The Grimswell Curse (23 page)

“Can you walk?” I asked.

“I think so.”

We helped her to her feet. She swayed slightly. I shook my head. “Oh no, not again.” For an instant I wished she were some wee slip of a girl so we could just pick her up and carry her, but she recovered quickly this time. I led her forward while Holmes closed the window. It groaned in the frame, and the moan of the wind was diminished as it sealed. Holmes struck a match and relit the candle.

Rose looked ghastly, her lips somehow blackish, but she tried to smile at me. “I very nearly jumped. I would have if you hadn’t come.”

I felt too moved to speak. My fingers pushed a long strand of black hair from her eye back across her shoulder. “Thank God you did not.”

Holmes’s lips formed a wary smile. “And thank George—if he had not come to the door when he did... He saw you in the hall, Miss Grimswell.”

She blinked dully. “George? I did not see him.”

“We need to get her to a warm room.” I had grasped her arm, and Holmes took the other. We started for the stairs.

“I am very cold,” she murmured.

“A fire and some brandy will take care of that.”

We had started down, the candle’s feeble light struggling to illuminate the black granite of the walls. “It was so dark when I came up here. My candle went out on the stairs. I couldn’t see anything, and I was so frightened.” She glanced at the candle, then away. “The flame...”

“Does it still appear odd?” Holmes asked.

“Yes.”

“If one knows the effect is the result of the drug and is temporary, then the strangeness may actually be appreciated. Try staring at the flame. Do not be frightened of it.”

She did so. “Yes.” She nodded. Her teeth chattered briefly for a moment, and her arm still shook.

We went down the hallway but just before her door she suddenly stopped. “I cannot go in there. He...”

“I shall go in first to make sure it is safe,” Holmes said. “Where did you see him?”

“At the window near the fire. Staring in at me. His eyes had light in them.” She shuddered, something that passed through her entire body.

Holmes gave me the candle and stepped inside. She turned and sagged against the wall. “I am tired.”

“You can rest now, and we shall stay with you.”

Her throat rippled as she swallowed. “Thank you.”

Holmes reappeared. “There is no one, and I have drawn all the curtains.”

I led her into the room, then let go. We all went to the fireplace. The heat from the glowing coal was the most wonderful thing in the world. Her face was still terribly pale, and her black dress looked wrinkled. Half the buttons were unfastened in front. She touched her hair, sighed, and then her legs gave way again. Holmes and I tried to catch her, but she was too heavy and we were too late.

Holmes shook his head. “I’m glad that didn’t happen on the stairway.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I am perfectly well. I only want to rest here for a little while.” Her legs were tucked under her, and she had risen up onto her left arm. “It feels so warm.” She sighed, brushing her hair back out of her face, then glanced at the window hidden by the curtains. Her eyes widened. They were all pupils, great burning dark holes reflecting the fear within her, the gray-blue of the irises hidden.

“There is nothing there,” Holmes said. “You need not be afraid.”

She tried to smile, then nodded. She made a strange sound. When I realized it was her teeth still chattering erratically, I felt cold myself, despite the heat pouring from the fireplace. I turned, then yanked a fluffy quilt from the bed and cast it over her. Outside the wind continued its endless keening moan.

I
t was to be another long night.

Holmes asked me to watch Rose while he had a look about. She was too cold and frightened to sleep immediately. I tried to reassure her even though I was badly shaken myself. I didn’t really believe in ghosts, but a palpable sense of evil lurked in the dreary hall and desolate moors. Mortal men might be responsible, but of a particularly cruel and savage nature. Equally disturbing was the possibility that the recent visions might only be the concoctions of an ailing mind. I was nowhere near so certain as Holmes about Rose’s sanity.

Since she did not want to leave the fire, I also brought a pillow from the bed. She wrapped herself in the quilt, smiled wanly, then lay trembling for a long while. Our conversation did provide some semblance of normality, and soon she fell asleep. Staring grimly into the fire, I wondered what I was doing there instead of being at my home in London in my warm bed, Michelle beside me. By then, however, I was committed—I could not abandon the poor girl to whatever dark fate awaited her.

