Digby nodded cheerfully. “Over four hundred thousand pounds.”
“Good Lord!” I exclaimed. “That’s an extraordinary sum.”
“It is indeed,” Digby said. “To have both land and money...”
Holmes hesitated, an ironic smile pulling at his lips. “Most of which must go to her husband should she marry.”
Digby frowned, a red flush appearing at each cheek. “I hope... I trust you gentlemen do not think Rose’s fortune has anything to do with my feelings for her. I’d marry her even if she hadn’t a farthing.”
Holmes gave his head a shake. “It is not for me to question your motives, Lord Frederick. I am sure they are worthy of a gentleman of your stature. Nevertheless, such an enormous sum may have some bearing on the case.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Exactly how long had you been engaged, Lord Frederick?”
“Since the middle of September.”
“And was the lady difficult to persuade?”
“Damned difficult! She kept saying she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry or that she was ready even if she wanted to, but I kept at it. Told her...” For the first time he hesitated. “Well, I told her I loved her, and by God it was the truth! I said I loved her and that she needed someone to look out for her now that she’s alone in the world. I know I’m not perfect, and I can be a silly ass at times, but all the same, I swear I’d care for her.”
Holmes and I exchanged a glance. Digby had begun to grate upon me, but this declaration of love did seem genuine.
“And you seem to have convinced Miss Grimswell of your sincerity. That was some six weeks ago. When did she first mention any doubts?”
Digby sighed. “When her fool of an aunt Constance sent her this abominable balderdash about the family curse. Said if she were going to marry, she and her future husband should know about this dark episode in the family past. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d never have shown anything like that to a sensitive girl like Rose. Of course, it’s all complete and utter rubbish, but Rose is high-strung and—”
“How long ago did her aunt send this information?”
“Two weeks ago, and I can tell you it shook Rose. I told her it was all foolishness and meant absolutely nothing to me. By the time she left she was laughing at it too, and I thought we were past it, but then this morning I received a letter saying we must never see each other again, that she must never marry, and of course, I went to her at once. I confronted her shortly before I came to you, Mr. Holmes, and she behaved very strangely. Something had badly frightened her, and I’m most worried about her. I...”
Holmes tapped lightly at the chair arm with his long fingers. “Pardon me, Lord Frederick, but I wish to proceed more methodically. Do you know exactly what her aunt wrote to her?”
Digby nodded, then withdrew a rolled-up parchment from his coat. “I have brought the very document she sent Rose.”
Holmes smiled. “Excellent, Lord Frederick—excellent! And how does it come to be in your possession?”
“I took it from Rose when she showed it to me two weeks ago—with her permission, of course. I wanted to burn it, but she would not hear of it. I promised I would care for it, but I did not want to leave it with her. I knew she would re-read it and brood upon it in an unhealthy way. That is why I took it.”
Holmes stood and eagerly extended a hand. “May I have a look? Thank you.” He sniffed twice at the paper, then unrolled it upon a small table. “Late seventeenth century. Care to have a look, Henry?”
I stood, then put one hand on the table and leaned forward to read. The black-inked script had an archaic look, but I soon grew accustomed to it.
THE GRIMSWELL CURSE
My children, you have no doubt heard rumors of the Grimswell Curse. Some of our kin have wished to deny this affliction and its origin, a black episode in our family history, but I have no doubt as to its truth. I have, therefore, resolved to set the story down, once and for all, that it may instruct our descendants as to the power of Evil once it gains entrance to a man’s soul.
Before the reign of Elizabeth, over two hundred years ago, the Viscount Reginald Grimswell built the first Grimswell Hall. He was a very learned man, interested in all the arts and sciences, but despite his cleverness and wealth, he had a melancholy disposition. He was always prey to dark and desperate thoughts. Perhaps that is why he abandoned himself to drink and lechery. His wife, Lady Catherine, was wondrously beautiful and possessed a kind and pious disposition, but Lord Reginald preferred the company of harlots and drunken gamesters. The hall became notorious for its wanton debauchery, much to the dismay of its mistress.
