The Grimswell Curse (38 page)

Michelle had led Doctor Hartwood to a chair near the fire. He was pale and shivering, and his entire arm and the shredded white sleeve were red with blood. “I shall just get my bag,” she said, “then clean and dress the wounds.” She turned to one of the horrified maids. “Could you please get me a large pot of hot water and some towels?”

“Why don’t the rest of you warm up with me in the kitchen?” Constance’s smile was rather fierce. “I have made some hot chocolate. I knew you would be needing something hot.” She stepped forward and took Rose’s arm. “Poor Rose, you are freezing.”

Michelle started for the stairs. “I shall be along later.”

“We’ll save you some, dear.”

“Hot chocolate does sound wonderful,” I said.

“Bit bland for me.” Digby shook his head. “I could use something a good deal stronger. I’ll wager Hartwood could, too, especially if he’s to be stitched. Undiluted scotch whisky is the best medicine. I’ll pour us both a good jolt.” He pulled off his yellow gloves and went to the sideboard where the whisky and the gasogene for making soda water were kept.

“You may have your strong spirits. Chocolate is the very thing.” Constance led Rose toward the kitchen, and Holmes and I followed. Rose turned, her eyes anxiously seeking out my cousin. “You’re still trembling, poor lamb. You must tell me all about this dreadful business.”

The huge cast-iron stove almost glowed with heat, and the kitchen was warm and cozy, unlike the great hall with its endless chill. The dishes from the evening meal had been washed, dried and stacked, the pots scrubbed and hung up. A small table and chairs were on one side of the room. Constance drew out a chair for Rose. I took another. I was exhausted, my legs weary, and it felt wonderful to sit. I pulled off my gloves and unbuttoned my overcoat. Holmes remained standing, his slender white hands hanging at his sides against the black wool of his overcoat.

Constance set down thick china mugs, then went to the stove for a big iron kettle. She poured the steaming brown liquid into the mugs. The sweet, pungent smell filled the kitchen.

“I do not want any.” Rose’s voice was soft and very tired.

“Oh, nonsense, dear—you must drink some. It will warm you up and get your blood flowing.” She picked up a cup and sipped it. “Just right—not too hot, not too cold—not too bitter, not too sweet.”

“It smells heavenly.” I lifted my cup. Holmes moved remarkably fast, lashing out with his hand and knocking the cup sideways so it smashed onto the stone floor. He had done it so skillfully that none of the hot liquid touched me, but I was surprised—and angry. “What are you doing!”

“Watching out for you, Henry. Curious substances have a way of making themselves into food and drink here at Grimswell Hall. Coffee and baked apples. And hot chocolate.” He was staring at Constance.

Rose said nothing, but her mouth stiffened, her black eyebrows coming together. Constance reddened, covering her mouth with her big, swollen-looking hand. “Whatever are you saying, Mr. Holmes? There is nothing wrong with the chocolate. I tasted it myself.” She raised her mug. Holmes watched her, tension appearing about his mouth and eyes. His hand twitched once, but then he was still as she drank deeply from the mug. “It is very good.” She turned to Rose. “Won’t you drink yours, dear?”

Rose shook her head. “No. I am still recovering from the apple. I feel so bizarre. It was even worse than the last time. You must have put in more.”

“Rose—what
are you saying? Why would I want to harm you? Or Doctor Vernier or Mr. Holmes?”

Rose’s blue-gray eyes were angry. “I do not know.”

My head had begun to ache, the fatigue numbing my senses. It was nearly two in the morning. “Why would she want to harm us?” I asked dully.

“Because she blames us for her son’s death,” Holmes replied. “He was an evil creature like his mother, a vicious murderer, and I would have had few qualms about shooting him dead. However, he took his own life—he jumped from the tor rather than being taken prisoner and facing the hangman for his crimes.”

A look of utter dismay showed on Rose’s face, both horror and anger evident. “Oh, Lord,” I murmured, “not Jane—but
Constance.
He was a Grimswell. He would have been the heir, the last male, but only if he were... legitimate.”

