The Grimswell Curse (31 page)

“Exactly, Henry. She may be the next victim. I only hope she is still alive to answer my questions.”

I felt faintly dizzy. “Oh.” I stared up at a patch of clear blue sky. It seemed so far removed from the moors and the horror lurking there. Momentarily I felt as if I were falling into the sky, somehow falling upward into its depths. I stumbled.

Holmes’s hand shot out and seized my arm. “Are you ill?”

“No. I only...”

“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”

“No, I would prefer to walk.”

Holmes watched me closely, then drew in his breath deeply and exhaled. “Forgive me, Henry, if I seem curt or ill-tempered. It is not you with whom I am angry. I dislike being bested, especially when the result is murder. I should have dragged George away the minute I knew he was willing to talk, but then...”

I sighed. “And you must forgive me. My behavior has been... unmanly.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“It is true, but I... We have had our adventures together, but I have never faced a cold-blooded murderer before, one so eager to kill.”

“Murder is the ultimate crime, the ultimate sin. As I have said, a person who will murder his own kind is worse than a beast. You are right to be afraid.”

I smiled wanly. “Michelle does not seem to be afraid.”

“She should be—if not, she lacks your good sense.”

I laughed.

“I am serious. I would not want a fearless companion—I know you will not take stupid risks. That is why Michelle should not even be here—you should send her back to London.”

I could not help but laugh. “I would like to see you try to send her back to London.”

Holmes glared and shook his head, then a smile broke through. “I too am lacking in courage. Besides, Miss Grimswell needs her companionship.”

Ahead we saw Merriweather Farm, the rectangular dwelling built of solid granite with its shale roof, a structure which appeared almost as ancient and unassailable as a menhir or tor. The giant oak before the house had lost most of its leaves, and the branches formed an elaborate twisted pattern of black before the sky. We walked down the stone path, and Holmes seized the weathered green knocker over the door, then hesitated.

“If she does not come...” He rapped loudly three times, then stepped back and folded his arms.

The moan of the wind was quieter down there where the farm sat than up on the hillside near the hall; all the same, we could hear its soft, ceaseless murmur.

“Who’s there?” A woman’s timid voice came faintly through the massive timbers.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes from Grimswell Hall. I must speak with Mrs. Neal.”

“Just a minute, sir.” The door swung slowly inward, and there in the shadow stood a plump, small young woman in the rough-spun garments of a villager. “She’s in, sirs. This way.”

We stepped inside, and Holmes seized my arm. “Leave all the talking to me. Reveal nothing—nothing at all.”

I nodded. The woman led us into the kitchen. Mrs. Neal sat in a rocking chair before the stove, her needlework on her lap. She set it aside and rose to greet us. Overhead, two enormous hams hung from hooks in the dark, aged beams of the rafters. Various pots, kettles and dishes were stacked on open shelves, and the large black iron stove gave off a welcome glow of heat.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Vernier—how good of you to stop by. I hope you will pardon me for receiving you in the kitchen, but it is the warmest room in the house—quite cozy as you can see. I am glad you have come for tea at last. Susan, put on the water. But where is Miss Grimswell today? I hope she is not ill.”

“We do not need tea,” Holmes said. “I fear this is not a social call.”

“No? You may leave us, Susan.” With a nod, the maid departed. Mrs. Neal had stunning clear blue eyes, and they gazed innocently at Holmes. “What then?”

“There has been an accident involving someone at the hall.”

“Oh dear. I hope Miss Grimswell—”

“Miss Grimswell is perfectly all right.”

A frown briefly wrinkled her clear, smooth brow. “That is a relief.” Her eyes shifted to the right, then the left. “Who, then?”

“It is certainly no one you could have known.”

The polite smile on her lips seemed rigid.

“One of the servants, George, has been killed.”

Her mouth opened, and we heard the sound of her breath being sucked in. Her face twitched, and one hand suddenly reached back to grasp the top of the rocking chair. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard, sending a ripple along her slender throat. Her face had had a pleasant flush, but now began to lose color.

“You are correct. I did not know him.”

“Someone cut his throat and bled him to death like an animal.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her tiny hand.

“Sherlock,” I said, dismayed.

