“Did you let her out?” asked Hartwood.
She stared at him as if he were mad.
“Did you let the dog out?”
“No—of course not.”
“Then you must not blame yourself, miss. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Have you never heard of the Grimswell Curse, Doctor Hartwood? I am the last of the Grimswells, and I... I am very bad luck. You’d best keep away.” She laughed harshly.
“Bunk,” Hartwood said.
“What?”
“That’s bunk. I told your father the same thing. I do not believe in curses or devils. I’m not a superstitious man.”
Holmes laughed. “Bravo, Doctor Hartwood. ‘Bunk’ is nicely put. The dog’s death is regrettable, but we need not bring the Grimswell Curse into the matter.”
Rose wiped at her eyes. “I... Oh, I don’t know what to believe. I only... Please forgive me—I need to be alone.” She turned and was about to leave when Hartwood grasped her wrist with his hand. She stopped, surprised.
“Don’t go, please. I...” He let go of her arm, clearly embarrassed. “Begging your pardon, but is there anything I can do? I mean... Blast it.” He swallowed. “Would you like another dog? There are no tiny ones about, but...”
Rose shook her head. “No thank you. No more dogs. Please excuse me.”
“I am sorry, miss.” Clearly he meant it.
“Thank you, but it was not your doing either.” She looked at him, then turned and walked away.
Hartwood did not take his eyes off her until she had left the huge hall, then he lowered his gaze and slapped at his thighs with his cap. He looked up, his eyes still pained. “I must be going.”
Holmes pulled out his silver case and withdrew a cigarette. “Do you smoke, doctor? No? Neither does Henry—sensible physicians, both of you. I am sure at a later date Miss Grimswell will thank you for bringing the dog here. It was kind of you to undertake so unpleasant a task.”
Hartwood shrugged. “I’ve a patient nearby to visit.”
“Could you stop by again, doctor, or might I—”
“Yes.”
Holmes stared at him. “Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll visit again.”
“I would like to discuss Lord Grimswell with you. I have heard that you do not believe his death was suicide.”
Hartwood’s mouth formed a disapproving line. “I know he did not jump. He was not a man to take his own life, despite all the talk. And his heart was not good. You can never tell with angina.” He scowled. “Sometimes they live for years, sometimes... I’ll be happy to talk to you, Mr. Holmes, especially if it puts an end to all the nonsense.”
Holmes exhaled a breath of smoke. “Which particular nonsense?”
“Men in black on the moors at night. Wolves—vampires—and all such superstitious claptrap.”
Holmes was amused. “You do not fear such creatures?”
“No, sir. I’ll walk the moor in the dead of night if you give me a good stout stick. I’ll wager this ghost has bones that will break if you hit him hard enough.”
Holmes laughed. “I may take you up on that offer someday.”
Hartwood nodded, turned to go, then looked at us both. “Say goodbye to the lady for me.” He soon strode out the door.
Holmes was still smiling. “A sturdy fellow there, Henry. He may be of some help to us.”
I shook my head. “I still feel a very idiot—calling him an animal doctor.”
Holmes laughed. “I must confess that I made the same assumption. He does remind me of horse and bovine doctors I have met on the moors, but if he attended Edinburgh he is no fool. Of course, that was obvious enough anyway.”
“Mr. Holmes—Mr. Holmes!”
We turned to see Constance Grimswell advancing toward us. She wore a white lace cap and black dress that both seemed identical to those of the prior day. Her brow was furrowed, her dark eyebrows scrunched together. “What has happened? Rose just passed me in tears—she would not tell me... What can it be?” Her voice quavered.
“Her dog has been killed,” Holmes said.
She covered her mouth with her fingertips. “Oh no—oh no.”
Holmes nodded, then gestured at the bloody bundle. “It will have to be disposed of.”
Constance’s eyes widened—they were brown, not blue or gray. She raised her hand and put it against her forehead, palm out. “Merciful heavens.” Her eyelids fluttered. “Merciful heavens...”
