Holmes ran forward, but I was too horrified to move. The man rushed toward Rose. She stood as if frozen, a ghostly figure in her white gown, the wind blowing her long black hair about her. The man seized her arm, and I realized he must indeed be a giant, for he towered over even Rose. He jerked her about and pulled her uphill toward the tor.
Hartwood groaned as he stood up, swaying slightly. I touched his arm—the shredded sleeve was wet and sticky with blood. “You are hurt,” I said.
“It is nothing, a few minor lacerations.”
“They will need stitching,” Michelle said.
“Later.” Hartwood stumbled forward. “We can’t let that monster have Rose.”
Digby’s lips were tightly set, and for the first time I saw something like embarrassment in his face.
Holmes had a head start, but the man moved quickly, dragging Rose along. The moon was still out; under its brilliant light the huge fragments of black granite scattered about the hillside cast shadows. The man’s cape swept behind him while Rose stood out because of her white gown. Our adversary’s goal was obvious—the summit of Demon Tor.
Holmes was closing on them, but when he had nearly reached the top, the man stopped abruptly and turned again, one spidery black arm grasping Rose about the waist, his other hand below her chin. His white hands were on the same grand scale as the rest of him, and he wore no gloves. “Stop where you are!” he shouted. “One step more, and I’ll open her throat from ear to ear!” Moonlight flashed off a blade.
We all halted at once. Holmes was about twenty feet below them, while we were twice that distance.
Behind me I heard Hartwood’s labored breathing. “He... he sounds something like Victor, yet...”
“Go back,” the man cried. “Go back or I’ll cut her throat.” His voice was deep, yet strangely muffled, a rolling, ominous bass.
Michelle glanced at me, anguished. We could not see Holmes’s face, but he did not move. The hand with the revolver hung at his side.
“You heard me—get away!”
“No,” Holmes said. “I am afraid I cannot oblige you.”
“I’ll kill her—in God’s name, I’ll kill her!”
“I believe you, but if we depart, you will kill her all the same. However, in that case, you might go unpunished. I intend to remain here, and I promise you, I give you my solemn word, that if you harm her, I shall shoot you dead.”
The man laughed. “How clever of you to reason that all out. Your reputation for brains appears deserved, Mr. Holmes.”
“You might as well take off your mask. You will be more comfortable.”
Again the man laughed. Something about his uncaring nonchalance sent a chill up my spine. “Thank you, but I prefer to leave it on.”
“Why? You will not escape us. Besides, your great size makes you a marked man. Would you not prefer to be comfortable while we are speaking?”
More laughter. “You are a clever dog, Mr. Holmes.”
The right hand kept the knife at Rose’s throat, but the left rose, tore away the mask and pulled back the cowl. The mask struck a rock, and then the wind hurled it away. The face revealed did not have the artificial luminescence of the mask, but there was a curious resemblance: a younger visage with the same black mustache, sharp nose and high cheekbones. The angry dark eyes had, of course, remained the same.
“Who is he?” Hartwood mumbled.
“That is better.” The deep voice rang out clearly now.
“The mask made no difference to me,” Holmes said. “Fluorescent white paint does not frighten me, and I know exactly who you are, who your parents were.”
“Do you really?” He sounded sarcastic.
“Your father was an earl who unfortunately neglected to marry your mother.”
His smile vanished. “You bastard.” The irony of this insult did not escape me.
“I know why you killed Victor and why you wish to kill Miss Grimswell. Unfortunately for you, a murderer cannot inherit.”
The man had his left arm wrapped about Rose. He held the short, deadly blade up, then touched it lightly to her neck just below her jaw. Her face was white under the moonlight, her eyes curiously unfocused, her lips clamped tightly shut.
“What is wrong with her?” Michelle moaned. “Why does she not...?”
“She has been drugged,” I whispered.
“I want you to throw me your revolver, Mr. Holmes.”
Holmes laughed. “You know I cannot do that. You would kill her anyway and us as well. We have a stalemate, but I can offer... If you will release her, I shall let you escape.”
“No,” Michelle exclaimed.
