Do not tell Michelle, Henry. I would not have her worried as well. Perhaps in this case, I should have kept my deductions to myself.”
    He rose, glanced out the window, then walked to his desk and examined the spider with his glass. “Her meal is half gone. My poor tegenaria , you had another close call. Luckily the massive Mr.Wheelwright was too cowardly to strike you. Come, Henry, cheer up. Would Michelle spare you this evening? I am tired and have not dined out in a while. A good piece of beef at Simpson’s would be the very thing. Given Mr. Wheelwright’s promised check, I can afford to be generous and feed an industrious physician.”
    I forced a smile. “Oh, very well. Michelle may be late herself since she is with Mrs. Wheelwright.”
    “Good. It is settled then. Wheelwright, gypsy curses, and my mysterious Moriarty and his web will be forgotten for the rest of the evening.”
    “You must tell me more about Moriarty.”
    “In due time I shall, but not tonight—tonight, British roast beef shall rule supreme, and only topics conducive to good digestion will be discussed.”

Two

    A s usual, by late Wednesday afternoon, I was weary in body and soul. In the morning Violet, her footman Collins, and I had walked about and visited the patients who were too ill to come to the clinic. I was fairly well known as the lady doctor, but Collins provided security in so rough a neighborhood. A big, tall, strapping fellow with a ready smile, he was known to be good with his fists.
    We trudged up many dark narrow flights of stairs which stunk of human waste and visited the cold, dimly lit rooms where entire families dwelt, squalor and misery their perpetual companions. The weather had recently changed, the golden warmth of early fall giving way to the foul yellow fog and drizzle which were harbingers of winter. I dreaded the change because I knew what would happen to so many of my patients. With the bell of my stethoscope pressed against their chests, I could hear the consumption devouring their lungs. Suggesting a change of climate, wintering over in Italy or Spain, would have been a cruel mockery to those who could afford neither adequate nutrition nor shelter. Many would not live to see another summer.
    At the clinic, in the afternoon, the parade of human suffering continued. I saw many children and infants with runny noses, coughs and fevers. If they were lucky, it was only a head cold or the first croup of the season. The weather had also aggravated the rheumatism of the elderly.
    One woman about my age (just past thirty) had the most beautiful chestnut hair. She also had a dreadful black eye and a split lip. “It hurts when I breathe,” she said. I had her disrobe to the waist so I could examine her. Her skin was very pale, truly almost white, her frame slender. The outline of the humerus showed through her skin, and the shape of each curving rib was clearly defined. Her fingers were long and thin, the bones prominent—an artist’s hands—but red and rough from toil. She was frail and beautiful; somehow she reminded me of a painting of Saint Sebastian stuck full of arrows. From her sagging breasts and slightly swayed back, I could tell that she had borne