Free And They Called Her Spider (Galvanic Century) by Michael Coorlim Page B

that the Met didn't feel were relevant to their investigation. As proud of it as he was, Bartleby's collection of Spider memorabilia had been somewhat on the paltry side, things of value and interest only to the morbidly obsessed... but creative sorts live and thrive on just that sort of obsession.
    A fact I understood all too well, so I refrained from needling Bartleby about it.
    Too much.
    The evidence the police had transported to us, on the other hand, held treasures that Bartleby could have only dreamed of. Recovered murder weapons. Shards of glass from her more explosive entrances, mixed in with possible fibres from her costume. A bit of lipstick scavenged from the cheek of a victim she'd pecked while driving a dagger into his sternum. All of it tagged, logged, labelled, and displayed, laid out in my workshop.
    Bartleby abruptly rose and began to ascend the steps, seemingly having lost interest in the artifacts. I turned from the table to watch him go, befuddled at his abrupt change in demeanour before realising that he'd come to some sudden conclusion about the case.
    "Lunch then?" he asked.
    "Any conclusions?" I asked.
    He ignored my question until we were in the entrance hall at the top of the stairs. I'd insisted upon my workshop entirely cut off from the rest of the basement, the kitchen and the servants quarters. It wasn't that I didn't like or trust them -- I came from a working class upbringing myself. While I find our servants less tiresome than Bartleby's peers, I do not much care for any company when I'm working, and Bartleby calls such fraternisation with those he deems my lesser unseemly.
    "I've concluded that I'm in the mood for a light fruit compote for lunch," Bartleby said. "What shall I have Mrs Hoddie fix you?"
    "Bread with drippings," I said. "No, Bartleby, conclusions about the Spider. You've worked something out?"
    "What I cannot work out is your taste for bread soaked in last night's dinner. I'm rather well off, you know. You needn't eat like an east end factory worker."
    "It was how I was raised," I said.
    I have little patience for small talk. It isn't my way. I had grown up in a working class family, raised by a father with little tolerance for idleness or affection for his children, and I preferred conversation be short and to the point. Bartleby knew this, of course, and his continued deflections were his attempt to rile my temper for his own amusement. I would not give him the satisfaction.
    Still, I had to wait with growing impatience and discomfort while the cook prepared Bartleby's compote, and again while he took his goodly time nibbling at it. It was a good ten minutes of idle chatter concerning matters of little interest until he placed his napkin to the side of his plate and abandoned the facade of disinterest that he wore so very well.
    "I say, do you know what I fancy, James?"
    "You fancy any number of terrible things." Out with it, already.
    "I fancy some entertainment. Do you care to take in a show?"
    "Is this related to the case we've taken or have you just gotten distracted again?"
    He ignored my hostility. "Perhaps an Italian opera. Something jocular. Some sort of dramma giocoso -- yes. How about Il filosofo di campagna ?"
    "On with it, Bartleby."
    "Oh, I think you'll like it. It's no opera buffo , but your low-class sensibilities will enjoy the intermezzi at the very least."
    I glared at him while the housemaid cleared our dishes away, but he seemed impervious to my sincere desire to throttle him with my mind.
     
    ***
     
    I am not a fan of opera, nor any passive entertainment, really. It isn't so much that I am incapable of grasping them as Bartleby has on occasion implied, but when I'm not working (and, as Bartleby will tell anyone shortly after meeting them, I am almost always working) I prefer a good earthy carouse to sitting in some stuffy theatre, watching painted men prance around like women, and listening to songs I cannot begin to understand the lyrics to. I like