The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1)

by Anna Lord

  “Gaston will be giving me a guided tour of his piece de resistance tomorrow. I might learn something useful from him. Pray, continue.”

  “Jago the gypsy kicked a pregnant bitch to death yesterday morning. She bit his ear.”

  The Countess looked horrified. “I hope he hangs!”

  “Oh, no, I meant a dog.”

  “That is still appalling. I would like to see him horse-whipped.”

  “The gypsies mete out their own justice. They keep to themselves and only marry their own kind. Did you learn anything interesting tonight?”

  “Yes, I learnt that Scarlet Pimpernel is good for freckles.”

  Dr Watson threw back the bedcover. Under his dressing gown he was still fully dressed. The only item of clothing he had removed had been his shoes.

  “Is that the latest fashion in men’s nightwear?” she teased.

  He ignored her quip as he shed his dressing gown and laced his shoes. “Since this wretched cough is keeping me awake I might as well do something worthwhile. I’m going down to the great hall. I intend to shoot anything that moves between now and first light. Do not creep down the stairs in the dark unless you want to be mounted between the stag and the sanglier.”

  “Are you propositioning me?”

  If only! His dear wife had never worn a bed-gown like that. Not even on their honeymoon! “Not tonight, dear lady. Get some sleep. Tomorrow while you soak up le grand jardin, I will ride to Drogo to speak to the station master.” He retrieved a revolver from his travel bag and went to close the window. “Fog has completely cloaked the castle. You cannot see a thing beyond the vertical drop of stone. Tell me, did Sir Henry look like a man who has been drugged?”

  “No, he looked like a man who has been cursed.”

  “I thought you derided superstition?”

  “There’s a punishment among the Australian aborigines. It goes like this: When a man has committed a crime the elder of the tribe points a bone at him. It means the man will soon die. The man becomes so paralysed with fear he stops eating, wastes away to nothing, becomes a shadow of his former self, a walking corpse, and dies. I saw it once with my own eyes. Sir Henry looks like a man who has had a bone pointed at him.”

  Dr Watson was in the process of drawing the curtains when a terrible wailing sound came off the moor. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “What do you think that was?”

  “I’m not sure but when I lived in Australia the native dogs sounded something like that. They howl rather than bark and the howl soon builds to a wailing chorus. They are a sub species of the grey wolf - Canus lupus dingo.”

  “Apart from the unearthly wailing sound, what else did you notice?”

  “That was not the howl of one hound,” she replied, “but the howl of many.”

  5

  The Morning After

  Night passed uneventfully. Dr Watson was snoring softly when pearly light began pouring through the glass lantern but it wasn’t the pearlescence that woke him. He stirred and stretched sorely; being crooked up in a stiff-backed wing chair did his weary bones no favours. A persistent knocking sound was coming from the vaulted vestibule leading to the study. He checked to make sure his revolver was still in his pocket and went to investigate.

  Antonio was attempting to rouse his master. He had long spindly legs and a long birdlike neck that retracted back into his shoulders when he walked, lending him a hunched appearance while in motion. His feathery hair was flecked in various shades of brown, much like the feathers of a bittern. His skin was leathery and resembled tanned boots in need of a good polish after being left out too long in the midday sun. He was balancing a breakfast tray in one hand and knocking with the other. Dr Watson had a bad feeling in his creaky bones. He instructed the valet to leave the tray, go to the French window and attempt to gain entry there while he waited this side.

  A few moments later a key turned in the lock, the study door opened, and the valet stood in the doorway; a look of dread puckering his sun-dried features.

  “Sir Henry has disappeared! The key was still inside this lock!”

  Dr Watson barged his way into the study. It was a not a large room. The main piece of furniture was the gothic desk. A gothic bookcase lined one wall. A gothic chimneypiece lined another. In front of it stood a green velvet chesterfield which appeared to be a make-shift bed. A pillow and tartan blanket had been thrown haphazardly onto the floor. There was nowhere for a man to hide. He rushed through the French doors onto the flag-paved terrace. The terrace opened straight onto the lawn which was still damp with dew, and there he found what he had been looking for – footsteps.