His lady bore Reginald four sons, then died of a wasting illness before her fortieth year. Rather than reflecting upon her demise as a warning from the Almighty, Lord Reginald plunged himself into vice with unrestrained fury. In disgust, his father-in-law claimed his grandsons to raise them apart from such iniquity.
Before long, no maiden or matron of virtue would venture near Grimswell Hall. The daughters of local farmers began to disappear. Rumor had it they were victims of foul abominations at the hall. Those who would not submit, perished, vanishing without a trace, while others gave themselves over to the wicked corruption. One yeoman discovered his daughter all bejeweled and bedecked in finery at the hall, but she laughed and pretended not to know him. A week later, the man was found dead on the moor, his throat cut.
Common folks and the gentry shared a disgust toward the hall and its lawless occupants, but naught might have happened had not the Viscount finally outreached himself. He was visited by an emissary of the crown, the Earl of Chadwick, who, knowing nothing of Grimswell’s reputation, brought with him his daughter Rose. At the sight of the fair girl, Lord Reginald’s evil soul was inflamed anew with lust. He determined to take the girl by force that very night, and he did so, despite her desperate pleas. Foolishly he thought she would keep silent of her disgrace or that none would dare touch him should she accuse him.
The pathetic girl wrote a brief note to her father revealing her betrayal, then thrust a dagger into her heart. Imagine Chadwick’s grief and rage the next morning when he discovered his daughter’s corpse and this dreadful testament! It took several men to restrain him from strangling the Viscount, who then mocked him and had him ejected from the hall.
This fell upon a Sunday morning in October, and the Earl went straight away to the church at the Hamlet of Grimpen. Interrupting the service, he strode to the pulpit, told of his daughter’s sad fate, and begged the congregation to help him bring down the wrath of God upon the miscreant. The people of Grimpen listened in horror, and when he raised his fist to Heaven, a low murmur of approbation echoed through the church. The other lords there present asked only for time to gather their forces and arm themselves. Thus, by late afternoon, every able-bodied man advanced toward Grimswell Hall, some carrying scythes or pitchforks, others bearing swords or lances.
Word of what had passed at the church had reached the hall earlier, and all the Viscount’s servants and cohorts had fled, leaving him to face the angry crowd alone. Even then, Lord Reginald might have been saved, had he but prayed for forgiveness. Instead, he turned to the dark powers and begged the Devil for assistance. He found the answer he sought in an ancient tome in his library.
The sun had sunk, and a ghastly orange moon rose over the desolate moor and the dark tower of Grimswell Hall as the avengers reached the portal. Before them was a figure in a black cloak and hood seated upon an enormous black charger. Although they were many, a hush fell over the crowd, and they halted.
The Viscount threw back his cowl, and a peal of Hellish laughter slipped from his lips. He cursed the men and mocked them, but none seemed able to move until Lord Reginald began to ridicule poor dead Rose. At that, Chadwick drew his sword and charged forward with a great cry.
The Viscount headed across the moor on his black stallion, and those who had mounts gave chase. His unnatural steed could have outraced
any mortal horse, but Lord Reginald kept only slightly ahead of his pursuers. He halted before the jagged pile of rocks known as Demon Tor, and even as the riders watched, he scrambled up its face like some huge black spider. Hardly had he attained the summit, than the riders drew up about the base. Soon those on foot also reached the tor and surrounded it.
The Earl cried out for the Viscount to descend and face his punishment. For all his crimes, he must surely die, but as Christians, they would let him confess and be shriven first.
After the Earl had spoken, the crowd stood silently, watching the white face of the man standing atop the tor. The moan of the wind, suddenly icy cold, was the only sound, then came again Hellish laughter. The Viscount cursed them with blasphemous and foul oaths, promising that terror would henceforth be their companion each night. He bared his teeth in a final, hideous grin, then hurled himself forward. Some say he briefly flew like some dark bird or bat, but soon enough he fell and dashed his brains out on the rocks below.
