The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano Page A

but nothing came out. She shook her head wildly. “No— no! ” Abruptly her eyes seemed to go liquid, and tears trickled down her cheeks.
    I glanced at Holmes, then at her. “Calm yourself, Miss Morris. If you are truly innocent, you have nothing to fear from us.”
    Holmes’ gray eyes were fixed on her, and his visage seemed monstrous, gargoyle-like, with that beak of a nose, sharp chin, and probing stare. “That is true. If she is innocent.” The irony in his voice was cutting.
    Her hands shook, but she still seemed unable to speak.
    “For God’s sake, Sherlock—you will make her ill.”
    Suddenly, she leaped to her feet. “Auntie!” she screamed. “Auntie!” I wanted to cover my ears, her voice was so loud.
    The door swung open at once, and the old woman appeared. All pretense of amiability was gone, and she resembled a vicious cur, her face red with anger. Behind her stood a tall man whose visage was completely at odds with his dress. He wore the formal garb of a butler, but he had the face of a pugilist, worn and aged. His nose was twisted and had been broken more than once; he had a great scar over one eye.
    I too had leaped to my feet, but Holmes remained seated. He opened his coat, withdrew a revolver, cocked it, and leveled the barrel at Mrs. Morris. “I mean your niece no harm, madam, but I will speak with her.”
    The old harpy glared at him. She was, luckily for us, a good ten feet away, or I think she would have rushed him. The revolver did not seem to frighten her, but the gigantic butler appeared subdued. He backed up slightly into the doorframe.
    “Give me ten minutes with your niece, and then I shall leave. We need to ask her a few questions about Lord Harrington.”
    The name, which had so frightened Miss Morris, seemed to enrage the old woman even further. Her great chest swelled, and her face grew so red I thought she might burst a vessel in her brain. “You get out of here!”
    “Ten minutes, Mrs. Morris.”
    “ Out! ” she bellowed.
    Holmes reached into his pocket with his left hand and threw several gold coins at her, which I recognized as sovereigns. “Ten minutes, my good woman. I would prefer paying you to shooting you.”
    I could not believe he would actually shoot the old dragon, but if he had any doubts, you could not see them in his face. The old woman snatched up the coins while the pugilist butler stepped sideways, out of the line of fire.
    “Ten minutes,” she hissed at us, then stepped backwards and out of the room.
    “Close the door, Henry, and then pour yourself and Miss Morris some brandy. You both look ill.”
    Miss Morris collapsed into the chair. Her hands trembled. “Oh God,” she murmured.
    “Lock it,” Holmes said.
    There was a key in the latch, and I turned it. I would not have expected a lock, but given the nature of Miss Morris’s business, it was not surprising. A crystal decanter sat on the dark cherry-wood sideboard upon a lacy covering. My own hands were somewhat shaky, but I poured some brandy into two glasses and took a healthy swallow from one. The burning impact of the drink was a shock, but it steadied me. I took another swallow, then walked over and offered the other glass to Flora Morris. She was frightfully pale and obviously badlyfrightened. She gave her head a wild shake.
    “Drink it,” Holmes commanded.
    She took the glass, swallowed some, and began to cough.
    “Have another swallow,” I said, “but more slowly.”
    Her blue eyes gazed up at me, her lips parted slightly. I could not bear to see such fear. I put one hand on her shoulder. “We shall not harm you.”
    “ If you cooperate with us, Miss Morris. Where is the note?”
    She held the glass with both hands clutched against her, and I could see it quiver, the liquid sloshing slightly. “Note?” She was genuinely confused.
    “Lord Harrington’s suicide note.”
    “I–I don’t know nothing about no note.”
    Holmes gave a sigh. “If you will give me the note and tell