  Sherlock had often lectured him on the topic of footsteps - the fact that when a man is running he appears to be walking on tiptoe. Sir Henry, too, was running; running fast; running away from the house. But was he running for his life? Or running toward Death?

  The doctor spoke in frantic, rapid bursts. “Find the kennel keeper. Tell him we need to find Sir Henry at once. Tell him to unkennel the hounds. Take the tartan blanket that Sir Henry has been using in the study for the dogs to scent. Wait!” An uncontrollable cough forced him to check himself. “How many dogs are there and what breed are they?”

  “Ten fox hounds, sir.”

  “Perfect! Hurry, man, there is no time to lose!”

  Antonio had already reached the French window when the doctor called out.

  “Is there still a gate half way along the Yew Hedge that opens onto the moor?”

  “Yes,” lisped the valet before disappearing.

  The hedge had changed little at ground level except that the ominous Yew Alley of old was now a charming Yew Allee with classical statues and garden benches lining the path. Half way along was a new ogee gate. There was no dead body and Dr Watson breathed a sigh of relief. Fresh footprints indicated that Sir Henry had recently come this way, still running, but there were no giant paw prints in pursuit. He took another breath. The gate was ajar. He was about to go through when he heard a high-pitched voice.

  “Wait for me!” It was the Countess dressed in walking costume of lightweight wool – ankle-length pleated skirt and matching short plisse cape over a high-necked chemisette. “Fedir informed me the baronet is missing. Is that true?”

  He summarized as quickly as he could, and together they stepped onto the untamed moor, morning mist still clinging to the stunted oaks and ancient tors, just as a pack of fox hounds came bounding down the allee, baying madly, and thrust themselves through the gate, almost knocking them off their feet. The hounds were heading north - heading toward the great Grimpen Mire.

  Antonio remained behind to inform the others of events while Dr Watson, the Countess, Dogger the kennel keeper, Perkins the groom and two stable lads chased after the baying pack. They had no chance of keeping up but forty doggy legs tearing through cotton grass, heath, asphodel, brambles, bronzy bracken and clumps of peat left an easy trail to follow. They didn’t have far to go. They came over a granite outcrop and there in the middle of a bright green bog was a human hand poking up. It looked comically grotesque, a bizarre parody of life and death - waving while drowning.

  The fox hounds were going berserk, running round and round the mossy quake in crazy circles, destroying any footprints, human or otherwise, that may have been there.

  Dr Watson put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. His cough had come back with a punishing vengeance. His bones ached. His muscles screamed. His chest felt tight. And he was red in the face. The man of action looked more like a man about to have a seizure.

  The stable boys, young and fit, raced back to the castle. They were told to return with a grappling hook, a rope and several strong men. Dogger managed to bring the dogs to heel. The Countess spoke first.

  “Are we sure it is Sir Henry?”

  “Yes,” replied Perkins. “You can tell by the gold wedding band. None of the men round these parts have such a ring. It will have the Baskerville coat-of-arms engraved
on it.”

  She lowered her voice and turned to the doctor who was just recovering his breath.

  “Murder or suicide?”

  “I have no idea, but the anonymous letters certainly suggest foul play.”

  “But is it a crime to inform a man he will end his own life?”

  “We cannot be sure of anything until we examine the body and see those letters. If they are simply prophecies the sender is in the clear. It is not a crime to make outrageous predictions. But if they are threats to his person or blackmail then it is a different matter.”

  One of the dogs broke away from the pack and leapt at the doctor, knocking him to the ground. He landed with a squelch on a scummy cushion of sphagnum. Dogger called the errant hound to heel. It looked slightly different from the other fox hounds, with a longer snout and sharper fangs.

  “Never turn yer back on a dog on the moor,” Dogger growled when the doctor found his feet and glared at the kennel keeper with violent indignation.