The Earl advanced and turned over his fallen foe. The full moon had risen higher by then, and its blue-white light revealed the shattered skull and leering face of the Viscount, his teeth locked in a fierce grin. All present felt the horror, and then in the distance rose the desolate cry of a wolf. They fled, leaving the shattered corpse lying there bathed in the moonlight.
Would that were the end of my tale, a sinner punished for his evil deeds!
The next day, some men returned to Demon Tor. They found the blood-stains on the granite, but the body was gone. That night, a herdsman returning late noticed a single light burning in a window at the abandoned hall. Many also again heard the terrible cry of a wolf.
The Earl of Chadwick heard it and went pale. He retired late, but no sooner had he closed his door, than a terrible scream came from his chamber. The oaken door held briefly, but when it was burst asunder, the men had a brief glance of a black figure with a dead white face, its mouth smeared with blood. The creature fled to the window and escaped, even though the window was high above the rocky ground. The men saw the Earl’s murderer crawl head first down the stone wall, then run across the moor. None dared follow.
Thus began the reign of terror. No man or woman dared go out after dark. Windows and doors were barred at dusk, but still the people were slaughtered—men, women and children— throats torn open and the blood drunk from their veins.
Many saw the light burning in the high tower of Grimswell Hall, and others spoke of a man in black wandering alone on the moor or accompanied only by an enormous wolf. Others claimed to have seen the man transform into a wolf.
A poor herdsman was caught in a snowstorm, and when he came home, half frozen, he found his wife dead and their babe gone. At this, a great fury came over him. The next day, he rose up at the church and begged the people to help him, lest they all perish one by one.
Accompanied by the priest, they went again to the hall. In the courtyard they found the herdsman’s child, a mere babe, frozen and drained of blood. Outrage seized the good people. They searched the dwelling, but a great oaken door reinforced with iron blocked the way to the tower. They tried long and hard to break in the door, but to no avail. Soon the sun began to sink, and their fury changed to dread.
The stricken herdsman gnashed his teeth and beat at the door until his fists bled. At last he seized a torch and set the door on fire. Soon the entire hall was ablaze.
The people surrounded the edifice and waited. They had armed themselves as best they could. As the sky darkened, the orange flames rose higher and higher, the great conflagration lighting the moor for miles around.
Finally, even as the flames reached the tower, a face appeared at the window. A cry of dismay went up. There could be no doubt: it was the Viscount Reginald Grimswell. He bared his long teeth, and then his fearful laughter rose over the crackling of the flames. He seemed about to hurl himself from the window, when the herdsman loosed an arrow from his bow. The priest had blessed the arrow.
It struck the Viscount square in the throat. With a terrible howl, he clutched at the shaft and fell back into the waiting flames. His cries were dreadful. They were the cries of the damned, this conflagration only a prelude to eternal perdition.
The people watched until the flames had consumed the hall. The priest and the herdsman walked about the smoldering ruins until the first warm yellow glimmer of sunlight flooded the moors. The herdsman fell to his knees and wept while the priest prayed to the Almighty, thanking Him for their deliverance.
The moors have been at peace since that terrible time, and we can only hope, my children, that we of the tainted Grimswell blood have learned our lesson. We can only hope that none of our descendants will lose their reason, bargain with Satan, and become wild beasts preying upon their fellow men. Curb, therefore, those melancholy thoughts and dark passion which may be in our nature. Remember that God in His mercy has given us the strength to rise above our baser selves.
The broken walls and granite stones are all that remain of the old hall, and the lonely site is known as an accursed place. Because the sons were raised apart from their father’s evil influence, they grew to be honorable and worthy men. The eldest built a new Grimswell Hall which we still inhabit today.
Our inheritance is a dark and bloody one, but if it causes us to know ourselves better, to shun Satan and avoid his snares, then some good may yet come of what has befallen, and in times to come, Grimswells may be known for their good works rather than their evil natures.
