The Grimswell Curse (16 page)

Her mouth stiffened, her eyes troubled. “Are you certain...?”

“You need not pretend with me. I have dealt with fear and terror for many years, and I know all its manifestations. You wrote to me, even as I requested, although I arrived before you could post the letter. Therefore I am here at your summons. You must tell me everything.”

She licked her lower lip, and took it between her teeth. “I would... like to tell you everything.”

Holmes had begun to drum upon his knee with the long fingers of his right hand. “Then do so. At once. I believe it concerns your father.”

What little color she had drained slowly from her face. “How can you know that?”

“It is my business to know. Now tell me.”

She stared down at the fish, her eyes following the big one. “I suppose I must. I...” Her voice shook slightly. “Jane Grimswell, my aunt—my cousin—had to be committed to an institution, a dreadful place. I visit her when I can, although it terrifies me. Oh, I do not want to be mad—I swear I do not.”

I leaned forward and seized her wrist. She started at my touch. “You are not mad, and telling us will certainly not change anything.”

“It is either madness or worse.”

“I do not believe you are mad, Miss Grimswell,” Holmes said. “Nor do I believe in ghosts.”

Her eyes were fixed on him. “Then how...?”

“Tell me all that has occurred and then I can explain the how.”

She inhaled through her nostrils, clenching her fists. “I am so sick and tired of this all. It gnaws at me always. Very well. I suppose it began somehow with my father’s death, but no, what interests you began after my engagement to Digby. It began with that wretched document about the Grimswell Curse. Oh, I had heard about the curse, veiled references and the like, but my father had never showed me that paper. Somehow it... it frightened me.”

“It was a frightening tale,” I said.

“If my father were still alive, it would be different. If he had not died under a cloud... If—if—if.” She drew in her breath angrily. “Rickie was right to take it away from me. I would have read it again, but even without having it, I kept remembering. I began to have... peculiar dreams.” Briefly her mouth clamped shut, and I could see the fear again in her eyes.

Holmes leaned forward. “What were these dreams?”

She shrugged. “I cannot remember specifics, only impressions. My father was in them, all in black, and my mother, whom I never really knew, and Digby. However, it was more the... voice.” The pitch of her own voice suddenly went awry, becoming high and twisted.

“What did this voice say?”

“That I was cursed—that I was damned. That I was the last Grimswell—that I must not marry—that I was a freak, a monster—that I was ugly and deformed and insane—that I was mad like my father and all the damned Grimswells before me.”

Again I leaned forward to seize her wrist. “Miss Grimswell, none of these things are true.”

Her hand trembled slightly, and she stared desperately at me. “No?”

“No,”
Holmes said. “Tell me, were their many voices or only one?”

She stared at him before replying, struggling with her fear. “Only one.”

“A man’s voice?”

“Yes.”

Holmes’s mouth twitched, a brief grimace of a smile appearing, while his eyes remained locked on Rose. “And then you actually heard the voice, did you not? It spoke to you for real, and it was your father’s voice.”

Her jaw dropped, seemed to lock, and then she stood up to her full height and stared down at him in horror and surprise. A tentacle of dread seem to curl about my own heart.

“How could you know?”

“Please sit down, Miss Grimswell. Calm yourself.”

“Now you understand—both of you must understand—that I must be insane.”

I could not help reflecting on the logic of this assertion, but Holmes shook his head without hesitation. “No, I do not believe you are mad.”

“Then—”

“Nor do I believe in ghosts of the dead speaking to the living.”

“Then how—?”

“Sit down and finish relating what happened. In all my experience, mysterious voices always belong to physical personages. I have yet to encounter any genuine metaphysical manifestations, and a young lady with an inheritance of several hundred thousand pounds is tempting bait indeed.”

Now she seemed more surprised than anything else. She sank down onto the bench. “Then you believe me, and you—you do not think—you do not think...?”

“You are sane, Miss Grimswell.” A faint smile appeared. “As sane as the rest of us.” He spoke with an assurance I did not quite share.

She reached out with her enormous hand and engulfed his slender fingers entirely, making him stiffen and sit upright. “Oh, bless you, Mr. Holmes—oh, thank you, thank you.” She laughed, sobbed, then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Please, Miss Grimswell, calm yourself. I must hear all that happened if I am to discover the cause of...”