Digby appeared around ten. He was not pleased to discover me in Rose’s bedroom and made some insulting assumptions. Given the hour and location, I told him he was no one to be giving lectures on morality. Rose stirred, and Digby and I went to the doorway, where I tried to explain what had happened. I was making little progress until Holmes appeared and corroborated my story. As usual, Digby was contrite and apologized profusely. He had not meant what he had said, and he offered to relieve me as Rose’s guardian.

Holmes and I stared at one another, an unspoken agreement passing between us. Holmes thanked him for his concern but said Rose needed the watchful care of a physician because of the dire possibility of brain fever. I raised my eyebrows but said nothing. A penitent Digby retreated, saying he would check on his fiancée later.

Once he had left, I said, “Brain fever?”

Holmes smiled. “A suitably evil-sounding malady, is it not?”

“Yes, although it is not a clinical term.”

“At this point there is no one in the house I would trust with Rose but you.”

“Surely you cannot suspect everyone?”

“Surely I can, Henry—some more than others, Digby being near the top of the list. Oh, and this should go without saying, but tell absolutely no one that she was drugged. That must be our secret.”

I stifled a yawn, then walked back into the room toward the fireplace. Holmes followed. I could see that he was weary, but agitated, restless. He glanced down at Rose, then gave his head a shake. I sank down into a chair with a sigh. The howling of the wind had grown worse, and I heard a smattering of raindrops hit the windows. “This is like some... some nightmare.” I spoke softly, not wanting to wake her.

“If you would like to sleep, Henry, I can watch her. I am accustomed to being up all night long.”

Again I yawned. “Although I feel tired, I am not certain I could sleep.”

We both sat silently for a long while. I stared down at Rose Grimswell, then my eyes rose. Holmes was in a chair, one hand tapping lightly on his knee. “She is...” I said, “she is a beautiful woman, is she not?”

Holmes’s face went curiously neutral, as if he were trying to erase all hints of emotion. “She is.”

“If Digby were not too... obtuse to see it, things might be altogether different.” The silence began to settle about us, but I was not finished. “In the tower, when she asked you if you were only trying to placate her...”

His mouth stiffened, and his eyes showed a flash of anger. “I do not give my word of honor lightly.”

“Forgive me—I should have known that.”

He smiled, the anger gone at once. “I can see how you might be confused, Henry, but she is not mad.” He pulled out his cigarette case, then hesitated.

“Go ahead and smoke. You have earned your cigarette.”

“In a lady’s bedroom? No, no, it will not do.” He slipped the case back into his black coat, then stared into the fire. “It is curious.”

“What is curious?”

“That it should be so obvious to me and not to you. While I am an expert on crime, I know little about the fair sex, and you are a married man and have many female patients.”

“Not many. Only a few.”

“All the same, it was immediately apparent to me that Rose Grimswell is quite sane.”

I sighed. “Well, it may compromise my ridiculous position as an expert on the feminine psyche, but I am relieved to hear you say that. It is only that... ‘sanity’ can be so nebulous. I have seen many people, men and women, tormented by foolish fears or thoughts. Certainly they are not mad—they do not see things or hear voices—but they are deeply unhappy. As a doctor, I would like to help them, and yet I can do almost nothing.”

Holmes stared grimly at the fire. “Sooner or later, every man—or woman—has their own devils to battle, but some more so than others. Miss Grimswell may have a melancholy disposition, but some villains are doing their best to make her suffer, and I shall see that they pay for their monstrous crimes.” His voice was harsh; he eased out his breath, then smiled. “But we shall not solve the woes of the world tonight. Go to bed, Henry.”

I stood. “Oh, very well, but wake me in a few hours, and I shall watch for a while. You are certain the effects of the drug will be gone by tomorrow?”

