The Grimswell Curse (34 page)

Constance sat up in her seat. “Lord Frederick, isn’t it about time you discussed your intentions with me? After all, I am her only living relation.”

Digby paused, fork poised before his mouth, then laughed. “Oh, really now, Constance—you’re hardly related at all. You’re not an auntie, just some very distant cousin. I’d think, too, that you’d be happy to see the girl married off to an upright scion of one of England’s oldest families. Pardon the blowing the old horn, but after all, they aren’t exactly knocking down the door to get in line, are they? Unless... Surely you wouldn’t want Hartwood in the family? Besides, it’s not really your business after all, is it, old dear?”

Constance seemed to swell before our eyes. “How dare you speak to me that way, young man? My family is as old and distinguished as yours—and my father was Lord Grimswell’s brother—just as you will be a marquess’s brother someday. Both situations are equally worthless. You have no title, no lands, no money, nothing to offer Rose—you will only be taking from her, and I have always suspected... You only want her money, don’t you? You have never loved her.”

Digby kept smiling and eating, but his cheeks reddened. “Of course I love her.”

“It’s her money, isn’t it? Can you deny you want the money?”

“No, but I want Rose most of all. The money is like... frosting on the cake.”

Oh Lord, I thought, he is hopeless.

Constance had also grown quite red. She was so large and formidable a woman that she gave the impression she could easily devour the slight, thin Digby. “So you say, young man, but I have my doubts about you.”

“You are welcome to them, but they won’t matter to Rose.”

She set her big, swollen-looking hand on the linen tablecloth. “Rose did not have all these troubles before she met you. She did not hear dead men talking to her and see ghosts. It makes a body wonder.”

Digby slammed his hand onto the table. “Don’t be an utter idiot, Constance—you are talking nonsense, silly nonsense!”

“Am I? You said you wanted her money. What would you do to get it?”

“Nothing dishonorable—is
that clear enough for you? No one likes an old meddler, especially when they are being particularly foolish. If I marry Rose—as I trust I shall—I shall not forget this conversation. Besides, I have my own suspicions about who the man on the moor is.”

Constance was scowling but looked puzzled. Holmes put his knuckles under his chin. “Do you now?”

Digby had picked up his fork and resumed eating. “Yes.”

“Pray tell us whom you suspect.”

“Who has a bad habit of stumbling upon corpses and then appearing here?”

I frowned, unable to think whom he meant, but Holmes smiled. “Ah. Doctor Hartwood.”

“Doctor Hartwood!” I exclaimed. “But he—”

Digby nodded. “First the dog, then George. And he was Lord Grimswell’s doctor. For all we know he gave him some medicine that killed him, made him so dizzy he fell off the tor. And now he’s after Rose.”

“Now that really is nonsense,” I said.

Holmes was still smiling. “What he claims has a certain logic.”

“Oh, he feigns well enough.” Digby’s smile grew smug. “He acts as if old cupid has cleft his heart in twain, but I’ll wager all those pounds sterling are in the back of his mind. There are men who will kill for that kind of money—I am not one of them—but they do exist.”

“That is certainly true,” Holmes said.

Constance appeared both wary and puzzled. “I am not so sure.”

Digby cut up a strip of bacon into neat pieces. “I’ve heard you say enough bad things about Hartwood, Constance.”

“Oh, he’s not old Doctor Herbert’s equal, but I never said he was a murderer.” Her forehead was creased. “I shall have to think about this. A murderer. There is so much evil in the world. Maybe...” Her mouth formed a brief, grotesque smile. “My sister is always talking about the Devil being at work. Perhaps, after all, there is truth in what she says. So much wickedness.” She slowly stood up, then turned to leave.

She had almost reached the door when Digby spoke. “We must ask Rose whom she wishes to accompany her back to London—you or me. I’m sure the decision will be a difficult one for her.”

Constance gave him a venomous look, her pink face contorting with rage. Something about the white lace cap and black dress suddenly seemed ludicrous—they did not fit so large and powerful a person—and she appeared curiously sexless. It was a swinging door, or she would have slammed it shut behind her.

Digby’s pale blue eyes glared triumphantly at the door. “Pathetic old cow. She is ultimately rather laughable.”

