The Grimswell Curse (35 page)

I tried to smile but could not. “Back in London, before all this had happened, it was much easier to ridicule such talk.”

“And as I have said repeatedly, a mortal man can be as frightening as any fictional monster.” He turned to gaze out the window. “Now that my journey is done, the rain has ended. The sun is out, but it has turned dreadfully cold.”

A feeble yellow light showed amid the dark trunks of the trees, but a remnant of the mists, that almost tangible air, still softened their silhouettes. The sun seemed very far away.

Dinner was a gloomy, formal affair, we men all in our black tail coats with white shirts and bow ties. Digby was the only one who appeared in good spirits. Even Michelle had grown somber. Digby chattered on, while Constance glowered at him and Rose intermittently attended to his words. Constance had insisted on supervising our “last meal,” and Mrs. Fitzwilliams had apparently felt too weary to object. The meat was badly overcooked and barely edible. Digby would not touch it, and the rest of us ate a little to be polite.

After the main course had been cleared, Maria wheeled in a cart and began setting bowls with large baked apples before us. They smelled wonderfully of apple and cinnamon, and their hollowed centers had some dark pungent filling.

“The meat may have been a trifle overdone,” Constance said, “but the apples are perfect. I made the mincemeat myself, Rose.”

Rose smiled and stared down at her apple. Brown cinnamon could be seen sprinkled along the top, the mincemeat with its abundance of raisins piled exceptionally high. A notch had been cut in the apple, a very slight line going from the center to the wrinkly skin. “I am not very hungry tonight.”

Constance grew mournful. “But I made the mincemeat especially for you—I know it is your favorite.”

Rose plunged her spoon into the center and took a big scoop of the mincemeat. “It is very good.”

The rest of us also began. The mincemeat had nuts and spices besides the raisins. “This is delicious,” I said.

Constance glowed at our praise. “Thank you. It is an old family recipe.” She enjoyed her own cooking, for she devoured her apple quicker than anyone else, all save Holmes, who had not touched his.

“Don’t you care for baked apples, Mr. Holmes?” Constance asked.

“It appears quite delicious, but my stomach feels somewhat unsettled. I must regretfully pass. Perhaps tomorrow morning, before we depart.”

Rose had eaten about half the apple and set down her spoon. Constance watched her. The light from the tall white candles in the silver holders cast a flickering golden glow across the white linen tablecloth, the silver settings and the crystal glassware. Rose’s hand toyed with the spoon, which seemed tiny alongside her large white hand. Her blue-gray eyes stared into space, her thoughts obviously elsewhere.

“Is it cooked through?” Constance asked.

Rose frowned, her thick black eyebrows coming together. “What?”

“Your apple. Is it cooked enough?”

“Oh, yes.” Rose began to eat, her eyes watching her aunt.

Constance reached forward and took a piece of hard candy from a bowl, then her lips puckered slightly as she sucked upon it. Rose finished the apple and set down her spoon. She and Constance stared at one another. The frown reappeared on Rose’s brow, a troubled look in her eyes, while Constance continued smiling, the smile odd because her mouth was full.

Constance swallowed, then opened her mouth in a gasp. “Uh,” was all that came out. “Uhh.” She stood up, her massive hands pawing wildly at her throat, even as her face darkened. I stood, but Michelle was faster. She threw down her napkin, stood, took two steps nearer, then her arm swung round and her hand struck Constance squarely between the shoulder blades. The piece of candy burst from Constance’s mouth and made a piercing ping against a glass. She drew in her breath, coughed once, and breathed loudly.

Michelle handed her a glass of water. “Drink this.”

Constance’s face began to return to its normal color. “Thank you, doctor.”

Michelle frowned. She was wearing a beautiful blue gown, one which left her shoulders and long neck bare. “Hard candies should be banned. People can choke to death on them.”

“You saved my life,” Constance said. “I’d have choked to death for sure. I’m very grateful.”

