The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  I shook my head. “A harmless old busybody. I suppose this obsessive interest in Rose is understandable, since she has no other relations or children of her own.”

  “Except a sister.”

  “Oh, yes. She said something about her being in a madhouse. She worries the same thing might happen to Rose. I tried to assure her that it would not.” I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a yawn. “I am about ready to turn in myself.”

  “I suppose we must wait until tomorrow to question the Fitzwilliamses and the staff. Have you met the old woman, Mrs. Fitzwilliams? She is remarkable. Fitzwilliams is the house steward and has been with the Grimswells for over fifty years. He became steward some forty years ago when Victor’s father, Robert, was still alive and viscount. Victor inherited the title and the hall in sixty-eight when his father died.”

  “I wonder what his father died of.”

  “I did ask Fitzwilliams that question—heart failure.”

  I shook my head. “Bad hearts and melancholy minds. A difficult legacy. No wonder Constance is uneasy.”

  Holmes drew in on the pipe, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. “Every family has its share of lunatics and drunkards. A melancholy disposition has been common in both the Verniers and the Holmeses. As for bad hearts, some ‘bad’ thing must kill us all in time.”

  I laughed, then yawned. “Are you not tired?”

  “Yes, but I wish to think for a while. You do appear ready for bed.”

  “I am, but it would require too much effort to get there. I shall sit here enjoying the fire for a while longer.”

  Holmes only nodded, the pipe stem between his lips. The wind was a constant, steady murmur. Perhaps the hall was situated such that the wind always blew here. I shifted in the chair and closed my eyes.

  The vistas I had seen earlier in the day passed before my eyes, the English countryside seen from the train, green fields and woods full of the brown, yellow and crimson of autumn, then the brown wastes of the moor with the desolate gray sky hanging overhead. My mind wandered, returned to Grimswell Hall and the library. Rose Grimswell stared at me, her pale face surrounded by darkness. She would fall. I started, my body jerking as I tried to catch her. I came awake briefly, taking in the dim room and Holmes smoking the pipe, and then I slept.

  Later I was staring at an ancient oak tree, its limbs gnarled and black. Something was in the tree, but I could not see it. A predatory ghost? No, it was only a raven, an enormous black bird on the lowest limb. It gave the strange guttural cry so different from the caw of the rook. Its eyes were curiously alert. “Henry.” Had the bird spoken? “Henry.” It had!

  I opened my eyes, and it took a second or two to remember where I was. Holmes’s face was close to mine, reddish light bathing him, and his strong fingers gripped my wrist. The coal on the grate was smaller.

  “What time is it?”

  “Do not move, but look in the doorway.”

  I turned slowly. A figure in white stood there, the face in shadow. Rose Grimswell, I realized with a start. Gone was the usual black dress. She looked so different in the long white nightshirt, and her hair was down. She was so tall, and although her face was hidden in shadow, the black hair fell on either side, spilling out onto the white cloth. I was about to rise, but Holmes squeezed my wrist again.

  “What on earth is she doing?” I whispered.

  “I do not know.”

  “How long has she been there?”

  “I am not certain. Let me handle this.”

  She had not moved, although she must have heard our voices. The room was absolutely silent except for the low cry of the wind and the occasional rattling sound of something up the chimney. The figure advanced a step, but her bare foot made not a sound on the carpet. The back of my neck felt oddly cold, and I resisted the temptation to jump up out of the chair.

  “What does she want?” I whispered.

  “Keep still.”

  She sighed softly, then came closer so that her face was finally in the firelight. She appeared to be staring past us at the fireplace. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth parted ever so slightly. Her black hair was all tousled and cascaded awkwardly about. Her appearance was so different with her hair down. With that wild unkempt mane, the long nose and jaw, the thick lips, broad shoulders and full bosom, she resembled some woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting, one of Rossetti or Burne-Jones’s sensual damsels. The shape, the weight, of her breasts was evident under the cotton fabric. Her large white hands hung at her sides, and her bare feet were also white and big, her ankles and wrists oddly slender. I had not realized before then just how beautiful she really was. However, the expression on her face—or rather, the lack of expression—worried me. Her stare was vacant, as if she could not see or hear us.

