The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  He stepped down off the final slab of granite onto the soft reddish earth. A weary smile pulled briefly at his lips. “That is the difference between the world of men and the world of animals.” We climbed into the dog cart and sat down. The driver cracked his whip, and we were rumbling on our way again. Holmes stared back toward the trees. “Evil does not exist in their world. The buzzard does not toy with his prey. He does not enjoy suffering.”

  “A cat does,” I said. “I have seen Victoria with a mouse.”

  Holmes shrugged. “That is all mere brute instinct. It is not evil. It is over in a few minutes, and the mouse is devoured. The cat does not play with the mouse for days or weeks.”

  “You are in a curious mood.”

  “I have been reflecting upon the Grimswell case and wondering what type of predator is at work.”

  I frowned. “You are not thinking of werewolves or vampires?”

  “Certainly not. Merely someone... extraordinarily cruel. This person is toying with Miss Grimswell like your cat, but her torments are prolonged. This is not evil in the abstract.”

  I looked about me at the lonely expanse of the faded moor covered with the languishing heath, the splendor of summer long past, and at the gray sky overhead, all the blue gone now. I shivered, wishing I had put on my mackintosh to cut the chill. “This is truly a desolate place.”

  “Perhaps, although it is undeniably magnificent.”

  “It does seem a place...” I drew my arms about me.

  Holmes stared at me, his gloved hands resting on the head of his stick. “Yes?”

  “The place for a ghost, some predatory ghost.”

  “I think not, Henry. The moor and that sky are beyond any mere predatory ghosts. Any ghosts here I think we bring with us.”

  “But if a malevolent ghost did exist, this would be the place for him.”

  “No. London is a far better place for a ghost than Dartmoor. Such a ghost belongs amid the stench and squalor of mankind, not out there where all is clean and open and grand. Some decaying mansion would work better.”

  I forced a smile. “I hope Grimswell Hall is not a decaying mansion.”

  “It is not,” Holmes said, “as you will soon see.”

  “But—”

  Holmes raised his stick. “Ah—there it is.”

  I turned to look past the driver. Ahead of us rose what seemed, almost, a small mountain, though hill was probably more apt, and at the summit was a heap of jagged rocks, gigantic boulders of granite stacked in a strange shape with two protruding pieces like horns. We had passed another hill with a tor, but the granite there had been whitish, not black like this. Down the hill from the dark tor, silhouetted against the gray fading sky, was a structure of the same black stone with a single tower rising high above the moor.

  “That is Demon Tor, if I am not mistaken,” Holmes said, “and below it is Grimswell Hall.”

  “It must be quite a view from the tor,” I said. “That is the highest point for miles around. Have you been here before?”

  Holmes smiled. “Yes. As I told you, I know Dartmoor well.”

  It grew darker as the horse lumbered up the hill toward the hall, and damper as well. It seemed foolish to pull out my great coat with our destination so near, but I was soon shivering from the cold. Below us a gray cloudy mass crept out of a nearby valley and a dark patch of woods and curled like smoke toward us.

  “Good Lord,” I murmured after watching for a while. “Is that fog?”

  “It is,” Holmes said. “It can come upon you swiftly this time of year. It is not dangerous unless you are near a mire or bog. If you are, the best thing to do is to settle in for a long, uncomfortable night. If you try to go anywhere, you’ll soon be wandering in circles, and then you’ll land in the bog and be sucked under in a moment or two—not a pleasant fate.”

  I shuddered from the cold. “You have a talent for understatement. Perhaps the vole was lucky.”

  Holmes laughed and gave my wrist a squeeze. “We are nearly there. Surely the lady will not turn us out into the fog. At least it is not raining.”

  This turned out to be premature optimism, for just as we had almost reached the hall, I felt a few wet drops on my cheeks. A cold, steady rain began. My exhilaration at being away from London had completely dissipated, and I thought longingly of Michelle and our warm, comfortable feather bed. No doubt she would be seated before the fire on the settee with Victoria curled beside her, gently stroking the cat’s back, a heavy volume before her.