Michelle nodded. We all sat back down. Rose still had a troubled look. Holmes was staring at her, his mouth and eyes grim. The fingers of his hand drummed upon the tablecloth, a half-inch of white cuff showing below the black woolen sleeve of his tail coat. I thought he was staring at Rose, but perhaps it was only at the empty china bowl before her.

W
e sat together sipping brandy or port, the room heavy with the odor of burning wood, on what I hoped would be our last evening in Dartmoor. It was clearly a man’s room: the massive furniture was made of dark oak and red leather, paneling of a similar dark wood rose to the wainscoting, and the carpet was another crimson hue. Everything seemed suffused with a faint tobacco smell.

Digby and Rose were on the sofa, both in black, he with the white front of his shirt and tie, the thick cigar which he had demanded dangling between his slender fingers, a glass of cognac in the other hand. He talked incessantly while she stared down at the arm of the sofa, her white hands moving restlessly about on her lap. Fitzwilliams, also in black, stood in a corner watching like some aged, weary hawk to see that nothing was amiss. Constance held a tiny glass of port in her immense hand and spoke to Holmes, whose eyes restlessly wandered the room like caged beasts.

Michelle set her hand on mine. “What is wrong, Henry?”

I shrugged. “I still feel shaken. Pardon me, I must make dreadful company. You look so ravishing in that dress. The light gives your bare arms and shoulders a rosy glow. How I wish...”

“Hush.” She stroked my hand. “Soon, I trust, we will be home together in our own bed.”

I felt a familiar longing, and I put my arm about her. “We have certainly had little time for one another of late.”

Rose sat up abruptly, her lips parting, eyes widening, as she put her hand over her bosom. Although the firelight made it harder to see, her face paled. Digby did not notice, but Holmes leaned forward in his chair.

Michelle’s petticoats rustled under the silk as she stood. “Rose, are you ill?”

Rose closed her eyes and swallowed once. “I... I am only tired.” Her eyes opened and gazed into the fire. “Perhaps... I shall retire for the evening.”

Digby set down his brandy, then withdrew his gold watch with a great flourish. “But it’s barely eight, Rose.”

Rose drew in her breath slowly. “All the same, I think I shall retire. My... my head aches.”

Holmes was watching her very closely. “Do you feel... peculiar?”

“No. Only tired.” She was still staring at the burning wood. “I shall go upstairs.” She stood.

“Let me come with you,” Michelle said. “I shall see you settled for the night.”

“Thank you, but you needn’t trouble yourself.”

Constance finished her glass of port. “Oh, I can tuck the girl in. It will be like old times.” She also stood.

“I would just like to be alone for a while.”

Michelle’s eyes were troubled. “If that is what you wish.”

“I’ll just see you up, dear, then leave you.” Constance took one of the small candles burning near the door.

Rose brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Digby smiled at her. “Pity you don’t feel better, Rosie. See you first thing in the morning.”

We all said polite goodnights, but Rose did not speak. The two ladies departed, Constance holding Rose lightly by the arm. Constance was the only woman who did not appear small alongside Rose. Although Constance was two or three inches shorter, she no doubt outweighed Rose considerably and appeared larger. In their plain, somber black dresses the two looked like votaries of some funereal cult, but Constance was clearly high priestess.

Holmes withdrew his cigarette case. As he smoked, he paced. The black tail coat and trousers accentuated his tall, slender frame. Digby continued to chat amiably, although no one paid him much attention. At last Holmes threw his cigarette butt into the fire and said he, too, was retiring for the evening.

Michelle and I followed him into the great hall. In that vast dark chamber, the brilliant blue of her dress was muted, but if anything, her beauty was even more striking.

“Michelle,” Holmes said, “would you check on Miss Grimswell after Constance has left? I want to be sure—”

I seized Holmes’s arm. “Hush—here she comes.” Despite the shadowy darkness, I recognized Constance walking along the gallery above us.

We passed Constance on the stairs. She smiled broadly. “The poor little lamb is all settled for the night. I’m sure a good night’s sleep will do her a world of good.”