“It does not matter, Henry. She did not know the fellow, but she must have a kind heart all the same. She appears rather ill. Perhaps you had better sit down, madam.”

“Yes—thank you.” She stepped round and nearly fell into the chair. “I... Forgive me, but...” Her eyes shifted about, glancing every which way. She drew in her breath. “Such violence, such brutality, does make me ill, even though this person was not known to me.”

Holmes’s smile was ruthless. “As I said, Henry, a kind heart.”

“I have always... I am not strong, it is true, and stories of cruelty and violence always upset me. Perhaps... I had hoped to escape such black deeds in the wilds of Dartmoor.”

Holmes was still smiling. “Did you?”

“Yes, of course. Here there are no robbers or villains, not like in London, and...” She withdrew a lacy white handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Holmes laughed sharply.

“Sherlock,” I said.

His smile vanished. “Further pretense is unnecessary, madam. You need not play the bereaved widow with me.”

Again she turned the full force of her blue eyes upon him. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean that I know all about you, George and a certain tall man with big feet and a large dog.”

All the color left her face, and her eyes were fixed on her hands. They were shapely and delicate, but minute compared to those of Michelle or Rose. “I... I have no idea what on earth you mean, Mr. Holmes.”

“I also know about your part in Lord Grimswell’s murder.”

She raised her head, her eyes fearful. “
What?”

“You lured him onto the tor, and then your friend pushed him over the edge.”

“I...” She drew in her breath, and her hands formed fists. “I was not there—I was not! I did love Lord Grimswell, it is true...”

“You never loved him!” Holmes was vehement.

“I did. Perhaps it was not right, but I did.”

“Then why did you lure him to his death?”

“I... I did no such thing.”

“You cannot fool
me,
madam. I am not susceptible to your female charms. I see you for what you are.”

“And what is that?”

“Something beautiful but deadly—a poisonous snake perhaps, an adder.”

“How dare you, sir!” Her voice lacked any real indignation.

“You are a pathetic and contemptible creature.”

“Please, Sherlock.” I knew he would not say such things if they were not true, but I could not bear to see a woman ill-treated.

“I have seen your kind before. God has given you the gift of great beauty, yet you use that gift only for evil—you are like some spider...” The image triggered a sudden recollection, which made him cover his forehead with his hand. “No, no, not like a spider,” he whispered to himself, “not a spider.” He lowered his hand, and much of the rage had left his face. “No matter what you are, you are in grave danger. I suggest you tell me everything, and then I shall get you away—I shall find a safe place for you.”

Again her throat rippled as she swallowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

Holmes began to pace about the kitchen. “Perhaps you did not know what he intended, but no, you must have known. He has killed Lord Grimswell, George and probably one of Lady Rupert’s maids. He will not hesitate to kill again. George was going to tell me what he knew. He may have been willing to see Lord Grimswell murdered, but perhaps that changed things. He felt sorry for Rose Grimswell. He was willing to frighten her, but not to help murder her. His knowledge was a threat. That is why he was killed.”

Mrs. Neal said nothing, but her eyes had a fearful intensity.

“You are next, madam. You know too much to live.”

She shook her head, and managed a smile. “This is some dreadful mistake, Mr. Holmes. I have no idea what you are talking about. I... I did love Lord Grimswell, it is true, but all this other business... You mistake me for... someone else.”

Holmes stood before her rocker. “Do I? He will kill you, I swear he will. Surely you must know that.”

Somehow she managed to keep smiling. “Who on earth are you talking about?”

“I am talking about the monster loose on the moor. He is not a vampire or werewolf, but he is their equal in evil—something worse, even. You are expendable, madam. Perhaps you think... He certainly cannot love you, no more than you loved Lord Grimswell. There is only one woman he truly loves—the one who bore him.”

She struck at her legs with her small fists, her face reddening. “
No
.” She twisted her head to the side and clenched her teeth. “You are wrong—you are wrong. I mean... I... I do not know what you are talking about.” She straightened her neck and assumed an insipid look. “This is all madness. How dare you speak to me as you have? How dare you? You have insulted me deeply. Where is your breeding, sirs? You are no gentlemen, that is certain. I must ask you to leave.”

