The Grimswell Curse (22 page)

“Did he hear us?” I murmured.

“Possibly. Sound carries very well in this vast chamber. He must have seen Miss Grimswell go by.”

I shook my head. “My intrusion was perfectly innocent, but I could see she was most embarrassed.”

Holmes drew in on his cigarette, his forehead wrinkling. “I hardly had a good look at her, but she seemed more than embarrassed. She seemed distressed.” He hesitated. “Are you sure her... activity with Lord Frederick was voluntary?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Forgive me, but it often does seem monotonously predictable.”

“I cannot believe she will really marry Digby. She cannot. How I wish Michelle were here. She might be able to convince her of his unsuitability.”

Holmes shrugged, then threw his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Digby would not be the worst of husbands. He has a certain flare, albeit a studied one. He is also well read and witty.”

“But he is a bounder!”

Holmes laughed. “There is that. Come, let us go upstairs. I am ready for that pipe, and I can tell you what I have discovered in talking with the Fitzwilliamses and the servants.”

“You have not been idle like your slothful companions. What have you found out?”

We were halfway up the stairs. Holmes shrugged and smiled. “Nothing I wish to share with the rest of the household. As I said, sound carries very well.”

“Ah.” However, when we reached the gallery, George was gone.

We soon entered Holmes’s room. A coal fire had been started earlier, and it gave off a pleasant warmth. I sat in one of the large leather chairs. Having closed the door behind us, Holmes selected a larger briar from the wall, then opened a canister and began to pack the pipe. Although I could not bear directly inhaling smoke into my lungs, I found the rich, heady odor of pipe tobacco agreeable.

“It took little probing with the maids to discover that they are very uneasy. The viscount died last June, and soon after, a man in black and a giant dog appeared on the moor. Most of the locals are certain it is the viscount. Tradition has it that the vampire originates as a suicide. No one—except possibly Doctor Hartwood—will come near Grimswell Hall after dark. While the maids may not actually believe their deceased master wanders the moors, they would certainly not venture outside. Two of them are considering employment elsewhere, even though the pay here is very good. The old gardener is the most superstitious person and believes his master’s restless ghost is being punished for his wicked books. Fitzwilliams indignantly—and sincerely—denies all such supernatural talk. His wife is less sure. She thought her master a good man, but if he committed suicide, he may have earned his dreadful fate.”

I shook my head. “Such foolishness. The medieval mind is alive and well on Dartmoor. I suppose the bleak landscape makes the inhabitants susceptible to superstition.”

Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Surely a skeptic like you has not finally become a believer in vampires or werewolves.”

“Not at all, but some mortal devil may wish people to believe a ghost wanders the moor. I also discovered that, with the exception of Constance, everyone thought the viscount was in reasonably good health before his death. Constance claims he had not been well for several years, but then she was not actually here prior to his death. I spent considerable time with Fitzwilliams. After all the years at the hall, he must know the family’s history and not a few secrets. I dealt indirectly with a certain topic, then asked directly. His answer was equivocal and did little to resolve my doubts.”

I stifled a yawn. “I seem to be missing something. What did you ask him?”

Pipe cradled in his right hand, Holmes exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “I asked if his master had been visiting Mrs. Neal on a regular basis.”

“Mrs. Neal?” I sat up. “Surely you cannot...?”

He smiled. “You have seen the lady, Henry. If you were a lonely widower with no eligible females for miles around, would you ignore her?”

“Well, perhaps not, but he would have been twenty or twenty-five years her senior.”

“What has that to do with anything? Do not forget the telescope pointed at her window. I do not consider that mere coincidence. I hope to discover more when I speak to the widow.”

Again I yawned. “I do not quite see the point of all these questions about Lord Grimswell. Knowing whether he killed himself or died of a heart attack may provide some insight into his daughter’s temperament, but parents and children may differ considerably.”

Holmes shook his head. “Henry, you are being exceptionally obtuse. Has another possibility never occurred to you? A man falls from a great height. His heart may have given out, he may have jumped, or...”

My mind may have been sluggish, but a sudden cold sensation crept up the back of my neck. “Oh Lord—I am obtuse. He was pushed.”

