The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  Holmes raised his eyes; they had been far away. “Quite so, doctor, quite so.”

  Hartwood slipped George off his back, then leaned him against the trunk of a yew. We got the tweed jacket about his shoulders. At least his eyes were still closed. Hartwood touched the dead man’s face with his big hand, the gesture curiously tender for so big and powerful a man. “Poor devil.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered the face and throat with it. “I wonder if he even knew what was coming.”

  “He knew,” Holmes said. “He knew.”

  We continued down the path, then went up the two granite steps to the massive oaken doors. Holmes used the knocker. The door soon swung open, revealing Fitzwilliams. The old man looked terrible, his eyes haunted, his mouth almost bluish. Holmes stepped past him, but Michelle took his arm. “What is the matter? You had better sit down.”

  A great wail echoed through the vast hall, and then Constance swept toward us. She wore the usual black dress, and her outstretched hands clutched a white handkerchief. “Can it be? Is George dead?”

  “Yes,” Holmes said.

  She gasped, then sobbed loudly, her hands tightening about the handkerchief. “Catastrophe follows catastrophe! Disaster follows disaster! Truly we Grimswells are accursed.”

  Holmes took half a step back, his eyes sweeping the hall. “Where is Miss Grimswell?”

  “Disaster,” sobbed Constance, “black disaster.”

  Hartwood stepped forward and seized her arm. “Where is she?”

  Constance drew in her breath. “Let go of my arm, young man!”

  He did so, his face grim. “Where is she?”

  “In the conservatory.”

  Holmes let his breath out through his teeth. “She is well?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then what has happened?”

  Constance bit at her lip, her red-rimmed eyes opening wide. “Victor has disappeared!”

  “Victor,” I mumbled. “Who is Victor?”

  “Lord Grimswell,” Holmes said.

  “But he is dead!” I exclaimed.

  Michelle had helped Fitzwilliams to a chair, but he still appeared dreadful. “His body has vanished,” he said. “From the vault—the family vault in the Grimpen Cemetery.”

  Holmes gave a single piercing laugh, then bared his teeth and shook his head. “Oh, marvelous! Better and better—what will this devil think of next?”

  Something in his eyes made me seize his arm. “Sherlock, are you quite well?”

  He drew in his breath slowly. “Forgive me, I... One could almost admire so perversely devious a mind if it were not...” He turned to Fitzwilliams. “Sir, I must speak with you. Perhaps in the library.” And then to Constance: “Is Miss Grimswell alone in the conservatory?”

  “Yes, Lord Frederick went out to try to find you.” She sniffled. “Oh, whatever will become of us all?”

  Holmes turned to Michelle. “Could you see to her? She should not be alone.”

  Michelle nodded. “Of course. Henry, perhaps you could get Mr. Fitzwilliams a brandy. He is not well.” She grasped my wrist. “Watch him.” She started to leave, then turned to Doctor Hartwood. “Would you like to come with me?”

  His eyes showed brief amazement, then he slapped at his trousers with his cap. “Yes.”

  Michelle smiled. “Come, then.”

  I went to Fitzwilliams and put my hand on his shoulder. He felt so frail and bony, so little left of him.

  Constance sobbed loudly again. “I wish I had never been born into this terrible family! Will our troubles never end? Oh, what can happen next?”

  Holmes’s mouth formed another brief, ghastly smile. “That I think I know.”

  Thirteen

  Fitzwilliams sat in one of the library’s massive oak chairs; it made him appear even smaller, diminished. He slowly sipped at the glass of brandy. Some color had returned to his wasted cheeks, yet he still appeared ill.

  Holmes stood with his back to us, one hand grasping his other wrist as he stared out the windows. “Your loyalty is commendable, but I assure you that I shall not allow any scandal to blacken Lord Grimswell’s reputation. Remember, too, that he is dead now and his daughter’s very life is at stake. The time for delicacy is past.” He turned. “He was seeing Mrs. Neal, was he not?”

