Free The Web Weaver by Sam Siciliano Page B

swallowed. When she spoke her voice was again earthbound. “I pray, Mr. Holmes, every day, that such evils may be averted.”
    “And do you think the Deity hears your prayers?”
    She nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. Someday He will come again, and London will become the New Jerusalem. All will be transformed.”
    “Tell me, Mrs. Lovejoy, is there any evil of the variety you describe in this household?”
    She stared at him, warily. “I have already said the mistress is an angel.”
    “And your master?”
    A hint of anger showed in her brown eyes, but vanished almost immediately. “I am only a servant, sir. It is not my business to say.”
    Holmes sat down in a chair and stared closely at Mrs. Lovejoy. She demurely lowered her eyes. Holmes set the fingertips of one hand against those of the other. “Madam, which church do you attend?”
    Her head jerked upright. “What?”
    “I asked which church you attend?”
    “I... Why—why is it your business to ask such a question?”
    I was surprised by her haughtiness, but Holmes only smiled.
    A flush spread across her cheeks. “Forgive my... impudence, sir. One must... must struggle always against Pride. That was Lucifer’s great sin, which cast him from Heaven. I pray every day for all the sinners, but in this great evil city, this den of wickedness, I have had a hard time finding a worthy church. I meet occasionally with a few goodly women of like mind; we meet to do God’s work, to... to pray together and...”
    Holmes was puzzled. “A congregation of women?”
    “No, no—not at all—an informal prayer group only, and there is a church I occasionally attend, a church on... Hampstead Street. The minister there is... tolerable.”
    “Ah, yes,” Holmes nodded. “I know that church well. Is that not the Reverend Dunbar’s church—Obadiah Dunbar?”
    She moistened her lips with her tongue, hesitating. “I... believe so, although...”
    “Yes, yes, a large hardy fellow with a white mustache who laughs a great deal and...” Sherlock said.
    Mrs. Lovejoy closed her eyes and promptly fell out of her chair. I was at her side at once. I turned her over, but her eyes were closed. I glanced up at Holmes, but he seemed completely undisturbed. She moaned, and fluttered her eyelids. “What...?” she murmured.
    I massaged her small, cold hand. “Do not try to get up yet, Mrs. Lovejoy.”
    “What am I doing on the floor?”
    “You fainted.”
    “Oh.” She put her hand on her forehead. “My head feels so very odd.”
    I turned to Holmes. “You had better find someone to help her.”
    “My interview was nearly finished.” He strode toward the library door, opened it and stepped into the hall.
    “Have you felt ill in the last day or two, Mrs. Lovejoy?”
    “A bit dizzy in the morning, sir, and I do have something of a queasy stomach.”
    I put my hand on her forehead. Her brown eyes stared at me from under half-closed lids. Again I noticed how translucent the skin over her eyes appeared, the faint blue veins showing through. “You do not seem to have a fever. Have you eaten much today?”
    “No, sir. With the queasiness I thought...”
    Holmes and Lovejoy appeared at the door. Violet swept past them, the copious garments under her skirts rustling as she walked. “How is she?”
    “She needs to eat something,” I said, “and then lie quietly.” Lovejoy knelt beside me. We helped her up into the chair.
    Violet shook her head. “She has been working far too hard. I told her she might delay this interview, but she insisted.”
    Mrs. Lovejoy took a deep breath. “I feel better. Pardon my foolishness.”
    Lovejoy held her arm tightly. “You must take better care of yourself, dearest.”
    She smiled weakly and let Violet and Lovejoy lead her to the door. Holmes brushed aside his frock coat and slipped his hand into his trouser pocket. “I should like to speak with Mr. Lovejoy now, if he has the time.”
    “Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”
    “I shall take good care of