Rose smiled. “Yes. Did you not hear? It was only a dead rat. It had nothing to do with me.”
The old woman scowled. “Don’t be stupid—it had everything to do with you.”
Rose’s smile vanished. “What do you mean?”
The old woman blinked. Her cataracts were worse now that it was dark; she could not quite see. “The dark one—the dark one is playing games with us.”
Rose sighed, raised her head and closed her eyes. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. Perhaps it was the fire, but her cheeks seemed to have a rosy glow. “Oh, don’t, nanna—please don’t.”
Digby smiled ironically. “So you’re dragging Beelzebub into this business, are you? Surely the Devil has better things to do than leave dead rats lyin’ about? I can just see the old horned fellow with a big rat in each hand, danglin’ by the tail.”
The old woman’s smile was equally withering. “A buffoon can’t help you now, Rose. This one couldn’t protect you from even a mouse.”
Digby’s smile vanished. “I do find it wearisome that everyone seems to feel free to insult me. I—”
Rose let out a burst of air from her lips, gasped, then out came another rush of breath. I stood up, then realized she was only laughing. She tried to set down her glass, but knocked over the remnants of the port. She had only drunk a quarter of a small glass, hence her sudden amusement puzzled me. Just then I noticed Holmes standing in the doorway, another pale face hovering in the darkness.
“I say, Rose—what is it?” Digby asked.
She fought to control her breathing, her lips twitching. “I’m sorry. It only... What you said about the Devil... and rats...” That started her off again. The strain of the past few days must have been too much for her.
Mrs. Fitzwilliams shook her head angrily. “Laugh while you can, girl—laugh while you can.” She turned to leave even as Holmes stepped into the room.
Constance was frowning. “I just don’t see what is so amusing.”
Digby smiled. “It must be the notion of old Scratch, Lucifer himself, the Prince of Darkness, the Arch-fiend, traipsin’ about with a big rat in each hand.”
Rose shook her head, covering her mouth with her hand, but spluttering sounds escaped. “Stop it!” she managed to say, then laughed uncontrollably, her head falling back, then lolling to the side. Her cheeks were flushed, and I had never seen her so animated. I wondered if this were a form of hysteria, but she seemed genuinely amused.
“Keep the stupid joke to yourself.” Constance rose and angrily strode to the door.
“Oh, wait, auntie!” Rose struggled to appear serious, but failed even as Constance hesitated at the door. The older woman’s stern expression before she left started Digby laughing, and soon both he and Rose were at it.
Nothing is more annoying than to be surrounded by laughing hyenas when you feel tired, quite sober, and thoughtful. Thus I also stood up to leave. Holmes was staring at them, his eyes confused.
“Oh, don’t leave, Doctor Vernier.” Rose’s mouth was twisted, but the appeal in her eyes was clear enough.
“I, too, fail to see any humor in dead rats and the Devil.”
Digby roared, and after a brief struggle, Rose also laughed. I shrugged and went to the doorway. Holmes followed me into the great hall. Its cold, shadowy vastness was a stark contrast to the cozy sitting room. A few lamps cast their feeble rays in that cavernous chamber.
“How much did they have to drink?” Holmes asked.
“Digby was well into his second brandy, while Rose had only a few swallows before she spilled her port. She drank nothing with dinner. She certainly cannot be inebriated, even though it may appear that way. What were you doing in the kitchen?”
“Examining the rat and talking with the servants. I have discovered something rather disturbing. The rat was poisoned, most likely some time ago because the body was no longer stiff. The blood about its mouth, the lack of wounds, left little doubt as to the cause of death.”
“What is disturbing about a poisoned rat? That is often their fate.”
He took out his cigarette case, withdrew a cigarette and lighted it on a wavering candle flame. “They have had no rats in recent months, and no one in the household has set out any poisons or traps.”
I scratched at my chin. “Odd, but surely...”
Holmes exhaled a cloud of smoke and began to pace. “A dead rat hardly compares with a cake full of spiders, but I suspect a similar malevolent intent.”
