The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  Rose drew in her breath slowly. “All the same, I think I shall retire. My... my head aches.”

  Holmes was watching her very closely. “Do you feel... peculiar?”

  “No. Only tired.” She was still staring at the burning wood. “I shall go upstairs.” She stood.

  “Let me come with you,” Michelle said. “I shall see you settled for the night.”

  “Thank you, but you needn’t trouble yourself.”

  Constance finished her glass of port. “Oh, I can tuck the girl in. It will be like old times.” She also stood.

  “I would just like to be alone for a while.”

  Michelle’s eyes were troubled. “If that is what you wish.”

  “I’ll just see you up, dear, then leave you.” Constance took one of the small candles burning near the door.

  Rose brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Digby smiled at her. “Pity you don’t feel better, Rosie. See you first thing in the morning.”

  We all said polite goodnights, but Rose did not speak. The two ladies departed, Constance holding Rose lightly by the arm. Constance was the only woman who did not appear small alongside Rose. Although Constance was two or three inches shorter, she no doubt outweighed Rose considerably and appeared larger. In their plain, somber black dresses the two looked like votaries of some funereal cult, but Constance was clearly high priestess.

  Holmes withdrew his cigarette case. As he smoked, he paced. The black tail coat and trousers accentuated his tall, slender frame. Digby continued to chat amiably, although no one paid him much attention. At last Holmes threw his cigarette butt into the fire and said he, too, was retiring for the evening.

  Michelle and I followed him into the great hall. In that vast dark chamber, the brilliant blue of her dress was muted, but if anything, her beauty was even more striking.

  “Michelle,” Holmes said, “would you check on Miss Grimswell after Constance has left? I want to be sure—”

  I seized Holmes’s arm. “Hush—here she comes.” Despite the shadowy darkness, I recognized Constance walking along the gallery above us.

  We passed Constance on the stairs. She smiled broadly. “The poor little lamb is all settled for the night. I’m sure a good night’s sleep will do her a world of good.”

  We walked silently along the gallery, the framed former Grimswells all hidden in darkness, and then down the hallway. Holmes and I waited a few feet away while Michelle rapped gently at Rose’s door. She murmured something, and a few seconds later, it opened. Michelle stepped inside.

  Light from the doorway to Holmes’s room spilled into the hallway. We waited briefly and then went to his room. As usual, a coal fire had been started, and it was comfortably warm after the chill of the hallway. I had sat in a chair and Holmes had again begun to pace when Michelle appeared.

  “Well?” Holmes asked.

  Michelle appeared puzzled. “She says she feels perfectly well, and yet her behavior seems odd. She has not been so distant with me before. She would not seem to meet my gaze. And...”

  “And?” Holmes asked.

  “She had a piece of paper in her hand when I entered. Perhaps... She put it under a book quickly, as if she wanted to hide it.”

  “Blast it.” Holmes shook his head, then went directly to a chest of drawers and withdrew his revolver and a dark lantern. A sense of dread, never far distant at Grimswell Hall, settled about my heart. He took off his tail coat and white bow tie and put on a tweed jacket. “Henry, would you accompany me?” He opened the lantern to light it.

  “Certainly.”

  Michelle folded her bare arms resolutely. “I am coming too.”

  A sudden fury flared in Holmes’s eyes, but he struggled to restrain it. “You shall do no such thing. You will remain here. If Miss Grimswell should call, someone must be close by.”

  “But—”

  “There is no time for foolish arguments. The moment of crisis may be at hand, and I cannot have you constantly disputing my authority. Will you do as you are told, or must I ignore you entirely?”

  Michelle’s jaw tightened, the anger showing in her eyes. Although I sympathized, I sided with Holmes. She was all too eager to throw herself into danger. “I shall stay,” she said at last.

  “Good. I doubt you will miss much. Our search may well turn out to be a boring waste of time.” He rummaged in another drawer and withdrew a second revolver. “Henry insists you know more about revolvers than he. Keep this with you. We shall leave the door open so you can hear better should Miss Grimswell call.”