She stared at him, then let go of his hand. “Forgive me, I was so afraid to tell you.” She laughed again—a pained sound.

“When did you first hear the voice while you were awake?”

“Around two weeks ago. I was... I had had awful dreams, but I woke up. I know I was awake. I sat up and lit a candle and waited for my heart to slow down.”

“What exactly did the voice say?”

“I was sitting there, and it said, ‘Did you hear me?’ ‘Who is it?’ I cried. ‘Who is there?’ ‘You know who I am. You must not marry Digby—you must marry no one. You are damned—like me—like all of us Grimswells.’” I could see her hands begin to tremble again. “Oh God, how he frightened me. I—I looked all over the room, but I found no one. I looked under the bed and in the closets, everywhere someone might be hiding, but...”

“That was very brave of you,” Holmes said, “and a logical course of action.”

She laughed. “I was terrified. I tried to convince myself maybe I had been asleep and still dreaming, but I knew I was awake.”

I moistened my lips. “Sometimes in the interval between sleep and waking one may still dream.”

“I was awake!”

Holmes nodded. “I believe you. And so you broke your engagement with Lord Frederick?”

She nodded. “Yes. Either I was cursed or I was mad, and either way...”

“And after that, you switched rooms.”

Her eyes widened. “How could you know that?”

“A detail I learned from Lady Rupert. The rest is clear. You had a few peaceful nights, but then...”

Her face resembled some blasted flower, even her lips paling. She nodded weakly. “It was the third night. I had almost convinced myself I must have been dreaming. I had met you both in the afternoon, and your wife, Doctor Vernier, and I felt better than I had in weeks. You were so kind to me, especially Doctor Doudet Vernier.” Her eyes had a liquid sheen. “I actually thought I might be better. I went to bed early, determined to sleep, but the voice woke me, I think.” She drew in her breath resolutely. “It was just after one. I was afraid. I somehow knew he was there—that he was going to talk to me.” One hand fluttered nervously at her hair. “Oh, I do not like to think about it—I do not...” Her breath caught in her throat.

I leaned forward and again seized her wrist. “You are safe now—you are safe.”

Holmes’s eyes showed a cold fury. “Your instincts to search the room and then to change rooms were wise. I am certain the voice you heard was that of a living, breathing man—a monstrous villain, perhaps—but a living one.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

“Go on. You have nearly finished.”

“He finally spoke. ‘You know I am here, don’t you?’ I was determined to remain silent, but he taunted me. Then he—”

“How did he taunt you?”

“He told me... how ugly I was, my features coarse, my nature grotesque. Then he told me how I had disappointed him, that I could not even write or think well.” The tears slipped free and started down her cheeks. “I could not bear it. I begged him to stop—I begged him not to torture me. I asked him why he hated me, whatever I had done, but he only laughed. ‘I am damned,’ he said, ‘and so are you. It is our blood. Our very blood is tainted.’”

“That is a monstrous lie!” I exclaimed. “There is no such thing as tainted blood.”

Holmes gave his head a brief shake. “Let her finish, Henry.”

“I had begun to cry. Just like now.” She laughed, smiling briefly, the expression terribly at odds with her swollen eyelids and tear-streaked face. “I told him he could not be my father, that he must be some devil from hell. ‘All we Grimswells are devils in hell—it is our destiny.’ And he said he had always hated me. That was why he had taken Beejoo away from me.” She laughed again, her face anguished.

“Beejoo?” Holmes said.

“My rabbit—my stuffed bunny. He disappeared when I was about six. I was heartbroken. My father told me that my mother had taken Beejoo to be with her in Heaven, and that was why we could not find him. The voice knew about that, Mr. Holmes. And he told me he had actually thrown Beejoo into the fire and burned him up. How could he know about Beejoo unless...?”

“Obviously your father told someone, or you did, or someone overheard your father. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort to frighten you.”

