The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  “A very unpleasant sight. The contrast with the living, vibrant young woman would be most striking.”

  George appeared as dismayed as I, but he tried to smile. “It is...”

  “I shall want to speak with you soon, George. Whenever you are ready.”

  “Me? But sir, why should you...?”

  “Do not wait too long—for your own sake. The game may be more dangerous than you realize, the stakes far higher.”

  George opened his mouth, glanced about, then closed it. Above us in the gallery was the sour-faced maid, Maria.

  “Think about what I have said, George. You saved Miss Grimswell’s life, a fact I shall not forget.”

  George nodded, then backed away, turned and walked across the hallway to the stairs.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Have you not wondered how George knew Miss Grimswell was in danger?”

  “He saw her in the hall, and doubtless she appeared dreadful.”

  “The lady does not recall seeing him,” Holmes said.

  “Surely if she were distressed she might—”

  “She was disorientated and upset, not stupefied or intoxicated.” Holmes gave his head a shake. “Really, Henry, can you deduce nothing on your own?”

  Annoyed, I did not pursue the topic.

  Dinner that evening was actually pleasant. I, of course, was in excellent humor because of Michelle’s arrival. Rose was relieved at feeling better, and she and Michelle already seemed to have become bosom friends. Michelle kept a wary eye on Digby, and her presence had a moderating effect on that young man, rendering him actually bearable. Constance was still penitent and pleasantly subdued. She must have left the menu to Mrs. Fitzwilliams, for we were spared many courses and rich sauces, a delicious roast beef being the sole offering.

  Holmes was rather quiet, but I sensed that a problem preoccupied him. However, after dinner, in the sitting room, he made peace with Constance.

  “If I have appeared rather gruff, madam, I hope you will forgive me. You must understand that I share your concern for Miss Grimswell, representing as she does the last of your illustrious family.”

  Constance dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “No, no, Mr. Holmes. You are too kind. I have already acknowledged that I am at fault.”

  “No matter. As we are in accord, there is no reason to dwell on past unpleasantries.” He sipped at his cognac while Michelle gave me a puzzled look. “This is a remarkable elixir. Perhaps you could tell me something of the Grimswells, Constance. I have read the entry in Burke’s Peerage about the viscount and had some discussion with Fitzwilliams, but I know little about the rest of the family.”

  Constance shook her head sadly. “There’s precious little of us left, I fear. Only Jane and myself.”

  “Victor Grimswell’s father, Robert, the prior viscount, had a younger brother. That brother was your father, Phillip. Were there other brothers or sisters?”

  Constance sighed. “None living.”

  Holmes’s eyebrows sank inward. “Were there some who died?”

  “One. Uncle Jonathan was the middle brother, born in 1807. I fear he met a bad end.” She glanced warily across the room at Rose. “There are two unpleasant strains in our family, impurities in our very blood—a melancholy disposition, a dark mood, and a violent temper. Madness is often the result.”

  Michelle’s mouth formed a tight smile. “That seems more than two things.”

  “What happened to Jonathan?” Holmes asked.

  “He quarreled with a disreputable companion in a tavern, cursed and blasphemed. The companion seized a knife and plunged it into his throat. He died almost at once.” She shook her head. “A black business. He was known for his impieties, his cruelty and his drunkenness.”

  Holmes nodded thoughtfully. “How old was he at the time of his unfortunate death?”

  “Only twenty years old.”

  Holmes frowned, his eyes briefly troubled. “As for your generation, the viscount had only a sister, I believe.”

  Constance nodded, her expression growing still more mournful. “Yes, poor dear sweet little Agnes. She died of the fevers when she was only eight, the poor sad little angel. I was five years older than her, and we had been great friends. It happened a year after Annabelle, my own dear little sister, passed on.” Constance dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. Her grief seemed genuine, not the usual bluster, but something about her still grated at me.

  Michelle sighed and set down her glass. “Nothing is worse than the death of a child.”