Holmes was still smiling, but there was nothing amiable in the expression. “Very good, Henry.”

“But why would anyone...?”

“Obtuse again.”

“Yes, obtuse. The money—his great fortune.” I swallowed. “But then Rose—she...”

“Exactly, Henry. She is in great danger. If someone has already killed once, they will not hesitate a second time. And of course, we are dealing with a fortune of half a million pounds. Many would kill without hesitation for much less.”

“Half a million? Digby said four hundred thousand.”

“He was mistaken. Mr. Rigby discreetly mentioned the sum in his letter.”

“But Rose—she must be protected—she must be watched.”

“That is exactly why we are here.” He frowned and pulled out his watch. “Eight-thirty. It is early yet, but you are correct. I shall make certain her maid...” He stood up and took a step when there was a rap at the door. “Yes?”

The door opened. George smiled weakly, his eyes uneasy, his face pale. “Sir, Miss Grimswell passed me in the hall, and she seemed... distraught. I was worried that...”

Holmes set down his pipe and slammed his fist on the table. “I have been a fool—the blasted rat distracted me. Which way did she go?”

“Down the hall, toward the tower.”

Holmes nodded, then grabbed a candle and strode toward the door. I followed. George stepped back. “Please, sir,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone I told you. I was supposed to be... otherwise occupied.”

Holmes nodded without speaking. Our shadows danced about the hallway, the flame flickering off the walls. We started up the winding stairway. Holmes’s breath grew labored, but he did not slow down. I tried to persuade myself that the darkness should lessen my vertigo.

As we came through the opening in the floor, the never-distant cry of the wind swelled, and I felt cold air on my face. Moonlight streamed in the great windows, flooding the elaborately patterned carpet with light. The wind came through an open window, swept round the figure in black perched in the opening. My chest constricted. The light caught her attention and made her turn.

“Stop!” she cried. “Just stop!”

Holmes obeyed, and I nearly bumped into him.

Her face, her hands and feet (she had removed her stockings) stood out against her black dress, moonlight emphasizing their pallor. Holmes had raised the candle, and her fear was obvious. Her mouth was half open, her eyes wide, her long black hair down and disheveled. The rasping sound of her rapid breathing rose over the wind.

“Come down from the window, Miss Grimswell.” Holmes’s voice was calm yet firm.

She said nothing, only continuing her labored breathing. Holmes stepped nearer.

“I said stop!” she cried, then turned away to stare out into the moonlit night, only one hand supporting her against the window frame.

“I have stopped, Miss Grimswell—I have stopped.”

She turned again, and stared at the other edge of the casement. “I must jump. I must.”

“No!” I exclaimed.

“You certainly must not,” Holmes said.

“Yes—yes.”

“Well, you might be so kind as to explain what is wrong before you do so.”

“Sherlock,” I muttered. My mouth felt dry, my hands cold yet sweaty. Falling from a great height was my worst nightmare, and here was a person about to do just that.

She turned, stumbling slightly. “Dear God,” I murmured. She leaned back so her spine was against the window frame, her straight legs outstretched at an angle, bare feet on the ledge, her arms extended so her huge hands touched the opposite side of the frame. Her head hung weakly.

“Oh Lord, why does everything have to be so hard?”

She need only turn and step forward to plunge into the night. The wind rose in a great whistling sigh and blew some papers off the table and made Holmes’s candle flicker and go out. The yellow-orange glow of its light was replaced by the colder blue-white light of the moon.

“Don’t do that!—I don’t like the dark.”

“The wind has blown it out, Miss Grimswell, but the moon is quite bright. Will you explain now what you are doing in the window?”

“I must kill myself.”

“And why must you kill yourself?”

“Because he told me to!” Her voice rose, the pitch quavering.

“Please calm yourself. We shall not let anyone harm you. You are safe now. Please step down from the window.”

“I’m not safe—not from him—and I feel so strange—so awful. I am mad, I know it. I must be. I can... Oh, my heart wants to come out of my chest, and I can feel it in my throat and—”

“You say that you feel strange. When did this feeling of strangeness begin?”

“After dinner, when we were drinking wine. I... oh, I wish it would stop. I do not want to be mad.” She let her head fall back against the window frame.

