“We shall not find him back at the hall.”
“No? Where is he, then?”
“Probably somewhere on the moor. He is in all probability quite dead and can tell us nothing.”
I opened my mouth and tried to control the sudden fear clutching at my throat.
“I tried to warn him.” Holmes sounded angry. “I told him it was dangerous.” He took out another cigarette, lit it, and exhaled a cloud of white smoke.
“Can we go back?” I wanted very much to be in a warm bed with Michelle, even though I doubted I would sleep much that night.
“We might as well.” The end of the cigarette glowed red. “If we do not, the fog will soon swallow us. Look.” He raised his stick.
Ahead of us, the land fell to a grove of stunted trees, now hidden. A gray-white fog lay there like some quiet ocean, slowly advancing, or perhaps it resembled some biblical plague, an icy mist which would kill everything it touched. I told myself that such thoughts were foolish.
Holmes gazed up at the stars, his mouth grim and taut, then threw down the cigarette butt. “Let us...” He seemed to freeze in place, then his hand shot out and caught my arm, the fingers digging in deeply. “Look there—on the tor!”
My eyes swept up the dark hill, and then caught the silhouette atop the jumbled granite of Demon Tor. “Good Lord,” I whispered. A man stood there, a figure all in black, his face white, and beside him was a huge black dog. My insides felt as if snakes or other slithery creatures were there, and again I struggled to master my fear.
“Should we... should we...?”
“That is him, Henry—the devil behind all this affair.”
“...pursue him?”
“No, it would be useless. He doubtless knows his way about better than we do. If we start for the tor, he will simply turn and go down the other side. There is nothing we can do.” Holmes’s voice shook with anger.
“Let’s get away from here.”
“Yes.”
Holmes walked rapidly. My legs seemed pleased to be moving, although they would have preferred a run. The night seemed quieter than earlier, and damper, the mists closing in on land and sky. To the side came a sound, loud and jarring, wild and cruel—laughter, a man’s laughter.
Holmes stopped, then turned abruptly and started for the tor. “Wait!” I cried. “Wait!” I seized his arm. The laughter had stopped. “You said it would be futile.”
Holmes drew in his breath. “And I was correct.”
Clouds had covered the moon. They drifted away, and the moonlight showed the sharp, jagged edge of the tor, the shapes like horns, but no one was there now.
Holmes drew in his breath, then roared, “Coward!” at the top of his lungs, the shout shattering the night’s stillness.
“For God’s sake—let’s get away from here.”
Holmes smiled at me, his face ghastly pale in the moonlight. “Very well, Henry.”
As usual, Holmes was correct. When we returned to the hall, George was nowhere to be found. No one had seen him leave, and no one had any idea when he might return.
My past attempts at deceiving Michelle had ended in abject failure. Moreover, I wanted very much to tell her what had happened. Still cold and rather fearful, I did so as we lay together in bed. The blue-white moonlight came through the mullioned window, but I could not see her face. Her hand had tightened about my arm. “I thought we had discussed this—you were not going to go off again without telling me.”
“You would have wanted to come, and Sherlock would have never allowed it.”
“Men can foolishly risk their lives whenever they wish, but with women it is not permitted.” She sounded both hurt and angry.
“Do not be angry—not now—not tonight. I...”
She kissed me fiercely, and I pulled her as close as I could. “Please be careful, my dearest,” she said. “Promise me that at least you will not take foolish risks.”
“You must know I am not foolhardy. I am generally too frightened to be foolhardy.”
She laughed. “Good!” My intermittent shaking had finally stopped.
Neither of us slept well that night. At one point early in the morning, Holmes and I met in the hallway, both of us wanting to check on Rose at the same time. She was sleeping peacefully, with the maid Meg also asleep in the room.
In the morning George had still not reappeared, his absence the main topic of discussion among the household. Holmes said nothing, but I knew he was certain George was dead. We went for a walk after breakfast, and as Rose had promised, Digby was included. The others hiked all the way to the top of the tor, but this time I remained below. The gradual slope did not trigger my vertigo, but I was wary of the view from higher up, spectacular though it was.
