The Grimswell Curse (10 page)

“Mr. Holmes, thank you so much for coming, but...” Abruptly she broke off her words and covered her eyes with her large white hand. “Oh Lord, I don’t know what to do.”

Holmes glanced at me, his eyes pained. I knew he was reserved about touching others, especially women. I set my hand on her shoulder. She bit at her lip, her hand still covering her eyes. “When did you last eat?” I asked.

She was silent for a few seconds. “I don’t know.”

I looked at Holmes. “She needs food and sleep.”

“She shall have them. Miss Grimswell, we can talk after you have eaten and rested. You need not tell me anything until then. Would you care to take supper downstairs with your cousin or...?” Her hand dropped, and she shook her head wildly. “If you would care to dine alone...”

Again she shook her head, her eyes open wide. “No, no—please do not leave me alone. I can bear it no longer.”

“We will be happy to keep you company while you dine here.”

She smiled at us, the care and strain briefly lifting. “Oh, thank you. That would be wonderful.” She lowered her gaze. “He does not bother me when others are around. Not yet.”

“Who does not bother you?” Holmes asked.

She stared at him and gave her head a quick shake.

“As you wish. Henry, could you see about having some food sent up? Perhaps I shall see if I can get a fire going. Are you not cold, Miss Grimswell?”

“I am freezing.”

“That is easily remedied.”

I went to the door, stepped into the hallway and started slightly. Fitzwilliams was standing next to the door, arms folded. Recovering, I said, “Could you have some food brought up for Miss Rose?”

“Yes. My missus might be against it, but I cannot see letting the poor girl go hungry just because she will not come down. Why would a young girl want to sit at the table and have all our dried-up old faces staring at her?” He gave a gruff laugh, then started for the stairs.

I stepped forward, set my hands on the oaken rail and stared down at the hall below. Constance Grimswell was talking with the footman, but she looked up and saw me. My instinct was to leap back, but it was too late for that. She gave me a broad smile, then gathered up her skirts, turned, and started for the stairs. “Damn,” I muttered. I considered a strategic retreat, but decided it was my duty to keep her at bay.

I walked down the gallery and met her at the top of the stairs. Her face was rosy from the climb, but she was still smiling. “How is the poor little lamb?”

Little? Having just tried to support this woman, her choice of words seemed ludicrous. “She will be perfectly well after she has eaten and slept.”

“Do you think so, doctor? I do hope you are right. She has always been sickly. I have the constitution of an ox myself, but she takes after her poor mother, and of course the Grimswells have always had a... peculiar streak. Her father had a bad heart, and I’m sure Rose has inherited a similar defect.”

“Rest assured, her heart is fine.”

She blinked, her mouth briefly stiffening. “How can you be sure?”

“My wife, who is also a physician, examined her thoroughly.”

Her dark brows came together although her smile did not waver. “Oh, really? That is... splendid news. But isn’t it sometimes hard to judge the health of the heart? A friend of mine was always fit as a fiddle, but then one day she said her chest hurt and fell over dead.”

“Anyone could tell from looking at your... cousin that she does not have a bad heart. She is far too robust and healthy looking.” Constance had begun to annoy me. “Besides, heart problems are rare at her age.”

“But she always had fevers, doctor, and coughs and sneezes, and she is so terribly highly strung. I have tried to tell her she must have rest, absolute rest. She must not trouble the brain with unsettling novels or too much study, nor must she exert herself. Doctor Herbert always thought so, too. Doctor Herbert was very good. He died just last year. Eighty-two years old. You must know a thing or two to live that long. Do you not think so?”

“Medicine has changed more in the last twenty or thirty years than all the previous centuries.”

“But the old remedies are the best, don’t you think? Won’t you help me make Rose rest? She must have absolute peace of mind—nothing must disturb her—if she is to recover.”

