The Grimswell Curse (17 page)

“I would not have mentioned it if I had not thought it possible.”

He shrugged. “Do not take umbrage. I was being... No matter, this theory may prove useful. We might offer it up to Digby, Constance and the household.”

The door opened and Rose stepped out. She had obviously washed her face. She looked much better. She wore a wool tailored suit, matching tweed jacket and skirt, sensible shoes, and an outlandish hat with a broad brim to shade her pale face. Michelle would have approved in that it was practical rather than fashionable.

Holmes crushed his cigarette underfoot, then pulled on his gloves and raised his stick with his right hand. “You will be our guide, Miss Grimswell, since you know the territory. What have we in marching distance?”

We started down the gravel road lined on either side with tall but bushy yews. They must have been two or three centuries old. “The nearest dwelling,” she said, “is Merriweather Farm, about two miles’ walk away across a level stretch of moor. An elderly couple ran it for many years, but they died a year or two ago, and there is a new tenant, a widow. Near the farm are the Wild Woods, and beyond the woods, Seldon’s Mire. It’s very dangerous at certain times of year. I was always warned to stay well away from it. Beyond the mire is another tor, Owl’s Roost, and near it are a ruined tin mine and what’s left of the first Grimswell Hall.”

“It actually exists?” I asked.

Her cheeks had a healthy flush from walking, but her smile faltered. “Yes. It’s nothing but a shell, a few black broken walls and part of a tower still standing. The rooks like the place, and the owls, and my father liked it, too.” Her smile was sad now. “We walked there last autumn, a little over a year ago. He always said so desolate a place appealed to a melancholy soul.”

Holmes strode resolutely, his stick in his right hand. “The supposedly accursed nature of the place did not worry him?”

“No, no. He said whatever curse might have hung over the place was long gone, the hall reclaimed by the ancient natural powers of Dartmoor—the wind, the water, the sky and the earth.”

We walked on in silence. The pathway and the yews ended, and the moor stretched out before us, the brown of the heath and the green of the grass extending to the horizon. To our left the earth rose toward the black jumbled granite of Demon Tor. Somehow the slabs did resemble something faintly like a face, something primitive and malevolent frozen in an eyeless stare. A buzzard soared overhead, and the wind moaned in the trees behind us.

“Does the wind ever stop blowing up here?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. This is as quiet as it ever gets. In the winter, during a blizzard, then it is truly frightful.”

I felt a shiver along my spine. “I would rather not experience that first-hand.”

“Is there a way up to Demon Tor?” Holmes asked.

“It is easiest if you start from behind the hall.”

“That was the way your father would have gone?”

Again her eyes were pained. “Yes.”

“We shall have to try it another time, after our legs are more accustomed to the terrain.”

“Do you mean to stay for a while, then?” She took a deep breath, glancing about her. “This is my favorite time of year.”

“I shall remain as long as necessary,” Holmes said. “I too enjoy Dartmoor in autumn.”

She gave him a brief, wistful glance, the blue in her eyes predominant in the bright sunlight and open air. “Stay as long as you wish. I hope you find this... person soon, but I also hope you will be here for a while.” Her eyes turned to me. “Both of you. The hall often seems so lonely. It is wonderful to have such good company.”

Holmes smiled ironically.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I was thinking that it is good of you to put up with elderly persons such as Henry and I.”

“You are not old at all! Especially compared to Aunt Constance and the Fitzwilliamses.”

Holmes laughed. “Faint praise, indeed. I only thought you might prefer company closer to your own age.”

“Not at all. The girls at school seemed so tiresome and immature at times. I always preferred the company of my teachers. They were so much more interesting. I’ve always been... rather grown-up and serious.”

Holmes smiled again.

She laughed. “Now what is it?”

“I was only thinking of what reception Lord Frederick will then receive.”

She was not a woman to hide her emotions; her dismay was immediately evident. “Oh, I had forgotten.” She frowned, her good humor gone. “He will be pestering me again. Should I marry him, do you think?”

Holmes shook his head. “Please, Miss Grimswell, do not ask me such questions. I am the last person you should consult.”

“Why? Because he is your client, you mean?”