  Holmes started for the door, but I paused to kiss Michelle’s bare shoulder. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  Holmes took the ancient stairs at the end of the hall up to the next floor. The only light came from the lantern, its beam dancing on the wooden floor.

  “What are we looking for?” I asked.

  “Ghosts,” was his brusque reply.

  We spent the next hour or two walking about the many halls and rooms of that wing of the ancient edifice. Most chambers were obviously long out of use. The damp air smelled musty, and ghostly white fabric covered the furniture. The ever-present wind rattled the window panes, and more than once, panic clawed up my throat as I fancied some figure lurking in a dark corner or beneath a thin sheet. We also went up onto the roof. The wind hurled stinging bits of icy rain into our faces, and dark swollen clouds rolled across the vast sky, the moon a veiled presence behind the swirling mists. However, we saw no sign of anyone.

  When we returned at last to Holmes’s room, Michelle rose. Holmes gave his head a fierce shake. “Nothing.”

  She took my hand. “Oh, you are freezing.”

  “Did you hear any word from Rose?” Holmes asked.

  “No.”

  He frowned. “I must be certain she is well. It would be best if you spoke to her again, Michelle.”

  Michelle sighed. “Is it...? I hate to wake her if she is sleeping.”

  “There is no helping it.”

  We went the few feet down the hallway to Rose’s door. Michelle hesitated, then knocked gently. “Rose?” In the hallway, sheltered from the wind, was a heavy, all-encompassing silence which permeated the massive walls about us. I was afraid again. Michelle knocked more loudly. “Rose? Rose.”

  “Blast it,” Holmes muttered, as he tried the knob. “The door is locked, as I advised, but I have the key. If she does not-”

  “Yes?” The voice from behind the door was faint.

  “I wanted to be certain you were not ill,” Michelle said. “May I come in?”

  “I am just resting,” Rose said. “I am well. Give me a little while longer, and you can have Meg come in for the night.”

  Holmes pointed at the doorknob and whispered, “Have her open it.”

  “Can you let me in for a moment, my dear? I shall not pester you for long.”

  “Oh, I am so tired.” Rose sounded near tears.

  Michelle turned to Holmes. “Can we not...?”

  “I must get in there!” he whispered fiercely.

  “I’m sorry, Rose—please, we must...”

  “One minute.”

  “Rose?”

  The silence grew like a great wall all around us. Holmes clenched his fist and struck it lightly against the wall. “I like this not. I—”

  The door swung open, revealing Rose’s pale face. “Oh,” she said, when she saw Holmes and me. She had removed her black dress and put on her night clothes, a white nightshirt and long white robe. Her long black hair was down, spilled onto the white fabric.

  “Forgive me,” Holmes said. He strode past her into the room, and we followed. Holmes was peering under the bed. Next he went to the wardrobe and looked inside. Rose appeared pale and ill, her eyes feverish. Holmes paused by a small table, stared at a large book, then lifted it. Nothing was underneath.

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” Michelle said.

  Holmes had examined every place where someone might be hiding. He also pulled aside the curtains
and looked out the windows. At last he gave a harsh sigh and came back to us. “Again, forgive me, Miss Grimswell. I had to be certain. Is there anything you need to tell me?”

  Her eyes were curiously unfocused, as if she were asleep. “No.”

  Holmes’s brow was furrowed. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”

  Michelle touched her gently on the arm. “My dear, you must know that—”

  Rose’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, must you all make it so difficult! How often must I say ‘no’? Excuse me—I am tired—only very tired. Please leave me alone. Please.” She slowly drew in her breath, steadying herself. “Send Meg in now. I want to go to sleep.”

  Holmes nodded. “Very well. Be sure to lock your door for the night before you go to bed.”

  We went into the hall, and Rose closed the door behind us. Holmes stalked away, muttering something savagely. He turned to us. “Michelle, would you be so kind as to find Meg so they can be settled for the night?”

  A savage yawn contorted my face. “Lord, I am tired myself.”

  Michelle took my arm. “You need to get to bed.”

  “Not yet.” Holmes started back toward his room. “We must have another look about.”

  “But it is after ten, and I thought you searched everywhere,” Michelle said.

