The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  “I am talking about the monster loose on the moor. He is not a vampire or werewolf, but he is their equal in evil—something worse, even. You are expendable, madam. Perhaps you think... He certainly cannot love you, no more than you loved Lord Grimswell. There is only one woman he truly loves—the one who bore him.”

  She struck at her legs with her small fists, her face reddening. “No.” She twisted her head to the side and clenched her teeth. “You are wrong—you are wrong. I mean... I... I do not know what you are talking about.” She straightened her neck and assumed an insipid look. “This is all madness. How dare you speak to me as you have? How dare you? You have insulted me deeply. Where is your breeding, sirs? You are no gentlemen, that is certain. I must ask you to leave.”

  Holmes stared at her and shook his head. “He will kill you.”

  “Go away—now. Please.” Her voice had faltered.

  Holmes sighed wearily. “I was wrong to mock you, but I was angry. You did not see Miss Grimswell nearly frightened out of her mind or George with his throat ripped open. Whatever your crimes, you do not deserve what will happen if you remain here. Let us take you to Grimpen. You can—you can escape. I know nearly everything now, madam, and... I do not want to see you dead.”

  The brief flush of anger had left her. She looked drained, already lifeless. “Please go, Mr. Holmes. Please leave me.”

  Holmes stared at her, but she lowered her eyes. He seized his stick and put on his hat. “Come, Henry.”

  “But if—”

  “Come.” He stopped at the doorway. “Justice is a strange and terrible thing, madam. Sometimes justice is not desirable at all. If you change your mind—and I pray you will—come to the hall or flee to Grimpen, whichever you will. But do not remain here.”

  Mrs. Neal had nothing to say. Her face seemed waxen, her beauty illusory, and she appeared frozen in the chair, unable to move.

  “Sherlock—”

  “Let us go, Henry.”

  I caught one last glimpse of her blue eyes. They were curiously empty, vague and distant. Something in her mouth and eyes made me realize I was seeing the real woman now, a person very different from the blond vapid widow of her sentimental tale.

  We went through a barren sitting room. “We cannot leave her,” I said.

  “You heard what I told her, Henry. I tried—I honestly tried. We cannot force her—she must choose. She must choose to save herself.”

  The plump maid opened the door for us. “Good day, sirs.”

  Holmes hesitated. “It would be better if your mistress were not left alone tonight.”

  The girl’s smile faltered. “I can’t... I can’t be here after dark. My father will pick me up soon, so we’ll be back home by sunset.”

  Holmes scowled. “Whatever am I thinking? By all means, do not stay here after dark! See if... Ask your mistress to return with you to Grimpen when your father comes. Will you promise me that? Try to persuade her. It is no longer safe here.”

  “Surely, sir.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  Holmes set off at a desperate pace, his eyes locked ahead. With a heavy heart, I followed, pausing once to glance back at the lonely farmhouse, the ancient granite dwelling set against the desolate moor and the bleak sky of Dartmoor, a sky which had lost its vibrant blue and begun to fade.

  When we reached the hall the light had diminished even more. Holmes said hardly a word and, once inside, went silently up the stairs. I hesitated, then crossed the hall and went to the conservatory.

  I opened the heavy doors, and it was like being outdoors again, the glass overhead filling the room with an abundance of soft light. Laughter floated through the air, a gentle sound, and then another laugh which I recognized—Michelle’s. The ferns thrust their broad, jagged leaves toward the sky, and the potted palms rose higher still. The gravel crunched lightly under my feet.

  Michelle and Rose sat together on the teak bench. They had not seen me, and I stopped walking so they would not. Rose was smiling. Michelle had leaned forward and seized her wrist with her big white hand. She wore a brilliant reddish-purple dress, a favorite of mine, and as usual, the dazzling color contrasted with Rose’s somber black. Michelle’s face was flushed slightly, and Rose stared at her, a smile on her lips. Her hair was black, while Michelle’s was a light reddish brown. Their faces were different, but both were lovely women. Something about them made my eyes fill with tears.

  At last Michelle turned and saw me. “Henry, what are you doing there?”