The man laughed. “Now it is you who take me for a fool. Do you expect me to fall for such nonsense?”
“I would give you my word of honor.”
The man’s smile was ugly. “The word of an English gentleman. I fear I cannot accept it.”
Holmes was silent for a moment. The wind rose, sweeping downhill, its icy touch on our faces. “I can offer you an alternate hostage. I shall trade places with her.”
“No, Sherlock,” I said. “Dear God, no!”
The man stared at him, still smiling. “You would put down your weapon and trade places with her?”
“Yes. I would give the revolver to my friends and then remain while she leaves with them.”
Rose blinked, and her lips clearly formed the word “no.”
“How chivalrous, how gallant. Unfortunately, your life is of no value to me. Granted there would be a certain satisfaction and a notoriety in eliminating a man of your reputation, but it would not earn me a penny. Miss Grimswell, on the other hand...”
“I have told you that a murderer cannot inherit. There is also the circumstance of your birth. Your scheme is finished—failed utterly. I promise you that. We have a stalemate.”
“Not exactly, Mr. Holmes. Not if I give up my scheme and accept my fate. Not if I willingly choose death—for us both.”
Michelle’s hand reached out and gripped mine. Holmes did not speak for a long while. Rose’s eyes had opened wide. The wind swept her long black tresses over the white gown.
“Why would you make such a choice?” Holmes asked.
The giant was still smiling. “Perhaps because I would like to put an end to the wretched Grimswells once and for all. Her blood may not be polluted, but mine is—twice polluted, you might say—on both sides of the family. My father was every bit as vile as I, but he lacked the spine to act. Of course, he had nothing like the Grimswell Curse to live up to. Not that villainy matters much among peers. Plenty of lords—earls, marquesses, viscounts, even dukes—are as degenerate as I, their very blood tainted and rotten, yet no one has the bad taste to hold it against them. They did not have the misfortune to be born out of wedlock and then to lose all in one final wager. And perhaps I would like to take this poor, pitiable creature with me. Really, I’d be doing her a favor.”
“You lying cur!” Hartwood shouted. “You heap of filth!”
The man laughed. “Oh, really, doctor. I have heard it said that love is blind, but I never believed it until now. She is dark, plain, and much taller than you. What a comical pair you would make.”
Hartwood stepped forward, his face very pale. I seized his arm. He grimaced, then fell to his knees. Michelle and I knelt beside him. What remained of his left sleeve was soaked with blood, his fingers wet with it. He struggled to rise.
“No,” Michelle said. “You are hurt, and he will not let you near him.”
“Quite right, doctor.” The man glanced over his shoulder, then backed uphill, pulling Rose along. “You would only force me to cut her throat. If we go off the tor together, she might have something of a chance. She could conceivably survive the fall. She is a pitiable creature. I know all about her. The Grimswells are either evil monsters like me or feeble contemplatives like her father. I would have invigorated the strain, but no matter. She was almost too easy to manipulate, so very predictable, and the drug makes her eve
n more docile. Oh yes, and the Grimswells do have more than their share of insanity. Look at poor Jane.”
“We know about Jane.” Holmes advanced a furtive step or two. “She might have done well enough if she had not been tormented, if someone had not pushed her over the edge.”
The man laughed. “That particular strategy has worked quite well for us. It’s odd, but I do feel something of a father to Rose. I have been told that I bear a striking resemblance to Victor by someone who knew him intimately.”
“By the woman at Merriweather Farm.” Holmes’s voice shook. “You need not have killed her. George’s loyalty might have been suspect, but never hers.”
The man’s smile vanished. “I had to be sure. I could not risk it.”
“She loved you, did she not?”
“What of it?” Somehow this casual remark, revealing such an abyss, such a lack of any human feeling, was more chilling than anything he had yet said. “That is close enough, Mr. Holmes.” He raised the knife again, pressing the tip against Rose’s neck. I felt Hartwood’s arm muscles tighten. “You are sure you would not like to leave?”
“No, I shall not.”
“It might be amusing to cut her throat, or I could merely stab once, just here. Once the artery is pierced there would be no saving her. How amusing with three doctors standing by, utterly helpless.” He gave a chuckle. “That would be amusing to watch. Nothing any of you could do.”
