The Grimswell Curse (27 page)

Holmes’s fingers drummed upon his knees. “Again, all too common. Douglas Shamwell, the name is familiar to me. I suppose he was well known in London society? And he died just this year? I hope it was in winter—an appropriate time for so cold a villain.”

“So it was.” Constance nodded sternly.

“No doubt in January?”

Constance nodded again, but her eyes showed a certain puzzled wariness.

“Women frequently show no judgment whatsoever in choosing the men they love. I have seen far too many such cases, often ending in tragedy. However, perhaps your sister was spared a life of misery. The earl’s wife could not have been happy.”

Constance smiled grimly. “Perhaps, but she was miserable in the midst of opulence. Having to beg for money and count every penny is not an agreeable way to live, but of course, I cannot really complain. We had no real claim on Victor, but he was always so generous to us. That is another reason I feel so responsible for Rose. If not for Victor, poor Jane would be in a common madhouse instead of...” She sniffled once. “The grounds of the asylum are beautiful, the doctors and their associates so kind.”

Holmes drew in his breath slowly, sat upright and glanced at the fire. “Which asylum might it be?”

“Marshall House. It is near London, and—”

Holmes nodded. “It has an excellent reputation.”

Michelle and I looked at one another. We had spent a depressing morning there. The grounds were indeed beautiful, the house magnificent, the cost per patient astronomical, but the care was poor, the doctors indifferent, the staff hostile and impatient.

“Jane is as happy there as could be expected, but I do wish... One does not like committing one’s own dear sister to such a place. That is why...” She gazed across the room at Rose, who was talking happily to Digby. “I worry so about Rose.” She scratched at her chin, then slipped the end of her little finger into her mouth and picked at something. “Jane was only four or five years older than Rose when...” She sighed. “Oh, this wretched Grimswell blood! Sometimes I wish I had never been born into this family. There is a curse upon us—there is.” Her mouth formed a weak smile, but her huge, dark eyes stared into the fire. She touched her chin, then set her big, swollen-looking hand upon her lap.

Michelle opened her mouth, hesitating. “I do not believe in curses.”

Constance smiled. “That’s because you’re young, dear. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll believe in curses.”

“No, I will not.”

Constance shrugged, then turned to Holmes. “Mr. Holmes must believe in curses.”

Holmes stared back at her, his eyes somber. “So I do.”

I felt of flicker of dread in my chest. Michelle frowned. “Oh Sherlock, you cannot be serious.”

“I am most serious. The causes may not be supernatural, but there are curses. And the accursed.”

Later, as we were going upstairs to retire, Holmes pulled me aside. Michelle, Digby and Rose were ahead of us with their own candle. “Tell Michelle,” he said, “that I want her to stay with Miss Grimswell at a secluded inn near the village of Grimpen tomorrow night.”

“What on earth for?”

“Because you and I shall be in London tomorrow night, and I dare not leave the girl here unprotected. The four of us shall leave first thing in the morning, but no one in the house will know where we are really going.”

“London—why are we going to London?”

“I have some inquiries to make, and there remains one Grimswell whom we have not yet met.”

“But...” The dread I had felt earlier returned. “Jane Grimswell.”

Holmes nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Exactly.”

* * *

The Marshall House did have beautiful grounds, and the red brick dwelling was well over a hundred years old. (The bars over the windows were a recent addition.) Holmes and I had taken a very early train for London. Even in late afternoon, the fog still hung gray and heavy over the lawn, the yellow light of the sun feebly trying to burn through. Holmes asked the hansom driver to wait, and then we advanced to the front door, our breath forming clouds of vapor. The brawny male attendant who greeted us was dressed in white, while Holmes and I wore black overcoats, top hats, trousers and boots.

The office was splendidly furnished: heavy oak furniture with leather upholstery, cherry wood paneling, a crackling wood fire going on the grate, and a window overlooking the lawn. The doctor set down his pen, then rose, smiling widely. His hairline had receded since I had first known him, but the enormous brown mustache which hid his mouth was a form of compensation. His frock coat, striped trousers and linen were impeccable, on a par with the expensive decor.