“Which he was not,” Holmes said, “but she arranged something with the earl, the father, before his death. The man was as contemptible, as lacking in morals or decency, as she and her son. He also disliked his wife. What better trick to play on her than rendering their marriage null as bigamy? Constance must have some document purporting to show that she was indeed married to the earl. As you say, that would make her son the last male in the line: he would become the viscount, the new Lord Grimswell. More important, with Rose dead, he could also pursue her father’s great wealth, all the property and the money left to her. However, they had to act before she married—they could not allow that, for her husband would then inherit everything.”

Constance had clenched her fists. “Preposterous lies—slander—you have... no proof.”

“While Henry and I were in London, I spoke with the earl’s steward. He told me you had visited his master a few months ago, shortly before he died. There cannot be two women who fit your description.”

Constance laughed harshly. “Not two women so ugly, you mean.”

Holmes shook his head. “I did not say that.”

“But you thought it! Men are all the same... Vile. Disgusting. They think you are ugly, but if you give them what they want, they will end up groveling at your feet. Jane could have had her earl, but she did not understand that. She could have had him in a second if she’d forgotten her precious virtue.”

Holmes stared at her. “You took him from her coldly and deliberately knowing full well what it would do to her.”

“I did her a service! He was a beast, a pig. She would have been miserable married to him. Any woman would have been.”

“You have always tormented her, have you not? You must have hated her.”

Constance’s smile was answer enough. The familiar mask of the amiable old auntie was gone, the real woman revealed. “Yes, I did hate her. She was the fair, tiny, beautiful one, while I was always
poor
Constance. Her sympathy was what infuriated me most.” She reached out a hand toward Rose, who drew back instinctively. “You see, Rose, I do understand how you feel. I have never felt any animosity toward you or Victor. If there had been a way to make Geoffrey a wealthy viscount without harming either of you, I would have gladly done so. I sympathize with you, dear—honestly I do. Life is a hard business for women like us, and I would have actually been doing you a favor if—”

“Do not do me any favors.” Rose’s voice shook. I had never seen her so angry. “I am not like you—not like you at all.”

Constance laughed. “No?”

“No.”
Rose shuddered. “No!”

“She is absolutely correct,” Holmes said. “She is nothing like you.”

“The blood of the Grimswells flows in her veins.”

“What of it?” Holmes exclaimed. “She has her mother’s blood as well. She is only distantly related to you. Her father was an honorable and brilliant man. Every family has its share of drunkards, lunatics and criminals; it has nothing to do with blood or curses. You chose to be the monster you are—just as your son chose—and now you must suffer the consequences of your evil deeds and cowardly choices.”

“You—
you
—you dare call me a coward?”

Holmes’s nostrils flared, and he leaned forward, setting both hands on the table. “A coward of the worst kind—you used tricks and subterfuge, poisons and deceit—you tried to drive a fine young woman, your own relation, mad. You helped kill your cousin, who always looked out for you and your sister. You are beneath contempt and beyond comprehension. I should have left you for the hangman as well, but I allowed you and that cowardly bully of a son to take your craven way out. Now have the decency to keep quiet and spare my ears and Rose’s any more of your drivel.” His hands began to quiver, and he stood up.

Constance glared at him. Her complexion had lost its pinkish cast, and a few drops of sweat showed on her forehead. Her dark eyes were monstrous, pained and raging, and neither she nor Holmes would look away. Rose appeared ill, and I felt sick myself.

Constance suddenly clenched her teeth, then groaned, grinding her teeth briefly. “With Rose, it would not have been personal, but with you...” She tried to smile even as her face went nearly green. “I would have liked to kill you, Sherlock Holmes—how I wish I could have...” Again she clenched her teeth, her hands clutching at her belly just below her bosom.

“What was in the chocolate?” My voice quavered.

“No doubt something very quick and deadly. Painful, too. Possibly aconite or cyanide.”

Rose’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, God.” She was ashen. “I feel sick.”

Holmes inhaled through his nose. “Get her away from here, Henry. This will not be pleasant.”

“Gladly.” I stood, my own legs swaying briefly. I took Rose’s arm and helped her up. We started for the door.

“Goodbye, Rose.” Constance’s voice was a croak, her face ghastly, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

Rose looked at her but said nothing. We walked quickly down the dim hallway. She was trembling again. I held her big hand loosely in mine. It felt cold yet sweaty. I could think of nothing to say and squeezed her hand tightly.

