I could not help reflecting on the logic of this assertion, but Holmes shook his head without hesitation. “No, I do not believe you are mad.”
“Then—”
“Nor do I believe in ghosts of the dead speaking to the living.”
“Then how—?”
“Sit down and finish relating what happened. In all my experience, mysterious voices always belong to physical personages. I have yet to encounter any genuine metaphysical manifestations, and a young lady with an inheritance of several hundred thousand pounds is tempting bait indeed.”
Now she seemed more surprised than anything else. She sank down onto the bench. “Then you believe me, and you—you do not think—you do not think...?”
“You are sane, Miss Grimswell.” A faint smile appeared. “As sane as the rest of us.” He spoke with an assurance I did not quite share.
She reached out with her enormous hand and engulfed his slender fingers entirely, making him stiffen and sit upright. “Oh, bless you, Mr. Holmes—oh, thank you, thank you.” She laughed, sobbed, then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“Please, Miss Grimswell, calm yourself. I must hear all that happened if I am to discover the cause of...”
She stared at him, then let go of his hand. “Forgive me, I was so afraid to tell you.” She laughed again—a pained sound.
“When did you first hear the voice while you were awake?”
“Around two weeks ago. I was... I had had awful dreams, but I woke up. I know I was awake. I sat up and lit a candle and waited for my heart to slow down.”
“What exactly did the voice say?”
“I was sitting there, and it said, ‘Did you hear me?’ ‘Who is it?’ I cried. ‘Who is there?’ ‘You know who I am. You must not marry Digby—you must marry no one. You are damned—like me—like all of us Grimswells.’” I could see her hands begin to tremble again. “Oh God, how he frightened me. I—I looked all over the room, but I found no one. I looked under the bed and in the closets, everywhere someone might be hiding, but...”
“That was very brave of you,” Holmes said, “and a logical course of action.”
She laughed. “I was terrified. I tried to convince myself maybe I had been asleep and still dreaming, but I knew I was awake.”
I moistened my lips. “Sometimes in the interval between sleep and waking one may still dream.”
“I was awake!”
Holmes nodded. “I believe you. And so you broke your engagement with Lord Frederick?”
She nodded. “Yes. Either I was cursed or I was mad, and either way...”
“And after that, you switched rooms.”
Her eyes widened. “How could you know that?”
“A detail I learned from Lady Rupert. The rest is clear. You had a few peaceful nights, but then...”
Her face resembled some blasted flower, even her lips paling. She nodded weakly. “It was the third night. I had almost convinced myself I must have been dreaming. I had met you both in the afternoon, and your wife, Doctor Vernier, and I felt better than I had in weeks. You were so kind to me, especially Doctor Doudet Vernier.” Her eyes had a liquid sheen. “I actually thought I might be better. I went to bed early, determined to sleep, but the voice woke me, I think.” She drew in her breath resolutely. “It was just after one. I was afraid. I somehow knew he was there—that he was going to talk to me.” One hand fluttered nervously at her hair. “Oh, I do not like to think about it—I do not...” Her breath caught in her throat.
I leaned forward and again seized her wrist. “You are safe now—you are safe.”
Holmes’s eyes showed a cold fury. “Your instincts to search the room and then to change rooms were wise. I am certain the voice you heard was that of a living, breathing man—a monstrous villain, perhaps—but a living one.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“Go on. You have nearly finished.”
“He finally spoke. ‘You know I am here, don’t you?’ I was determined to remain silent, but he taunted me. Then he—”
“How did he taunt you?”
“He told me... how ugly I was, my features coarse, my nature grotesque. Then he told me how I had disappointed him, that I could not even write or think well.” The tears slipped free and started down her cheeks. “I could not bear it. I begged him to stop—I begged him not to torture me. I asked him why he hated me, whatever I had done, but he only laughed. ‘I am damned,’ he said, ‘and so are you. It is our blood. Our very blood is tainted.’”
