The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes nodded. “It would be best, believe me.”

  “Very well.” She leaned forward, pulled out a sheet of paper, then dipped the pen in the ink well.

  I frowned slightly. No doubt Digby had weaseled his way into the will, but should we also be forcing our wishes upon her? All the same, for us, Rose’s interests were paramount.

  “Here.” She handed Holmes the paper. “Digby will be furious.” Her voice faltered.

  Holmes nodded. “This is very good. Let me handle Digby.” He took the pen and scrawled upon the page. “Henry, sign and date it below my signature.”

  The note merely said that she wished to leave the major part of her estate to the charity hospitals of London instead of to Lord Frederick Digby should she die. I signed it.

  Rose stared up at Holmes. “Are you absolutely certain I am doing the right thing?”

  “Yes, Miss Grimswell. I am absolutely certain.”

  She put her hand over her forehead. “How my head aches.”

  “No wonder,” I said. “It has not been the most peaceful of mornings.”

  A knock sounded at the door. “Oh, now what?” she said.

  Holmes went to the door. George stood outside. “Begging your pardon, sirs, but I wanted to speak with the mistress.”

  Holmes nodded. “I have some correspondence I must attend to.” He left the room as George entered.

  George swallowed, the Adam’s apple in his thin neck bobbing. He was a handsome young man, and a black morning coat, gray cravat and wing collar suited him. One could see why he was a favorite with the maids.

  “Yes?” Rose put one hand on her knee, the other hand over it.

  “I only wanted to make sure... I don’t really think I was being remiss, but possibly I was. I hadn’t seen a pup in so long, but if I offended you, ma’am, I’m begging your pardon.”

  Her smile was tenuous. “Oh George, you did nothing wrong. Surely you could tell I was not angry with you?”

  “I wanted to be sure that I didn’t...”

  “You saw me down on the floor as well, didn’t you? Not very ladylike, I’m afraid. Really, George, you behaved better than any of us. I was happy to have your advice on the dog.”

  George smiled, something more sincere than his usual amiable grin. “Thank you, ma’am.” He turned to go.

  “Oh, and George, if you ever want to bring your dog here, I’m certain we could work out something. Mr. Fitz won’t like it, but then today I’ve managed to make almost everyone angry. What is one more person?”

  George’s smile faded, and he stared closely at her. “You’d do that for me, ma’am?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why?” He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  She laughed. “So you could be near to your dog. If you are fond of him.”

  “That’s... that’s very decent of you, ma’am. I...” He drew in his breath, the creases in his forehead lingering. “I won’t trouble you no longer.” His smile was gone.

  “Well, do let me know about the dog.”

  “So I will.” He gave a slight bow, then departed, closing the door behind him.

  Rose looked up at me. “He seemed so surprised.”

  “Many servants rarely see genuine kindness. It does surprise them.”

  She smiled. “It seems such a little thing.” She sighed and brushed away a black strand of hair from her forehead.

  I realized abruptly that I did find Rose Grimswell truly beautiful. Being happily married did not make a man stop noticing beautiful women, even if one no longer felt compelled to pursue them. Rose also reminded me very much of Michelle.

  “Doctor Vernier, sometimes I feel so... embarrassed by everything. I wish I could just go somewhere and hide! Mr. Holmes thinks... he thinks I am a foolish girl.”

  “He blames Lord Frederick, not you.”

  “But he said he was disappointed with me. Oh, I wish I had never heard of wills or estates or solicitors. Somehow it never felt right to me, but Rickie said I must not let Rigby bully me. I must show him and Aunt Constance who was in charge. I suspected it was wrong, but I didn’t care. None of this seems quite real to me. If the money would make Rickie happy, why not let him have it? I didn’t care about the money anymore than I care about living or dying.”

  “You mustn’t speak that way.”

  “Why not? It’s true. And if anything did happen to me, no one would care. Oh, the Fitzwilliamses would shed a tear, and Rickie might feel sad for a few minutes, but no one would really care.”

  “That’s not true,” I said gravely.