He showed his teeth as he smiled, and a trickle of blood appeared on Rose’s throat, black in the moonlight, a tiny rivulet. Her eyes opened wide, her lips drawing back to reveal her clenched teeth. Hartwood moaned softly.
“Yes, either way I shall be doing her a service, but somehow the fall seems more appropriate, killing her and myself just as I killed her father.” He laughed, and the hand with the knife drew back, even as his other hand rose to grip her arm.
Rose opened her mouth wide and lunged for the knife hand, biting down hard. His fingers jerked open, the knife falling; she had him just below the thumb. He screamed loudly, a jagged, irregular sound, and grabbed her black hair with his free hand. Holmes raised the revolver, but hesitated.
“Let go—damn you! Ahhh.” He yanked at her hair, then gave her a great clap on the side of the head with his left fist. She closed her eyes and fell, and Holmes’s revolver flamed. The man in black staggered, his gigantic white hands all a-fumble. In the end he clutched at his right hand with his left, rather than trying to hold the wound in his shoulder. “Oh, you bitch,” he moaned, “you treacherous bitch.” He lashed out with his boot and caught Rose in the side.
Holmes fired again and started for him. He did not seem to feel the second bullet, but only turned, his long legs taking a few quick last steps to the top. For an instant he showed against the gray-white sky, a black shape with the cape swirling about him, and then he was gone. He had not hesitated, and we heard no scream, no sound but the wind.
Holmes knelt beside Rose and helped her to her feet. Michelle and I rushed to them. Rose was crying now, sobbing loudly. She swayed, then reached out and seized Holmes, her strong white hands clutching at his back, drawing him to her. She was trying to talk, but we could not understand her. Holmes was startled, but then his right hand rose and patted her gently on the back.
“Oh, thank you,” Rose cried, “thank you!”
Holmes smiled. “You did most of my work for me this evening, Miss Grimswell. Later I shall lecture you, but not just now. Are you hurt?”
“My head hurts so, and I still feel so very strange. The moon is... the moon is so bright.”
Michelle gently drew her away and touched her cheek. “You are going to have quite a bruise on that side of your face. It’s lucky he did not strike your ear. Where did his boot catch you? Here, I believe.” Rose winced. “Most likely it is only bruised, but he may have actually cracked a rib or two.”
I put my hand on Rose’s shoulder. Her whole body was trembling, and the tears ran from her eyes, her mouth open wide in a smile even as she wept. “It is over, Rose—you are safe now—you are safe.” She slipped her left arm about me and pulled me nearer, catching both Michelle and me in her strong embrace.
Holmes’s smile faded, something grim and dark showing in his eyes. He turned and started for the summit. I wanted to follow, but I dared not. Merely thinking about the fearful drop and the broken body lying on the granite far below made me anxious.
Digby and Hartwood stood by awkwardly, a look of envy on their faces. I slipped free and turned to Hartwood. “We must see to that arm of yours.”
“It is nothing,” he said, but he was clearly near the point of collapse.
Digby took off his overcoat. “This won’t fit you, but at least you can put it over your shoulders, and it will keep your teeth from knockin’ together so.”
Hartwood shook his head.
“Come on, old boy—you’re the hero of the hour, one of them, and I look the fatuous dolt, all my fine theories in a shambles. Show a bit of magnanimity and take the fallen foe’s coat. I still have my Norfolk jacket, and it’s quite heavy.”
Hartwood gave him an odd look. It had been quite a speech. “Thank you, but Rose has more need of it than I.”
Digby sighed and shook his head. “Curses, upstaged again.” He handed his overcoat to Rose. “Here, Rosie—take it.”
Michelle had let her go. She looked first at Digby, then at Doctor Hartwood. “No, guh... give it to Doctor Hartwood.” Her teeth were chattering.
“Come now, Rosie. You can’t refuse chivalry, after all.”
She let him put the coat over her shoulders, then her hands drew it about her even as she shuddered. “Thank you, Doctor Hartwood—oh, thank you. You saved me, too. When I saw the dog... Oh, I could not move.”