Holmes stood. “Would either of you care for coffee?”

I shook my head, but Digby nodded. “Please.”

Holmes returned with two cups of coffee. “So you still have hopes that Miss Grimswell will marry you?”

His mouth full, Digby nodded. “I do, Mr. Holmes, I do. And I shall protect her, rest assured of that. And if you find this monster—especially if you expose him as Hartwood—you will be well paid.”

Holmes’s smile was cold. “My payment is of little concern to me, not in this case.”

“No?” Digby’s plate was clean at last, and he set down his napkin. “Why not? If I marry Rose, I shall see that you are well paid.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“Do so. Especially now, given all that has happened... Rose must understand that marrying me is the only thing that makes sense. I can get her away from Grimswell Hall and Constance, and I can protect her from that murdering fiend. I may not... I may not be good for much—I know you both think me a pretentious fool—but I am capable of that, and I do love her, in my own way. Wild, passionate abandon is not my style, howlin’ at the moon and goin’ down on the knees and all that, but my feelings for her are genuine, all the same.” He took a sip of coffee. “And even if... Certainly I can offer her more than some country-bumpkin doctor. She is a woman of intelligence and education, and what would she talk about with him? Farmer Brown’s gout? Sheep herding? She’d be bored to death in a month.”

I had shown incredible restraint, but I spoke at last. “Do you truly feel you know Doctor Hartwood well enough to speak with such certainty about his character?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I know the type well enough. The species is a common one.”

“And exactly how would you know his type?” I asked. “You do not associate with any men who have to work for a living, men who actually do some active good in the world.”

My anger caught him off guard. “I mean no criticism of physicians, Doctor Vernier. Your calling is a noble one—if a man has the stomach for it.”

This was too close to my own reflections. My head had begun to ache, and I could bear Digby’s presence no longer. I mumbled my excuses, stood up and departed. Holmes soon joined me in the great hall. I was again staring out of the mullioned glass at the trees; an icy-looking drizzle had begun to fall, something between mist and rain.

“Not very inviting,” Holmes said. “Unfortunately I must be going out. Keep an eye on the ladies, Henry.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Grimpen and then to Merriweather Farm. Someone needs to alert the local police of Mrs. Neal’s death. I shall go on horseback.”

I could not repress a shudder. “Wild horses could not drag me back to Merriweather Farm.”

“I do not look forward to it myself. The ladies, I believe, are in the conservatory.” My eyes were still fixed on the dark green leaves of the yews amid the white mists, but I heard him sigh. He set his hand on my shoulder. “Thank you, Henry, for your help. Murder never fails to shock—never.”

I soon joined Michelle and Rose by the fish pond. Michelle was relentlessly cheerful, but Rose seemed as despondent as I, and rather preoccupied. The huge koi swam about in the clear blue water, their colors striking against the blue tiles, but even they seemed faintly monstrous to me with their grotesque, hungry mouths.

Later, after lunch, I sat near the fire and tried to read a medical journal. That was a mistake, as I was far too restless. After reading the same paragraph several times, I let my head fall back against the chair. It would be good to get back to London and some semblance of normality. Suddenly sleepy, I closed my eyes.

I had nearly dozed when soft, languid music filled the hall, the notes played beautifully. The piano—someone was playing the piano, the grand piano which had sat in a corner silent and unused during our entire stay thus far at Grimswell Hall. I opened my eyes and leaned forward. The top was up, and Rose stared down at the keys, the tension of her concentration showing in her forehead and her tight lips and jaw. The piano was black, as was her dress and her hair, but her face stood out in the shadow.

The music sounded like Chopin, probably one of the
Preludes,
the left hand carrying the urgent melody. Her playing was quite remarkable, very clean and lucid, but with a passion one would not expect from a twenty-year-old woman. I listened in awe for the next several minutes as she went through what must be the whole set of
Preludes.
She played it with a simple sincerity that was impossible to resist.

At some point Michelle joined me, setting her hand on my shoulder and standing quietly beside me. When Rose finished one particularly beautiful piece, Michelle stared down at me, her eyes all liquid, and said, “She must play well.”

I smiled. Because Michelle had little musical knowledge or experience, she usually deferred to my judgment, although I was hardly an expert, especially compared to Holmes, an excellent violinist and an avid concert- and opera-goer.

