The Grimswell Curse

by Sam Siciliano

  Constance set down thick china mugs, then went to the stove for a big iron kettle. She poured the steaming brown liquid into the mugs. The sweet, pungent smell filled the kitchen.

  “I do not want any.” Rose’s voice was soft and very tired.

  “Oh, nonsense, dear—you must drink some. It will warm you up and get your blood flowing.” She picked up a cup and sipped it. “Just right—not too hot, not too cold—not too bitter, not too sweet.”

  “It smells heavenly.” I lifted my cup. Holmes moved remarkably fast, lashing out with his hand and knocking the cup sideways so it smashed onto the stone floor. He had done it so skillfully that none of the hot liquid touched me, but I was surprised—and angry. “What are you doing!”

  “Watching out for you, Henry. Curious substances have a way of making themselves into food and drink here at Grimswell Hall. Coffee and baked apples. And hot chocolate.” He was staring at Constance.

  Rose said nothing, but her mouth stiffened, her black eyebrows coming together. Constance reddened, covering her mouth with her big, swollen-looking hand. “Whatever are you saying, Mr. Holmes? There is nothing wrong with the chocolate. I tasted it myself.” She raised her mug. Holmes watched her, tension appearing about his mouth and eyes. His hand twitched once, but then he was still as she drank deeply from the mug. “It is very good.” She turned to Rose. “Won’t you drink yours, dear?”

  Rose shook her head. “No. I am still recovering from the apple. I feel so bizarre. It was even worse than the last time. You must have put in more.”

  “Rose—what are you saying? Why would I want to harm you? Or Doctor Vernier or Mr. Holmes?”

  Rose’s blue-gray eyes were angry. “I do not know.”

  My head had begun to ache, the fatigue numbing my senses. It was nearly two in the morning. “Why would she want to harm us?” I asked dully.

  “Because she blames us for her son’s death,” Holmes replied. “He was an evil creature like his mother, a vicious murderer, and I would have had few qualms about shooting him dead. However, he took his own life—he jumped from the tor rather than being taken prisoner and facing the hangman for his crimes.”

  A look of utter dismay showed on Rose’s face, both horror and anger evident. “Oh, Lord,” I murmured, “not Jane—but Constance. He was a Grimswell. He would have been the heir, the last male, but only if he were... legitimate.”

  “Which he was not,” Holmes said, “but she arranged something with the earl, the father, before his death. The man was as contemptible, as lacking in morals or decency, as she and her son. He also disliked his wife. What better trick to play on her than rendering their marriage null as bigamy? Constance must have some document purporting to show that she was indeed married to the earl. As you say, that would make her son the last male in the line: he would become the viscount, the new Lord Grimswell. More important, with Rose dead, he could also pursue her father’s great wealth, all the property and the money left to her. However, they had to act before she married—they could not allow that, for her husband would then inherit everything.”

  Constance had clenched her fists. “Preposterous lies—slander—you have... no proof.”

  “While Henry and I were in London, I spoke with the earl’s steward. He told me you had visited his master a few months ago, shortly before he died. There cannot be two women who fit your description.”

  Constance laughed harshly. “Not two women so ugly, you mean.”

  Holmes shook his head. “I did not say that.”

  “But you thought it! Men are all the same... Vile. Disgusting. They think you are ugly, but if you give them what they want, they will end up groveling at your feet. Jane could have had her earl, but she did not understand that. She could have had him in a second if she’d forgotten her precious virtue.”

  Holmes stared at her. “You took him from her coldly and deliberately knowing full well what it would do to her.”

  “I did her a service! He was a beast, a pig. She would have been miserable married to him. Any woman would have been.”

  “You have always tormented her, have you not? You must have hated her.”

  Constance’s smile was answer enough. The familiar mask of the amiable old auntie was gone, the real woman revealed. “Yes, I did hate her. She was the fair, tiny, beautiful one, while I was always poor Constance. Her sympathy was what infuriated me most.” She reached out a hand toward Rose, who drew back instinctively. “You see, Rose, I do understand how you feel. I have never felt any animosity toward you or Victor. If there had been a way to make Geoffrey a wealthy viscount without harming either of you, I would have gladly done so. I sympathize with you, dear—honestly I do. Life is a hard business for women like us, and I would have actually been doing you a favor if—”

  “Do not do me any favors.” Rose’s voice shook. I had never seen her so angry. “I am not like you—not like you at all.”

