The Grimswell Curse (36 page)

Holmes pointed at the doorknob and whispered, “Have her open it.”

“Can you let me in for a moment, my dear? I shall not pester you for long.”

“Oh, I am so tired.” Rose sounded near tears.

Michelle turned to Holmes. “Can we not...?”

“I must get in there!” he whispered fiercely.

“I’m sorry, Rose—please, we must...”

“One minute.”

“Rose?”

The silence grew like a great wall all around us. Holmes clenched his fist and struck it lightly against the wall. “I like this not. I—”

The door swung open, revealing Rose’s pale face. “Oh,” she said, when she saw Holmes and me. She had removed her black dress and put on her night clothes, a white nightshirt and long white robe. Her long black hair was down, spilled onto the white fabric.

“Forgive me,” Holmes said. He strode past her into the room, and we followed. Holmes was peering under the bed. Next he went to the wardrobe and looked inside. Rose appeared pale and ill, her eyes feverish. Holmes paused by a small table, stared at a large book, then lifted it. Nothing was underneath.

“I am sorry to disturb you,” Michelle said.

Holmes had examined every place where someone might be hiding. He also pulled aside the curtains and looked out the windows. At last he gave a harsh sigh and came back to us. “Again, forgive me, Miss Grimswell. I had to be certain. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

Her eyes were curiously unfocused, as if she were asleep. “No.”

Holmes’s brow was furrowed. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

Michelle touched her gently on the arm. “My dear, you must know that—”

Rose’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, must you all make it so difficult! How often must I say ‘no’? Excuse me—I am tired—only very tired. Please leave me alone.
Please
.” She slowly drew in her breath, steadying herself. “Send Meg in now. I want to go to sleep.”

Holmes nodded. “Very well. Be sure to lock your door for the night before you go to bed.”

We went into the hall, and Rose closed the door behind us. Holmes stalked away, muttering something savagely. He turned to us. “Michelle, would you be so kind as to find Meg so they can be settled for the night?”

A savage yawn contorted my face. “Lord, I am tired myself.”

Michelle took my arm. “You need to get to bed.”

“Not yet.” Holmes started back toward his room. “We must have another look about.”

“But it is after ten, and I thought you searched everywhere,” Michelle said.

Holmes turned again. “I do not plan to sleep tonight. However, I shall only need Henry for another hour or so. We must check the rooms again, especially those above Miss Grimswell.”

The back of my neck felt cold. “You suspect the same trick as last time, an apparition at the window?”

“I suspect
something.
She is behaving...” He shook his head angrily. “Something is wrong.”

The house seemed colder and darker than ever, and again, fear hovered always nearby. We were gone a long time, but we found nothing. Afterward, the three of us sat in Holmes’s room staring silently at the fire. The clock on the mantel showed quarter to twelve, but neither Michelle nor I made any move to leave. My cousin’s agitation had proven contagious, and I doubted I would sleep much that night either.

All the same, when I closed my eyes, I found myself in another dark silent room. Moonlight shone through the mullioned panes of glass, and then a face was there, a face split into quarters by the lead. I recognized Victor Grimswell from his portrait: black hair and a huge mustache, thick eyebrows, but his skin was a deathly blue-white color. He smiled at me, his lips parting slightly, and I saw the tips of the canines resting on his blood-red lips. My heart seemed to stop beating, and then his face swelled, grew—which was impossible—I did not want to move—but I must be going to the window. He drew his upper lip back, and then something touched my arm. I started wildly.

Michelle’s face was a welcome sight. “What is it?” she asked.

“A bad dream.”

“Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“Sherlock may need us.”

Holmes was staring at the fire, so lost in thought he had not even heard a word. He had a pipe in his hand, and a cloud of rich-smelling smoke surrounded him. Abruptly he stood up and turned to us. “Of course—of course! The answer is staring me in the face. It is obvious when you think about it.” He glanced at us, then his eyes settled on Michelle even as an odd smile pulled at his mouth. “You must have given her the idea. Certainly you gave her the idea, and I... My own prejudices, my own assumptions, have completely blinded me! But it is not too late, I trust. We must—”

A voice rose over the wind sound:
Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes.
Holmes frowned. “Did...?” he began, but this time there could be no mistake.