“That is a monstrous lie!” I exclaimed. “There is no such thing as tainted blood.”
Holmes gave his head a brief shake. “Let her finish, Henry.”
“I had begun to cry. Just like now.” She laughed, smiling briefly, the expression terribly at odds with her swollen eyelids and tear-streaked face. “I told him he could not be my father, that he must be some devil from hell. ‘All we Grimswells are devils in hell—it is our destiny.’ And he said he had always hated me. That was why he had taken Beejoo away from me.” She laughed again, her face anguished.
“Beejoo?” Holmes said.
“My rabbit—my stuffed bunny. He disappeared when I was about six. I was heartbroken. My father told me that my mother had taken Beejoo to be with her in Heaven, and that was why we could not find him. The voice knew about that, Mr. Holmes. And he told me he had actually thrown Beejoo into the fire and burned him up. How could he know about Beejoo unless...?”
“Obviously your father told someone, or you did, or someone overheard your father. Someone has gone to a great deal of effort to frighten you.”
Her mouth formed a quick, pained smile. “They are certainly succeeding. When he told me about Beejoo, about burning him up and then lying to me... I have never been so frightened in my life. It came in great waves—I could feel it in my chest and throat.” Her hands were trembling again. “I threw aside the covers, and I think I might have run out into the street, but he shouted for me to wait, that he had one last thing to tell me. ‘Leave London,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow—at once. Go back to Grimswell Hall where you belong.’ And he said if I did not obey he would come every night and during the day as well. I asked if he would go away and leave me alone if I did. He told me he would, and I agreed to leave. He warned me I must never tell anyone about his visit. If I did, I would be sorry. And then... he was gone. Oh—I do not like remembering.” She drew her breath in, a great shuddering sound, then covered her face with her large hands, so smooth and white. A muffled moan came out.
Holmes took out his cigarette case, realized one did not smoke before young ladies, and put it back. I could not recall seeing him so angry. He picked up her handkerchief, which had fallen on the bench beside her. “Miss Grimswell, please—your handkerchief.”
She lowered her hands, stared at him, ground her teeth briefly, then took the handkerchief and wiped at her eyes.
Holmes’s nostrils flared. “I have no doubt that you are the victim of a devilish hoax, and I mean to find the persons behind it.”
“Do you honestly believe that?”
“Yes. I am absolutely certain.”
My own head had begun to ache, and I felt anxious myself. “There is another possibility. The mind does play curious tricks, especially when one is weary or under a nervous strain. You said your sleep had been disturbed and the tale of the curse had troubled you. I am not saying you are mad—far from it—but desperate circumstances can cause the mind to see or hear strange phantoms. I have heard tales from soldiers who were imprisoned, half starved and mistreated. They began to have imaginary companions, but once they were rescued and returned to normal society, their illusions vanished.”
“The voice was real,” Rose said, but doubt clouded her words.
Holmes gave me an ironic smile. “I hardly see a parallel between the prisoners’ condition and hers. The phenomenon you speak of is familiar to me, but in this case there is a much more obvious explanation. Besides, I know a simple way to test our theories. Mi
ss Grimswell, you will not sleep alone at night until the question is resolved. We shall see if your voice manifests itself in the presence of others. We shall also have a stronger lock put on your door so no phantoms can enter your room unawares.”
She eased out her breath, then smiled. “Thank you. Somehow... it seems almost childish—a foolish fear of imaginary monsters.”
“There is nothing childish or foolish about your fears.” He hesitated. “Have you heard the voice here at Grimswell Hall?”
“I...” She swallowed. “I don’t think so.”
“But you are not certain?”
“Sometimes it is hard to tell when my dreams end and when... The night before last I thought I had heard him whispering. I woke up all afraid around two in the morning, my heart beating so hard, certain he was... But there was only silence, blessed silence.” She laughed nervously. “But my sleep was ruined.”