I felt an icy sensation low in my belly. He was not speaking hypothetically, but referred to an actual event we had both witnessed, along with many other people. I had never seen so many spiders in my life, and I had been terrified. Michelle had needed to reason with me to bring me to my senses.
“There can be no similarity—surely not.”
“Ah, but I am certain there is. Someone placed the dead rat next to the cake knowing full well the cook would discover it. As yet, the reason eludes me.”
“Perhaps it was only a prank.”
“Blast it, Henry—do not speak nonsense!” I stared at him in disbelief, and his sudden fury vanished. “Forgive me, but we are dealing with a shrewd, calculating mind, not with mere pranks. Would you care to join me in my room? I am ready for a pipe of the viscount’s superior tobacco, and I wish to speak with you.”
“Gladly. Although...” I realized I was feeling cold because my jacket was back on the chair in the sitting room. “Let me just fetch my jacket.”
He nodded, then flicked the ash from his cigarette into a large potted plant. I turned and quickly walked back to the sitting room. Rose had her head against the back of the chair, and Digby was bent over her, one hand on her large bosom. It took me a second to realize they were kissing passionately. Her large white hand clutched at his arm, and I could see the raised tendons extending to each knuckle. I froze, unsure whether I could retreat before they noticed me.
It was too late. Rose pushed Digby away, gasped for air, then saw me. She seemed to have trouble focusing her eyes, but her dismay was evident. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered, turning away.
Digby still had hold of her arm. “Here now, my dear, you can’t just...” Something made him turn. When he saw me, he leaped back. “You might have knocked!”
“The door was open.” My voice was glacial.
“Well, even so...”
“I merely wanted to fetch my coat, and then I shall be going.” I picked it up.
Rose’s face was quite red. Her eyelids fluttered. She bit at her lip, then brushed a strand of black hair from her face. “Doctor Vernier...” It was almost a moan.
“Yes?”
“I...” She put her hand over her forehead. “Oh, I... I don’t feel well.” She stood up, stumbling slightly. Her eyes would not meet mine; they appeared wild and darker, the pupils enormous in the dim room. “I want to go... lie down.” She strode past me and out the door, almost running.
I stared at Digby. He laughed. “Come now, old boy, it was only a kiss after all. Did you never kiss your wife that way before your marriage?”
I drew in my breath. “So help me, if you... if you call me ‘old boy’ again, I shall knock your teeth down your throat.”
This amused him, but I could no longer bear his presence. I walked into the great hall. Holmes was waiting, a stern expression on his face. “What has happened?”
I glanced behind me, then walked across the room toward the fireplace. I tried to tell myself there was no reason to feel quite so indignant. After all, Digby was correct—I had kissed Michelle that way before our marriage. All the same, I had never been so gleeful or cavalier as that leering... “Bounder,” I muttered.
“Tell me what you saw.”
I stared down at a piece of smoldering coal. “Nothing.”
Holmes’s laughter had a grating, savage quality. “Male and female behavior is so predictable, especially that of the female.”
“That is not true!” My outrage surprised me.
“No?” He
withdrew another cigarette. “Miss Grimswell swept by me and would not meet my gaze, her hair and dress in slight disarray. I gather she and Lord Frederick were engaged in some amorous activity. From your expression, I take it this was not the mere virginal touching of lips but something more extreme.”
I turned and raised my head stiffly. “I will not tolerate your cynicism—not now. What you say is true, but... After all, she is only a twenty-year-old girl, a very lonely twenty-year-old with normal feelings and desires, one who has had little kindness or attention from—the male of the species, as you might say. I am disappointed in her, but I shall not assign blame. Digby is experienced and insistent. Little wonder...”
Holmes’s cheeks had reddened, and he lowered his gaze. “Perhaps you are correct, but I had hoped for better from her. Perhaps neither of us is quite rational about Digby. I, too, find him quite distasteful.”
“I told him if he called me ‘old boy’ again I would knock his teeth down his throat.”