  The ground had leveled out before the hall, and trees were planted all about, a miniature park. A huge black gnarled oak looked like it must have been planted centuries ago. The carriage swayed, rumbled, then its ride evened out, the sound of the iron wheels changing. We were riding over slabs of granite, the stone forming the final way to the hall. On either side, tall yew trees reached for the gray sky, and before us rose that singular black tower, square and sharp.

  “How old is that tower?” I asked.

  Holmes had rested his hands on his stick again. “Victor Grimswell had it built some fifteen years ago. It is a recent addition to the hall, as is a conservatory.”

  “How do you know all these things?”

  “The hall is a major landmark. One of the regional guide books devoted two pages to it.” He smiled. “It is not to be missed.”

  Because of the rain I did not try to get a good look at the hall. I was only aware of a square black mass, the tower to one side, the yew trees about us swaying as a cold wind swept down the lane. An archway of the ubiquitous black granite supported an overhanging roof which sheltered the main portal. Although night was still a few minutes away, someone had lighted the lamps on either side of the door. Holmes and I got down, but the driver remained seated. His mouth was curiously stiff, his eyes restless. A black oil-skin coat covered his shoulders, and he wore a woolen hat with a ragged brim.

  “I do not know how long we shall be,” Holmes began, “or if we shall remain behind, but perhaps—”

  “I’ll wait five minutes, sir, and not a minute longer. Then I’m drivin’ back with’r without you. The choice is yours.”

  “It’s a foul night,” I said. “Surely they will be willing to put us up, but it may take a few minutes to ascertain—”

  “Five minutes, sirs, and then I’m gone. Best be about your business because the clock is ticking.”

  I shook my head. “You needn’t be so surly, I only...”

  Holmes shook his head. “Leave him be, Henry. Thank you for your services. Here is a sovereign for you.”

  The man’s eyes widened with disbelief. “A sovereign? I’m not waiting no longer than five minutes—no matter what you pay me.”

  “Understood. And thank you all the same.”

  The driver ran his tongue across his lower lip, then took the coin. “Thank you, sir. Luck to you.”

  Holmes started for the door, and I followed. “He was surly,” I whispered.

  “He is only frightened.”

  “Frightened?”

  “Yes, badly frightened. Well, if he departs, that is all the more reason they must grant us refuge.”

  “I cannot believe Miss Grimswell would turn us away on a night like this.”

  “We shall see soon enough.”

  Two huge oaken doors stood nearly nine feet tall, and over them, chiseled in the black granite was GRIMSWELL HALL. Holmes seized the iron ring of the knocker and slammed it twice against the metal. The clang made me wince. We waited silently. The driver had stepped down and was lighting the lamps on either side of the carriage. One of the horses snorted and stamped its feet. I began to shiver again. “We will pass our five minutes just waiting out here,” I muttered.

  The driver had mounted again when the door finally opened. An old man stood before us, his shoulders stooped, tendrils of white hair beginning at the edge of his bald pate. He had thin lips and pale, watery blue eyes. He wore a black suit which emphasized his thinness and diminutive stature.
<
br />   “Yes, sir?”

  “I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I wish to see Miss Rose Grimswell.”

  “She is in the library, sir. I shall take you to her.” He noticed Holmes and me pick up our bags. “You may leave those here. If you are staying, I’ll have George take them up to your rooms.”

  The entryway was small and dim, but we went through it into the great hall. A fire burned in the great hearth, the orange flames leaping about the blackened logs. Our footsteps on the granite floor echoed softly overhead.

  We had nearly reached the stairs when a woman’s voice said, “Fitzwilliams?”

  The old man stopped and turned. “Yes, madam?”

  A woman in a black dress strode toward us. Behind her stood a tall young man in a black morning coat and striped trousers, a servant or footman by the look of him. The woman was tall, somewhat stout, with a pink face and gray hair. “Who are these men?” Her eyes took us in, her brow furrowing and mouth tightening.

  “They wish to see the mistress.” He glanced at Holmes. “Pardon me, sir, but your name escapes me.”