We had just returned from the walk when Fitzwilliams led Doctor Hartwood into the great hall. The young man wore his battered jacket and muddy boots, the same casual attire as the first time he had come calling. He held his cloth cap in his hand, and the top of his forehead was pale white compared to the red-brown skin of his face. He gave Michelle a curious glance, a slight frown furrowing his brow, but his eyes restlessly swept round the vast chamber. Rose and Digby had gone upstairs to the library together.
“Mr. Holmes, I had hoped to find you here.” Again his eyes seemed drawn to Michelle.
“Doctor Hartwood, this is my wife, Michelle Doudet Vernier. She is also a physician.”
He nodded, a curious look in his eyes. “Are you, ma’am?”
She smiled at him. Her face was lightly freckled from the sun, her cheeks flushed from the walk on the moor, and she was quite beautiful. “I am.” She held out her hand. He hesitated, then shook it. His fingers might have been shorter than hers, but the span of his knuckles was immense, his arms and shoulders worthy of a blacksmith or stevedore. For an instant only, longing showed in his eyes, the longing of a lonely young man for a woman he knew was unattainable.
“Oh.” We could gauge little from his monosyllabic response.
Michelle was suddenly wary. “Do you not approve of woman doctors, Doctor Hartwood?”
“I’ve never known one. I’ve no basis on which to approve or disapprove. We’ll see.”
Michelle smiled again. “Fair enough.”
Hartwood turned back to Holmes. “Miss Grimswell is occupied?”
“For the moment,” Holmes said.
“Good.” He sighed. “I hate to again be the bearer of bad news, but I have found a dead man on the moor, one I recognized—the tall servant who liked mastiffs.”
Michelle’s smile vanished, and my stomach lurched. Holmes nodded. “I have been expecting such news. I hope you did not bring the body with you.”
Hartwood shook his head. “No.”
“Good. I shall want to have a look before anything is disturbed.”
“I shall come,” I said, although it was the last thing I wished to do.
“And I,” said Michelle.
Hartwood shrugged. “As you will. It is not far.”
Hartwood’s horse was tied up out front, but he started off on foot at a fearsome pace, his eyes locked straight ahead. The day was another fine one, the sky a clear, vibrant blue. A few long-lived flies droned lazily about. Once we were clear of the trees, he stopped, set down his bag, and folded his arms. “I’ll not go another step until you tell me what is going on at Grimswell Hall.”
Holmes smiled faintly. “What have you heard?”
“Every sort of nonsense. Just this morning, two different people in Grimpen told me they had seen the viscount’s ghost on the moors last night, a giant man in black with an evil hound at his side. The town is abuzz with such talk. People are afraid to go out after dark. And...” He hesitated, his eyes worried.
Holmes nodded, his gaze intent. “Go on.”
“Some say Miss Grimswell is insane. That cannot be—that isn’t true.” Despite his best efforts, it came out almost as a question.
Holmes stared at him, weighing his thoughts, but Michelle could n
ot restrain herself. “It most certainly is not true!”
Hartwood eased his breath out through clenched teeth. “Thank God. She seemed troubled, but I did not think... I don’t really know her. She is in danger, is she not? If there is any possible way, I should like to help.”
Michelle gave him a stunning smile. “That’s very kind of you.”
Holmes took off his hat and smoothed back his hair. A few days in Dartmoor had put some color in his cheeks, the customary pallor gone. “It may be possible, Doctor Hartwood. But you might begin by taking us to the body.”
Hartwood nodded, then began walking. “Is she really ill, or is it only nerves?”
Michelle and I glanced at one another. “She has been under a considerable strain,” I said. “But...” I looked at Holmes.
“Someone has been doing their best to frighten her,” he said.
Hartwood scowled. “Who?”
“That is what we are attempting to discover.”
“What kind of villain would...? Do you think they actually mean to harm her?”
Holmes’s smile was glacial. “They mean to murder her.”
