The Grimswell Curse (12 page)

She smiled gently at me. “Thank you, Henry.”

I gave a deep sigh, then turned to Holmes. He had mostly recovered, a tenuous smile pulling at his lips. “Very good, Henry—very good indeed.”

We quietly left the room, then returned to his chamber and sank into the leather chairs. Neither of us looked at one another. At last I mumbled, “It is a good thing we are both honorable men.”

Holmes gazed at me. A long strand of hair had come loose and curved down to touch his cheekbone. “Yes.”

“She is... quite a vision.”

“Yes.”

“I am a married man, but I must admit...” I shook my head. “She is certainly strong for a woman.”

Holmes stared at the fireplace. “She did not embrace you. Her grip...” He gave a great sigh, then shook his head. “No matter. Her words were rather illuminating.”

“I thought for sure she was insane. How did you know it was somnambulism?”

“I have seen such cases before. The popular notion is that sleepwalkers go about with their eyes closed, their arms extended. They do not. Their eyes are open—hence they will not walk into walls or off cliffs—but they are, nevertheless, asleep. Everything appears to them as a dream, both reality and the fantasies of the mind.”

I shook my head. “How very odd.” I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. “I felt so bad for her. Her dreams were so sad. Both her father and Digby scorned her. She wanted so much for them to care for her.”

Holmes said nothing, but three lines creased his forehead. The wind was still blowing; it had never stopped. At last he stood. “I could use a nightcap.”

“I, too—what a wonderful suggestion! Then I am going straight to bed.” I pulled out my watch. “Twelve-fifteen—no wonder I am tired.”

Holmes took a candle. “Someone may be awake downstairs, but if not, I saw a sideboard in the great hall with all the makings of a whisky and soda.” He stepped into the hall, then stopped so abruptly I almost walked into him.

Before us stood George the footman. He looked as surprised to see us as we were to see him. A very tall fellow with a lean face, his blond hair combed straight back, he had a ready smile which soon reappeared. He was still wearing his black morning coat and striped trousers.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I was... Miss Grimswell wanted me to look in on you and see if you were asleep or if you required anything. I also wanted to see how Meg and the young mistress are doing.” His voice was as amiable as his face, and by the sound of it, he was from London, not Dartmoor.

Holmes stared at him without speaking. At last he said, “And do you see in the dark, Mr...?”

“Just call me George—everyone does, sir.” He laughed. “I could make my way about the house blindfolded, but there’s a bit of light coming from the room.” He pointed past us, where a dim splash of yellow light pooled out before the open door to Rose’s room.

“And why have you removed your boots?”

I glanced down, and sure enough, he was in his stockinged feet. His smile wavered for only an instant. His nose had a slight curve to it, no doubt having been broken at some time. “Boots with pointed toes are a misery, sir. As it’s rather late, I slipped them off.”

Holmes stared silently. “Well, the maid is asleep, so you had best let her be, and we are going downstairs for a nightcap.”

He nodded. “Very good, sir. Let me get the drinks for you.” He turned and started down the narrow hallway.

Holmes frowned at me, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the candle, his large black shadow cast on the wall behind him.

The hallway opened up on the side above the great hall as we left one wing of the house. We walked down the stairs, then crossed that dark, empty cavern, its black granite walls hidden from us. Somehow I felt like an archaeologist inside some colossal mausoleum or ancient pyramid.

In the distance a dark, wavery figure approached—Constance Grimswell in her black dress, a white lace cap covering her gray hair. Her voice boomed out: “Still up, Mr. Holmes? It is so late. And you, doctor? I hope the beds are not amiss.”

“No,” Holmes said. “We were conversing and thought we would descend and have something to drink before retiring.”

“A splendid idea! May I join you?” She was near enough now we could see her pink, smiling face.

Holmes shrugged. “We are your guests, madam. Of course you may join us.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

We stopped before the sideboard. “What would you like?” George asked.

“A whisky and soda,” Holmes said.