“No doubt. Again, we shall not leave you alone at night henceforth. I shall get to the bottom of this.”
She touched her fingers to her forehead. “It would be such a relief to know... My head hurts. I have been so confused, so torn. I had thought that my father had loved me, and to be so despised and vilified by him...”
I shook my head fiercely. “Whatever is going on, that voice was not your father’s. I am certain that he must have loved you. Any father would be proud to have a daughter of your accomplishments.”
Again she stared curiously at me. “You are very kind, Doctor Vernier.”
Holmes stood, his hand again slipping into his pocket and withdrawing the cigarette case, even as he stared down at the koi. His rising brought them swimming toward him, no doubt hoping for another feeding. He frowned at the cigarette case.
“You may smoke if you wish,” Miss Grimswell said.
“Why do we not take our stroll instead? Now that you have unburdened yourself, some fresh air might do us all good.”
She stood resolutely. “That is a wonderful suggestion. It is a beautiful sunny day, and yet I feel ready to jump out of my skin. Let me change my shoes and put on something more suitable for walking. I shall meet you outside by the front entrance in about ten minutes.”
Holmes nodded. “Very well.” We started for the doorway. Overhead I could hear birdsong. “Thank you for confiding in me, Miss Grimswell. I promise you will not regret it.”
She smiled at him. “I already feel so much better.” Her tears had been wiped away, but her eyes were still ghastly-looking.
I also needed to change, and I soon found my cousin out before the massive doors finishing his well-deserved cigarette. He appeared calmer, but a certain cold anger showed in the way he raised the cigarette to his mouth. “Tell me, Henry, did you truly believe that nonsense about the mind playing ticks?”
“I would not have mentioned it if I had not thought it possible.”
He shrugged. “Do not take umbrage. I was being... No matter, this theory may prove useful. We might offer it up to Digby, Constance and the household.”
The door opened and Rose stepped out. She had obviously washed her face. She looked much better. She wore a wool tailored suit, matching tweed jacket and skirt, sensible shoes, and an outlandish hat with a broad brim to shade her pale face. Michelle would have approved in that it was practical rather than fashionable.
Holmes crushed his cigarette underfoot, then pulled on his gloves and raised his stick with his right hand. “You will be our guide, Miss Grimswell, since you know the territory. What have we in marching distance?”
We started down the gravel road lined on either side with tall but bushy yews. They must have been two or three centuries old. “The nearest dwelling,” she said, “is Merriweather Farm, about two miles’ walk away across a level stretch of moor. An elderly couple ran it for many years, but they died a year or two ago, and there is a new tenant, a widow. Near the farm are the Wild Woods, and beyond the woods, Seldon’s Mire. It’s very dangerous at certain times of year. I was always warned to stay well away from it. Beyond the mire is another tor, Owl’s Roost, and near it are a ruined tin mine and what’s left of the first Grimswell Hall.”
“It actually exists?” I asked.
Her cheeks had a healthy flush from walking, but her smile faltered. “Yes. It’s nothing but a shell, a few black broken walls and part of a tower still standing. The rooks like the place, and the owls, and my father liked it, too.” Her smile was sad now. “We walked there last autumn, a little over a year ago. He always said so desolate a place appealed to a melancholy soul.”
Holmes strode resolutely, his stick in his right hand. “The supposedly accursed nature of the place did not worry him?”
“No, no. He said whatever curse might have hung over the place was long gone, the hall reclaimed by the ancient natural powers of Dartmoor—the wind, the water, the sky and the earth.”
We walked on in silence. The pathway and the yews ended, and the moor stretched out before us, the brown of the heath and the green of the grass extending to the horizon. To our left the earth rose toward the black jumbled granite of Demon Tor. Somehow the slabs did resemble something faintly like a face, something primitive and malevolent frozen in an eyeless stare. A buzzard soared overhead, and the wind moaned in the trees behind us.
“Does the wind ever stop blowing up here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. This is as quiet as it ever gets. In the winter, during a blizzard, then it is truly frightful.”