We walked silently along the gallery, the framed former Grimswells all hidden in darkness, and then down the hallway. Holmes and I waited a few feet away while Michelle rapped gently at Rose’s door. She murmured something, and a few seconds later, it opened. Michelle stepped inside.

Light from the doorway to Holmes’s room spilled into the hallway. We waited briefly and then went to his room. As usual, a coal fire had been started, and it was comfortably warm after the chill of the hallway. I had sat in a chair and Holmes had again begun to pace when Michelle appeared.

“Well?” Holmes asked.

Michelle appeared puzzled. “She says she feels perfectly well, and yet her behavior seems odd. She has not been so distant with me before. She would not seem to meet my gaze. And...”

“And?” Holmes asked.

“She had a piece of paper in her hand when I entered. Perhaps... She put it under a book quickly, as if she wanted to hide it.”

“Blast it.” Holmes shook his head, then went directly to a chest of drawers and withdrew his revolver and a dark lantern. A sense of dread, never far distant at Grimswell Hall, settled about my heart. He took off his tail coat and white bow tie and put on a tweed jacket. “Henry, would you accompany me?” He opened the lantern to light it.

“Certainly.”

Michelle folded her bare arms resolutely. “I am coming too.”

A sudden fury flared in Holmes’s eyes, but he struggled to restrain it. “You shall do no such thing. You will remain here. If Miss Grimswell should call, someone must be close by.”

“But—”

“There is no time for foolish arguments. The moment of crisis may be at hand, and I cannot have you constantly disputing my authority. Will you do as you are told, or must I ignore you entirely?”

Michelle’s jaw tightened, the anger showing in her eyes. Although I sympathized, I sided with Holmes. She was all too eager to throw herself into danger. “I shall stay,” she said at last.

“Good. I doubt you will miss much. Our search may well turn out to be a boring waste of time.” He rummaged in another drawer and withdrew a second revolver. “Henry insists you know more about revolvers than he. Keep this with you. We shall leave the door open so you can hear better should Miss Grimswell call.”

Holmes started for the door, but I paused to kiss Michelle’s bare shoulder. “Thank you,” I murmured.

Holmes took the ancient stairs at the end of the hall up to the next floor. The only light came from the lantern, its beam dancing on the wooden floor.

“What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Ghosts,” was his brusque reply.

We spent the next hour or two walking about the many halls and rooms of that wing of the ancient edifice. Most chambers were obviously long out of use. The damp air smelled musty, and ghostly white fabric covered the furniture. The ever-present wind rattled the window panes, and more than once, panic clawed up my throat as I fancied some figure lurking in a dark corner or beneath a thin sheet. We also went up onto the roof. The wind hurled stinging bits of icy rain into our faces, and dark swollen clouds rolled across the vast sky, the moon a veiled presence behind the swirling mists. However, we saw no sign of anyone.

When we returned at last to Holmes’s room, Michelle rose. Holmes gave his head a fierce shake.
“Nothing.”

She took my hand. “Oh, you are freezing.”

“Did you hear any word from Rose?” Holmes asked.

“No.”

He frowned. “I must be certain she is well. It would be best if you spoke to her again, Michelle.”

Michelle sighed. “Is it...? I hate to wake her if she is sleeping.”

“There is no helping it.”

We went the few feet down the hallway to Rose’s door. Michelle hesitated, then knocked gently. “Rose?” In the hallway, sheltered from the wind, was a heavy, all-encompassing silence which permeated the massive walls about us. I was afraid again. Michelle knocked more loudly. “Rose?
Rose.”

“Blast it,” Holmes muttered, as he tried the knob. “The door is locked, as I advised, but I have the key. If she does not-”

“Yes?” The voice from behind the door was faint.

“I wanted to be certain you were not ill,” Michelle said. “May I come in?”

“I am just resting,” Rose said. “I am well. Give me a little while longer, and you can have Meg come in for the night.”