“Ah, Henry, how good to see you again. And this must be—oh, yes— the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

“It is he,” I said. “And this is Doctor Edward Morrissey, whom I have known for many years.” And nearly always found insufferable, I thought to myself.

Morrissey extended a pale, freckled hand. “A great honor, Mr. Holmes—a great honor! Most assuredly, you have no greater admirer in all the realm than your humble servant. When Henry telegrammed this morning—gad, I was flabbergasted! I’ve read every one of Doctor Watson’s stories.”

Holmes’s smile faltered at this. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Morrissey. I hope our call is not too late, but we must leave first thing in the morning.”

“Not at all. I understand.” He stood and glanced at the male attendant. “Higgins, I’ll just show them up to Miss Grimswell’s room.”

Higgins nodded. He had the shoulders of a stevedore, but something in his eyes and the curl of his lip troubled me.

We started for the door. “What can you tell us about Miss Grimswell’s condition?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s a harmless old bird, but daft as a loon. She has been here as long as I have—for about ten years now.”

“And what particular form does her insanity take?” Holmes asked.

“She is rather a mix of things—a certain paranoia, which in her case involves the Devil and his minions being after her, severe melancholy with a tendency toward catatonia, and she does see things which are not there, now and then, usually infernal agents and that type of thing. Still, a rather sweet old lady compared to some.”

We had gone up a flight of stairs and started down a hallway. From one side came a low, incessant moan which triggered an odd sensation at the back of my neck. Morrissey did not seem to hear anything.

“Does her sister visit her often?” Holmes asked.

“No—thank goodness!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Her sister’s visits invariably worsen Miss Grimswell’s condition. Generally, as I said, she is a placid soul, but after the last visit there were attacks of screaming, dreadful hallucinations and difficulty sleeping.”

“How do you account for that?” I asked.

“I cannot. The sister seems pleasant enough. She usually leaves in tears herself, and I have to console her. Frankly, I have encouraged her to stay away—discreetly, of course. Visits are often a source of disruption to our patients and needlessly upset everyone.”

I thought of a cutting remark but kept it to myself. Morrissey had never had much in the way of human feeling, and his work seemed to have drained even that small amount.

“Here we are.” Morrissey rapped on the door, then opened it before anyone could reply. “Ah, good morning, Miss Grimswell! And how are we this fine day?”

The room was small and austere, a brass bed, a tiny desk, a few trite pictures on the wall. Near the window sat a small woman in a rocking chair; it creaked slowly as she rocked. She gave Morrissey a cold, slow stare. “I can only speak for myself, and my rheumatism troubles me sorely today.”

“A pity, that.” Morrissey’s broad smile contradicted his words. “You have some visitors: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, and his associate, Doctor Henry Vernier.”

Miss Grimswell gave us a puzzled stare. “Not Doctor Watson?”

Holmes glanced at me, his eyes amused. “No, madam. You have heard of me, then?”

“Certainly I have.”

“I would like to ask you some questions.” He turned to Morrissey. “Preferably in private.”

Morrissey nodded. “As you will. Just thrust your head out the door and call for Higgins if you need anything.”

Jane Grimswell’s face stiffened. “Keep Higgins away from me!”

“Now, now, Miss Grimswell. He only wants what is best for you. We all do.” He closed the door behind him.

Miss Grimswell glanced at the door. “Miserable vermin, all of them,” she muttered. Her hair would originally have been light brown, but had turned mostly white and hung in long, straight, dirty strands. Her face was thin and wasted, and she had dark, haunted eyes which stood out against her pale skin. She wore a thick gray woolen robe and heavy slippers, her hands hidden in the robe pockets. The chair creaked as she rocked.

Holmes and I approached her. He took the chair from the small desk, turned it about and sat. Jane stared out the window through the bars. “Too pat,” she murmured, “too pat.”

“What is too pat, madam?”

“Those stories. You always figure everything out, and it all fits together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Life is not like that. Nothing fits together. And the villains in the stories are silly. The Devil is missing, the dark parts, the scary parts.”

Holmes smiled. “I did not write those stories, and I do not greatly care for them. Watson does often leave out the important parts, and I cannot always figure out everything. Sometimes I need help. I believe you can assist me.”