Holmes finished reading before I did, but he waited until I had turned away before rolling up the parchment. “A singular tale,” he said. He handed it to Lord Frederick. “This document is at least authentic. Miss Grimswell’s ancestor shows a literary flare, which must be a family trait. So you made light of this tale? Marrying into a family descended from werewolves or vampires does not intimidate you?”
Lord Frederick’s laugh was high-pitched. “Not in the least! We Digbys also have some scoundrels in our past, but no one has ever written down their exploits.”
Holmes’s fingers stroked his narrow chin. “I wonder which was meant. The narrative is ambiguous. One could argue either for vampirism or lycanthropy.”
I frowned. “I can see how it might disturb a young woman of a sensitive nature. It is a chilling story. And even if the supernatural element is preposterous, there may be something in the notion of an inherited disposition toward melancholy.” I opened my mouth, then quickly closed it.
Lord Frederick stared hard at me. “What were you about to say, Doctor Vernier? You need not spare my feelings—say it, man!”
“Insanity does seem to run in families. However, one need not presume so far. I am sure it is merely... An impressionable young lady with no brothers or sisters, no mother—she must have had many a sad and lonely hour. One could hardly blame her for being melancholy, and then to read such a thing... Then, too, she is the last of her lineage—its fate, its continuance, rests with her alone.”
Digby nodded eagerly. “Very perceptive, Doctor Vernier—and to think you have never met Rose. It did shake her. She is somewhat prey to those black thoughts mentioned in the story. Sometimes in the midst of a splendid evening—a fine meal and champagne—I can see the dark clouds gather about her brow. I try to tease her out of it.”
Holmes’s upper lip rose briefly as he stared into the fire. “There are those who consider melancholy less an affliction than a rational response to the world in which we live.” A certain bleakness showed about his mouth, and I knew he was thinking again of Violet Wheelwright’s tormented mind. He turned to Digby. “While I would not go that far, I would say that the young lady may have had more than her share of sadness in her brief life. Some unhappy children never outgrow a sense of desolation.”
Digby shrugged, then smiled. “Surely marriage—a husband and children, a family of her own—would alleviate that sense of desolation. I’m certain I could make her happy! Life is great fun, after all, and that’s the
way it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”
Holmes and I exchanged a significant glance. I could tell that he too did not see this self-absorbed young man in a green frock coat as the answer to a sad young lady’s prayers.
Holmes gave a faint shrug of his own. “Perhaps, Lord Frederick. I am not an alienist. We must reserve discussions of a philosophical nature for another time. You said Miss Grimswell seemed to have recovered from the shock of this document?”
“She had.”
“And had you any warning before the letter you received today that anything was amiss?”
“None. I thought she had forgotten the wretched thing. I thought she was learning to be happy. But today... she was almost hysterical, scared half to death, but she wouldn’t say why. She did mumble something about the terrible curse... said I was better off without her. I tried to reason with her, but she hardly seemed to hear me. I... I finally got angry and said I would leave. That was when...” His voice trailed away.
Holmes’s gray eyes watched him closely. “What happened?”
Digby’s right forefinger toyed with the green carnation. “That was when my carnation was injured.” He laughed softly and pulled free a loose petal. “Before I could leave, she embraced me, and... she kissed me. She sobbed goodbye and pushed me out the door. I was in a kind of daze.” A faint blush appeared on his cheek. “She is quite strong for a woman. I had kissed her once or twice before, but it was never... I always wondered if she really cared for me, but after that...” He raised his head and stared at Holmes. “I cannot bear to lose her—not to some ghost or vampire or foolish curse. She needs me—I know she does. Someone or something has scared her half to death, and I am terribly worried about her. I wonder... Her health has never been good. I almost wonder if she is ill. Certainly she will make herself ill if—”
“Does she have a regular physician?” I asked.
The Grimswell Curse Page 2