Holmes grasped her by the arm just above the elbow. “You had best sit down, madam.”
“Yes—yes.” She turned and staggered toward an oaken armchair, and collapsed into it. “Merciful heavens.” She took a handkerchief from her dress pocket, then dabbed at her eyes. “Poor little doggie. Oh, Mr. Holmes, this is all my fault. Rose will never forgive me.” She blew her nose loudly. “It was barking and yapping at the door, so I had George let her out. Then... then we forgot all about the poor dog.”
I set my hand on her shoulder. “That is understandable. Little dogs can be annoying, and in the commotion... You must not blame yourself. I am sure Rose will understand.”
She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, I pray she will. But what frightful beast could have done that to the doggie?” She raised her fearful eyes. “I hope... There is so much talk about diabolical creatures on the moor.”
Holmes shook his head, an angry smile on his lips. “This was no demon, only a large animal with a strong jaw.”
Constance shook her head. “Rose will never forgive me, I just know it! Perhaps I should go back to London. No one wants a poor foolish old woman about!” She sobbed once, then ran her forefinger across her eye.
“I shall talk to your niece. I am sure she will understand. Perhaps Fitzwilliams might dispose of the dog.”
Constance lowered her handkerchief. “Perhaps we could have a funeral. That would surely make Rose feel better.”
Holmes nearly laughed. His face twisted as he fought the urge, and his eyes shifted to me. “I think not,” he managed to say.
“But if we laid the poor doggie to rest properly with a few prayers... I am sure it would be a consolation to her.”
Holmes bit his lip and gave me a look of appeal. I shook my head. “I think not, madam—not in this case. Better the dog be disposed of with as little fuss as possible. A funeral would be very trying.”
Constance sighed and nodded. “I’m sure you know best, doctor. Do you think the dumb animals have souls?”
“I... I have not much considered the matter.”
Holmes looked across the hall. “I want to talk to Miss Grimswell.”
Quickly I said, “I shall go with you.”
Constance wiped at her forehead. “She’s probably gone to the conservatory. One of the servants can show you the way.” She sighed. “Perhaps I shall just have George bury the poor creature. At least we might put a small stone before her grave.”
“Yes, perfect.” Holmes nodded, then started across the hall toward Fitzwilliams.
I smiled awkwardly down at her. “I had best join him. Do you feel better?”
“I do, doctor. Forgive me. I’m only an old woman, and the sight of all that blood...” She turned her head in the direction of the bundle, but would not look at it. “It shook me something dreadful, I can tell you.”
“I shall tell Fitzwilliams to have George bury it, just as you suggested. You need not trouble yourself further.”
She ran her forefinger across her eye. “That is very good of you, doctor, very kind indeed.”
Still smiling, I took a step back, then quickly pursued Holmes and Fitzwilliams, catching them before they could leave the hall. Behind me shafts of sunlight from the mottled glass streamed down into the hall, but the table with the tiny bundle and the woman in the chair were both in shadow.
Seven
Rose Grimswell sat on a teak bench before a huge pond, a crumpled handkerchief clutched in her big hand. High overhead a web of steel girders and enormous panes of glass formed the c
onservatory roof. Tall palms and extravagant ferns poured forth from giant, elaborately painted pots, while smaller pots held other lavish greenery. The pond was shallow, only a foot or two, almost half of it covered by some type of water lilies. The brilliant blue tiles contrasted with the fish: their torpedo shapes cruised about, some of gold or silver, others a mix of red, white, and black. One surfaced near Rose, a white leviathan nearly two feet long, his mouth forming a great O, two short whiskery appendages showing that resembled fangs.
“This is incredible,” I said to Holmes. “A miniature Crystal Palace complete with a veritable jungle.”
“It is considerably warmer here,” he replied. “All that glass amplifies the feeble sun of Dartmoor.” He stared down at Rose. “Miss Grimswell, might we speak with you, or would you prefer...?”
She extended the fingers of her left hand and let out a ragged sigh. “Oh yes. Certainly.”