  I forced a smile and stepped forward. “The two of you looked so happy together, I did not want to intrude.”

  Michelle’s brow furrowed. “What has happened?”

  “Uh, nothing important.” I tried to control the pitch of my voice. “I shall tell you later.” My eyes were fixed on her, and she understood.

  She smiled, but all the playfulness had gone out of her eyes. “Rose and I have been talking about men. I have warned her not to take them too seriously.” Something made a plop in the pond, and Michelle turned. “Goodness, look at them.”

  The koi hovered over the blue tiles on the side of the pond near me, torpedo shapes in agitated motion—white, gold, black and orange, singularly or in various mixtures of colors. The white scaly monster opened his mouth in a greedy O, the two whiskery points again reminding me of flexible fangs. Startled, I took a step back. Several others raised their heads out of the water, their mouths greedily opening.

  “Ugly things,” I murmured.

  Rose smiled at me. “They will not eat you. It is nearly feeding time, and they are ravenous. Fish are very greedy creatures.”

  Michelle stood. “I am rather ravenous myself. Dinner time must be approaching.”

  Rose lowered her head, her smile fading away. In the gray, diminished light, her eyes appeared gray as well. Michelle smiled at me, then put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Come, my dear. This is a lovely place, but I am sure you would like a quiet moment before you dress for dinner.”

  “I forgot—I actually forgot for several minutes...” She reached up and put her hand over Michelle’s. “You are very kind—and very amusing— but now... I still cannot believe George is really dead, and my father—”

  “Your father is dead, too,” Michelle said sharply, “not wandering on the moors, and when Sherlock finds these grave robbers, they will pay for their crimes—all of their crimes.”

  “Somehow it almost seems wrong to have been happy.”

  “It is never wrong to be happy. Life has sadness enough for us all, but come, let us go prepare for dinner.”

  Rose stood, and again I was struck by her height. I had never known a woman three inches taller than Michelle. The three of us started for the doors. Behind us the fish made agitated splashing noises. Michelle glanced at me, her eyes worried and inquisitive. She could tell I was upset.

  “Did Digby find you?” I asked.

  “He did, but then he was banished.” Michelle’s voice grew stern. “Luckily for him. Doctor Hartwood showed remarkable restraint, but I think he would have hit him at last.”

  Rose shook her head. “I do not understand why Rickie behaves so abominably.”

  “I told you why,” Michelle said. “He is jealous of Doctor Hartwood, as well he should be, since the doctor is hopelessly in love with you.”

  I stopped abruptly and glanced at both women. Rose had lowered her eyes, her face reddening. “That’s silly. He hardly knows me. He could not...”

  “Many men—especially those in the better circles—are obtuse, but someone like the doctor sees your true beauty.”

  “Oh, Michelle—I am not beautiful.”

  “Yes, you are, and it is time you realized it. Digby is too foolish to see it, but a normal man, one who is free of certain prejudices about female stature, waist size and hair color, could not fail to recognize it. Sherlock and Henry both have an appreciative eye for women. Tell her she is beautiful, Henry.”

  I laughed, although such talk made m
e faintly uncomfortable. “Michelle is quite right.”

  Rose would not look at me, but her flush deepened. “You cannot... you do not mean it.”

  “I certainly do mean it.” My voice was resolute.

  “Oh... Thank you, Henry, thank you very much—but let us talk about something else.”

  We had reached the foot of the stairs in the great hall. A man appeared above us, then came bounding down, two or three steps at a time. Holmes’s eyes were wild, his mouth open in a snarl of exertion. “For God’s sake, Henry!” He seized my arm, wrenching me away from Michelle. “Come with me! Hurry!”

  “What is it?” Michelle asked.

  Somehow I knew, and the ever-present dread seemed to materialize from out of the shadows of the hall and seize my heart in an icy fist. I turned and strode after Holmes.

  “Henry—what is it? Where are you going?” I heard her run after us.

  Holmes turned, his eyes furious, his face pale and frightful. “By God, Michelle—you stay here! Rose needs you—I shall take care of Henry.” He seized my arm and pulled me forward.