  Perhaps she is mad, I thought. “My God,” I whispered. “She—”

  Holmes’s hand tightened, his eyes angry.

  “Why do you hate me so?” Her voice was dull, yet anguished. “I love you. I have never done anything to you.”

  I opened my mouth, but Holmes squeezed again, his face warning me not to move.

  “Please tell me why.” She was silent, her eyes fixed on the same spot. “Please.”

  I realized I was holding my breath and eased it out. This must be a hallucination—she saw someone or something standing there before the fire. She was talking to it. The sight of her staring at the empty air made the back of my neck feel colder still.

  She raised her arms, her long fingers opening up, spreading out. “Please forgive me, whatever...” The pathos in her voice was heart-wrenching. “Did you never love me, not even a little? I always tried to please you, and I thought...” Her arms slowly sank, her hands forming fists as she advanced closer still. She was only a few feet away, but she did not appear to even see us.

  “Oh, please, father—please... All I have ever wanted was for you to...”

  She was talking to a dead man—or his ghost. Perhaps because she was his daughter, only she could see him. Now that truly was superstitious nonsense.

  “Why must you torture me!” Her voice rang out. “Please stop it—please. You say such hateful things. I cannot understand. I had thought... I had thought you had come to care for me, at last. But I must have been wrong. I was a fool. Nobody could love me—not you— not Digby.” She turned her head to stare at another spot about three feet away. “Is it you, Rickie? You do not love me either. Do not try to deny it—I am not so stupid. You think because I... You think you can get away with anything. You cannot.”

  She turned away from both her imaginary beings. “I am so sick of it all. What is the point of any of it? Why should I feel so terrible? I have done nothing...” Abruptly she turned her head. “What is...? Why are you staring at me that way? You... you would not hurt me? Please stop that. You are frightening me. You are so pale. That is not your face at all—you are not my father—you are something else, something wicked, and you hate me.”

  Her voice had grown increasingly loud and fearful. She raised her hands again. “Please stop—before it is too late. Don’t hurt me—please don’t hurt me—oh, I cannot bear it when you look like that! For God’s sake—do not...” Her eyes had opened wide, and she grasped the bottom of her face, covering her mouth with her big hand.

  I could stand it no longer. I stood, but she still did not see me. Holmes grabbed my wrist. “Keep silent,” he hissed.

  “But she must be completely insane! She should be restrained before—”

  “She is not insane—have you never heard of somnambulism?” he whispered.

  “I...” Suddenly it all fit into place, and I felt a complete idiot. “Of course. Sleepwalking. But she is about to have a nightmare. We must wake her.”

  “That could be difficult and might make her worse. Leave this to me.”

  “Oh, dear Lord—please stop that—please...”

  “Miss Grimswell, pay no attention to that thing there.” Holmes’s voice was loud, but oddly gentle. “It is not your fa
ther, and it cannot hurt you.”

  She did not move for several seconds. “It is not him?”

  “Of course not. He is fond of you. He is no such monster.”

  She still regarded the same spot. “Are you sure it cannot hurt me?”

  “Yes.”

  She turned to look at us. Although she appeared, finally, to see us, something was still curiously vacant in her stare. “Who are you?”

  “I am Sherlock Holmes. Do you not remember me?”

  She stepped closer to him. “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Yes, the famous detective. You have read all of my adventures. You know how remarkably clever I am—how I am never wrong.” I could hear the irony in his voice. “I am your friend, Miss Grimswell, and I have figured it all out. That is not your father. That is someone else, someone evil. Your father loves you.”

  “Oh, does he? Are you... are you certain of that?”

  Holmes hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

  “Oh, thank God—thank God.” Her voice shook with emotion.

  I smiled sadly and murmured, “Poor girl.”