Holmes stared at her and shook his head. “He will kill you.”

“Go away—now.
Please.”
Her voice had faltered.

Holmes sighed wearily. “I was wrong to mock you, but I was angry. You did not see Miss Grimswell nearly frightened out of her mind or George with his throat ripped open. Whatever your crimes, you do not deserve what will happen if you remain here. Let us take you to Grimpen. You can—you can escape. I know nearly everything now, madam, and... I do not want to see you dead.”

The brief flush of anger had left her. She looked drained, already lifeless. “Please go, Mr. Holmes. Please leave me.”

Holmes stared at her, but she lowered her eyes. He seized his stick and put on his hat. “Come, Henry.”

“But if—”

“Come.” He stopped at the doorway. “Justice is a strange and terrible thing, madam. Sometimes justice is not desirable at all. If you change your mind—and I pray you will—come to the hall or flee to Grimpen, whichever you will. But do not remain here.”

Mrs. Neal had nothing to say. Her face seemed waxen, her beauty illusory, and she appeared frozen in the chair, unable to move.

“Sherlock—”

“Let us go, Henry.”

I caught one last glimpse of her blue eyes. They were curiously empty, vague and distant. Something in her mouth and eyes made me realize I was seeing the real woman now, a person very different from the blond vapid widow of her sentimental tale.

We went through a barren sitting room. “We cannot leave her,” I said.

“You heard what I told her, Henry. I tried—I honestly tried. We cannot force her—she must choose. She must choose to save herself.”

The plump maid opened the door for us. “Good day, sirs.”

Holmes hesitated. “It would be better if your mistress were not left alone tonight.”

The girl’s smile faltered. “I can’t... I can’t be here after dark. My father will pick me up soon, so we’ll be back home by sunset.”

Holmes scowled. “Whatever am I thinking? By all means, do not stay here after dark! See if... Ask your mistress to return with you to Grimpen when your father comes. Will you promise me that? Try to persuade her. It is no longer safe here.”

“Surely, sir.”

“Good afternoon.”

Holmes set off at a desperate pace, his eyes locked ahead. With a heavy heart, I followed, pausing once to glance back at the lonely farmhouse, the ancient granite dwelling set against the desolate moor and the bleak sky of Dartmoor, a sky which had lost its vibrant blue and begun to fade.

When we reached the hall the light had diminished even more. Holmes said hardly a word and, once inside, went silently up the stairs. I hesitated, then crossed the hall and went to the conservatory.

I opened the heavy doors, and it was like being outdoors again, the glass overhead filling the room with an abundance of soft light. Laughter floated through the air, a gentle sound, and then another laugh which I recognized—Michelle’s. The ferns thrust their broad, jagged leaves toward the sky, and the potted palms rose higher still. The gravel crunched lightly under my feet.

Michelle and Rose sat together on the teak bench. They had not seen me, and I stopped walking so they would not. Rose was smiling. Michelle had leaned forward and seized her wrist with her big white hand. She wore a brilliant reddish-purple dress, a favorite of mine, and as usual, the dazzling color contrasted with Rose’s somber black. Michelle’s face was flushed slightly, and Rose stared at her, a smile on her lips. Her hair was black, while Michelle’s was a light reddish brown. Their faces were different, but both were lovely women. Something about them made my eyes fill with tears.

At last Michelle turned and saw me. “Henry, what are you doing there?”

I forced a smile and stepped forward. “The two of you looked so happy together, I did not want to intrude.”

Michelle’s brow furrowed. “What has happened?”

“Uh, nothing important.” I tried to control the pitch of my voice. “I shall tell you later.” My eyes were fixed on her, and she understood.

She smiled, but all the playfulness had gone out of her eyes. “Rose and I have been talking about men. I have warned her not to take them too seriously.” Something made a plop in the pond, and Michelle turned. “Goodness, look at them.”

The koi hovered over the blue tiles on the side of the pond near me, torpedo shapes in agitated motion—white, gold, black and orange, singularly or in various mixtures of colors. The white scaly monster opened his mouth in a greedy O, the two whiskery points again reminding me of flexible fangs. Startled, I took a step back. Several others raised their heads out of the water, their mouths greedily opening.