  Holmes turned again. “I do not plan to sleep tonight. However, I shall only need Henry for another hour or so. We must check the rooms again, especially those above Miss Grimswell.”

  The back of my neck felt cold. “You suspect the same trick as last time, an apparition at the window?”

  “I suspect something. She is behaving...” He shook his head angrily. “Something is wrong.”

  The house seemed colder and darker than ever, and again, fear hovered always nearby. We were gone a long time, but we found nothing. Afterward, the three of us sat in Holmes’s room staring silently at the fire. The clock on the mantel showed quarter to twelve, but neither Michelle nor I made any move to leave. My cousin’s agitation had proven contagious, and I doubted I would sleep much that night either.

  All the same, when I closed my eyes, I found myself in another dark silent room. Moonlight shone through the mullioned panes of glass, and then a face was there, a face split into quarters by the lead. I recognized Victor Grimswell from his portrait: black hair and a huge mustache, thick eyebrows, but his skin was a deathly blue-white color. He smiled at me, his lips parting slightly, and I saw the tips of the canines resting on his blood-red lips. My heart seemed to stop beating, and then his face swelled, grew—which was impossible—I did not want to move—but I must be going to the window. He drew his upper lip back, and then something touched my arm. I started wildly.

  Michelle’s face was a welcome sight. “What is it?” she asked.

  “A bad dream.”

  “Perhaps we should go to bed.”

  “Sherlock may need us.”

  Holmes was staring at the fire, so lost in thought he had not even heard a word. He had a pipe in his hand, and a cloud of rich-smelling smoke surrounded him. Abruptly he stood up and turned to us. “Of course—of course! The answer is staring me in the face. It is obvious when you think about it.” He glanced at us, then his eyes settled on Michelle even as an odd smile pulled at his mouth. “You must have given her the idea. Certainly you gave her the idea, and I... My own prejudices, my own assumptions, have completely blinded me! But it is not too late, I trust. We must—”

  A voice rose over the wind sound: Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes. Holmes frowned. “Did...?” he began, but this time there could be no mistake.

  “Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes.” Fitzwilliams staggered through the door and leaned on the table, ready to collapse. Holmes went to him in an instant and seized his arm, holding him up. The old man’s face was pale, his lips nearly gray. “Mr. Holmes... Ah, thank God, thank God, you are...”

  “What is it, sir?”

  “Miss Rose—you must stop her.”

  Holmes clenched his teeth. “Oh Lord, what has she done?”

  “She went outside. She was in a daze, sleepwalking again, like when she was a wee girl. I tried to stop her, but she said she had to see her father, see him at midnight by the front gate. I tried again to stop her, but she was too strong—too strong for me. I tried...”

  “Oh God,” I whispered.

  “Damnation.” Holmes pulled the old man toward a chair and sat him down. “Henry, get yourself a heavy coat.” He put on his own overcoat, a bowler hat, and seized the revolver. “We have not a moment to lose. Rose’s life is at stake. Michelle, look after Mr. Fitzwilliams. Meet me at the front door, Henry—quickly.” He rushed out.

  I grabbed a candle and started down the hall, muttering a few nervous curses as I went. I threw aside my formal tail coat, put on a tweed jacket, then searched the wardrobe for my heaviest coat. I turned to discover Michelle seated and lacing up a leather walking boot. It looked quite ludicrous alongside her blue silk gown.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Changing my shoes. I suggest you do the same, but hurry.”

  “You are not—”

  Her mouth formed a familiar, resolute expression, her jaw stiffening. “I am going, by God, unless you and Sherlock wish to waste time trying to restrain me. It will not be easy, even for two of you.”

  I had wrenched off my patent leather pumps and was pulling on a boot. “I wish you would stay here.”

  “I shall not.”

  We rushed downstairs and found Holmes standing before the big doors. Digby stood beside him, his hands hidden in the pocket of his overcoat. He smiled at us. “Ah, the more the merrier.” Holmes’s brow furrowed ominously as he stared at Michelle.

  “What is he doing here?” I asked Holmes, indicating Lord Frederick.