“No—as I have told you, your well-being is my main concern, not his wishes. I am the wrong person because the fair sex is a mystery to me and because... I have little experience in such matters.”

“Oh.” She looked at me. “And you, Doctor Vernier?”

I smiled. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

“But you do not like Digby, do you?”

“I...” My voice faltered. “My opinion does not much matter.”

“It matters to me. And I would like to know what your wife would think. She seemed... I wish she were here too.”

I sighed. “So do I. She would like Dartmoor.”

We had been walking for about fifteen minutes. Flies droned softly in the air, while the bright blue sky was broken up by great banks of clouds, moving ever so slowly. The tor along the horizon had an almost preternatural sharpness. The air was so clear and clean compared to London. Behind us, slightly uphill, was the hall, its tower of black granite rising over the landscape. Only Demon Tor was taller.

We followed the dirt road through the moor, wheel tracks showing in the ribbon of red earth unraveling before us. None of us spoke, but it was a companionable silence. We listened to the gentle sounds of that warm sunny day.

Ahead appeared a black shape, a menhir, one of those great stone slabs raised by the ancient dwellers of Dartmoor millennia ago. The path passed quite near it, and only close up could we get a sense of scale. It stood a good twelve feet tall, the height of two men, the sole object rising more than a few inches above the faded brown and green of the moor. A great slab of rough black granite, its face stained by gray and green lichens, it seemed somehow a part of the desolate scene as well as an alien presence. Perhaps it was because the stone was natural, of the local earth, while its shape, position and location were the doings of men.

I felt uneasy staring at it. “I know it is ridiculous, but it looks as if it might have been there for millions of years, not mere thousands. They must have been objects of mystery and awe to the recent dwellers of the moors. One would think gods or giants must have set it there, not mere men like ourselves.”

Holmes smiled faintly. “It does have an air of power, but it is only a large stone. It is all too vulnerable.”

Miss Grimswell frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that many of its brethren have already ended up in local houses and churches. Too many of our contemporaries have little respect for their ancestors. They topple their monuments and break them into smaller pieces to build with.”

Rose gave her head a shake. “It seems a desecration. These things must have had a religious significance. I can feel it.”

Holmes shrugged. “I fear men have little regard for the beliefs of their predecessors. No doubt someday our great cathedrals will be picked through by latter-day vultures the way we have picked through the tombs of the pharaohs and the temples of the Greeks.”

She licked her lips, stared up at the menhir, then turned away abruptly.

“Is anything the matter?” I asked.

“No.” Her smile was tenuous. “I do not like menhirs. Even as a child they somehow frightened me. They seem so old and so cold. They make one think how short life is. How many who stared at that rock are dead and gone, mere bones and dust? Even as we someday...”

Holmes eyed her closely, his lips curving upward. “A melancholy reflection for a young lady of twenty.”

Her dark eyebrows came together. “I cannot help what I feel. We Grimswells are a melancholy lot. Perhaps that is the true nature of the curse.”

“You misunderstand me—I meant no censure in my observation. I too frequently fall prey to such reflections. Of course, I am twice your age.”

Her eyes hardened, then her mouth relaxed into a smile. “Tell me, Mr. Holmes, at the age of twenty were you a cheerful young man who never thought of death, evil or other dark matters? Was life all sweetness and light for you at that age?”

Holmes smiled, and I could not repress a laugh. “Very good, Miss Grimswell,” he said. “Your instincts again serve you well. My disposition has changed very little. Perhaps the renaissance physicians were correct in their theory of humors. Perhaps you and I share an abundance of black bile, a secretion which causes melancholy.”

I shook my head. “The theory of humors is nonsense. Black bile as such does not exist.”

“Perhaps not,” Holmes said, “but melancholy does, and it appears to run in families. Tell me, Miss Grimswell, did your studies include the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans?”

They had, she told us, and if we had any doubts, it soon became even more apparent that she was a well-educated and intelligent young lady. She seemed familiar with the major discoveries in Egypt of our century. How she would be wasted on a man like Digby! But then I remembered Holmes telling me Digby was not the imbecile he pretended to be. All the same, he certainly did not seem right for this sensitive young woman. I found her quite charming, and so, I could tell, did my cousin.