  “But it is.”

  “No, it is not.” I hesitated. “I would care.”

  “But you hardly know me.”

  “What does that matter?”

  She frowned in confusion, then looked up at me. Soon we both looked away. “I believe you mean it,” she said.

  “And Sherlock would also care.”

  “Would he really?”

  “Yes—why do you think he was so angry? And why do you think he is here?”

  Her eyes teared up. “Oh, thank you. I must sound very selfish, but it is only that I feel so alone sometimes. I...” She resolutely stood up. “I think I shall go and sit in the conservatory for a while and meditate upon the fish. Don’t... don’t tell Digby where...”

  “My lips are sealed.” I smiled. “You will be safe for a while.”

  “I must talk to him soon, but I have had enough excitement for one day.”

  “You have earned a few tranquil moments. I shall have a look at the library here.”

  “You should find it interesting and quite complete. My father was fond of books.” She gave me a brief, furtive look. “Thank you again, Doctor Vernier.” She walked quickly to the door.

  I sat quietly for a while. My face felt rather warm. How I wished Michelle were there—for a variety of reasons! I stood and turned to the bookcase. All the great English novels were present in one section— Dickens, Trollope, Thackeray, Eliot, and close by were the complete works of Wilkie Collins and Sheridan Le Fanu. In the same area were Watson’s collected tales.

  “Doctor Vernier?”

  Peaceful solace was not to be mine. “Good day, Miss—Constance.”

  The other Miss Grimswell gave me a broad smile, her pink face beaming good cheer. “I hear there has been some commotion this morning.”

  “And who has told you this?”

  “George, of course. How kind of Doctor Hartwood to bring Rose a dog! Impractical—the last thing we need is an enormous, vicious mastiff—but generous. George had some unkind things to say about Lord Frederick, but I reprimanded him. One cannot expect servants to understand their betters.”

  My smile grew rather wooden.

  “Oh, I just don’t know what to think! Is Lord Frederick really worthy of our dear Rose? It’s true his family is even more illustrious than our own. After all, a marquess is two steps above a viscount—practically a duke, isn’t he?”

  I wanted to tell her a younger son was nothing at all—especially in Digby’s case. He would inherit neither land, title, nor from what we had heard, money. From my perspective he made a dreadful prospective husband. He had no money, but had been raised to consider himself above others and above most respectable occupations. A life of idleness would be what he most desired, and Rose’s money would make that possible. I struggled to think of something nice to say about him, but in vain. Instead I echoed her: “Yes, a marquess is almost a duke.”

  “I hope... George said he brought Mr. Holmes a telegram which seemed to cause some discord.”

  I gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “I hope it had nothing to do with Rose’s legacy.”

  Briefly I could not control my face.

  “Oh dear, I only meant... Well, it is true I agreed with Mr. Rigby at the time, but if the girl really is to be married... Perhaps I was wrong. Has Mr. Holmes persuaded Rose otherwise?”

  “Madam, you will have to ask him that question. I am not at liber
ty to comment upon a private conversation.”

  Miss Grimswell made a mass of wrinkles of her brow as she assumed a mournful face. “Oh, forgive me, doctor—I didn’t mean to pry. No one likes an old busybody, and I know it’s none of my business. I only want the best for our dear Rose. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Tell me, though, doctor—do you really think she should be traipsing about the moor? With her history... wouldn’t rest be the best thing for her?—and not in that damp, drafty conservatory!”

  “Well, fresh air can have a tonic effect if—”

  “But her heart, doctor—I worry so about her heart! So many Grimswells have been stricken by heart failure. And her nerves—she is high-strung. You cannot deny she is high-strung!”

  “Even so—”

  “Please tell her she must rest, doctor! I fear... I fear some dreadful breakdown, some nervous collapse. She reminds me of my poor sister. Everyone thought she was perfectly all right until she began to have her spells. And now... Oh, that place we must keep her in is so dreadful! And if Rose should...” Her eyes filled with tears. “Promise me you will tell her to rest—promise me, doctor!”