  While the doctor availed himself of a warm bath and some breakfast, the Countess scoured the study for the anonymous letters. They agreed to meet in the morning room where the sun streamed through the old mullioned window which refracted prismatic rainbows like a giant kaleidoscope featuring heraldic coats-of-arms. It was ostensibly a lady’s room with a small writing desk, comfortable sofas, embroidered cushions and vivifying vases of fresh flowers.

  “Well?” pressed Dr Watson eagerly. “Did you find the letters?”

  The disappointed look on her face said it all. “Either someone beat us to them while we were on the moor or Sir Henry destroyed them before we arrived.”

  “Mmm, there’s also the possibility he may have hidden them, perhaps in a secret compartment. We need to conduct a more thorough search. But right now I must see to Lady Baskerville. The news of her husband’s death has hit her hard. I will administer an aspirin in chamomile tea to calm her nerves until Dr Mortimer arrives to give her a full medical check. I also want to examine the body of Sir Henry for any physical marks. It has been washed and placed in the gun room. I have the only key.”

  “So it was him after all?”

  “Yes, I wondered too, but there is no doubt. You won’t see me at lunch. I plan to ride to Drogo to speak to the station master. I need to speak to Sir Olwen as soon as possible too, not only about this morning’s terrible tragedy, but about all that has happened this last month.”

  “Since he is the Baskerville’s solicitor you could ask him about Sir Henry’s financial affairs. Suicide and the squandering of wealth through gambling or poor speculation often go hand in glove.”

  “I will examine the body of James Desmond too and check the contents of his bag. One never knows what one may find.”

  “Ask Sir Olwen to show you a copy of Sir Henry’s will. The two deaths may be related to inheritance. I know the house is entailed but who does it go to if there are no surviving male heirs - presuming of course that Stapleton is dead.”

  Dr Watson turned his face to the heraldic window and clasped his arms low behind his back. His eyes peered through wonky prisms of rainbows, taking in the wild and windswept moor in the distance. His voice was circumspect, rendered heavy with abstraction. “A man could go to ground and live for years undetected in one of the Stone Age huts or one of the old tin mines, enticing a poor farmhand or one of the gypsies to bring him food and supplies; killing and mutilating the occasional Dartmoor pony to strike fear into the hearts of the locals and stop them venturing too close.”

  “A cunning man might even don a simple disguise and join one of the work gangs,” she conjectured. “See if you can discover if there are any bequests. If it turns out the baronet is actually as rich as he seems even a simple bequest might be worth killing for. Fedir can drive you in the Peugeot. You cannot gallop across the moor with that hacking cough. I’m meeting Gaston in fifteen minutes in the conservatory so I’m off to get my cloak. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Be on your guard,” he warned, suddenly concerned for her personal safety and feeling somewhat responsible. “I have a feeling this nasty business is not yet done.”

  “Is that your sixth sense at play,” she teased to lighten the import and deflect from his gorgeous embarrassment, “or male intuition?”

  Gaston de Garonne was feeding croissants to some lovebirds in a cage. The conservatory, as well as being a crystal palace full of tropical ferns, was also an aviary. Bird cages were suspended from beams, arrayed on tables and set on the tiled floor between pots of rare orchids.

  “Ah, bonjour ma cherie!” He flashed a gold tooth as he smooched her hand.

  Together they strolled out to the terrace on the south side of the castle which offered a glorious vista of Holywell Pool. The lake was shaped like a giant number eight and at the mid-point sat an island with a willow tree sheltering a wooden jetty with a row boat. A Chinese Bridge at both ends linked the island to the mainland. The gardens closest to the castle had been completed months ago, but beyond the ha-ha men were still toiling, laying miles of gravel paths, planting thousands of trees, putting the final ornamental touches to Gothicke folly, Roman temple and Greek rotunda.

  They had been walking almost two hours, skirting the lake, when grey clouds began rolling in and the weather took a turn for the worse. Rain began to fall, gently at first, before a fierce blast of wind brought slanting showers. Fortunately, the wind whipped the clouds along and the blades of rain were short-lived, a mere vanguard to the storm that threatened to tear apart the night. They hurried back to the castle, taking the short cut across the island, and as they zig-zagged through the rose parterre the Countess looked up at the twin towers. An oriel window had been thrown open and a human shadow figured in the mullioned frame.