“It is always difficult to lose a pet,” Holmes said. “Ridiculous as it might seem, I once kept a spider as a pet, and when the creature finally expired, I was surprised at the sorrow I felt.”
I smiled. “And of course it is far worse with a cat or dog, animals capable of true affection.”
Miss Grimswell laughed, but her eyes were all teary. “You are very kind, but that is not exactly the problem. I feel terrible, not because I miss Elaine, but because I did not care for her. She could be so annoying, always whining and whimpering and demanding attention. She got on my nerves so. I even shouted at the poor pathetic little thing. Bringing her here to Dartmoor on the train was a nightmare. I finally had them shut her up in a crate in the baggage car so I could have a moment’s peace.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I never wanted the wretched dog in the first place. She was a gift from Rickie, an engagement present. What could I do?”
My eyes widened. “Digby gave you the dog?”
“Yes.”
“But...” Dismayed, I glanced at Holmes. I had always despised yappy little dogs, but in this case the tiny animal would have emphasized Rose’s size even further. In another man it might have been an innocent mistake, but given what Digby’s mistress had told us, I suspected a cruel deliberate trick.
“Odd that we could not abide one another since we were each, in our own way, freaks of nature.”
I had lived too long with Michelle to let such a remark pass. “I hope that is not a reference to your stature.”
Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile, her shoulders rising in a shrug.
“That is... bunk, to use Doctor Hartwood’s term. In the case of the dog, you may be right. Dogs were not meant to be mere toys. Such dogs are unnatural and grotesque—which you most certainly are not. You are only two or three inches taller than Michelle, and I swear I would not have her any shorter than she is. I am certain that one day some man will also love you exactly as you are—he will not wish you different in any way.” I had spoken with fervor, and my face felt warm.
She stared curiously at me, her mouth rising into a questioning smile, her eyes faintly puzzled. “Oh, thank you.”
Holmes nodded. “Well put, Henry. And since you found the dog annoying, perhaps you will be willing to forgive your penitent aunt, Miss Grimswell. She had George put the dog out last night. She is most contrite. She even wished to give the dog a first-class funeral.”
Rose’s mouth twisted, even as a laugh slipped out. “No!”
“Henry is my witness.” Holmes glanced at me, and I nodded. “This might be the ideal spot. We could have a funeral in the manner of the Vikings, launching the fallen maiden upon a small barque onto the pond and then igniting her remains in a fiery pyre.”
Rose actually gasped, covered her mouth with her hand, her laugh more of a groan. She looked away, laughing in earnest. Her reaction, as much as Holmes’s description, started me laughing too. Holmes smiled at us. Rose’s laughter had a certain antic quality, a hysterical edge. Her life would have had few amusements recently.
“Please...” she moaned.
“Forgive me. It was an ill-conceived jest.”
“But a very comical one.” She wiped at her eyes, then drew in her breath.
“Why was the dog named Elaine?” I asked.
“Rickie named her after Elaine the Lily Maid in Tennyson’s poem.”
“Ah.” Holmes nodded. “Perhaps, then, we should cast her adrift on the nearest river in a barque to float on down to Camelot rather than having an immolation.” Rose again groaned softly and struggled not to laugh. “I am sorry—an equally ill-conceived jest.”
“Rickie meant the name as a joke. I do feel better now. It was mostly the... unexpectedness of it all that upset me.” She took a long, deep breath. “Please, do sit down.”
I sat in a matching teak chair. Holmes glanced briefly at me, then sat at the other end of Rose’s bench. The giant white fish surfaced again, his mouth a hungry circle. His eyes were black and alert, and further back his scales formed a gray-on-white pattern.
“Oh, don’t beg, Moby,” Rose said. “You had plenty to eat earlier.” She glanced at us. “The gardener feeds them every morning.”
“What kind of fish are they?” I asked.
She was about to reply, but Holmes spoke first. “Japanese koi, members of the carp family, larger relatives of the common goldfish. These are particularly magnificent specimens.”