“We need to get you both inside,” Michelle said. “It really is freezing out here.” She turned to look uphill.
Holmes appeared at the very summit of Demon Tor, a black figure atop the black granite, the vast moonlit sky behind him. The clouds scudded like great restless behemoths, the moon illuminating their slow movement as they swallowed up clear sky and stars. Holmes started down.
“Did you see him?” I asked. The others were quiet. Rose seemed to hold her breath.
“Yes. He could not have survived the fall.” He looked at Rose. “He will haunt you no more. You are free of him.”
She began to cry again, softly at first, but then in sobs which shook her shoulders and made Digby’s coat slip to the ground. It was too small. Michelle held her.
“Thank God it is all over,” I said.
Holmes’s brief smile was joyless. “It is nearly over.”
Sixteen
When we entered Grimswell Hall, several lamps were ablaze and most of the maids up. Fitzwilliams staggered forward, took one look at Rose, then went to a chair and collapsed. “Thank God,” he said. “Thank God. If anything had happened...”
His wife also teetered forward, then steadied herself with one hand on the back of the chair and extended her other small, gnarled and trembling hand. “Rose—oh, my dear child.”
Rose went to them and grasped one each of their hands. Because she was so tall, in an odd inversion, she recalled a mother with two small children. She stared down at Fitzwilliams. “If you had not told them...”
Holmes smiled. “As you knew he would.”
Rose had some of the color back in her cheeks, and she gave Holmes a brief, conspiratorial smile.
Constance stepped out of the shadows, a tiny lace handkerchief clutched in her huge hand. “Yes, God be praised that all is well. We have been so worried. And the man...?”
“Dead,” Holmes said, “fallen from the tor.”
Constance clapped her hand over her mouth, and her dark eyes seemed to shimmer, some strange passion briefly overwhelming her, and she turned away, for once, all too briefly, at a loss for words. “How horrible,” she muttered at last.
“I cannot believe it,” murmured Mrs. Fitzwilliams. “I cannot believ
e we are free at last. The Devil is not so easily beaten. But at least... the master is not damned—oh, I know it now! His soul is in Heaven, after all.” Her voice broke.
“Hush, Prudence,” Fitzwilliams whispered softly, caressing her tiny hand.
Michelle had led Doctor Hartwood to a chair near the fire. He was pale and shivering, and his entire arm and the shredded white sleeve were red with blood. “I shall just get my bag,” she said, “then clean and dress the wounds.” She turned to one of the horrified maids. “Could you please get me a large pot of hot water and some towels?”
“Why don’t the rest of you warm up with me in the kitchen?” Constance’s smile was rather fierce. “I have made some hot chocolate. I knew you would be needing something hot.” She stepped forward and took Rose’s arm. “Poor Rose, you are freezing.”
Michelle started for the stairs. “I shall be along later.”
“We’ll save you some, dear.”
“Hot chocolate does sound wonderful,” I said.
“Bit bland for me.” Digby shook his head. “I could use something a good deal stronger. I’ll wager Hartwood could, too, especially if he’s to be stitched. Undiluted scotch whisky is the best medicine. I’ll pour us both a good jolt.” He pulled off his yellow gloves and went to the sideboard where the whisky and the gasogene for making soda water were kept.
“You may have your strong spirits. Chocolate is the very thing.” Constance led Rose toward the kitchen, and Holmes and I followed. Rose turned, her eyes anxiously seeking out my cousin. “You’re still trembling, poor lamb. You must tell me all about this dreadful business.”
The huge cast-iron stove almost glowed with heat, and the kitchen was warm and cozy, unlike the great hall with its endless chill. The dishes from the evening meal had been washed, dried and stacked, the pots scrubbed and hung up. A small table and chairs were on one side of the room. Constance drew out a chair for Rose. I took another. I was exhausted, my legs weary, and it felt wonderful to sit. I pulled off my gloves and unbuttoned my overcoat. Holmes remained standing, his slender white hands hanging at his sides against the black wool of his overcoat.
The Grimswell Curse Page 29