  “Who occupies the two towers?” she asked.

  “Ah, yes, the towers! They gave me the cauchemars until I decided to soften their giant feet with plantings of hydrangea, azalea and rhododendron. They are perfect plantings for this side where the sun does not come until late, and they thrive – voila! You approve, ma cherie?”

  “Certainement, the plantings are parfait, but who occupies the towers?”

  “The tower a droite is habited by Beryl Stapleton. It is not her bed chamber, which is located near of the nursery wing, but her private salon. She has the aspirations of the artiste and has need of a studio for making the drawing and the painting where the light comes clear. I went up the stairs many times and always the door it was locked. During five years I have not seen one thing she has created and never have I seen her with the sketch pad or the pencil in her hand.”

  “And the tower to the left?”

  “The tower a gauche is habited by Mr Frankland. He suffers from the gout and does not often come down the stairs. He takes his breakfast, his lunch and his dinner in his chamber. He enjoys very much the study of the stars and has a most marvellous telescope. He sleeps in the day and watches the heavens in the night. He is a man most interesting. I have enjoyed many conversations with him a propos the position of the trees for creating the windbreaks. One has a view extraordinaire from his window? It is from his window that you can see the top of the Yew Allee and the clipping of the name of Baskerville Castle 1899 into the tops of the yews. It was my idea most brilliant and it pleased Sir Henry most splendid.”

  The same depressing raincloud that had been dogging them for the last twenty minutes decided to unleash a downpour. They made a dash across the parterre. As they neared the castle a tall and striking male figure rushed out of the front doors clutching a picnic basket. The stranger sprinted through the rain toward the Yew Allee.

  “Who was that?” asked the Countess as soon as she caught her breath.

  “That was the American engineer. He is called Mr Roderick Lysterfield. He came to offer his condolences to Lady Baskerville as soon as he heard the news of the death of Sir Henry.”

  Elegant brows signalled her surprise. “The engineer was admitted to the boudoir of the grieving lady of t
he house?”

  “Ah, mais non, non,” contradicted Gaston. “He is a gentilhomme most gallant. When he discovered Lady Baskerville was in her boudoir he left a message with the femme de chambre. He is a favourite of the French cook. How do you say? She mothers to him. She makes for him every day the croissants for his breakfast and the omelette with herbs. He eats in the kitchen like a lord and then he carries the lunch fit for a king in his basket to his place of travail.”

  Dr Mortimer conducted an examination and pronounced the babe in the womb to be safe. He ordered Lady Baskerville to remain in bed for the duration of her confinement. The bedroom was lined with lovely chinoiserie wallpaper depicting pagodas, cherry blossoms and tiny birds, but it was clear that the bluebird of happiness had flown from this cosy nest. Lady Laura was propped up against a bank of starched white pillows wearing a pale blue bed gown. She looked at first glance like a porcelain doll propped up in a dainty lit-a-polonaise bed, but closer inspection revealed an unbecoming tracery of un-doll-like lines around her mouth and eyes. In the absence of powder and rouge, her freckles were visible but there were too many of them to give a semblance of girlish prettiness. A thin blue ribbon secured her long hazel hair away from her face which then fell limply around her slender shoulders.

  The Countess, who had now changed into a fuschia day dress topped with a bolero jacket of velvet and satin hemmed with jet embroidery, offered to get some books from the library for her hostess to read, and used this ploy as an excuse to visit her in her bedroom. Her hostess was genuinely grateful and requested a book of poetry by Keats and some novels by the Bronte sisters.

  The Countess did not outstay her initial warm welcome. Lady Laura appeared to grow progressively groggy after drinking the sedative Dr Mortimer dissolved in her chamomile tea. The cup of herbal tea gave the Countess an idea. She resolved to visit the kitchens on the pretense of requesting a cup of tea with lemon and honey for Dr Watson whose bark was growing worse by the hour. She had learnt nothing useful from Gaston discounting the history of garden design beginning with the Babylonians.