  “Calm yourself, Constance. She—”

  “Promise me!”

  I sighed wearily. “I promise.”

  “Oh, thank you.” Her big hand clutched at my arm; unlike Rose’s slender fingers, hers recalled sausages. “Together we shall save her!”

  Nine

  Later that afternoon, Lord Frederick and Rose had their conference.

  The result seemed to please Digby. I was in the great hall reading when they came out of one of the sitting rooms. He was smiling broadly, and he gave her hand a squeeze. She was also smiling, but her eyes appeared weary and evasive. She gave me a nod, then swept out of the room, her black dress and petticoats making a slight swishing sound.

  Digby gave his hair a pat, then withdrew a cigarette case. “Well, old boy, things are definitely looking up.”

  I stared at him, annoyed at yet another of his inane familiarities. “Indeed?”

  “I’ll be a married man someday, I’ll wager, be fettered with the rest of ’em.”

  I tried to keep my voice and my face neutral. “She has agreed to marry you?”

  “Well, not quite, but I may remain for the time being, and she will again consider my proposal.”

  I very nearly said, “Then there is still hope,” but I knew I would be unable to refrain from a certain irony of tone. I mumbled something and gazed down at my book as if transfixed. Digby took the hint, pausing only to light his cigarette, then wandering away while humming a tune from Gilbert and Sullivan.

  I tried to reason with myself, to admit that Digby might have some redeeming qualities, but to no avail. The thought that Rose might actually marry him dismayed me. She deserved so much better. I was absolutely certain that Digby would have no interest in her whatsoever were it not for her fortune. He may have tried (weakly) to persuade himself otherwise, but his true motives were obvious.

  Dinner that night proved to be an ordeal. Constance had concocted an elaborate menu with several rich courses and sauces designed to show that Grimswell Hall was the equal of any ostentatious, profligate country estate, and the tension between her and Mrs. Fitzwilliams, who appeared briefly, was palpable.

  Digby monopolized the conversation and made broad pronouncements on philosophy, art and poesy. Annoyed, I briefly sparred with him over the question of Wilde’s talents. As a humorist, Wilde’s appeal was indisputable, but as an aesthete I found him extremely pretentious. We skirted the topic of his morality. Holmes said little, and Rose remained subdued until after dinner when an odd transformation took place, all the more curious because of what occurred first.

  Maria, the rather sour-looking maid, had set a cup and saucer before me and was pouring coffee when the most dreadful cry came from the kitchen—a woman’s scream, shrill and urgent, expanding in volume. Maria’s arm jerked, coffee spilling onto the saucer and then the tablecloth. Holmes and I were on our feet at once. A second cry joined briefly with the first.

  We left the dining room, strode down a narrow hallway and came into the kitchen. The room was spacious, a large iron stove in one corner, pans hanging from hooks over the counters. A maid lay on her back in the doorway to the pantry; another knelt beside her, sobbing. The screaming came from within.

  Holmes stepped around the recumbent figure and into the pantry, then grasped the arm of the short, stout cook and shouted, “Stop that— stop it at once.”

  The tiny room was dimly lit, but next to a large white cake I could see an object which turned my stomach—a large rat, obviously dead, the long pink tail drooping off the table.

  Holmes shook the woman. “That is quite enough.” He turned her and steered her out into the kitchen. “Hysteria will not help matters.” He gazed at me. “Please get her some brandy, Henry.”

  I was only too happy to leave the pantry. The entire house seemed to have joined us—Fitzwilliams, Digby, Rose, and, lurking in the kitchen doorway, Constance.

  “What on earth is it?” asked Digby.

  “A dead rat,” Holmes said. “There is no need for panic.”

  “Ughh!” Constance exclaimed loudly. “I cannot bear a rat!”

  “Then I suggest you return to the table, madam.” Holmes went back into the pantry.

  I turned to Digby. “Could you fetch some brandy for the cook? I need to see to the poor girl on the floor there.”

  Digby nodded, and Rose took the cook’s arm. “Come, Annie—you are safe now.”