George opened the bottle, poured about an inch, then pressed the gasogene, filling the glass with soda. Holmes had set down the candle on the sideboard. He took the drink. George stared at me. By the candlelight his face was pale, his smile strange; Constance’s smiling face also appeared bizarre, almost an echo of his—a mirage, as if I were seeing double.

“I shall have the same,” I said.

Constance nodded. “And I.”

I sipped the drink. It was quite strong, the whisky excellent. Holmes was staring at Constance. “You are also up late, madam.”

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, it is hard being an old woman. I do not sleep well, not like I used to. I suffer from rheumatism, and it also keeps me awake. Then there was all this excitement today, your arrival, and my usual worries about Rose. How is she, poor lamb?”

I lowered my glass. “She fell asleep almost at once. She was exhausted.”

Constance shook her head. “I wish I knew what ailed her! Well, it is a blessing that she is asleep at last. I suppose Meg can come down now.”

Holmes turned his glass, sloshing the liquid gently. “Meg is asleep and, tiny as she is, quite comfortable on the sofa. I think she should remain there. I also find it difficult to sleep, and I will be checking on your niece throughout the night.”

“How kind you are, Mr. Holmes! But don’t you need your rest?”

“I require very little sleep, madam.” He took a swallow of whisky.

It was quieter in the hall, the wind muted and more distant. “Well, I rarely have trouble sleeping,” I said. “And I am going to bed straight away.”

Constance gave her head another shake. “How good of you to stay up so late and take such an interest in Rose! I am so happy to have a competent physician under our roof. I did so like old Doctor Herbert, but this young doctor now... I wish Victor had gone to see the heart specialist on Harley Street. I begged him to, but he would not listen. He could be very stubborn—just like Rose. Anyway, now that you are here, doctor, Rose may at last be cured.”

Holmes finished his drink and set down the glass. George raised the bottle. “Another, sir?”

“No, thank you. Tell me, Miss Grimswell...”

“Constance, Mr. Holmes—remember?” The corners of her mouth stayed fixed in the smile even as she spoke.

“Tell me, do you recall...? Lady Rupert mentioned something about your niece wandering about in her sleep, a condition known as somnambulism. Has she ever...?”

Constance set down her glass (she had finished the drink very quickly) and nodded. “I do remember that. As a child she used to walk in her sleep all the time. Victor often found her before his bed in the middle of the night. He said it scared him half to death, this small pale girl in her white nightgown standing silently before his bed. I thought she had outgrown it.”

“She...” I began, then noticed Holmes staring intently at me. “She probably has. It is more common among children.” I finished my drink and glanced at George. “Thank you for the drink.”

Holmes picked up the candle. “It was gracious of you to oblige us so late at night. Constance, how long have you been at Grimswell Hall? You did not live here before Victor’s death, I believe.”

“No, I did not. I have been here since Victor’s tragic end. I told Rose it would not do for a young lady to be alone and unchaperoned. Of course, she has spent the whole time away from my watchful eye in London, but then, Lady Rupert is certainly to be trusted. You have met her, Mr. Holmes. Don’t you think she is to be trusted with a young lady’s well-being?”

“Absolutely. And now we must say goodnight. Henry will fall asleep on the spot at any moment, and I too am fatigued.”

Constance raised her large puffy hand and smoothed a gray curl back over her ear. “I shall be going to bed soon, too. I hope you find the beds comfortable. There are extra blankets and pillows in the wardrobes.”

“We shall be most comfortable, madam. Thank you, George.”

The footman nodded, still grinning. We left them and walked into the black gloom. When we reached the stairs, I turned. The flickering candle was visible, but not their faces. Neither Holmes nor I spoke until we had reached the top of the stairs. Beneath us, we heard footsteps, mumbled words, and a burst of female laughter.

“It is cold,” I said. “The great hall is an icy cave.”

“Heating such a vast space would be an impossibility.”