  Fitzwilliams sighed, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “How long had this been going on?”

  “A few months.” Fitzwilliams stared down at the glass of brandy; only his dark brown eyes did not reflect his age. “He... he wanted to marry her.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  The old man continued to stare at the brandy. “It was very nearly arranged, I believe.” He lifted his head. “It made him happy, happier than...”

  Holmes set one hand on the table. “And did they meet mainly on the moors?”

  Fitzwilliams nodded. “Yes. He went for walks, once or twice a day. He... often winked at me before he went out.”

  Holmes’s eyes were fixed on the old man. “And did they often go up to the tor? Demon Tor?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  A peculiar dizziness suddenly swept over me, a milder form of my vertigo, and I sat down in one of the other chairs.

  “So he had probably gone to see her the evening he was... he died?”

  Fitzwilliams raised his head, his face again losing color. “Yes.”

  “She could not have pushed him,” I said, almost to myself. “He was a big man, while she is so small and slight.”

  Holmes glanced at me. “If someone is slightly off balance or if they are not expecting it, a very slight shove will suffice.”

  “Oh, dear God,” Fitzwilliams groaned. He took a big swallow of brandy.

  “Most likely another person was involved. I shall discover the truth. So you kept Lord Grimswell’s involvement with Mrs. Neal a secret?”

  “Certainly—certainly. How could I have ever suspected she...? His heart was not good, and Doctor Hartwood said it was heart failure. Why cause a scandal when...?” He licked his thin, pale lips. “Lord Grimswell was a gentleman. He wrote those strange books and was very intelligent, but he was a gentleman. He would never have... His behavior toward Mrs. Neal must have been proper. Perhaps he should not have seen her alone, but he would have never... dishonored her. I could not allow people to spread ridiculous stories, and then too, the lady begged me not to tell.”

  Holmes rose up briefly on the balls of his feet. “Did she?”

  “She was very upset. She said they had agreed to be married later that summer, but now that he was gone, she did not want anyone to know about it.”

  Holmes tapped nervously at the table. “Now, think very carefully before you answer this question. Did Lord Grimswell ever actually tell you himself that he wished to marry Mrs. Neal?”

  Fitzwilliams frowned momentarily, then nodded. “Yes. A month before he died. He said it would be good to have a young mistress in the hall again after so many years, but... he wondered how my wife and Miss Rose would take to her.”

  Holmes nodded, then rubbed at his chin. “What did you think of Mrs. Neal?”

  “Think of her? I did not know her.”

  “But she did come to see you, you said.”

  He shrugged. “She is very pretty. She seemed sweet enough, and she did weep for the master.”

  “Did she?” Holmes’s voice had a certain sarcastic edge.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams.” He turned to me. “Henry, would you accompany me to Merriweather Farm?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes—now.”

  “Of course.”

  Holmes started for the door. I poured more brandy from the decanter into the old man’s glass. “Sit here until you feel quite recovered.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He looked up at me, his face anguished. “Did I do the wrong thing?”

  “Certainly not. Your behavior was exemplary, but it was good of you to tell us the tr
uth.”

  I hurried down the stairs and found Holmes waiting impatiently by the front door. We walked through the trees and headed out onto the moor. The landscape had become familiar to me, the desolate but beautiful expanse stretching to the horizon and the vast blue sky with banks of clouds, but I hardly saw anything, my thoughts in turmoil.

  At last I said, “Do you think she killed him?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Who then?”

  “Our man in black, the fellow we saw atop the tor last night.”

  “That was not—it was not Lord Grimswell?”

  “Of course not!”

  My head ached. I felt the pain about my eyes, as if it had poured into the sockets, and my thoughts were wild and scattered. One won out over the others. “You told Constance you knew what might happen next. What did you mean?”

  “That is the reason we are on our way to Merriweather Farm.”

  My mind was sluggish, but with the realization I felt a sudden visceral fear. “Mrs. Neal—you think—something may happen to her.”