After an hour’s walk, we circled round and came upon Merriweather Farm. The dwelling was very old, probably a century or two, the walls formed of black granite stones, the weathered gray shale roof equally somber. Unlike Grimswell Hall it had no park, only a massive ancient oak with bronze leaves and two dark scraggly pines. Such dwellings were often home to man and beast, the cattle residing in half the house during the winter months, but the place seemed deserted, neither man nor animals present, save two rooks in the pines who cawed hoarsely with dismay at our approach.

“Did you say the farm had an occupant?” Holmes asked.

Miss Grimswell’s dark brows came together. “I was told it did, yet it appears deserted.”

A moment later the door opened, and a person stepped forth, a woman in a black dress, her pale yellow hair bound up, so light in the sun that I briefly thought it white, mistaking the young woman for her grandmother. She raised a hand in our direction. “Good day!”

“Good day,” Holmes replied loudly. More quietly to Miss Grimswell: “That must be the tenant, a widow I believe you said. Do you know her?”

“We have never met.”

The widow advanced slowly in our direction. “It is a fine day for a walk. Have you traveled far?”

A worn stone path wound toward the house; we followed it to meet her. “Not far,” Holmes said. “We have been walking the moors. We came from Grimswell Hall.”

“Ah, we are neighbors then. I am Mrs. Grace Neal, and you...?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my cousin, Doctor Henry Vernier.”

I was watching her and saw no sign of recognition of Holmes’s name; clearly she was not one of Doctor Watson’s readers. Her skin was pale with a rosy tint, her eyes blue, and she was a very attractive woman, her features and her tiny hand quite delicate. Her widow’s weeds were black, but the dress was fine silk, the cut elegant and quite contemporary, sleeves puffing out at the shoulder, then tapering at the elbows. An elaborate floral pattern showed, a black-on-black design, and her impossibly small waist must be the result of a corset cinched far too tight. My physician’s instinct and my marriage to Michelle made me cringe at such abuse of the internal organs by whalebone and steel.

“And this is Miss Rose Grimswell,” Holmes continued.

Her smile wavered as she stared up at Rose, who was a good foot taller than she. “You are Miss Grimswell, Lord Grimswell’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I knew your father—not well, of course, not well at all, but... enough to recognize him as a gentleman. I’ve missed seeing him walking about the moors. He was a familiar sight. We have few visitors to this part of Dartmoor, and it was reassuring to see him and know there was a man of character and breeding close by.”

Rose smiled sadly. “Thank you.”

Holmes’s eyes were shaded by the brim of his hat, but they peered closely at Mrs. Neal. “This seems a desolate and lonely spot for a woman such as yourself, Mrs. Neal.”

“What do you mean by that, sir?”

“Only that a woman of your class is seldom found living a solitary life in the wilds of Dartmoor, and you are obviously not a native.”

“How do you know that?”

“By your manner of speaking. You are from London.”

A flush showed on her cheeks, but she smiled. “I am. My late husband and I lived there.”

“Indeed? And how did you come to dwell at Merriweather Farm?”

“My husband and I took a walking tour shortly after we were married, and we both fell in love with Dartmoor. After he died, I... The bustle and squalor of London became too much. I fled here to be alone with my thoughts, hoping that these great vistas, the lonely majestic moors and the bleak tors, might in time comfort a heart equally desolate.”

Her voice had a faint quaver at the end. Holmes raised one eyebrow and gave her a curious look. His mouth twitched, but he did not speak. Miss Grimswell’s brow was furrowed, her eyes faintly uneasy.

I shook my head. “Such a course of action is unwise. Isolation and lack of activity are not likely to assuage your grief, but rather to prolong it. Solitude is not good for one accustomed to the companionship of marriage.” She stared at me, and I felt embarrassed at my zeal. “Forgive me, but as a physician, I must often advise those who have lost a loved one.”

“It might not suit everyone, doctor, but I am content here.”

Rose stared at her, her dark brows coming together where her frown created a furrow over her nose. “What on earth do you do all day?”