  Holmes had kept his eyes fixed on Constance. “So you also lost a sister. But your sister Jane is still living.”

  Constance sniffled loudly. “Jane—poor dear, mad Jane.”

  “There were only the three girls in your family? So now you two sisters and Rose are all that remain.” He raised his glass, holding it between himself and the fire, then swished the liquid lightly; the brandy had a warm glow. “How regrettable. I take it neither you nor your sister were ever married?”

  Constance gave a gruff laugh. “Heavens, no! I always knew I’d be an old maid—big, plain and dark as I was. Now Jane, on the other hand, always had gentlemen coming to court her. She was fair and beautiful, with a tiny waist and tiny hands.” She held up her huge hand with its thick fingers. “Not like this paw! She favored the Spencers, our mother’s family, rather than the Grimswells.”

  “Curious then that she never married.”

  Constance’s laughter had a harsh quality this time. “Hardly! No money, Mr. Holmes. Beauty is all very well in a young lady, but it is not enough to make a match. Until Victor made his fortune, the Grimswells never had much beyond the hall and the land, certainly not enough for a younger son with a taste for luxury. I’m afraid, too, that my father had a genuine knack for losing money. Every enterprise he came near ended in ruin. My grandfather, then Jonathan, then my uncle Robert, and finally cousin Victor, all had to help him out more than once.”

  Holmes finished his brandy and set down the glass. “From what you say, I gather your mother did not come from a wealthy family.”

  She nodded. “That is true enough.”

  “Yet she managed to find a husband. Your sister was not so lucky, despite her charms. Certainly, however, there must have been some man who was dear to her.”

  Constance laughed again. “Oh yes, the poor sweet fool! She was smitten with an earl’s son, Lord Douglas Shamwell, a handsome pup, but a bit of a bounder. He never actually promised to marry her, but she thought they had an understanding. This state of affairs lasted two or three years, but he finally married another, a banker’s daughter. Jane was stricken, poor lamb. In fact...” Her face had grown mournful. “That led to her first nervous collapse. She was never the same after that.”

  Michelle had grown sterner and sterner looking, her smooth brow furrowing. She opened her mouth to speak, but Holmes furtively shook his head, putting his forefinger before his mouth, while Constance was not looking. Michelle turned to me, but I only gave a slight shrug. “No man will ever send me to an asylum,” she said softly. Her ferocity made me smile.

  Holmes shook his head. “A sad tale, but all too common, I fear. If fortune spared this Lord Shamwell, I trust that someday a Divine Judge will render justice upon him.”

  Constance’s dark eyes blinked, and she nodded. “His marriage was a barren one, nary a child born, and he met a bad end, he did, Mr. Holmes. He died early this year of a wasting ailment. His wife is a veritable saint, a kind and generous woman, but he was not the husband he should have been. He had... a wandering eye.”

  Holmes’s fingers drummed upon his knees. “Again, all too common. Douglas Shamwell, the name is familiar to me. I suppose he was well known in London society? And he died just this year? I hope it was in winter—an appropriate time for so cold a villain.”

  “So it was.” Constance nodded sternly.

  “No doubt in January?”

  Constance nodded again, but her
eyes showed a certain puzzled wariness.

  “Women frequently show no judgment whatsoever in choosing the men they love. I have seen far too many such cases, often ending in tragedy. However, perhaps your sister was spared a life of misery. The earl’s wife could not have been happy.”

  Constance smiled grimly. “Perhaps, but she was miserable in the midst of opulence. Having to beg for money and count every penny is not an agreeable way to live, but of course, I cannot really complain. We had no real claim on Victor, but he was always so generous to us. That is another reason I feel so responsible for Rose. If not for Victor, poor Jane would be in a common madhouse instead of...” She sniffled once. “The grounds of the asylum are beautiful, the doctors and their associates so kind.”

  Holmes drew in his breath slowly, sat upright and glanced at the fire. “Which asylum might it be?”

  “Marshall House. It is near London, and—”

  Holmes nodded. “It has an excellent reputation.”