  “But—”

  “Stay here!” Holmes roared, even as he wrenched open the door, and then we were practically running down the pathway. The sky through the branches had a reddish hue.

  “What is it?” I managed to say. “Did you see something?”

  “I was in the tower. At the telescope. Watching the farm.” His words came in brief bursts; he was breathing hard as we nearly ran. “I saw him coming. The man. The dog.”

  “Oh no! So soon?”

  “We... we shall never be in time.” He pushed open a gate marking the entry to the Grimswell estate and did not bother closing it. “Why wouldn’t she...’’—he gasped—“...listen to me?”

  The sun had sunk minutes ago, and the wind had turned cold. Something black flew by in an erratic path overhead—probably a bat. Before, we had not covered the distance between the hall and the farm in less than three-quarters of an hour, but we must have done it in half that time. When we were nearly there, Holmes stumbled, then fell to his knees, coughing wildly. Somehow he managed to get to his feet and stagger on. I shook my head in dismay, convinced years of tobacco smoke had ruined his lungs.

  He stopped again when the house and tree stood before us. Still panting, nearly wheezing, he withdrew a revolver from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. “Here.”

  I shook my head. I was breathing hard, but I was not so overwhelmed as he. “I cannot hit anything.”

  He took another revolver from the opposite pocket. “We may have to shoot both the man and the dog. Do not hesitate in the least if... Come.”

  “Should we just rush in?”

  “Yes.”

  The first stars were coming out overhead, and all about us the heather, grass and stones were blending into a dark shapeless mass. The door was open. Somehow the sight of that black narrow gap of shadow running its length terrified me. Holmes went in first.

  “Mrs. Neal!” he shouted. “Grace!”

  The house was dark and silent, not a sound to be heard.

  Holmes gave a great sigh. “Oh, we are too late.”

  I tried to speak, but nothing came out. “Perhaps... perhaps she fled.”

  Holmes gave his head a single shake. “No.”

  He glanced about, then noticed a candle on the table near the door. He struck a match and lit it. His face was gaunt and drawn; he appeared both exhausted and ill from our near-run. Neither of us had even bothered to put on our hats or overcoats. “Unless I am greatly mistaken, Henry, this will be hideous.”

  “Then let’s get it over with.”

  The sitting room was deserted, but a small table and chair had been knocked over. We found her in the kitchen, a heap of black silk, white flesh, yellow hair and blood. Holmes pulled her over, and her head fell at a peculiar angle, revealing the dark pool of blood staining the granite floor. Her throat was a bloody, mangled mess, and I turned away, afraid I might somehow vomit even though my stomach was empty.

  “This is what a real victim of a wild beast looks like. The hound tore out her throat at last, but she put up an incredible struggle for one so small. Look at her hands and arms.”

  I turned slowly. Holmes held the candle over her. The black silken sleeves had been shredded, and her white arms and hands were covered with wounds and blood.

  “She tried to fight it off, but the hound was far too strong for her. It may have outweighed her.” He hesitated, then bent over and closed her eyes. Dimly I realized that broken crockery, pots and pans littered the room. I turned and quickly walked back outside.

  I held the revolver in my hand and stared up at the splendid night sky. The stars would again be marvelous. I was still warm from our exertion, but my hands had begun to tremble, and soon my jaw as well. Holmes was so long in coming that I thought I should go and look for him, but I could not. I was too frightened—I could hardly think.

  When he came out at last, I was relieved but still afraid. “He is gone, long gone,” Holmes said. He stared up at the sky. Mars was a bloody orb low in the east. “This did not need to happen. I begged her to leave—you heard me. I begged her repeatedly. It is her own fault.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “No one chooses such a death—not that way.”

  He was silent a long while. “You are correct, Henry. She managed to convince herself that he would not kill her. She thought... she thought he loved her.” His laugh was anguished. I turned to him, but his face was hidden in the growing darkness. “Poor silly little fool, poor fool.”