I stared at her in disbelief, but her smile was as bright as ever. She raised her big hand—it was hardly so shapely as Michelle’s or Rose’s, the fingers puffy-looking—and seized my arm. “I only want the best for her, and I am not sure we can trust that young man, that Lord Frederick. Now that she is home I can take good care of her—I know I can. We shall cure her, shall we not?” She tried to draw me down the hall toward the library, but I would not move.

“I hope you will explain all this to Mr. Holmes. I am so embarrassed at my rude behavior. It was not like me—you can ask anyone. I thought he had come to pester Rose. I did not want her agitated and disturbed. She is the only family I have, and...” Her eyes glistened in the faint light. She withdrew her handkerchief and sniffled loudly. “You will explain to him, won’t you? You’ll tell him that I love Rose dearly. I never married, you know, and she has been exactly like a daughter.”

“I shall tell him.” I smiled and gently pried her hand loose.

“May I see her—may I see my dear Rose?”

“Not just yet. Perhaps later.”

She rubbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I have been so worried about her. She has always been highly strung—did I tell you that? But the past day—she has not been herself—she has not. I do worry so. The Grimswells have not always been... I myself am cheerful always, but her father was a gloomy man. I loved Victor dearly, but it cannot be denied he was a gloomy man. Some of the Grimswells—my own sister, even...” She choked off a sob. “She hardly recognizes me! She had to be put away in a madhouse. Oh, promise me that will never happen to Rose!”

“I am sure it will not.”

“Do you honestly mean that, doctor?”

“Yes.”

A maid had started up the steps carrying a tray. The smell of the meat made my mouth water. I had not eaten since lunch.

“But can you be sure?”

“Miss Grimswell, I...”

“Will you not call me Constance? I realize we hardly know one another, and it is an outrageous breach of manners, but it will be very confusing otherwise because Rose is Miss Grimswell, too, and I think of her when someone calls me Miss Grimswell. I shall of course refer to you as ‘doctor,’ but please call me Constance.”

“Certainly—and now I must really see how Sherlock and your cousin are doing.”

“My niece, doctor—my niece. I am ‘auntie’ to her, and she is a niece to me—at least a niece—more a daughter, as I said.”

“Very well, madam—Constance.” I started quickly down the hall behind the maid, but Constance moved fast for an old woman and had no trouble keeping up. “And later perhaps you can see your niece.”

She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “Oh, thank you, doctor, thank you! And you will explain to Mr. Holmes—you will tell him I was worried about Rose and was not myself—please beg him to forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, and if there were, he would gladly forgive you.” I hesitated at the doorway, and she seized my arm.

“Are you not hungry yourself, doctor?”

I blinked my eyes, surprised at so reasonable a question. “Why, yes.”

“Send Meg back down, and I shall have her bring up some food for you and your cousin—unless you would care to sup with me?”

“I... I... must attend to your niece.”

“Yes, of course. Well, I shall have Meg bring you some food. There is more stew, but we also have some very good hams at Grimswell Hall. Its pigs were always the wonder of the land. In all of Dartmoor...”

“Anything, madam—anything. I leave it to your discretion. You are very kind.”

She released my arm at last. Her smile revealed her teeth. “Thank you, doctor.”

I let the maid leave—she was a tiny thing alongside Constance or Rose—then shut the door. “Lord deliver me,” I muttered.

“What, Henry?” Holmes stood before a coal fire, warming his hands. The room was much less chill.

“Nothing. Miss Grimswell—Constance—begs your forgiveness for her rudeness.”

Rose Grimswell looked up from a plate of stew. The smell again made me ravenous. “She means well, but she can be so... tiresome.”

“Yes.” I nodded emphatically.

Rose thrust her fork through a piece of meat, then chewed it slowly. Her eyes briefly met mine, then quickly looked away. “How is your wife?”

It took a second or two to realize the question was for me. “Oh, she is well. She wishes she could have come.”

Rose sighed. “I wish she could have come, too. She was so very kind to me. She reminds me of Miss Lambert at school, but she is much younger and prettier. She seems so... sensible.”