“Mr. Holmes!
Mr. Holmes
.” Fitzwilliams staggered through the door and leaned on the table, ready to collapse. Holmes went to him in an instant and seized his arm, holding him up. The old man’s face was pale, his lips nearly gray. “Mr. Holmes... Ah, thank God, thank God, you are...”

“What is it, sir?”

“Miss Rose—you must stop her.”

Holmes clenched his teeth. “Oh Lord, what has she done?”

“She went outside. She was in a daze, sleepwalking again, like when she was a wee girl. I tried to stop her, but she said she had to see her father, see him at midnight by the front gate. I tried again to stop her, but she was too strong—too strong for me. I tried...”

“Oh God,” I whispered.

“Damnation.” Holmes pulled the old man toward a chair and sat him down. “Henry, get yourself a heavy coat.” He put on his own overcoat, a bowler hat, and seized the revolver. “We have not a moment to lose. Rose’s life is at stake. Michelle, look after Mr. Fitzwilliams. Meet me at the front door,
Henry—quickly.”
He rushed out.

I grabbed a candle and started down the hall, muttering a few nervous curses as I went. I threw aside my formal tail coat, put on a tweed jacket, then searched the wardrobe for my heaviest coat. I turned to discover Michelle seated and lacing up a leather walking boot. It looked quite ludicrous alongside her blue silk gown.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Changing my shoes. I suggest you do the same, but hurry.”

“You are not—”

Her mouth formed a familiar, resolute expression, her jaw stiffening. “I am going, by God, unless you and Sherlock wish to waste time trying to restrain me. It will not be easy, even for two of you.”

I had wrenched off my patent leather pumps and was pulling on a boot. “I wish you would stay here.”

“I shall not.”

We rushed downstairs and found Holmes standing before the big doors. Digby stood beside him, his hands hidden in the pocket of his overcoat. He smiled at us. “Ah, the more the merrier.” Holmes’s brow furrowed ominously as he stared at Michelle.

“What is he doing here?” I asked Holmes, indicating Lord Frederick.

“I heard all the commotion,” Digby said, “and came a-running.”

Holmes’s eyes were still fixed on Michelle. “Please go back upstairs, Michelle.”

“No.”

“If you will not—”

“You said there was no time to waste, Sherlock.”

Holmes muttered something darkly under his breath, turned and opened the door. The rain had ceased, but the wind was louder than ever; above us the branches of the great oaks and the tall evergreen yews swayed. Clouds covered the moon, but its hazy orb still breached the darkness. We started down the granite pathway toward the gate, our breath forming smoky white mists. I found myself nearly running to keep up with Holmes. All around us, tree limbs groaned and shook from the wind.

“Bit of a chill in the air,” Digby said amiably.

“Michelle,” Holmes said, “do you still have the revolver I gave you?”

“Certainly.”

I glanced at her, surprised. I had forgotten about the revolver.

“I say,” Digby said, “why not let me have it? I’m a pretty good shot, you know.”

Holmes shook his head. “We shall see.”

Digby raised his arm. “Someone has opened the gate. No sign of Rose, though.”

As if on cue, a figure all in white stepped out from behind the trees and walked between the two granite pillars out onto the moor. Holmes broke into a run, and I did the same. We reached the gateway in time to see Rose walking toward the hillside and the clitter scattered below Demon Tor. Another person came out of the trees.

“Miss Grimswell!” he shouted.

The voice was familiar. “Hartwood!” I exclaimed.

“I knew it!” Digby was triumphant.

“Miss Grimswell! For God’s sake, beware—run!” Hartwood raised an arm; then the huge full moon broke free of the clouds, flooding the moor, its grass and heath, with cold blue-white light; and we all saw the black shape loping toward Rose, so large that I mistook it for an instant for a horse or pony, rather than what it was—a hound. Rose turned and saw it coming straight for her, but she seemed unable to move.

“Shoot it!” I cried.

“Not at this range!” Holmes ran, and we followed.

Hartwood was faster. Even as he bounded forward and leaped over clumps of stones, he managed to slip out of his coat. He passed Rose, then whirled the coat about his forearm and stood his ground. The dog veered toward him, then leaped and seized his arm in its huge jaws. Hartwood staggered, but remained standing. Rose seemed to come to her senses; she hesitated, her arms rising even as she backed away. Hartwood swayed awkwardly, then fell. He and the dog rolled about furiously on the grassy turf, the animal growling and snarling, now Hartwood on top, now the beast.