  The elderly cook bit at her lip and struggled to swallow. The volume of her screams had been truly astounding; already it seemed calmer with her quiet. “I hate them. How could it have got in there?”

  I knelt beside the girl on the floor. Her eyes opened and fluttered briefly.

  “Will she die?” sobbed her companion.

  “Certainly not,” I said, “and if she hears you crying she will be frightened. Get me a wet cloth, please.”

  “Come along with me, Janie.” George stood beside us, a tall figure in his black formal attire. “We’ll see to it, sir.”

  I got the girl to a chair and managed to keep her calm. The brandy Digby returned with was a great help. Although I am squeamish myself about rats, I had determined to enter the pantry, but Holmes stepped out and resolutely closed the door.

  His black brows came together in a crease over his hawk’s nose, his eyes puzzled, his mouth a thin, tight line. “The dead rat in the pantry will need to be disposed of, but no one is to touch anything for now.”

  Fitzwilliams shook his head sadly. “I’ll have to put some traps out. We’ve had nary a rat in the past two or three months.”

  “I think you should all return to the table,” George said. “You’ve your coffee, and Janie and I’ll round up some sweets. A shame to waste the cake, but no one will want it now.”

  I shuddered slightly. “No.”

  Back at the table we were all subdued. Constance wiped her brow with a large white hanky. “Merciful heavens,” she muttered, “merciful heavens.”

  Digby grinned enthusiastically. “That’s more excitement than I’ve had in months!” Rose gave him an incredulous stare, her fingers trembling slightly as she drank her coffee. “Not that I don’t feel for the poor girls. No one likes a rat, dirty repulsive beasts that they are. They can carry plague, you know.”

  “God save us all!” Constance exclaimed.

  “I suggest you drop such a repugnant topic,” I said angrily.

  Digby gave a brief laugh. “Sorry—it was a bit thick of me, wasn’t it? Well, nothing coffee, chocolates and a few brandies won’t fix.”

  Rose had a peculiar expression on her face, and her broad white forehead was creased. “Do you feel well, Miss Grimswell?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, yes, my coffee tastes a little... peculiar.”

  Digby laughed. “How could you even te
ll, with all the cream and sugar you put in it? There’s very little coffee there.”

  She smiled. “It is the only way I can abide the taste.”

  Constance lowered her handkerchief. “I believe the cook said something about trying a new brand of coffee. It is very dear, something served only at the best tables.”

  Rose shrugged. “Oh.” She took a big swallow and set down the empty cup. “Well, I can’t say I much care for it. My tastes must be more plebeian.”

  “It’s certainly time for brandy, anyway,” Digby said. “Never could understand why you’d want to drink coffee at suppertime, Rosie.”

  I stared at my cousin. He appeared grim and preoccupied, his eyes faintly uneasy. He soon rose and excused himself, saying he had further business to attend to in the kitchen.

  The rest of us adjourned to a comfortable sitting room where Fitzwilliams offered us brandy or port. Constance took a large brandy, but Rose said she did not care for anything.

  “Come now,” Digby said, “after all that hullabaloo, a little drop would do you good. Don’t you agree, doctor?”

  Reluctantly I nodded, and Digby handed her a small glass of port. The brandy was quite extraordinary; Lord Grimswell had been very particular about his cognac.

  The room was mostly silent for a few minutes, a melancholy time, the loudly ticking clock on the mantel dominant. It was quite warm, and I removed my jacket.

  Digby gave a contented sigh and rose to pour another brandy. “Nothing like a dead rat to give a man a thirst.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Rose shook her head. “Oh, Rickie, how can you say such a silly thing?”

  “Well, it’s true, ain’t it?”

  Constance looked very stern. “I do not find dead rodents amusing in the least. What a fright it gave me.”

  A white face with a halo of white hair appeared in the black square of the doorway, the eyes dark and angry. It hovered briefly, and then Mrs. Fitzwilliams slowly came through the doorway, supporting herself on her cane. The black dress had made her appear disembodied.

  “Are you all right, child?”