Holmes’s short, sharp laugh filled the hall. “Oh, bravo, Henry— bravo!”
I smiled. Holmes’s eyes swept past me, then rose. I turned. Across the hallway, up on the gallery floor, stood George. The shadow hid his formal coat, but his white shirt front and pale face were visible.
“Did he hear us?” I murmured.
“Possibly. Sound carries very well in this vast chamber. He must have seen Miss Grimswell go by.”
I shook my head. “My intrusion was perfectly innocent, but I could see she was most embarrassed.”
Holmes drew in on his cigarette, his forehead wrinkling. “I hardly had a good look at her, but she seemed more than embarrassed. She seemed distressed.” He hesitated. “Are you sure her... activity with Lord Frederick was voluntary?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Forgive me, but it often does seem monotonously predictable.”
“I cannot believe she will really marry Digby. She cannot. How I wish Michelle were here. She might be able to convince her of his unsuitability.”
Holmes shrugged, then threw his cigarette butt into the fireplace. “Digby would not be the worst of husbands. He has a certain flare, albeit a studied one. He is also well read and witty.”
“But he is a bounder!”
Holmes laughed. “There is that. Come, let us go upstairs. I am ready for that pipe, and I can tell you what I have discovered in talking with the Fitzwilliamses and the servants.”
“You have not been idle like your slothful companions. What have you found out?”
We were halfway up the stairs. Holmes shrugged and smiled. “Nothing I wish to share with the rest of the household. As I said, sound carries very well.”
“Ah.” However, when we reached the gallery, George was gone.
We soon entered Holmes’s room. A coal fire had been started earlier, and it gave off a pleasant warmth. I sat in one of the large leather chairs. Having closed the door behind us, Holmes selected a larger briar from the wall, then opened a canister and began to pack the pipe. Although I could not bear directly inhaling smoke into my lungs, I found the rich, heady odor of pipe tobacco agreeable.
“It took little probing with the maids to discover that they are very uneasy. The viscount died last June, and soon after, a man in black and a giant dog appeared on the moor. Most of the locals are certain it is the viscount. Tradition has it that the vampire originates as a suicide. No one—except possibly Doctor Hartwood—will come near Grimswell Hall after dark. While the maids may not actually believe their deceased master wanders the moors, they would certainly not venture outside. Two of them are considering employment elsewhere, even though the pay here is very good. The old gardener is the most superstitious person and believes his master’s restless ghost is being punished for his wicked books. Fitzwilliams indignantly—and sincerely—denies all such supernatural talk. His wife is less sure. She thought her master a good man, but if he committed suicide, he may have earned his dreadful fate.”
I shook my head. “Such foolishness. The medieval mind is alive and well on Dartmoor. I suppose the bleak landscape makes the inhabitants susceptible to superstition.”
Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Surely a skeptic like you has not finally become a believer in vampires or werewolves.”
“Not at all, but some mortal devil may wish people to believe a ghost wanders the moor. I also discovered that, with the exception of Constance, everyone thought the viscount was in reasonably good health before his death. Constance claims he had not been well for several years, but then she was not actually here prior to his death. I spent considerable time with Fitzwilliams. After all the years at the hall, he must know the family’s history and not a few secrets. I dealt indirectly with a certain topic, then asked directly. His answer was equivocal and did little to resolve my doubts.”
I stifled a yawn. “I seem to be missing something. What did you ask him?”
Pipe cradled in his right hand, Holmes exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke. “I asked if his master had been visiting Mrs. Neal on a regular basis.”
“Mrs. Neal?” I sat up. “Surely you cannot...?”
He smiled. “You have seen the lady, Henry. If you were a lonely widower with no eligible females for miles around, would you ignore her?”
“Well, perhaps not, but he would have been twenty or twenty-five years her senior.”
“What has that to do with anything? Do not forget the telescope pointed at her window. I do not consider that mere coincidence. I hope to discover more when I speak to the widow.”