  Constance laughed. “No?”

  “No.” Rose shuddered. “No!”

  “She is absolutely correct,” Holmes said. “She is nothing like you.”

  “The blood of the Grimswells flows in her veins.”

  “What of it?” Holmes exclaimed. “She has her mother’s blood as well. She is only distantly related to you. Her father was an honorable and brilliant man. Every family has its share of drunkards, lunatics and criminals; it has nothing to do with blood or curses. You chose to be the monster you are—just as your son chose—and now you must suffer the consequences of your evil deeds and cowardly choices.”

  “You—you—you dare call me a coward?”

  Holmes’s nostrils flared, and he leaned forward, setting both hands on the table. “A coward of the worst kind—you used tricks and subterfuge, poisons and deceit—you tried to drive a fine young woman, your own relation, mad. You helped kill your cousin, who always looked out for you and your sister. You are beneath contempt and beyond comprehension. I should have left you for the hangman as well, but I allowed you and that cowardly bully of a son to take your craven way out. Now have the decency to keep quiet and spare my ears and Rose’s any more of your drivel.” His hands began to quiver, and he stood up.

  Constance glared at him. Her complexion had lost its pinkish cast, and a few drops of sweat showed on her forehead. Her dark eyes were monstrous, pained and raging, and neither she nor Holmes would look away. Rose appeared ill, and I felt sick myself.

  Constance suddenly clenched her teeth, then groaned, grinding her teeth briefly. “With Rose, it would not have been personal, but with you...” She tried to smile even as her face went nearly green. “I would have liked to kill you, Sherlock Holmes—how I wish I could have...” Again she clenched her teeth, her hands clutching at her belly just below her bosom.

  “What was in the chocolate?” My voice quavered.

  “No doubt something very quick and deadly. Painful, too. Possibly aconite or cyanide.”

  Rose’s eyelids fluttered. “Oh, God.” She was ashen. “I feel sick.”

  Holmes inhaled through his nose. “Get her away from here, Henry. This will not be pleasant.”

  “Gladly.” I stood, my own legs swaying briefly. I took Rose’s arm and helped her up. We started for the door.

  “Goodbye, Rose.” Constance’s voice was a croak, her face ghastly, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

  Rose looked at her but said nothing. We walked quickly down the dim hallway. She was trembling again. I held her big hand loosely in mine. It felt cold yet sweaty. I could think of nothing to say and squeezed her hand tightly.

  “There you are at last.” Michelle smiled at us. She looked absolutely beautiful. “I was just coming. How... What has happened? What is wrong?”

  “I shall tell you, but first we need something to drink. Where are Hartwood and Digby?”

  “Digby and Fitzwilliams are putting the doctor to bed. I forbad him to try to walk back home tonight.”

  I poured Rose and myself each a glass half full of whisky. She sat on
the sofa between Michelle and me. Michelle put her arm around her. The first swallow set her coughing. I told Michelle all that had happened. As I was finishing we heard Holmes’s footsteps echoing softly through the hall. Something about the sound made the back of my neck feel cold; my shoulders rose involuntarily, my teeth clenching.

  “I cannot believe it,” Michelle said. “I cannot believe it.”

  Holmes’s forehead was furrowed, his mouth taut. “She will trouble you no more, Rose. Now it truly is over.”

  Rose began to cry, and Michelle drew her closer. “Hush.” I leaned over and gripped Rose’s forearm tightly.

  Holmes’s eyes glanced about the shadowy hall, the granite walls a great silent presence all around us. “Few people of any age are tested so severely, Miss Grimswell. You have undergone the worst of trials and not merely survived, but... you have demonstrated a quite remarkable courage. I would never have imagined... It is said that adversity can bring out hidden strengths. In my experience, the reverse is usually the case—hidden weaknesses pour forth—but not with you. I shall have to alter my estimation of the female sex. I should give you a scolding for what you have done, but your bravery has so overwhelmed me that I cannot. I can only offer you... my deepest and most sincere admiration.” His face had flushed, and Rose stared up at him in disbelief.

  Michelle frowned. “Sherlock, whatever are you talking about?” That was the question I also wanted to ask. I had never seen my cousin so overcome, especially before a young woman half his age.

  “Actually, Michelle, you are partly to blame.” The mocking smile showed affection.

  “Sherlock!”