  “I heard all the commotion,” Digby said, “and came a-running.”

  Holmes’s eyes were still fixed on Michelle. “Please go back upstairs, Michelle.”

  “No.”

  “If you will not—”

  “You said there was no time to waste, Sherlock.”

  Holmes muttered something darkly under his breath, turned and opened the door. The rain had ceased, but the wind was louder than ever; above us the branches of the great oaks and the tall evergreen yews swayed. Clouds covered the moon, but its hazy orb still breached the darkness. We started down the granite pathway toward the gate, our breath forming smoky white mists. I found myself nearly running to keep up with Holmes. All around us, tree limbs groaned and shook from the wind.

  “Bit of a chill in the air,” Digby said amiably.

  “Michelle,” Holmes said, “do you still have the revolver I gave you?”

  “Certainly.”

  I glanced at her, surprised. I had forgotten about the revolver.

  “I say,” Digby said, “why not let me have it? I’m a pretty good shot, you know.”

  Holmes shook his head. “We shall see.”

  Digby raised his arm. “Someone has opened the gate. No sign of Rose, though.”

  As if on cue, a figure all in white stepped out from behind the trees and walked between the two granite pillars out onto the moor. Holmes broke into a run, and I did the same. We reached the gateway in time to see Rose walking toward the hillside and the clitter scattered below Demon Tor. Another person came out of the trees.

  “Miss Grimswell!” he shouted.

  The voice was familiar. “Hartwood!” I exclaimed.

  “I knew it!” Digby was triumphant.

  “Miss Grimswell! For God’s sake, beware—run!” Hartwood raised an arm; then the huge full moon broke free of the clouds, flooding the moor, its grass and heath, with cold blue-white light; and we all saw the black shape loping toward Rose, so large that I mistook it for an instant for a horse or pony, rather than what it was—a hound. Rose turned and saw it coming straight for her, but she seemed unable to move.

  “Shoot it!” I cried.

  “Not at this range!” Holmes ran, and we followed.<
br />
  Hartwood was faster. Even as he bounded forward and leaped over clumps of stones, he managed to slip out of his coat. He passed Rose, then whirled the coat about his forearm and stood his ground. The dog veered toward him, then leaped and seized his arm in its huge jaws. Hartwood staggered, but remained standing. Rose seemed to come to her senses; she hesitated, her arms rising even as she backed away. Hartwood swayed awkwardly, then fell. He and the dog rolled about furiously on the grassy turf, the animal growling and snarling, now Hartwood on top, now the beast.

  Holmes reached them, revolver in hand, the barrel raised toward the sky, but he did nothing, no doubt fearing he might hit the man, not his foe. Hartwood had his arms before him as he struggled desperately to keep the dog from tearing at his throat. The moon gave its sleek black coat a white sheen. At last Holmes bent over, seized the dog firmly by the collar, and yanked the beast away even as he lowered the barrel. The crack of each shot was deafening so near. The mastiff made a pathetic noise between a bark and a howl, twisted about and fell dead on its side, two bullets having passed through its brain.

  Hartwood sat up, clutching at his left arm and the remnants of his coat all in tatters. “Oh, thank God—and thank you, sir.”

  “Well,” Digby said, “we have our man on the moor at last.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hartwood’s face was white and shaken under the moonlight.

  “Do not be an utter ass,” Holmes said to Digby. “Hartwood is not the man we seek.”

  “Then what was he doing here?”

  “Watching out for the woman he loves, and a good thing, too. He was close enough to distract the hound. We would have been too late to save Rose.”

  “But...” Digby’s voice had a plaintive note.

  “There!” Holmes’s arm swung around. “There is your man in black!”

  He had appeared out of nowhere, his arms folded. His face struck me with fear—I had seen him in my dream and hanging amid a frame on the wall of Grimswell Hall. He had the same large black mustache and eyebrows. His skin was an eerie luminescent white, glowing, dark circles under his malevolent eyes. A cowl surrounded his face, part of a black cloak.

  “Dear Lord,” Hartwood moaned, “it is Victor. It cannot be. He is dead—I saw...”