“I can assist no one. I sit here in limbo waiting for death, longing for death, but afraid of death all the same. Much of my life I fought with the Devil, but now I am tired and...” Her dark eyes glittered as they filled with tears. “At least here there are only petty demons, comical ones. It... it does not seem just.”

“What does not seem just?” I asked.

“
Everything.”
Her hand suddenly appeared, touched her eyes, the fingers thin and delicate. Constance had been right: her sister’s hand bore little resemblance to her huge, swollen hand—or to Rose’s large, strong one.

“Have you heard what happened to your cousin, Lord Grimswell?”

“Of course. He fell from the tor and smashed himself to bits.”

“Do you think it was an accident?”

Her laughter affected me like the moan I had heard in the hallway. “Certainly not.”

“Then what happened?”

“The Devil was pursuing him, chasing him, haunting him, and Victor could not help but jump. When the Devil chases you, you will do anything to escape. Victor was lucky.”

“Lucky?” My voice was incredulous.

“He is at peace now. The Devil can torment him no longer.” A smile twisted her mouth. “The Devil has lost him.”

“And what of Rose Grimswell?” Holmes asked.

“Ah. The sweet creature.” The monotonous creak of the rocker made me briefly consider putting my foot on a runner to stop the noise. Jane’s eyes glistened again, the grayish-yellow light from the window illuminating her sad face. “The poor thing.” A tear trickled down one cheek but she did not touch her face.

“Has Rose visited you?”

“Yes. Many times. She is the only one who...” She stared out the window. “It has begun, has it not? The Devil... She has seen the Devil, has she not?”

“Yes,” Holmes said.

“And he speaks to her.” She sighed wearily, and her tiny hand clutched at her dirty hair. “I knew it must happen, but still... He will not stop—he will hound her until... If she is lucky, he will kill her like he killed her father.”

She said this with a terrifying, utter sincerity. The dread which had been my companion at Dartmoor began again. “How can you say such a thing?” I said.

“Would you wish a place like this on her? There are young girls here, poor sad wretches.”

Holmes’s hands clutched at the chair back as he stared at her. “I believe I can save Rose Grimswell.”

Jane laughed wearily, even as the tears began. “A mere mortal cannot best the Prince of Darkness. Satan rules here on earth. Only in the next world is there hope, and even then, I wonder. If the Devil wants her, you can do nothing. You will only be destroyed.”

Holmes stared directly into her eyes. “I have fought devils before and won.”

“Perhaps, but you have not fought
the
Devil.”

“Who is the Devil, Miss Grimswell?”

She lowered her eyes, seemed to notice her hand and quickly thrust it back into the pocket of her robe. “I... I do not know.”

Holmes drew in his breath slowly, then let his hands drop to his side. He glanced briefly at me. “What can you tell me about your sister Constance?”

Morrissey’s warning should have prepared me. Her lips clamped tightly shut, and her eyes opened wide even as the color faded from her face. I had never seen such obvious terror, such fear, and it upset me. Something had changed in that room that seemed to amplify our fear, something had happened, but my mind leaped about like some rabbit, incapable of rational, linear thought. Abruptly it came to me—silence filled the room, total and overwhelming silence, because the chair had stopped rocking.

Holmes reached out with his long arm and set his hand on her shoulder. “Please, you must not—I will not let anyone harm you.”

“You... you cannot help me. No one can protect me here.”

“I might be able to get you away from this place. My cousin here is a physician and could assist you.”

I was still too caught up in my own anxiety to speak.

“He cannot help me—you cannot. This is a dreadful place, but I am safe here from the Devil and from
her
. If I am quiet, if I am still, they will not pursue me. If I leave these walls, I will be hunted down and devoured in an instant. I am trapped—I am trapped.”

“No, not if—”

“Silence!” she shouted. “What do you know of it? What do you know of me? You cannot fight the Devil—they are too strong, far too strong, and they do not care how much they hurt you! They enjoy human suffering—they feed upon it—it is meat and drink to them. That is true even of the minor demons, the ones in white or frock coats. I must remain here until I die. There is no escape for me.” The sudden fury had seeped away like blood from an old wound.