Hartwood’s eyes widened, even as he stopped and seized Holmes’s arm. “Good Lord—you are serious. You must get her away from here— you must—”
Holmes winced. “Doctor Hartwood, you have an impressive grip.”
He released him at once. “Pardon me—I only... Would she be safer somewhere else? In London?”
“Possibly, for a while, but our opponent is cunning and ruthless. At least here... I hope to flush them out.”
“But why? What can she have ever done?”
Holmes stared at him. “Have you no idea?”
“None.”
“Her fortune,” he said. “Someone wants her fortune.”
Hartwood seemed astounded—and appalled. “Her fortune? She has a fortune? Oh, damn.” The word slipped out, then he glanced at Michelle. “Pardon me, ma’am, I only... I did not know there was any fortune.” For some reason, he seemed genuinely upset by this discovery. “I thought a daughter could not inherit the title or the land.”
“The title will go extinct,” Holmes said, “but because her father and grandfather broke the entail, she may inherit Grimswell Hall. Her father also had considerable personal wealth.”
“Oh.” He shook his head. “I suppose...” He swallowed. “It is well that she may keep her home and... that she is provided for.” He strode on, his pace still rapid. We were approaching the twisted clump of woods at the foot of a hill rising to Demon Tor.
“I... There is one other thing I must know.” His eyes were locked straight ahead. “Is she really engaged to be married to that...?” The final word was filled with contempt, and he broke off his speech.
“The situation remains unclear,” Holmes said.
Michelle smiled, her nostrils flaring. “She could not be such an imbecile.” Hartwood slowed down and turned to her, his eyes incredulous. Michelle was still smiling. “Well, she could not, you know.” A sharp laugh slipped from Holmes’s lips.
Hartwood’s massive chest slowly swelled as he drew in his breath, his relief obvious. We had almost reached the woods. Several crows sat on the branches of the low trees. At our approach, one by one, they flew upward with noisy caws and bursts of chatter.
“I did turn him over,” Hartwood said. “The crows had not really begun on him yet, and I did not want them picking at his face.” This explanation did not seem to perturb Michelle or Holmes, but it gave me a queasy feeling. Dead people I had seen aplenty, but not after they had served as food for scavengers.
Holmes shook his head. “I doubt he was killed here. The murderer must have transported him. That in itself is not insignificant. George was lean, but tall, and weighed about one hundred and seventy pounds. Tell me, doctor, what attracted you to these woods? They do not appear inviting.”
“The crows. I had never seen so many here before, and I wondered what had attracted them. If it was some poor sheep or pony which had been injured, I’d have put the beast out of its misery.”
Holmes suddenly leaped before Hartwood and raised his stick. “Stop!” he cried. Hartwood stumbled and stepped back. Holmes was down on his knees at once, staring at the grassy turf. “Remarkable— quite remarkable.”
Hartwood gave us a baffled look, but Michelle and I had no explanation. However, the source of Holmes’s excitement soon became obvious. We had reached a damper patch of ground, and there before us was a footprint—a very large footprint.
Holmes shook his head. “No shoddy manufactured boots for our friend here. With a footprint like this, he must have his boots custom-made. He must be at least a size fifteen. The tread is quite distinctive. Were we in London, I could find his bootmaker. Would you all be so kind as to remain exactly where you are a while longer?” He rose, then began to walk slowly away from the footprint. He was bent over, his head almost at the level of his waist.
“Ah.” He fell again to his knees.
I leaned forward, but a heather hid the spot. “What is it?”
“The footprint of a gigantic hound.”
Hartwood stepped forward. “Let me see.”
“Do not move!” roared Holmes. “You may look soon enough.”
Holmes walked outward in overlapping circles, each larger than the last, the center being the first footprint. He stopped next to one of the granite rocks where the woods began. “Here is another.” He pointed with his stick. “The impression is shallower, although the ground is softer. The footprint is pointed in the opposite direction. The first one was made while he was carrying George here, the other as he departed. Please swing around this area and join me in the woods. The ground further on is too rocky for any prints.”