  Michelle and I looked at one another. We had spent a depressing morning there. The grounds were indeed beautiful, the house magnificent, the cost per patient astronomical, but the care was poor, the doctors indifferent, the staff hostile and impatient.

  “Jane is as happy there as could be expected, but I do wish... One does not like committing one’s own dear sister to such a place. That is why...” She gazed across the room at Rose, who was talking happily to Digby. “I worry so about Rose.” She scratched at her chin, then slipped the end of her little finger into her mouth and picked at something. “Jane was only four or five years older than Rose when...” She sighed. “Oh, this wretched Grimswell blood! Sometimes I wish I had never been born into this family. There is a curse upon us—there is.” Her mouth formed a weak smile, but her huge, dark eyes stared into the fire. She touched her chin, then set her big, swollen-looking hand upon her lap.

  Michelle opened her mouth, hesitating. “I do not believe in curses.”

  Constance smiled. “That’s because you’re young, dear. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll believe in curses.”

  “No, I will not.”

  Constance shrugged, then turned to Holmes. “Mr. Holmes must believe in curses.”

  Holmes stared back at her, his eyes somber. “So I do.”

  I felt of flicker of dread in my chest. Michelle frowned. “Oh Sherlock, you cannot be serious.”

  “I am most serious. The causes may not be supernatural, but there are curses. And the accursed.”

  Later, as we were going upstairs to retire, Holmes pulled me aside. Michelle, Digby and Rose were ahead of us with their own candle. “Tell Michelle,” he said, “that I want her to stay with Miss Grimswell at a secluded inn near the village of Grimpen tomorrow night.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Because you and I shall be in London tomorrow night, and I dare not leave the girl here unprotected. The four of us shall leave first thing in the morning, but no one in the house will know where we are really going.”

  “London—why are we going to London?”

  “I have some inquiries to make, and there remains one Grimswell whom we have not yet met.”

  “But...” The dread I had felt earlier returned. “Jane Grimswell.”

  Holmes nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Exactly.”

  * * *

  The Marshall House did have beautiful grounds, and the red brick dwelling was well over a hundred years old. (The bars over the windows were a recent addition.) Holmes and I had taken a very early train for London. Even in late afternoon, the fog still hung gray and heavy over the lawn, the yellow light of the sun feebly trying to burn through. Holmes asked the hansom driver to wait, and then we advanced to the front door, our breath forming clouds of vapor. The brawny male attendant who greeted us was dressed in white, while Holmes and I wore black overcoats, top hats, trousers and boots.

  The office was splendidly furnished: heavy oak furniture with leather upholstery, cherry wood paneling, a crackling wood fire going on the grate, and a window overlooking the lawn. The doctor set down his pen, then rose, smiling widely. His hairline had receded since I had first known him, but the enormous brown mustache which hid his mouth was a form of compensation. His frock coat, striped trousers and linen were impeccable, on a par with the expensive decor.

  “Ah, Henry, how good to see you again. And this must be—oh, yes— the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”

  “It is he,” I said. “And this is Doctor Edward Morrissey, whom I have known for many years.” And nearly always found insufferable, I thought to myself.

  Morrissey extended a pale, freckled hand. “A great honor, Mr. Holmes—a great honor! Most assuredly, you have no greater admirer in all the realm than your humble servant. When Henry telegrammed this morning—gad, I was flabbergasted! I’ve read every one of Doctor Watson’s stories.”

  Holmes’s smile faltered at this. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Morrissey. I hope our call is not too late, but we must leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Not at all. I understand.” He stood and glanced at the male attendant. “Higgins, I’ll just show them up to Miss Grimswell’s room.”

  Higgins nodded. He had the shoulders of a stevedore, but something in his eyes and the curl of his lip troubled me.

  We started for the door. “What can you tell us about Miss Grimswell’s condition?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’s a harmless old bird, but daft as a loon. She has been here as long as I have—for about ten years now.”

  “And what particular form does her insanity take?” Holmes asked.