Her mouth formed a quick, pained smile. “They are certainly succeeding. When he told me about Beejoo, about burning him up and then lying to me... I have never been so frightened in my life. It came in great waves—I could feel it in my chest and throat.” Her hands were trembling again. “I threw aside the covers, and I think I might have run out into the street, but he shouted for me to wait, that he had one last thing to tell me. ‘Leave London,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow—at once. Go back to Grimswell Hall where you belong.’ And he said if I did not obey he would come every night and during the day as well. I asked if he would go away and leave me alone if I did. He told me he would, and I agreed to leave. He warned me I must never tell anyone about his visit. If I did, I would be sorry. And then... he was gone. Oh—I do not like remembering.” She drew her breath in, a great shuddering sound, then covered her face with her large hands, so smooth and white. A muffled moan came out.

Holmes took out his cigarette case, realized one did not smoke before young ladies, and put it back. I could not recall seeing him so angry. He picked up her handkerchief, which had fallen on the bench beside her. “Miss Grimswell, please—your handkerchief.”

She lowered her hands, stared at him, ground her teeth briefly, then took the handkerchief and wiped at her eyes.

Holmes’s nostrils flared. “I have no doubt that you are the victim of a devilish hoax, and I mean to find the persons behind it.”

“Do you honestly believe that?”

“Yes. I am absolutely certain.”

My own head had begun to ache, and I felt anxious myself. “There is another possibility. The mind does play curious tricks, especially when one is weary or under a nervous strain. You said your sleep had been disturbed and the tale of the curse had troubled you. I am not saying you are mad—far from it—but desperate circumstances can cause the mind to see or hear strange phantoms. I have heard tales from soldiers who were imprisoned, half starved and mistreated. They began to have imaginary companions, but once they were rescued and returned to normal society, their illusions vanished.”

“The voice was real,” Rose said, but doubt clouded her words.

Holmes gave me an ironic smile. “I hardly see a parallel between the prisoners’ condition and hers. The phenomenon you speak of is familiar to me, but in this case there is a much more obvious explanation. Besides, I know a simple way to test our theories. Miss Grimswell, you will not sleep alone at night until the question is resolved. We shall see if your voice manifests itself in the presence of others. We shall also have a stronger lock put on your door so no phantoms can enter your room unawares.”

She eased out her breath, then smiled. “Thank you. Somehow... it seems almost childish—a foolish fear of imaginary monsters.”

“There is nothing childish or foolish about your fears.” He hesitated. “Have you heard the voice here at Grimswell Hall?”

“I...” She swallowed. “I don’t think so.”

“But you are not certain?”

“Sometimes it is hard to tell when my dreams end and when... The night before last I thought I had heard him whispering. I woke up all afraid around two in the morning, my heart beating so hard, certain he was... But there was only silence, blessed silence.” She laughed nervously. “But my sleep was ruined.”

“No doubt. Again, we shall not leave you alone at night henceforth. I shall get to the bottom of this.”

She touched her fingers to her forehead. “It would be such a relief to know... My head hurts. I have been so confused, so torn. I had thought that my father had loved me, and to be so despised and vilified by him...”

I shook my head fiercely. “Whatever is going on, that voice was not your father’s. I am certain that he must have loved you. Any father would be proud to have a daughter of your accomplishments.”

Again she stared curiously at me. “You are very kind, Doctor Vernier.”

Holmes stood, his hand again slipping into his pocket and withdrawing the cigarette case, even as he stared down at the koi. His rising brought them swimming toward him, no doubt hoping for another feeding. He frowned at the cigarette case.

“You may smoke if you wish,” Miss Grimswell said.

“Why do we not take our stroll instead? Now that you have unburdened yourself, some fresh air might do us all good.”

She stood resolutely. “That is a wonderful suggestion. It is a beautiful sunny day, and yet I feel ready to jump out of my skin. Let me change my shoes and put on something more suitable for walking. I shall meet you outside by the front entrance in about ten minutes.”

Holmes nodded. “Very well.” We started for the doorway. Overhead I could hear birdsong. “Thank you for confiding in me, Miss Grimswell. I promise you will not regret it.”

She smiled at him. “I already feel so much better.” Her tears had been wiped away, but her eyes were still ghastly-looking.

I also needed to change, and I soon found my cousin out before the massive doors finishing his well-deserved cigarette. He appeared calmer, but a certain cold anger showed in the way he raised the cigarette to his mouth. “Tell me, Henry, did you truly believe that nonsense about the mind playing ticks?”