Holmes reached them, revolver in hand, the barrel raised toward the sky, but he did nothing, no doubt fearing he might hit the man, not his foe. Hartwood had his arms before him as he struggled desperately to keep the dog from tearing at his throat. The moon gave its sleek black coat a white sheen. At last Holmes bent over, seized the dog firmly by the collar, and yanked the beast away even as he lowered the barrel. The crack of each shot was deafening so near. The mastiff made a pathetic noise between a bark and a howl, twisted about and fell dead on its side, two bullets having passed through its brain.

Hartwood sat up, clutching at his left arm and the remnants of his coat all in tatters. “Oh, thank God—and thank you, sir.”

“Well,” Digby said, “we have our man on the moor at last.”

“What are you talking about?” Hartwood’s face was white and shaken under the moonlight.

“Do not be an utter ass,” Holmes said to Digby. “Hartwood is not the man we seek.”

“Then what was he doing here?”

“Watching out for the woman he loves, and a good thing, too. He was close enough to distract the hound. We would have been too late to save Rose.”

“But...” Digby’s voice had a plaintive note.

“
There
!” Holmes’s arm swung around. “There is your man in black!”

He had appeared out of nowhere, his arms folded. His face struck me with fear—I had seen him in my dream and hanging amid a frame on the wall of Grimswell Hall. He had the same large black mustache and eyebrows. His skin was an eerie luminescent white, glowing, dark circles under his malevolent eyes. A cowl surrounded his face, part of a black cloak.

“Dear Lord,” Hartwood moaned, “it
is
Victor. It cannot be. He is dead—I saw...”

Holmes ran forward, but I was too horrified to move. The man rushed toward Rose. She stood as if frozen, a ghostly figure in her white gown, the wind blowing her long black hair about her. The man seized her arm, and I realized he must indeed be a giant, for he towered over even Rose. He jerked her about and pulled her uphill toward the tor.

Hartwood groaned as he stood up, swaying slightly. I touched his arm—the shredded sleeve was wet and sticky with blood. “You are hurt,” I said.

“It is nothing, a few minor lacerations.”

“They will need stitching,” Michelle said.

“Later.” Hartwood stumbled forward. “We can’t let that monster have Rose.”

Digby’s lips were tightly set, and for the first time I saw something like embarrassment in his face.

Holmes had a head start, but the man moved quickly, dragging Rose along. The moon was still out; under its brilliant light the huge fragments of black granite scattered about the hillside cast shadows. The man’s cape swept behind him while Rose stood out because of her white gown. Our adversary’s goal was obvious—the summit of Demon Tor.

Holmes was closing on them, but when he had nearly reached the top, the man stopped abruptly and turned again, one spidery black arm grasping Rose about the waist, his other hand below her chin. His white hands were on the same grand scale as the rest of him, and he wore no gloves. “Stop where you are!” he shouted. “One step more, and I’ll open her throat from ear to ear!” Moonlight flashed off a blade.

We all halted at once. Holmes was about twenty feet below them, while we were twice that distance.

Behind me I heard Hartwood’s labored breathing. “He... he sounds something like Victor, yet...”

“Go back,” the man cried. “Go back or I’ll cut her throat.” His voice was deep, yet strangely muffled, a rolling, ominous bass.

Michelle glanced at me, anguished. We could not see Holmes’s face, but he did not move. The hand with the revolver hung at his side.

“You heard me—get away!”

“No,” Holmes said. “I am afraid I cannot oblige you.”

“I’ll kill her—in God’s name, I’ll kill her!”

“I believe you, but if we depart, you will kill her all the same. However, in that case, you might go unpunished. I intend to remain here, and I promise you, I give you my solemn word, that if you harm her, I shall shoot you dead.”

The man laughed. “How clever of you to reason that all out. Your reputation for brains appears deserved, Mr. Holmes.”

“You might as well take off your mask. You will be more comfortable.”

Again the man laughed. Something about his uncaring nonchalance sent a chill up my spine. “Thank you, but I prefer to leave it on.”

“Why? You will not escape us. Besides, your great size makes you a marked man. Would you not prefer to be comfortable while we are speaking?”