She smiled. “Very good, Mr. Holmes. My father liked to sit here and watch them swim about. He said they would make tranquil the troubled mind.”
There must have been over a dozen fish in the pond, and as they swam about slowly, their gray shadows accompanied them, gliding across the blue tiles. “There is something hypnotic about watching them,” I said.
Holmes, however, was gazing closely at Rose. Her black dress and the bright sunlight from overhead emphasized the pallor of her face and hands. “And do they calm your troubled mind, miss?”
She turned her blue-gray eyes on him, the corners of her mouth slowly rising. “Somewhat.”
“Good. Then this is an ideal location for our discussion. It is time for you to tell me exactly what has frightened you so.”
Her mouth stiffened, her eyes troubled. “Are you certain...?”
“You need not pretend with me. I have dealt with fear and terror for many years, and I know all its manifestations. You wrote to me, even as I requested, although I arrived before you could post the letter. Therefore I am here at your summons. You must tell me everything.”
She licked her lower lip, and took it between her teeth. “I would... like to tell you everything.”
Holmes had begun to drum upon his knee with the long fingers of his right hand. “Then do so. At once. I believe it concerns your father.”
What little color she had drained slowly from her face. “How can you know that?”
“It is my business to know. Now tell me.”
She stared down at the fish, her eyes following the big one. “I suppose I must. I...” Her voice shook slightly. “Jane Grimswell, my aunt—my cousin—had to be committed to an institution, a dreadful place. I visit her when I can, although it terrifies me. Oh, I do not want to be mad—I swear I do not.”
I leaned forward and seized her wrist. She started at my touch. “You are not mad, and telling us will certainly not change anything.”
“It is either madness or worse.”
“I do not believe you are mad, Miss Grimswell,” Holmes said. “Nor do I believe in ghosts.”
Her eyes were fixed on him. “Then how...?”
“Tell me all that has occurred and then I can explain the how.”
She inhaled through her nostrils, clenching her fists. “I am so sick and tired of this all. It gnaws at me always. Very well. I suppose it began somehow with my father’s death, but no, what interests you began after my engagement to Digby. It began with that wretched document about the Grimswell Curse. Oh, I had heard about the curse, veiled references and the like, but my father had never showed me that paper. Somehow it... it frightened me.�
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“It was a frightening tale,” I said.
“If my father were still alive, it would be different. If he had not died under a cloud... If—if—if.” She drew in her breath angrily. “Rickie was right to take it away from me. I would have read it again, but even without having it, I kept remembering. I began to have... peculiar dreams.” Briefly her mouth clamped shut, and I could see the fear again in her eyes.
Holmes leaned forward. “What were these dreams?”
She shrugged. “I cannot remember specifics, only impressions. My father was in them, all in black, and my mother, whom I never really knew, and Digby. However, it was more the... voice.” The pitch of her own voice suddenly went awry, becoming high and twisted.
“What did this voice say?”
“That I was cursed—that I was damned. That I was the last Grimswell—that I must not marry—that I was a freak, a monster—that I was ugly and deformed and insane—that I was mad like my father and all the damned Grimswells before me.”
Again I leaned forward to seize her wrist. “Miss Grimswell, none of these things are true.”
Her hand trembled slightly, and she stared desperately at me. “No?”
“No,” Holmes said. “Tell me, were their many voices or only one?”
She stared at him before replying, struggling with her fear. “Only one.”
“A man’s voice?”
“Yes.”
Holmes’s mouth twitched, a brief grimace of a smile appearing, while his eyes remained locked on Rose. “And then you actually heard the voice, did you not? It spoke to you for real, and it was your father’s voice.”
Her jaw dropped, seemed to lock, and then she stood up to her full height and stared down at him in horror and surprise. A tentacle of dread seem to curl about my own heart.
“How could you know?”
“Please sit down, Miss Grimswell. Calm yourself.”
“Now you understand—both of you must understand—that I must be insane.”
The Grimswell Curse Page 12