“There you are at last.” Michelle smiled at us. She looked absolutely beautiful. “I was just coming. How... What has happened? What is wrong?”

“I shall tell you, but first we need something to drink. Where are Hartwood and Digby?”

“Digby and Fitzwilliams are putting the doctor to bed. I forbad him to try to walk back home tonight.”

I poured Rose and myself each a glass half full of whisky. She sat on the sofa between Michelle and me. Michelle put her arm around her. The first swallow set her coughing. I told Michelle all that had happened. As I was finishing we heard Holmes’s footsteps echoing softly through the hall. Something about the sound made the back of my neck feel cold; my shoulders rose involuntarily, my teeth clenching.

“I cannot believe it,” Michelle said. “I cannot believe it.”

Holmes’s forehead was furrowed, his mouth taut. “She will trouble you no more, Rose. Now it truly is over.”

Rose began to cry, and Michelle drew her closer. “Hush.” I leaned over and gripped Rose’s forearm tightly.

Holmes’s eyes glanced about the shadowy hall, the granite walls a great silent presence all around us. “Few people of any age are tested so severely, Miss Grimswell. You have undergone the worst of trials and not merely survived, but... you have demonstrated a quite remarkable courage. I would never have imagined... It is said that adversity can bring out hidden strengths. In my experience, the reverse is usually the case—hidden weaknesses pour forth—but not with you. I shall have to alter my estimation of the female sex. I should give you a scolding for what you have done, but your bravery has so overwhelmed me that I cannot. I can only offer you... my deepest and most sincere admiration.” His face had flushed, and Rose stared up at him in disbelief.

Michelle frowned. “Sherlock, whatever are you talking about?” That was the question I also wanted to ask. I had never seen my cousin so overcome, especially before a young woman half his age.

“Actually, Michelle, you are partly to blame.” The mocking smile showed affection.

“Sherlock!”

“Your speech last night made her resolve to take matters in hand, all that talk of decoys and bait. When she realized that she had been drugged again, she decided to try to take advantage of it. She resolved to—as you put it, Michelle—do something. She used herself as bait to trap the man on the moor. She was not sleepwalking at all. She deliberately left the house knowing full well the deadly peril she faced. However, since she wanted to catch our killer, not become his next victim, she had to figure out a way to alert us. Quite cleverly she pretended to be sleepwalking and told Fitzwilliams exactly what she was about to do. She knew he would come to me and that she would be followed. However, she was still taking a frightful risk.”

Michelle’s eyes widened. She turned to Rose. “Is this true?”

Rose nodded.

“How could you do such a thing?” Michelle exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

Rose stared at her, her mouth opening. Holmes frowned. A laugh burst from my lips—a very odd sound. I tried to restrain myself, but I could not hold back my laughter. Holmes glanced at me, his dark eyebrows briefly diving inward, then he too laughed. Rose smiled warily.

“Henry! What is so amusing?” asked Michelle.

“You are,” I managed to say. “You who wished to go out at night in your nightgown with a revolver and a black wig.”

“I never thought... Rose, you should not have kept it a secret. I never talked about doing anything completely on my own. Why did you not tell us?”

“Because I knew Mr. Holmes would never allow it.”

Holmes nodded. “You were correct. You had me quite puzzled this evening. I could not imagine what you were up to, although I did finally figure it out—too late. I was almost certain you had been drugged, but why would you not admit it? I feared...” His expression grew somber. “You had endured so much, I thought something might have finally snapped, your reason... Did you receive some communication from your supposed father? I thought he might try to speak to you through the chimney again. That was why Henry and I patrolled the house.” Rose’s hands formed fists. “There was a note on my bed. He wrote that I was to meet him by the gate at midnight, that we must speak, and he threatened the most terrible things should I not appear or should I tell anyone. He signed it as my father, but I no longer believed it might be him.”

“Constance must have left the note as she was saying goodnight, and she probably returned and destroyed it while we were all out on the moor. Still, they were taking a chance. Thus far they had never left any tangible evidence that anything existed beyond the deluded mind of a young girl. The note would have proven once and for all that you were not imagining anything. They were desperate because they knew we were leaving the next day, and you might marry Digby in London. That would vastly complicate things.”