Again I yawned. “I do not quite see the point of all these questions about Lord Grimswell. Knowing whether he killed himself or died of a heart attack may provide some insight into his daughter’s temperament, but parents and children may differ considerably.”
Holmes shook his head. “Henry, you are being exceptionally obtuse. Has another possibility never occurred to you? A man falls from a great height. His heart may have given out, he may have jumped, or...”
My mind may have been sluggish, but a sudden cold sensation crept up the back of my neck. “Oh Lord—I am obtuse. He was pushed.”
Holmes was still smiling, but there was nothing amiable in the expression. “Very good, Henry.”
“But why would anyone...?”
“Obtuse again.”
“Yes, obtuse. The money—his great fortune.” I swallowed. “But then Rose—she...”
“Exactly, Henry. She is in great danger. If someone has already killed once, they will not hesitate a second time. And of course, we are dealing with a fortune of half a million pounds. Many would kill without hesitation for much less.”
“Half a million? Digby said four hundred thousand.”
“He was mistaken. Mr. Rigby discreetly mentioned the sum in his letter.”
“But Rose—she must be protected—she must be watched.”
“That is exactly why we are here.” He frowned and pulled out his watch. “Eight-thirty. It is early yet, but you are correct. I shall make certain her maid...” He stood up and took a step when there was a rap at the door. “Yes?”
The door opened. George smiled weakly, his eyes uneasy, his face pale. “Sir, Miss Grimswell passed me in the hall, and she seemed... distraught. I was worried that...”
Holmes set down his pipe and slammed his fist on the table. “I have been a fool—the blasted rat distracted me. Which way did she go?”
“Down the hall, toward the tower.”
Holmes nodded, then grabbed a candle and strode toward the door. I followed. George stepped back. “Please, sir,” he said. “Don’t tell anyone I told you. I was supposed to be... otherwise occupied.”
Holmes nodded without speaking. Our shadows danced about the hallway, the flame flickering off the walls. We started up the winding stairway. Holmes’s breath grew labored, but he did not slow down. I tried to persuade myself that the darkness should lessen my vertigo.
As we came through the opening in the fl
oor, the never-distant cry of the wind swelled, and I felt cold air on my face. Moonlight streamed in the great windows, flooding the elaborately patterned carpet with light. The wind came through an open window, swept round the figure in black perched in the opening. My chest constricted. The light caught her attention and made her turn.
“Stop!” she cried. “Just stop!”
Holmes obeyed, and I nearly bumped into him.
Her face, her hands and feet (she had removed her stockings) stood out against her black dress, moonlight emphasizing their pallor. Holmes had raised the candle, and her fear was obvious. Her mouth was half open, her eyes wide, her long black hair down and disheveled. The rasping sound of her rapid breathing rose over the wind.
“Come down from the window, Miss Grimswell.” Holmes’s voice was calm yet firm.
She said nothing, only continuing her labored breathing. Holmes stepped nearer.
“I said stop!” she cried, then turned away to stare out into the moonlit night, only one hand supporting her against the window frame.
“I have stopped, Miss Grimswell—I have stopped.”
She turned again, and stared at the other edge of the casement. “I must jump. I must.”
“No!” I exclaimed.
“You certainly must not,” Holmes said.
“Yes—yes.”
“Well, you might be so kind as to explain what is wrong before you do so.”
“Sherlock,” I muttered. My mouth felt dry, my hands cold yet sweaty. Falling from a great height was my worst nightmare, and here was a person about to do just that.
She turned, stumbling slightly. “Dear God,” I murmured. She leaned back so her spine was against the window frame, her straight legs outstretched at an angle, bare feet on the ledge, her arms extended so her huge hands touched the opposite side of the frame. Her head hung weakly.
“Oh Lord, why does everything have to be so hard?”
She need only turn and step forward to plunge into the night. The wind rose in a great whistling sigh and blew some papers off the table and made Holmes’s candle flicker and go out. The yellow-orange glow of its light was replaced by the colder blue-white light of the moon.
The Grimswell Curse Page 17