The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano

figure. The gray dress was fully cut, not tight, an expensive-looking fabric—and there were yards of it. Her upper arms were as big around as a stevedore’s, though not so hard, and the girth at her waist reminded me of a young oak growing before the house. We followed her up the stairs. My cheeks felt warm as I reflected upon the few brief words between her and my cousin.
    “Exactly how many nieces do you have, Mrs. Morris?” Sherlock asked.
    “Just the two, and very good girls they are. They do me proud.” We went down the hallway, and she wrapped at a door. “Flora! Flora! Visitors, dear.”
    The door swung open. The girl inside was so different from Mrs. Morris that any lingering doubts that they might actually be related vanished at once. She was a slight little thing, frail, blonde, and very pale. She was not truly beautiful, but she had a pleasant enough face: large blue eyes, a narrow mouth with almost colorless lips, and a small, slightly turned-up nose. She smiled at us, revealing a pair of dimples, but she seemed weary. Her blue silk dress was well cut with the puffy upper sleeves coming into fashion. It emphasized her tiny waist.
    “These gentlemen said a friend had recommended your acquaintance.”
    Flora’s chest swelled as she inhaled. I could not hear any whistling, but she appeared almost consumptive. “Do come in, gentlemen.”
    Mrs. Morris folded her arms as we walked by. “I’ll be close by if you need anything. And I shall want fifty pounds.” She spoke in such a way that she sounded both accommodating and threatening.
    Flora closed the door. She was a good six inches shorter than her supposed aunt. We were in a large sitting room, the furniture, carpet, drapes, and decorations all of the highest quality. “Do sit down, gentlemen.”
    She herself sat in a wicker chair near the window, the light quiteflattering. She wore gloves, but she pulled them off. Her hands were small and slender, and I could see the blue veins under the skin. Her smile had vanished, but she attempted to resurrect it.
    “A friend gave you my name? I hope he was pleased.” Something about her articulation was a bit strained; her “H”s were overemphasized.
    Holmes had sat at one end of the velvet sofa. Even the furniture seemed suggestive. “I presume so, Miss Morris.”
    She ran the fingertips of one hand across the palm of the other; the skin of her palm had a rosy orange flush. Despite the smile fixed on her lips, her blue eyes seemed detached, curiously vacant. I could almost see her thoughts losing focus and drifting, but then she willed herself back into the room, again becoming conscious of our presence.
    “We do our best to please. Would you gentlemen care to go out somewhere for supper, or would you prefer...?” The sudden awkwardness did not fit with her profession, but she was so very young—at most a year or two past twenty—that she could not have been thus employed for long.
    “We would prefer a brief chat,” Holmes said. “Perhaps you would like to know the name of the person who told us about you?”
    “Surely.” Again there was something oddly vacant about her smile.
    “Lord Joseph Harrington.”
    If this was a test, it produced the desired effect. She sat bolt upright, and every last vestige of color drained from her already pale face. One hand rose, covered her mouth.
    “I see the name is familiar to you.”
    She let her hand drop. “What is this?”
    “We are friends of the late Lord Harrington, Miss Morris, and we wish to put some questions to you.”
    She said nothing, but her terror was palpable, showing most of all in her eyes. “I didn’t do nothing.”
    Holmes peered at her. “Did you not, Miss Morris?”
    Her hand slipped down to her chest, her fingers splayed out across her bosom. “I swear to God I didn’t.”
    “So you did not kill him?”
    I would not have thought she could be more frightened, but her mouth opened wide, revealing discolored teeth. She tried to speak,