“Yes, although she may feel intermittently strange. That was a particularly foul trick, giving a susceptible young woman a drug to confuse and disturb her. It was a deed akin to poisoning, equally treacherous and craven. In her case, the results were also meant to be fatal.”

I frowned. “Who could have done it?”

“Almost anyone who was at dinner. In the confusion caused by the rat, anyone could have slipped something into her coffee. Most of the household would have known she used considerable cream and sugar.”

“Digby remarked upon that.”

“Which would tend to exonerate him. Why raise the issue if you wished to keep it secret?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps he knew you would figure it out and hoped you would make that assumption.”

“Mere speculation, either way.”

From the hallway we heard a loud wailing noise. Holmes and I stared at one another in dismay, then went to the doorway. Lumbering down the hall, a candle before her, Constance advanced like some black and white dreadnought. “Oh, the poor dear—the poor lamb! Oh, let me see her—let me help her!”

Holmes grimaced. “Keep her out, Henry—I do not want the young lady awakened.”

“But...”

“Do not let her in.” He closed the door, leaving me to face her.

“Oh doctor, is it true—is it true?” Her huge hand closed about my arm.

I winced—her grip was formidable. “Calm yourself, Constance. She is perfectly all right and sleeping well.”

“Oh, let me go to her!
Please
.”

“She needs to rest now.”

Constance dabbed at her eyes with the ever-present hanky. “Oh, the poor lamb! Lord Frederick told me all about it. She actually thought she saw her father. Oh, I have been so afraid of this—her mind has finally gone! It has snapped. I have been so afraid of a nervous collapse, and now—brain fever! Oh, dear God, help us!” She sobbed loudly.

“Please, Constance, she needs to rest. You will wake her. There is nothing to worry about now.”

“Nothing to worry about when she is seeing her father’s ghost? Oh, it is madness, pure and simple, just like my poor sister—just like poor Jane! Oh, God help us.” She began to cry loudly.

“Please, you must not—”

The door behind me jerked open, and Holmes’s pale face appeared, his eyes furious. “Madam,” he whispered fiercely, “you will wake your niece with your caterwauling. I must insist that you keep quiet—that is the best thing you can do for her just now.”

Constance gave him a stunned look. She ground her teeth once, and now that she was blessedly silent, I could see something odd in her eyes, a hint of some strange, dark emotion. She sniffled loudly, and it was gone at once.

“I only want to be with her—to help protect her.”

“As I suggested, your silence would be particularly golden just now.” Holmes closed the door.

Constance sniffled again. “I only wanted to help, doctor. I know I’m only a useless old woman, but I wanted to help.” She began to cry—but quietly.

“And so you shall, but just now she needs her sleep. Come, I must go to my room, and...”

We walked side by side down the hall, her lamentations continuing. She seemed convinced her niece had finally gone mad. I considered telling her that Rose had been drugged, then remembered that Holmes had said that must be kept secret. I did tell her all might not yet be lost, that “brain fever” did not inevitably lead to death or madness.

“God help us, no!” We stopped before my door, and again she clutched at my arm. “She has overstrained herself. I told her she should not go out walking on the moor. She needs absolute rest, doctor— absolute rest! She must not be disturbed in any way. Probably it would be best if she remained in bed for a few days—wouldn’t that be best?” “Bed?” I was so weary I could not think clearly, and I just wanted to be rid of her. “Possibly, although—”

“I knew you would understand! You’re not like that dreadful Doctor Hartwood. Really, he’s nothing but a farmer’s boy, not a real doctor at all—not like you. He should have been a veterinarian.”

I blinked my eyes dully. “Goodnight, Constance.”

“Goodnight. It is good to know there is another voice of reason in this house.”

I eagerly closed the door behind me. Two candles on the desk had been lit, but the room was cold and dreary. Outside the wind murmured, and I could hear the rain buffeting the window. I looked at the empty bed, and my heart ached with longing. It had only been three nights in Dartmoor, but it seemed an eon of time. “Oh Michelle, how I miss you.”