We did so, but by the time we joined him, he was on his knees again. “Look here.” Several brown spots stained the white granite and its luminous coating of yellow and green lichens. He rose. “I do not think I shall need you to lead me to the body, Doctor Hartwood.” He pointed with the ferrule of his stick at the trail of dried blood across the rocks.
Although the leaves of the dwarfish oaks were gone, it felt colder in the woods, and the wind was a low murmur through the gnarled, barren branches. Ferns sprouted between the rocks, their saw-toothed leaves huge and green, and the trunks of the oaks seemed to have grown out of the rock itself. Their bark was spotted with lichens, and whitish-green moss clung to the twigs at the end of the branches.
George lay face down in a hollow between two trees, his head and back covered with a heavy tweed jacket. It had a few rents in the fabric where the crows must have picked at it, and his trousers were torn. Holmes pulled off the jacket, and we could see his yellow hair, one whitish ear and his white shirt.
Holmes knelt, then slowly pulled him over. “Oh Lord,” I whispered, turning away. His lifeless eyes were still open, his jaw slack, but his throat was a bloody, mangled mess, his shirt front all stained reddish brown.
“Poor man,” Michelle whispered. “What could have done that to him?”
“The cause of death is obvious,” Holmes said. “The jugular was severed, but this... It is supposed to resemble the work of a wild beast, our giant dog, but... Notice how sharp this edge is here, and... I wonder, Doctor Hartwood, do you have a scalpel or probe in your bag?”
“Both. Which would you like?”
“A probe.”
Hartwood handed him the long, slender silver instrument. Holmes explored the wounds with the tip slowly and meticulously. I tried to assume my stiff-upper-lip medical manner, but I noticed the dried blood all over George’s face and his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. I felt cold and queasy. “Do close his eyes, Sherlock.” He did so. Michelle glanced at me, then took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “I never much cared for corpses,” I said.
Hartwood had knelt beside Holmes. “He must have died last night. Rigor has come and gone.”
“Around eight in the evening,” Holmes said. “Ah—as I expected. Look a
t this.” He was holding the probe at the end, and the shaft sank into George’s throat some three or four inches. By way of sympathy, I felt a cold twisting sensation in my own belly. “Someone thrust a knife into his throat, something with a long, narrow blade. That is what killed him. Then that person used some other instrument to rip at the throat and simulate the work of a wild beast. However, no animal could have produced a wound this deep.”
“Why would they have carried him here?” Hartwood asked.
“Are there any tales told about these woods?”
Hartwood smiled faintly. “Many. All sorts of ghouls and fiends lurk here.”
Holmes stood up. “An excellent spot for a werewolf or vampire.”
“But you have just demonstrated—”
Holmes smiled. “I was being ironic, doctor. Our ghoul has his reputation to live up to. Perhaps we should frustrate his plans and not tell anyone we found the body here.”
From somewhere deeper in the woods came several caws. I raised my eyes and through the branches saw some small hawk soaring overhead.
Holmes bent over, wiped the probe on George’s shirt, then handed it to Hartwood. “Thank you. We had better take the body back to the hall. Perhaps we had better fetch a horse.”
Hartwood shrugged. “No need. I’ll carry him.”
I raised an eyebrow. “It must be at least a mile.”
“Exactly,” Hartwood said. “No use bothering with a horse.” He put the jacket over George’s face, then took an arm and leg and hoisted him up over his back. A small branch cracked and broke. Holmes adjusted the jacket so it would not fall off, and then we left the woods.
The day was still a fine one, but I had only to glance at Hartwood and his grotesque burden to recall that a murderer was loose on the moor. Before, the knowledge had been hypothetical, abstract. I had not known Lord Grimswell, but yesterday at this time George had been alive and well. I wondered again what he had wanted to tell us.
“Burden” was perhaps the wrong word to use for George’s corpse: Hartwood showed no signs of discomfort or strain whatsoever. He might as well have been carrying a sack of feathers. When we had almost reached the house, he stopped. “I cannot just lug him in like this. I’d best set him down and get someone to help me fetch him later.”
The Grimswell Curse Page 23