Holmes took two small steps forward. “What exactly happened?”

“I heard the fire crackling, and the sound became... It filled the room—I had never heard anything like it. The sound was familiar, but so different, so vast. And the flames themselves, the way the yellow and orange light twisted and snapped. I had never seen... The colors were so bright, and I could see nothing else around the edges.”

Holmes sighed. “You were laughing at what Digby said. I heard you. Did things seem somehow more amusing than you knew they were?”

“Yes!” She lowered her head. “It seemed so silly even to me. What he had said was not that funny, but it seemed absolutely hilarious, and I could not stop laughing. I could not.”

“Oh, of course,” Holmes muttered.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“And then, I suppose, when Lord Frederick... touched you...”

“I felt it in my whole body. His hands were so hot, and I was hot, and I could feel my heart beating, when I closed my eyes... Oh, my lips felt hot, and...” She moaned. “Oh, I’m so ashamed. You saw me, Doctor Vernier—you saw me. And then I felt nothing but the strangeness, nothing but... I must jump now.”

“No, Miss Grimswell, you are not mad. You have only been drugged.”

“What?”

“Someone put something in your coffee. It has made you feel very odd, but the effect is temporary. By morning you should feel yourself again.”

“Can it be so?” she said to herself.

“What could cause such peculiar symptoms?” I spoke softly.

“Probably hashish. As you know, I am familiar with the pharmacology and effects of most drugs and narcotics.”

“More familiar than you should be.”

“The heightening of the senses she mentions is the most striking effect. Euphoria, hilarity, increase of appetite, feelings of an erotic nature—these are all common symptoms of hashish.”

“But is it not usually smoked in a pipe?”

“Yes, but it can also be ingested.”

“You are only trying to fool me,” Rose said. “You do not want me to know I am mad.”

“Remember the peculiar taste of your coffee. That was the drug. Was it not gritty or powdery? Perhaps you noticed something like unstrained tea leaves.”

“Yes—
yes.”

Holmes stepped forward slowly. “I promise by morning you will not feel so strange.”

“But could the drug make me see things that are not there? Tell me that.”

Holmes hesitated. “No, not generally.”

“But I saw him, Mr. Holmes—this time I saw him!” Her voice had softened earlier, but now it shook with raw fear.

Holmes sighed. “Your father?”

“Yes!”

Holmes started forward again.

“Stop!—I said stop!” She straightened up, then lowered her hands and raised one foot so she was balanced on one leg. The moonlight shone on her bare white foot, her toes pointing forward out into the dark night.

“That was not your father, Miss Grimswell. I swear it was not.”

“Then I am mad—it always comes back to that, doesn’t it? I am mad. They’ll have to lock me up just like Aunt Jane—oh, I’d rather die!”

“You are not mad!” Holmes exclaimed. “Someone is trying to convince you that you are insane, but you are not. This has gone on quite long enough—I want you to step down from the window
now.
I have explained to you that you have been drugged and that the strangeness you feel will pass. You may think you have seen your father, but that was treachery as well. Come down. Are you not cold?”

She gave a plaintive laugh. “Oh yes.” She had lowered her foot. “Are you telling me the truth, Mr. Holmes, or are you only trying... to spare my feelings?”

“Miss Grimswell, you have my word of honor—I have spoken nothing but the truth.”

She sighed, then slumped back again against the frame. Her jaw quavered, and made a clacking noise which was her teeth briefly chattering. “The face was his, yet it was odd, so lifeless and...” Her head fell back again, and I could see her profile in the moonlight, the whiteness of her long throat.

“You can come down now, Miss Grimswell.” Holmes’s voice was remarkably gentle.

“Yes,” I said. “Please, Rose—you are safe now.”

She sighed, then stepped down from the window ledge. Her legs buckled, and she fell to her knees. Holmes and I rushed forward. I seized her shoulder and could feel her trembling.

“I was so frightened,” she murmured.

A blast of wind struck my face, the air cold and piercingly damp. Although I dared not look down, I sneaked a glance upward. A great pitted moon, well past half, hung against a blue-black sky, but a long shred of white cloud had just covered the top. Soon the light began to dim.