  “Exactly, Henry. She may be the next victim. I only hope she is still alive to answer my questions.”

  I felt faintly dizzy. “Oh.” I stared up at a patch of clear blue sky. It seemed so far removed from the moors and the horror lurking there. Momentarily I felt as if I were falling into the sky, somehow falling upward into its depths. I stumbled.

  Holmes’s hand shot out and seized my arm. “Are you ill?”

  “No. I only...”

  “Perhaps you should sit down for a moment.”

  “No, I would prefer to walk.”

  Holmes watched me closely, then drew in his breath deeply and exhaled. “Forgive me, Henry, if I seem curt or ill-tempered. It is not you with whom I am angry. I dislike being bested, especially when the result is murder. I should have dragged George away the minute I knew he was willing to talk, but then...”

  I sighed. “And you must forgive me. My behavior has been... unmanly.”

  “Oh, nonsense!”

  “It is true, but I... We have had our adventures together, but I have never faced a cold-blooded murderer before, one so eager to kill.”

  “Murder is the ultimate crime, the ultimate sin. As I have said, a person who will murder his own kind is worse than a beast. You are right to be afraid.”

  I smiled wanly. “Michelle does not seem to be afraid.”

  “She should be—if not, she lacks your good sense.”

  I laughed.

  “I am serious. I would not want a fearless companion—I know you will not take stupid risks. That is why Michelle should not even be here—you should send her back to London.”

  I could not help but laugh. “I would like to see you try to send her back to London.”

  Holmes glared and shook his head, then a smile broke through. “I too am lacking in courage. Besides, Miss Grimswell needs her companionship.”

  Ahead we saw Merriweather Farm, the rectangular dwelling built of solid granite with its shale roof, a structure which appeared almost as ancient and unassailable as a menhir or tor. The giant oak before the house had lost most of its leaves, and the branches formed an elaborate twisted pattern of black before the sky. We walked down the stone path, and Holmes seized the weathered green knocker over the door, then hesitated.

  “If she does not come...” He rapped loudly three times, then stepped back and folded his arms.

  The moan of the wind was quieter down there where the farm sat than up on the hillside near the hall; all the same, we could hear its soft, ceaseless murmur.

  “Who’s there?” A woman’s timid voice came faintly through the massive timbers.

  “Mr. Sherlock Holmes from Grimswell Hall. I must speak with Mrs. Neal.”

  “Just a minute, sir.” The door swung slowly inward, and there in the shadow stood a plump, small young woman in the rough-spun garments of a villager. “She’s in, sirs. This way.”

  We stepped inside, and Holmes seized my arm. “Leave all the talking to me. Reveal nothing—nothing at all.”

  I nodded. The woman led us into the kitchen. Mrs. Neal sat in a rocking chair before the stove, her needlework on her lap. She set it aside and rose to greet us. Overhead, two enormous hams hung from hooks in the dark, aged beams of the rafters. Various pots, kettles and dishes were stacked on open shelves, and the large black iron stove gave off a welcome glow of heat.

  “Mr. Holmes, Doctor Vernier—how good of you to stop by. I hope you will pardon me for receiving you in the kitchen, but it is the warmest room in the house—quite cozy as you can see. I am glad you have come for tea at last. Susan, put on the water. But where is Miss Grimswell today? I hope she is not ill.”

  “We do not need tea,” Holmes said. “I fear this is not a social call.”

  “No? You may leave us, Susan.” With a nod, the maid departed. Mrs. Neal had stunning clear blue eyes, and they gazed innocently at Holmes. “What then?”

  “There has been an accident involving someone at the hall.”

  “Oh dear. I hope Miss Grimswell—”

  “Miss Grimswell is perfectly all right.”

  A frown briefly wrinkled her clear, smooth brow. “That is a relief.” Her eyes shifted to the right, then the left. “Who, then?”

  “It is certainly no one you could have known.”

  The polite smile on her lips seemed rigid.

  “One of the servants, George, has been killed.”