  “She is rather a mix of things—a certain paranoia, which in her case involves the Devil and his minions being after her, severe melancholy with a tendency toward catatonia, and she does see things which are not there, now and then, usually infernal agents and that type of thing. Still, a rather sweet old lady compared to some.”

  We had gone up a flight of stairs and started down a hallway. From one side came a low, incessant moan which triggered an odd sensation at the back of my neck. Morrissey did not seem to hear anything.

  “Does her sister visit her often?” Holmes asked.

  “No—thank goodness!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Her sister’s visits invariably worsen Miss Grimswell’s condition. Generally, as I said, she is a placid soul, but after the last visit there were attacks of screaming, dreadful hallucinations and difficulty sleeping.”

  “How do you account for that?” I asked.

  “I cannot. The sister seems pleasant enough. She usually leaves in tears herself, and I have to console her. Frankly, I have encouraged her to stay away—discreetly, of course. Visits are often a source of disruption to our patients and needlessly upset everyone.”

  I thought of a cutting remark but kept it to myself. Morrissey had never had much in the way of human feeling, and his work seemed to have drained even that small amount.

  “Here we are.” Morrissey rapped on the door, then opened it before anyone could reply. “Ah, good morning, Miss Grimswell! And how are we this fine day?”

  The room was small and austere, a brass bed, a tiny desk, a few trite pictures on the wall. Near the window sat a small woman in a rocking chair; it creaked slowly as she rocked. She gave Morrissey a cold, slow stare. “I can only speak for myself, and my rheumatism troubles me sorely today.”

  “A pity, that.” Morrissey’s broad smile contradicted his words. “You have some visitors: Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, and his associate, Doctor Henry Vernier.”

  Miss Grimswell gave us a puzzled stare. “Not Doctor Watson?”

  Holmes glanced at me, his eyes amused. “No, madam. You have heard of me, then?”

  “Certainly I have.”

  “I would like to ask you some questions.” He turned to Morrissey. “Preferably in private.”

  Morrissey nodded. “As you will. Just thrust your head out the door an
d call for Higgins if you need anything.”

  Jane Grimswell’s face stiffened. “Keep Higgins away from me!”

  “Now, now, Miss Grimswell. He only wants what is best for you. We all do.” He closed the door behind him.

  Miss Grimswell glanced at the door. “Miserable vermin, all of them,” she muttered. Her hair would originally have been light brown, but had turned mostly white and hung in long, straight, dirty strands. Her face was thin and wasted, and she had dark, haunted eyes which stood out against her pale skin. She wore a thick gray woolen robe and heavy slippers, her hands hidden in the robe pockets. The chair creaked as she rocked.

  Holmes and I approached her. He took the chair from the small desk, turned it about and sat. Jane stared out the window through the bars. “Too pat,” she murmured, “too pat.”

  “What is too pat, madam?”

  “Those stories. You always figure everything out, and it all fits together like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Life is not like that. Nothing fits together. And the villains in the stories are silly. The Devil is missing, the dark parts, the scary parts.”

  Holmes smiled. “I did not write those stories, and I do not greatly care for them. Watson does often leave out the important parts, and I cannot always figure out everything. Sometimes I need help. I believe you can assist me.”

  “I can assist no one. I sit here in limbo waiting for death, longing for death, but afraid of death all the same. Much of my life I fought with the Devil, but now I am tired and...” Her dark eyes glittered as they filled with tears. “At least here there are only petty demons, comical ones. It... it does not seem just.”

  “What does not seem just?” I asked.

  “Everything.” Her hand suddenly appeared, touched her eyes, the fingers thin and delicate. Constance had been right: her sister’s hand bore little resemblance to her huge, swollen hand—or to Rose’s large, strong one.

  “Have you heard what happened to your cousin, Lord Grimswell?”

  “Of course. He fell from the tor and smashed himself to bits.”

  “Do you think it was an accident?”

  Her laughter affected me like the moan I had heard in the hallway. “Certainly not.”