The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano Page A

Normally Mr. Wheelwright is a quiet sort of man. He is not easily roused, but beware of him when he is. He is quite particular about certain things.”
    “Such as?”
    “The time of day at which meals are served. That his shoes are brushed and set where he can find them. Nothing makes him angrier than being unable to find something. Mrs. Wheelwright once gave away some worn clothes, which included a favorite jacket. There was... an unpleasant scene. His valet, old Osborne, is always threatening to quit.”
    “Why?”
    “He says he does not like the way the master treats him, but I think he actually fears him. Poor Osborne is barely five feet tall, and well, you have seen the master. He rarely strikes anyone, but...”
    “Whom exactly has he struck?”
    Lovejoy raised his black eyebrows, his eyes suddenly mournful. “I am sorry, sir, but I can say no more. I may have already been indiscreet.”
    “Very well, Mr. Lovejoy, we shall not pursue these domestic matters. Do you know of any enemies outside the house?”
    “There I am on unfamiliar ground. You must ask Mr. Wheelwrighthimself. I gather he is not so... unpopular as his father, but I am only speculating.”
    “Yes,” Holmes said. “I have heard how the elderly Wheelwright crushed his rivals. I have also heard some curious speculation about the content of his products.”
    Lovejoy said nothing but gave a very slight, reluctant nod.
    “Thank you, Mr. Lovejoy. I shall be returning another day to speak with the staff.”
    “I shall have the carriage brought round, sir. I hope I have been of assistance.”
    He stood. His was a very imposing presence in his black morning coat, his posture, diction, and bearing perfect. Butlers were sometimes portrayed as buffoons on stage, but theirs was a position of great responsibility. Capable and intelligent, Lovejoy was more of a gentleman than many gentlemen.
    I stood up and stretched my arms. Holmes went to the bookshelves. He pulled out a volume, and soon his upper lip wrinkled in disdain.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “ The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes .”
    I could not help but laugh.
    “Mrs. Wheelwright has diverse tastes: natural histories, entomology, biology and geology; Jules Verne’s romances, Watson, Dickens, and Eliot. Ah, what have we here!” From one of the shelves hidden below the table, he pulled out a violin, the wood a lustrous reddish brown. He examined it minutely. “I do believe—yes, it is a Guarneri!—a Guarneri del Gesù. It is not inferior to my Stradivarius. I must try it.”
    He tuned the instrument, plucking at the strings and adjusting them. Finally, he pulled a large handkerchief from his pocket, and tucked that and the violin under his chin. Standing very straight, he held the bow loosely at the end of his long outstretched arm; he closed his eyes, raisedthe bow in a single fluid gesture and brought it down across a string, playing a long sustained note. “Oh yes, a very warm tone, exquisite.” The fingers of his left hand danced about as he played some scales. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” Eyes still closed, he launched into a piece.
    The melody began plainly enough, but quickly grew more complicated. When a contrapuntal line was introduced, I decided Bach was probably the composer. Holmes’ playing emphasized the music’s majesty and dignity, but the instrument’s tone added warmth. Rather awestruck, I listened from my chair without stirring.
    After the final note had died away I heard a tremulous voice: “Oh, bravo, Mr. Holmes— bravo .”
    Holmes lowered the violin, his handkerchief falling to the floor. “Forgive me for not consulting with you first, Mrs. Wheelwright, but I could not resist such an instrument.”
    Violet stood by the doorway, her dark eyes blazing and face flushed. She wiped at her eyes with her long fingers, and laughed. “Emotion is such a foolish, senseless thing. Most of the world can listen to music without being much affected, but it moves me