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, her mouth opening. “You...” Some of the pink color left her face, then she thrust her jaw forward, her nostrils flaring. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have come to see Miss Grimswell.”

  Although her hair was silver, her thick eyebrows were still black. They had come together over her nose. “You have, have you? Well, I won’t allow it—I won’t.”

  “And why not, madam? As her nearest relation, you should be most concerned with her well-being.”

  Something like fear showed briefly in her eyes. “How could you know who I am?”

  “Your niece has told me.”

  “She did?” I said.

  Holmes gave me a brief look. “Yes. This is Miss Constance Grimswell, her cousin.”

  The lady drew in her breath and squared her shoulders. Although not so tall as Rose Grimswell, she made the butler appear small and frail. She had a good six inches and some fifty pounds on him. “You can turn around and leave this instant. You know where the door is.”

  “But, madam,” I exclaimed, “it is raining, and our carriage has left. You cannot put us out on such a night.”

  She smiled briefly. “No?”

  Holmes said nothing. A tight, ironic smile pulled at his thin lips, and his gray eyes were fixed on hers. A heavy silence settled about the vast hall. A sudden snap came from the fireplace, an ember flying out. Miss Grimswell was the first to lower her gaze.

  “I intend to speak with Miss Rose Grimswell,” Holmes said. “Should she ask me to depart, I shall gladly do so. If you have her best interests at heart, you will not interfere with me.”

  Her nostrils again flared. Her hands were not so large as Rose’s, but they were formidable all the same, the fingers much thicker. They formed fists, then opened again. She smiled, not a reassuring expression, her color returning, then laughed once. “Of course I shan’t put you out on a night like this. I only... You startled me, that’s all. If you wish to speak to Rose, I’ll take you to her myself. Fitzwilliams, you may—”

  “Madam, I would prefer to speak briefly with your niece in private.”

  Her jaw briefly thrust forward again, brow furrowing, then she laughed. “Whatever you wish, Mr. Holmes. I shall have George take your bags up, and the maid will prepare your rooms. You cannot possibly leave us at this late hour.”

  Holmes nodded, a smile still at his lips. “Thank you, madam.”

  “Thank you indeed!” I was immensely relieved.

  Fitzwilliams had been watching us with a wary eye. He stared at Miss Grimswell, his pale eyes glowering, then turned and started for the stairs. Miss Grimswell watched us, a saccharine smile upon her lips.

  The stairway was a massive thing of darkened oak. When we were halfway up, there was a sudden scuttling noise, then a ferocious but diminutive barking. By the candlelight we could see the small white hysterical dog at the top of the stairs.

  “Damnation!” Fitzwilliams shook his head. “Pardon me.” He called down below. “George! George! Please get the blasted dog. He’ll bite or trip someone for certain.”

  The young servant strode past us on the stairs. “There, there.” He picked up the small dog, then suddenly cursed. “Bite me once more, and I swear to God...” He went past us, the dog barking loudly and snapping at us. The sound gradually quietened as George crossed the hall.

  Fitzwilliams sighed. “Not a proper dog, that, only a nuisance.”

  We went up to a gallery overlooking the hall, an elaborate banister along one side, paintings and doors on the other. Fitzwilliams paused before a door and rapped softly. “Miss Rose?” A voice murmured something, and he opened the door. “Two gentlemen to see you.”

  Miss Grimswell was seated at the end of a large table, a piece of paper before her. As before, she wore a black dress, and in the dim room the whiteness of her face and hands made them stand out, made them almost glow with a white phosphorescence. The pen slipped from her fingers onto the dark wood. She coughed once, then laughed. Her voice had a strained throaty quality, her laughter grating, and it ended in a ragged sob. She rose even as the tears slipped from her eyes and started down her cheeks.

  Holmes strode across the room. “Miss Grimswell, are you...?”

  Her laughter became a sobbing. She covered her mouth with her fist, then pointed at the paper on the desk.