  Her mouth opened, and we heard the sound of her breath being sucked in. Her face twitched, and one hand suddenly reached back to grasp the top of the rocking chair. She closed her mouth and swallowed hard, sending a ripple along her slender throat. Her face had had a pleasant flush, but now began to lose color.

  “You are correct. I did not know him.”

  “Someone cut his throat and bled him to death like an animal.”

  She gasped and covered her mouth with her tiny hand.

  “Sherlock,” I said, dismayed.

  “It does not matter, Henry. She did not know the fellow, but she must have a kind heart all the same. She appears rather ill. Perhaps you had better sit down, madam.”

  “Yes—thank you.” She stepped round and nearly fell into the chair. “I... Forgive me, but...” Her eyes shifted about, glancing every which way. She drew in her breath. “Such violence, such brutality, does make me ill, even though this person was not known to me.”

  Holmes’s smile was ruthless. “As I said, Henry, a kind heart.”

  “I have always... I am not strong, it is true, and stories of cruelty and violence always upset me. Perhaps... I had hoped to escape such black deeds in the wilds of Dartmoor.”

  Holmes was still smiling. “Did you?”

  “Yes, of course. Here there are no robbers or villains, not like in London, and...” She withdrew a lacy white handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  Holmes laughed sharply.

  “Sherlock,” I said.

  His smile vanished. “Further pretense is unnecessary, madam. You need not play the bereaved widow with me.”

  Again she turned the full force of her blue eyes upon him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean that I know all about you, George and a certain tall man with big feet and a large dog.”

  All the color left her face, and her eyes were fixed on her hands. They were shapely and delicate, but minute compared to those of Michelle or Rose. “I... I have no idea what on earth you mean, Mr. Holmes.”

  “I also know about your part in Lord Grimswell’s murder.”

  She raised her head, her eyes fearful. “What?”

  “You lured him onto the tor, and then your friend pushed him over the edge.”

  “I...” She drew in her breath, and her hands formed fists. “I was not there—I was not! I did love Lord Grimswell, it is true...”

  “You never loved him!” Holmes was vehement.

  “I did. Perhaps it was not right, but I did.”

  “Then why d
id you lure him to his death?”

  “I... I did no such thing.”

  “You cannot fool me, madam. I am not susceptible to your female charms. I see you for what you are.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Something beautiful but deadly—a poisonous snake perhaps, an adder.”

  “How dare you, sir!” Her voice lacked any real indignation.

  “You are a pathetic and contemptible creature.”

  “Please, Sherlock.” I knew he would not say such things if they were not true, but I could not bear to see a woman ill-treated.

  “I have seen your kind before. God has given you the gift of great beauty, yet you use that gift only for evil—you are like some spider...” The image triggered a sudden recollection, which made him cover his forehead with his hand. “No, no, not like a spider,” he whispered to himself, “not a spider.” He lowered his hand, and much of the rage had left his face. “No matter what you are, you are in grave danger. I suggest you tell me everything, and then I shall get you away—I shall find a safe place for you.”

  Again her throat rippled as she swallowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Holmes began to pace about the kitchen. “Perhaps you did not know what he intended, but no, you must have known. He has killed Lord Grimswell, George and probably one of Lady Rupert’s maids. He will not hesitate to kill again. George was going to tell me what he knew. He may have been willing to see Lord Grimswell murdered, but perhaps that changed things. He felt sorry for Rose Grimswell. He was willing to frighten her, but not to help murder her. His knowledge was a threat. That is why he was killed.”

  Mrs. Neal said nothing, but her eyes had a fearful intensity.

  “You are next, madam. You know too much to live.”

  She shook her head, and managed a smile. “This is some dreadful mistake, Mr. Holmes. I have no idea what you are talking about. I... I did love Lord Grimswell, it is true, but all this other business... You mistake me for... someone else.”

  Holmes stood before her rocker. “Do I? He will kill you, I swear he will. Surely you must know that.”

  Somehow she managed to keep smiling. “Who on earth are you talking about?”