  “He is going away,” Holmes said. “Do you see? We have frightened him away.”

  She turned back to where the imaginary father had been, then smiled. “Yes. He is gone.”

  “And now we must go back to your room,” he said. “You must go to bed. You must...” She was smiling at him, her arms at her sides, but she had not moved. He stepped closer, reached out and touched her arm. They were the same height, Holmes a tall, slight figure in his dark suit, she so obviously a woman under the white nightshirt. “We must...”

  She stepped nearer and grasped both his arms above the elbows with her large white hands. “I love you,” she whispered fiercely.

  I have never seen Holmes so completely surprised, so utterly astonished. He said nothing for a few seconds. “I—this is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I know.” She released him, then unfastened the top button of her nightshirt and thrust her dark hair back over her shoulders, letting her head fall back and her breasts thrust forward. Her collarbone and the long expanse of her throat were tinted orange by the firelight. Holmes glanced at me, his eyes wide, but before he could speak or move, she threw her arms about him and drew him to her.

  “Miss Grimswell!” he exclaimed.

  One hand touched the back of his neck, the other had him low about the waist. She pressed her cheek against the side of his face. Her eyes were closed, but she was smiling. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Take me.”

  I stepped sideways. Holmes’s eyes were desperate. “Wake her, Henry—wake her at once.”

  I coughed once, then said, “Miss Grimswell, this is Doctor Vernier.”

  “Go away,” she murmured.

  “This is... this is your physician speaking. You cannot... This is hardly... You must leave my examining room. Everyone is staring at you. This is hardly the place, my dear young lady. Whatever are you doing? And you have no clothes on.”

  “For God’s sake, Henry!” Holmes said.

  Abruptly she released him, then stepped back and raised her hands awkwardly. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Here they are, but why are you wearing only a nightshirt?”

  “I...” She stared ahead, then covered her mouth. “I don’t know.”

  “You must have forgotten to dress this morning. It is a common mistake. Actually, you belong in bed. We must leave my examining room and get you back to bed.”

  “Oh, yes—thank you.” Her hand reached out and seized mine. Michelle had powerful hands, but hers were stronger yet.

  Holmes drew in his breath, then stepped warily back and collapsed into the chair. He was still staring at her.

  “Come with me,” I whispered to him. “It may take two of us to get her back to bed.”

  He stood without saying a word. I led her to the door, her hand still in mine. “And here is my wife, Doctor Doudet Vernier. You remember Michelle, Miss Grimswell. She likes you very much. She has brought you a robe, and she is putting it on you.”

  Rose Grimswell was quiet after that, but I kept up a constant stream of inane chatter. We went down the hallway to her bedroom. The maid Meg was snoring loudly on the sofa. “Your legs feel very weary, do they not? It would be very pleasant to lie down. And it is cold—so very cold.”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  I drew aside the covers, and she lay on her side, her nightshirt rising to show her bare, slender calves and ankles. I hesitated, then touched her white foot. The skin was icy cold. “You are freezing.” Quickly I drew the blankets over her. It was a relief to have her covered up. “It is good to lie still, to be warm and comfortable, and know that all is well. No one will trouble you now, and you will sleep peacefully.”

  She smiled gently at me. “Thank you, Henry.”

  I gave a deep sigh, then turned to Holmes. He had mostly recovered, a tenuous smile pulling at his lips. “Very good, Henry—very good indeed.”

  We quietly left the room, then returned to his chamber and sank into the leather chairs. Neither of us looked at one another. At last I mumbled, “It is a good thing we are both honorable men.”

  Holmes gazed at me. A long strand of hair had come loose and curved down to touch his cheekbone. “Yes.”

  “She is... quite a vision.”

  “Yes.”

  “I am a married man, but I must admit...” I shook my head. “She is certainly strong for a woman.”

  Holmes stared at the fireplace. “She did not embrace you. Her grip...” He gave a great sigh, then shook his head. “No matter. Her words were rather illuminating.”