  Holmes hesitated, then seized her arm. “Please calm yourself, miss. There is no reason for—”

  Her eyelids fluttered, her blue-gray eyes suddenly losing focus, her laughter abruptly ceasing. She sagged sideways, one hand clutching for the table edge. “Quick, Henry—help me.” He had grabbed her arm, and she fell back against him.

  I thought they would both go down, but he managed to keep her up until I reached them. I took one arm, supporting her back with my other hand. Her head lolled sideways, revealing her long white throat. Briefly she went totally limp. Now I too almost went down, but Holmes stepped sideways, propping her up momentarily.

  “Good Lord, she is heavy!” I exclaimed.

  Holmes stared at Fitzwilliams. “The chair—pull out the chair.”

  He staggered toward us as quickly as he could, then pulled the chair around. Holmes and I slowly lowered her into the chair. Her black hair brushed against my arm, and she moaned softly. Her upper arm was broad for a woman and felt strong. She slumped sideways, but the arms of the stout oaken chair kept her from falling. Holmes and I both still had a grip on her.

  I shook my head. “She is a very big girl.”

  Holmes smiled. “She is indeed.”

  “I wonder what she weighs.”

  “One hundred and eighty pounds,” Holmes said.

  “So much, you think?”

  “She is my height and must outweigh me by at least ten pounds.”

  I shook my head. “Given that, one would hope she doesn’t make a habit of fainting.”

  “She does not.” Fitzwilliams bit at the side of his lower lip, his pale eyes showing his concern. “Perhaps I should send up my missus. Miss Rose has not been well lately, not herself.”

  “Let us try some spirits first,” Holmes said. “Brandy or whisky.”

  “I’ll fetch some, sir.” He started for the door.

  “Oh, Mr. Fitzwilliams,” Holmes said. “Let’s not tell Miss Grimswell— Miss Constance—about this.”

  Fitzwilliams’s upper lip rose, the smile verging on a sneer. “Very good, sir.”

  Miss Grimswell sat up, her head swaying to the side even as her chin rose. “Oh...”

  “Miss Grimswell?” Holmes gave me a worried look. “Could she be ill?”

  I touched her forehead lightly with my fingertips. The skin felt cold and clammy, not hot. “She has no fever. Perhaps she only stood up too fast. That can cause faintness, especially in tall people. And if she has not been sleeping or eating, that would make her prone to fainting. I
think she is coming out of it.”

  She blinked her eyes, opened them, but did not seem to see anything for a second or two. “What...?” Abruptly she became alert, looked about and up at us. “What am I...?”

  I felt her muscles tighten, and I squeezed her shoulder. “Do not try to stand, not yet. You must stay seated, or you may faint again.”

  “Faint? I do not faint.”

  Holmes was peering past her at the table. He gave a sharp laugh. “Henry, have a look at this paper.”

  Still holding her arm, I turned the paper slightly. The oil lamp on the table provided plenty of light. Dear Mr. Holmes, I can bear it no longer. It has happened just as you said. I am indeed at my wits’ end. Perhaps no one can assist me, but if you will only try. Oh please help me. If you...

  Miss Grimswell glanced down at the paper. “I don’t understand. How can you be here? I hadn’t sent the note. I hadn’t even finished it.” She did not seem fully conscious yet.

  Fitzwilliams appeared at the door carrying a silver tray with a decanter and glasses. “How does she fare?”

  “Better,” I said.

  Holmes was staring at Rose. His face was thin and severe, but his eyes showed the warmth which I knew lay within him. He let go of Rose, then took the decanter, pulled out the cork and poured some brandy. He offered her the glass.

  She stared reluctantly at the brown liquid. It smelled wonderful. “I hate brandy.”

  “You must drink it,” Holmes said.

  I nodded. “Consider it medicine.”

  She gazed up at me. I realized I was still holding her shoulder and let go. We three men were all watching her, and it seemed to strike her as comical. She smiled weakly, then raised the glass and drank the whole thing down, several ounces.

  “No!” I exclaimed.

  Her blue-gray eyes opened wide. She gasped, then began to cough loudly. Her cheeks were full of color now.