  He took a step forward, then another. A broom leaned against the wall near the doorway. Suddenly he seized it by the bottom, the straw, and began to whack savagely at the granite wall. On about the third blow, I heard a splintering noise. “Stop it.” I tried to seize his arm. “You will hurt yourself—stop that!”

  He threw aside the broken shaft, then leaned against the wall. “This damned beast!—not the hound, the man—I shall slaughter him myself, Henry, I swear it!”

  “No, no.” I shook my head.

  “Yes, I shall... I shall drive a stake through his heart!” His laugh was nearly a sob. “I shall fill him with silver bullets. I shall smother him with garlic. I...”

  A strange sound slipped from between my lips, a noise which I realized must be laughter. Holmes gripped my arm fiercely. “Let us get away from here, Henry. For once I do not feel like examining the scene of the crime. The cause of death is obvious—and horrible. I know who did it, and that he and his dog are out wandering the moor even now. Let us leave this dreadful place.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.” I could not stop shivering. “Are you cold?”

  “Yes, Henry. I am.”

  Fourteen

  Late that evening, the four of us met in Holmes’s room for a sort of war council. The day’s events had left me shaken and exhausted. I had never encountered two murdered corpses in a single day, nor did I wish to ever repeat the experience. Michelle and Rose were somber, but they had not had as much physical exertion as Holmes and I.

  Holmes sat before the fire smoking one of Lord Grimswell’s magnificent pipes and staring at the coal glowing on the grate. He did appear tired, but his gray eyes were alert and agitated. “I fear,” he said at last, “that it might be best to return to London.”

  “What?” Michelle exclaimed. I felt only relief. “You would just give up?”

  Holmes exhaled a cloud of smoke. “I have little choice. I know a great deal about these villains, but the only way I can flush the man out is by using Miss Grimswell as bait. That I will not do.”

  Michelle frowned thoughtfully. “What exactly do you know? Is it not time you told us?”

  I realized Holmes must be keeping much from us, and I gave an emphatic nod. “Yes, you must tell us.”

  Holmes stared at the coal, pipe stem between his lips, and shook his head.

  “Why not?” Michelle asked. “Don’t you trust us?”

  “Trust has
nothing to do with it. I know you could keep it secret, but it would change your feelings and your behavior. Something in your manner would show when you are before certain people.”

  “What people?”

  Holmes smiled but said nothing.

  “Now you are being smug!” Michelle said.

  Holmes gave a long sigh. “If so, I regret the impression. I wish I could tell you everything, but I dare not at this time.”

  Some thought struggled to solidify in my mind. “The man on the moor is not acting alone. He must have an ally in the hall. You do not want that person to suspect anything.”

  Holmes nodded, smiling. “Very good, Henry. You are learning. Our association has taught you something after all.”

  “It is Digby, is it not?” Michelle asked eagerly.

  Rose raised one hand, her eyes pained. “Oh, no—it cannot be.”

  Holmes withdrew the pipe stem again. “I did not gather you together for idle speculation. We must decide whether to remain here in Dartmoor or return to London. I hesitated somewhat in discussing this with Miss Grimswell, but—”

  Michelle sat bolt upright. “How could you not discuss it with her? Her life is at stake!”

  “I did not wish to frighten her, if possible, but I eventually reached that conclusion.” Holmes’s eyes had grown cold and faintly angry as he spoke to Michelle. “By now you should all realize exactly how dangerous our opponent is. In the last twenty-four hours, he has murdered two people in cold blood. Both were former friends and accomplices whom he feared might assist me. The woman at the farm was most likely his paramour.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because of her stubborn refusal to flee. Given what I had told her, any reasonable person would have left at once. She stayed because she loved him and could not believe that he would hurt her.”

  Michelle shook her head. “Oh, how... stupid women can be.”

  “Many of the worst villains are quite charming. I believe there was a third victim, one of Lady Rupert’s maids.” He turned to Rose. “I spoke with Lady Rupert briefly in London late Sunday evening. One of the maids had disappeared right after you departed. They found her body at a nearby inn a day later. She must have let him into the house and helped him arrange for the voice which you heard in your rooms.”