I felt a shiver along my spine. “I would rather not experience that first-hand.”
“Is there a way up to Demon Tor?” Holmes asked.
“It is easiest if you start from behind the hall.”
“That was the way your father would have gone?”
Again her eyes were pained. “Yes.”
“We shall have to try it another time, after our legs are more accustomed to the terrain.”
“Do you mean to stay for a while, then?” She took a deep breath, glancing about her. “This is my favorite time of year.”
“I shall remain as long as necessary,” Holmes said. “I too enjoy Dartmoor in autumn.”
She gave him a brief, wistful glance, the blue in her eyes predominant in the bright sunlight and open air. “Stay as long as you wish. I hope you find this... person soon, but I also hope you will be here for a while.” Her eyes turned to me. “Both of you. The hall often seems so lonely. It is wonderful to have such good company.”
Holmes smiled ironically.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I was thinking that it is good of you to put up with elderly persons such as Henry and I.”
“You are not old at all! Especially compared to Aunt Constance and the Fitzwilliamses.”
Holmes laughed. “Faint praise, indeed. I only thought you might prefer company closer to your own age.”
“Not at all. The girls at school seemed so tiresome and immature at times. I always preferred the company of my teachers. They were so much more interesting. I’ve always been... rather grown-up and serious.”
Holmes smiled again.
She laughed. “Now what is it?”
“I was only thinking of what reception Lord Frederick will then receive.”
She was not a woman to hide her emotions; her dismay was immediately evident. “Oh, I had forgotten.” She frowned, her good humor gone. “He will be pestering me again. Should I marry him, do you think?”
Holmes shook his head. “Please, Miss Grimswell, do not ask me such questions. I am the last person you should consult.”
“Why? Because he is your client, you mean?”
“No—as I have told you, your well-being is my main concern, not his wishes. I am the wrong person because the fair sex is a mystery to me and because... I have little experience in such matters.”
“Oh.” She looked at me. “And you, Doctor Vernier?”
I smiled. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
“But you do not like Digby, do you?”
>
“I...” My voice faltered. “My opinion does not much matter.”
“It matters to me. And I would like to know what your wife would think. She seemed... I wish she were here too.”
I sighed. “So do I. She would like Dartmoor.”
We had been walking for about fifteen minutes. Flies droned softly in the air, while the bright blue sky was broken up by great banks of clouds, moving ever so slowly. The tor along the horizon had an almost preternatural sharpness. The air was so clear and clean compared to London. Behind us, slightly uphill, was the hall, its tower of black granite rising over the landscape. Only Demon Tor was taller.
We followed the dirt road through the moor, wheel tracks showing in the ribbon of red earth unraveling before us. None of us spoke, but it was a companionable silence. We listened to the gentle sounds of that warm sunny day.
Ahead appeared a black shape, a menhir, one of those great stone slabs raised by the ancient dwellers of Dartmoor millennia ago. The path passed quite near it, and only close up could we get a sense of scale. It stood a good twelve feet tall, the height of two men, the sole object rising more than a few inches above the faded brown and green of the moor. A great slab of rough black granite, its face stained by gray and green lichens, it seemed somehow a part of the desolate scene as well as an alien presence. Perhaps it was because the stone was natural, of the local earth, while its shape, position and location were the doings of men.
I felt uneasy staring at it. “I know it is ridiculous, but it looks as if it might have been there for millions of years, not mere thousands. They must have been objects of mystery and awe to the recent dwellers of the moors. One would think gods or giants must have set it there, not mere men like ourselves.”
Holmes smiled faintly. “It does have an air of power, but it is only a large stone. It is all too vulnerable.”
Miss Grimswell frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that many of its brethren have already ended up in local houses and churches. Too many of our contemporaries have little respect for their ancestors. They topple their monuments and break them into smaller pieces to build with.”
The Grimswell Curse Page 13