“She plays magnificently.”

“The music is lovely, but so sad.”

“It was written by a tubercular Polish romantic who died very young.”

“I hope...” Her fingertips caressed my cheek lightly. “I hope that is not why she chose it.”

When Rose had finished the Chopin, she started on a lengthy sonata which was either Beethoven or Mozart. The music sounded more difficult with many more notes, but she gave it the same ardent intensity. She then went backward in time and played something by Bach, more difficult still, with three or four contrapuntal voices. The finale was a piece by Chopin which I recognized, a thundering polonaise filled with dramatic chords played with both hands. She used the pedal and filled the entire hall with sound.

In awe, I stood up and stepped around where I could see better. Her hands had been hidden from me, but now I saw them leap about, those long white fingers totally mastering the keys, the pale skin of her wrists almost glowing next to the black silk of her cuffs. Her eyes showed both wild exultation and tremendous concentration. The final chord was deafening, all the strength of her strong arms and shoulders going into her fingers.

“Oh, bravo!” Michelle began to clap.

“Bravo indeed,” I said, joining her. “Bravo.”

Rose drew in her breath, her bosom swelling, blinked twice, then glanced at us and smiled. “Thank you.”

Digby came walking out of the shadow where he had stood near a gigantic potted palm. “That was remarkable, Rose. I knew you played, but... I guess I’d never heard you, not in years and years, and I thought...” His smile was almost awkward, his eyes evasive. “That was so damned authoritative, nothing of the amateur at all. And you played for so long, nearly two hours. I kept waiting for it to end—not that I really wanted it to—but... Are you finished, by the way?”

She smiled up at him. Her brow glistened faintly with sweat. “Yes, I think so. I had not played in a long time. I wanted to do something which would... distract me. My fingers felt awkward. I must get back to a regular practice schedule again.”

Digby’s eyes were fixed on her. “I didn’t know,” he said, almost to himself.

“Are you ready for tea, my dear?” Michelle asked. “You must have worked up an appetite playing that way.”

“Tea would be nice.” She stood up and wiped her brow with her fingertips. She glanced at me.

“It was very good, Rose,” I said. “You play beautifully.”

She smiled at me. “Thank you, doctor... Henry.” Her eyes still seemed somehow weary and troubled, despite her obvious pleasure in our admiration.

Michelle took her arm. “The tea should be in the sitting room by now.”

I glanced down at the music on the piano. The thick book of Beethoven sonatas made one of the pieces obvious. Their footsteps echoed through the hall, but I lingered at the piano. The clouds had broken at last, and a shaft of tentative yellow light slanted down through the vast hall.

My eyes rose. Constance stood clutching the oaken railing running along the gallery above us. All in black, she and Rose were dressed almost identically, except for Constance’s lace cap, but while Rose had a majestic beauty, Constance appeared almost monstrous, and as I had remarked before, curiously sexless. She smiled reflexively at me, then started along the gallery.

I sighed, then looked about and saw another silent spectator— Sherlock Holmes standing near the entranceway. I strode across the hall, my own footsteps echoing now.

“You are back. Did you just arrive or did you...?”

He smiled, then pulled off his gloves and put them into his hat. “I heard the end of the Beethoven, the Bach and the polonaise. Classical, baroque and romantic, the entire gamut. Her playing is extraordinary, quite sublime for one so young. She has a phenomenal talent. Those remarkable hands of hers will surely not go to waste.”

“Even Digby seemed impressed. Perhaps he finally realizes she has something more to offer than a mere fortune. And how was your unpleasant business?”

Holmes’s mouth stretched into a grim line. “As ugly as might be expected. The local representatives of the police came with me, and Doctor Hartwood.”

“Hartwood?”

“He is the only physician in the area, and the police rely upon his assistance. In this case, cause of death was obvious. Hartwood has a strong stomach, but he said he had never seen evidence of so horrific a death. The young constable who accompanied us became quite ill. And, of course, the entire village is abuzz with gossip. Neither money nor threats will get anyone in Grimpen to venture onto the moor near Grimswell Hall after dark. There is probably an even division between the proponents of a vengeful ghost and those of a werewolf.”