I laughed. “That she is.”

I stepped nearer to the fire. Outside a sudden gale shook the windows, rattling the panes. Miss Grimswell dropped the fork and raised her head, her eyes opening wide.

“It is only the rain,” Holmes said.

She took the fork. “I do not like the wind. It sounds somehow... lonely. It is eerie here in Dartmoor. It sounds like the cry of some beast, some—”

“It is air in motion,” Holmes said.

I laughed. “What an unromantic thing to say.”

Rose ate her stew. “Mrs. Fitzwilliams says it is the souls of the damned crying out, an echo of their misery.” She picked up a piece of bread. “I do not mind the wind during the day, but at night...” She shook her head. “I do dread the night.”

“There is nothing to be frightened of,” I said.

A laugh slipped out, twisting her mouth, and the fear was obvious in her eyes.

“If you are having trouble sleeping, I can give you something that will help.”

Holmes set one hand on the table and put the other in his pocket. The light from the fire gave his face an orange cast. “Perhaps I shall have a maid sit with you for a while as you fall asleep.”

Rose eased her breath out. “Oh, thank you. I’d give anything for a good night’s sleep. When you are tired, so tired, it is difficult to think clearly.”

“I think you will sleep tonight,” I said. “However, the maid and I shall sit with you for a while, and if you have difficulty, I shall prepare a sleeping draft.”

She swallowed the last of her bread. Already she looked better. “I can face anything after a good night’s sleep.”

Holmes smiled. “Even Lord Frederick?” He glanced at me. “I have prepared her for another visitor.”

She laughed. “Even him.” She took a drink of water, then ran her tongue across her lips. Her plate was empty. “My poor Rickie.”

R
ose Grimswell fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. I had suspected she would. The body has a way of making its needs felt, and natural sleep was better than that produced by opiates. I asked the maid to sit with her for a while, then I took a candle and stepped into the hall.

Two doors down was Holmes’s room, the door ajar. He was seated before the fireplace, pipe in hand, a volume on his lap. The room was enormous and beautifully furnished, another plush carpet like that in the library, the design remarkably fine with a myriad of colors. The four-poster bed, a bookcase, the small table and chairs were all constructed of oak stained very dark. Pipes were also mounted here above the mantel. This must have been Victor Grimswell’s room. It was situated at a corner of the edifice, with large windows on two adjacent walls.

“Ah, Henry, have a seat. I fear I have already claimed the most comfortable chair.”

By the fireplace were two chairs covered with dark red leather. I pulled the smaller one about. Holmes’s had large rounded arms and appeared big enough to hold almost anyone who was not a true giant. A chunk of coal glowed on the grate, and Holmes had his feet up on the ottoman. He still wore his heavy tweed suit and brown boots, but he had loosened his collar and cravat.

He exhaled a cloud of pungent smoke. “Victor Grimswell had excellent taste in pipes. Each one is a treasure, as is the tobacco. It puts my shag to shame.” He slipped the stem between his lips. “I suppose there are some who would hesitate to smoke a dead man’s pipe, but any man who owned such a collection would want them to be used. A good pipe must not be shut up in a trunk or cupboard.”

“This is his room, then—or rather,
was
his room.”

“Yes.” Holmes smiled. “You seem to suggest by your use of verb tense that a dead man cannot possess a room.”

“I think not.”

“Even if he is a predatory ghost?” His smile was ironic, but I frowned. “Forgive me. It was an idle jest. I am fatigued.”

I withdrew my watch and opened the cover. The hands showed five past nine, but Michelle’s portrait in miniature caught my eye. She had given it to me after we were married, mostly in jest, saying it was to remind me of my matrimonial bond. She might have gone to bed by now. She wore a flannel nightgown to bed, but underneath it was none of the usual complicated paraphernalia of female undergarments, only her smooth, strong body. I eased out my breath, then snapped shut the case and slipped the watch into my waistcoat pocket.