  “I thought for sure she was insane. How did you know it was somnambulism?”

  “I have seen such cases before. The popular notion is that sleepwalkers go about with their eyes closed, their arms extended. They do not. Their eyes are open—hence they will not walk into walls or off cliffs—but they are, nevertheless, asleep. Everything appears to them as a dream, both reality and the fantasies of the mind.”

  I shook my head. “How very odd.” I yawned, covering my mouth with my hand. “I felt so bad for her. Her dreams were so sad. Both her father and Digby scorned her. She wanted so much for them to care for her.”

  Holmes said nothing, but three lines creased his forehead. The wind was still blowing; it had never stopped. At last he stood. “I could use a nightcap.”

  “I, too—what a wonderful suggestion! Then I am going straight to bed.” I pulled out my watch. “Twelve-fifteen—no wonder I am tired.”

  Holmes took a candle. “Someone may be awake downstairs, but if not, I saw a sideboard in the great hall with all the makings of a whisky and soda.” He stepped into the hall, then stopped so abruptly I almost walked into him.

  Before us stood George the footman. He looked as surprised to see us as we were to see him. A very tall fellow with a lean face, his blond hair combed straight back, he had a ready smile which soon reappeared. He was still wearing his black morning coat and striped trousers.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I was... Miss Grimswell wanted me to look in on you and see if you were asleep or if you required anything. I also wanted to see how Meg and the young mistress are doing.” His voice was as amiable as his face, and by the sound of it, he was from London, not Dartmoor.

  Holmes stared at him without speaking. At last he said, “And do you see in the dark, Mr...?”

  “Just call me George—everyone does, sir.” He laughed. “I could make my way about the house blindfolded, but there’s a bit of light coming from the room.” He pointed past us, where a dim splash of yellow light pooled out before the open door to Rose’s room.

  “And why have you removed your boots?”

  I glanced down, and sure enough, he was in his stockinged feet. His smile wavered for only an instant. His nose had a slight curve to it, no doubt having been broken at some time. “Boots with pointed toes are a misery, sir. As it’s rather late, I slipped them off.”

&n
bsp; Holmes stared silently. “Well, the maid is asleep, so you had best let her be, and we are going downstairs for a nightcap.”

  He nodded. “Very good, sir. Let me get the drinks for you.” He turned and started down the narrow hallway.

  Holmes frowned at me, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the candle, his large black shadow cast on the wall behind him.

  The hallway opened up on the side above the great hall as we left one wing of the house. We walked down the stairs, then crossed that dark, empty cavern, its black granite walls hidden from us. Somehow I felt like an archaeologist inside some colossal mausoleum or ancient pyramid.

  In the distance a dark, wavery figure approached—Constance Grimswell in her black dress, a white lace cap covering her gray hair. Her voice boomed out: “Still up, Mr. Holmes? It is so late. And you, doctor? I hope the beds are not amiss.”

  “No,” Holmes said. “We were conversing and thought we would descend and have something to drink before retiring.”

  “A splendid idea! May I join you?” She was near enough now we could see her pink, smiling face.

  Holmes shrugged. “We are your guests, madam. Of course you may join us.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  We stopped before the sideboard. “What would you like?” George asked.

  “A whisky and soda,” Holmes said.

  George opened the bottle, poured about an inch, then pressed the gasogene, filling the glass with soda. Holmes had set down the candle on the sideboard. He took the drink. George stared at me. By the candlelight his face was pale, his smile strange; Constance’s smiling face also appeared bizarre, almost an echo of his—a mirage, as if I were seeing double.

  “I shall have the same,” I said.

  Constance nodded. “And I.”

  I sipped the drink. It was quite strong, the whisky excellent. Holmes was staring at Constance. “You are also up late, madam.”

  “Ah, Mr. Holmes, it is hard being an old woman. I do not sleep well, not like I used to. I suffer from rheumatism, and it also keeps me awake. Then there was all this excitement today, your arrival, and my usual worries about Rose. How is she, poor lamb?”