Holmes stepped into my room, and lit a candle by the bedside table. There was no fireplace or fire here, and it was even colder than in the hall.

“Are you really going to stay up most of the night?” I asked.

“I doubt it, but I shall check on Miss Grimswell frequently.” His mouth formed a brief ironic smile. “And if she appears in my room again, I shall come fetch you. You certainly handled her better than I.”

I laughed. “I can understand how you must have felt. I was surprised, but she did not actually embrace me. All the same, you were not so disturbed as I by her behavior. Until you spoke, I was convinced she was mad. Well, if it happens again, at least we shall be prepared.”

He gave a short, soft laugh. “Yes, we shall be prepared. Goodnight, Henry. Sleep well.”

I undressed as quickly as I could in the freezing room, put on my nightshirt, then slipped between the icy sheets and wrapped the blankets and quilts about me. I closed my eyes, but although I was tired out, I could not sleep. My mind would not rest.

Sleeping in a strange bed was always difficult the first night, and sleeping alone had also become difficult. I missed the warmth of Michelle. I liked to reach out with my hand or foot and touch her. I especially liked running my hand down the long curve of her back and her flank. My feet were cold and would not seem to warm up, and now I was conscious of that dull moan of the wind. It probably never did stop. Periodically the window rattled, as if some large moor creature were blowing at the panes.

I remembered suddenly the opening of Charlotte Brontë’s novel,
Wuthering Heights
, where the narrator is sleeping in a musty old room on a stormy night. In a dream, a young girl’s ghost appears at the window and begs him to let her in. He refuses, and then, for some reason, he viciously rubs her arm back and forth against some broken glass. It was only a novel, I told myself, only a story. Gradually I managed to relax.

Rose Grimswell’s face appeared in the darkness, white with black hair billowing about her in the wind. I started, then realized I had begun to dream. The room was quiet and dim with only the flickering candle. What if she appeared in my room? What would I do?

I recalled her bare white legs as she lay in the bed before I covered her. Her foot was so large, the toes long like her fingers. I wondered what she would look like under the gown—quite beautiful, certainly—then caught myself and felt guilty at such thoughts. I knew quite well what Michelle looked like under her gown, all those hidden curves and lovely places. A wave of restless longing washed over me, and I turned onto my other side. Such thoughts will not help you get to sleep, I reflected.

The window rattled again. “I wish I had never come to Dartmoor,” I muttered softly. I stretched out my legs, then curled and uncurled my toes. My feet were still cold.

M
y dreams were troubled that night, haunted by a tall woman in a white nightgown lurking in the darkness. Sometimes the woman was Michelle, then she was Rose Grimswell; sometimes she was in deadly peril, pursued by some black creature with a white face; sometimes she smiled and beckoned to me with her long, shapely arms. Toward morning, the dreams became embarrassingly vivid. At last I opened my eyes.

The dim sound of the wind was still present, but through a gap in the curtains shone a long, thin line of dazzling yellow light. I fumbled about for my watch on the bedside table. Half-past eight—later than I usually slept. The room seemed cold and bleak, but the light at the window promised a better day.

I rose, shivered at the shock of the cold air, then clasped my arms about me and went to the window. The front of the house had many trees, but this was the rear side where one saw only the weathered brown moor stretching off for about fifty yards, until it began the rise to the jumble of black granite set against a brilliant blue sky—Demon Tor. Even the sinister name could not mute the desolate beauty of the scene under golden autumnal light. Man could assign names to the works of nature, but they were only that, only names, mere words. The tor had existed in wild splendor before men had walked the moors, and it would probably exist after our cities and empire had collapsed and crumbled, even as those of Egypt or Rome.

I shaved, and dressed quickly, putting on a heavy tweed suit and walking boots, then descended to the hall. Fitzwilliams seemed to be waiting for me. His thin, aged face was clean and pink, the scab of a slight nick showing at the side of his jaw where he must have cut himself shaving. “Mr. Holmes is in the breakfast room—this way, sir.”