  “Your speech last night made her resolve to take matters in hand, all that talk of decoys and bait. When she realized that she had been drugged again, she decided to try to take advantage of it. She resolved to—as you put it, Michelle—do something. She used herself as bait to trap the man on the moor. She was not sleepwalking at all. She deliberately left the house knowing full well the deadly peril she faced. However, since she wanted to catch our killer, not become his next victim, she had to figure out a way to alert us. Quite cleverly she pretended to be sleepwalking and told Fitzwilliams exactly what she was about to do. She knew he would come to me and that she would be followed. However, she was still taking a frightful risk.”

  Michelle’s eyes widened. She turned to Rose. “Is this true?”

  Rose nodded.

  “How could you do such a thing?” Michelle exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

  Rose stared at her, her mouth opening. Holmes frowned. A laugh burst from my lips—a very odd sound. I tried to restrain myself, but I could not hold back my laughter. Holmes glanced at me, his dark eyebrows briefly diving inward, then he too laughed. Rose smiled warily.

  “Henry! What is so amusing?” asked Michelle.

  “You are,” I managed to say. “You who wished to go out at night in your nightgown with a revolver and a black wig.”

  “I never thought... Rose, you should not have kept it a secret. I never talked about doing anything completely on my own. Why did you not tell us?”

  “Because I knew Mr. Holmes would never allow it.”

  Holmes nodded. “You were correct. You had me quite puzzled this evening. I could not imagine what you were up to, although I did finally figure it out—too late. I was almost certain you had been drugged, but why would you not admit it? I feared...” His expression grew somber. “You had endured so much, I thought something might have finally snapped, your reason... Did you receive some communication from your supposed father? I thought he might try to speak to you through the chimney again. That was why Henry and I patrolled the house.” Rose’s hands formed fists. “There was a note on my bed. He wrote that I was to meet him by the gate at midnight, that we must speak, and he threatened the most terrible things should I not appear or should I tell anyone. He signed it as my father, but I no longer believed it might be him.”

  “Constance must have left the note as she was saying goodnight, and she probably returned and destroyed it while we were all out on the moor. Still, they were taking a chance. Thus far they had never left any tangible evidence that anything existed beyond the deluded mind of a young girl. The note would have proven once and for all that you were not imagining anything. They were desperate because they knew we were leaving the next day, and you might marry Digby in London. That would vastly complicate things.”

  “But even if she were not married,” I said, “how could they possibly claim her fortune? Her will left most everything to medical charities. We sent that letter to her solicitor.”

  “Ah, but when the long-lost Grimswell appeared from America or Australia to reclaim the title, he would have argued that his dear cousin would have left everything to him if she had only known of his existence. A good solicitor would have had little trouble getting Grimswell Hall and the land—they generally go with the title—and most of the rest of her fortune as well, I suspect. However, were she married, retrieving the money from Digby or his family would have been far more difficult. They decided to hazard all on a final effort. Of course, the murders had shown to all but the most superstitious that something was terribly amiss. What did they threaten in the note?”

  “That you... that you would all be killed. Torn to pieces, one by one.” Her voice caught in her throat.

  Holmes smiled grimly. “Constance would have liked to kill us all.”

  Michelle was staring at Rose, her eyes pained. “I wish... I wish you had told me.”

  Rose sighed. “I dared not, but do you not see?” She gripped Michelle’s hand in hers. “I could never have done it if not for you.”

  Michelle stared closely at her. “Oh, my dear—I do not know—”

  “I have never met anyone like you. Being around you has made me see that... And when you talked that way last night, I... I realized that perhaps I might actually do something. I was so tired of being buffeted about—of being toyed with and... tortured. You made me understand that I could fight them, that I...” She put her hand alongside her cheek. “Oh, my head is spinning, and I am so tired of all this.”

  Michelle put her arm around her. “Well, I am glad it has ended and that you were not badly hurt. When I saw that dog running at you... Thank God Hartwood was there.”

  I glanced at Holmes. “So he was hoping to protect Rose?”

  “Exactly. He knew her life had been threatened, and he feared the worst. He may have been the only inhabitant in all of Dartmoor who would have willingly chosen to spend the night near Grimswell Hall. The locals are terrified of the place. He determined to watch the house and see if he could apprehend the mysterious man on the moor.” Holmes looked at Rose. “He admires you greatly.”

  “He is very... kind. I must admit that when I saw that dog coming at me I completely froze. I was expecting a man, not a great beast.”

  “I wonder how many nights Hartwood spent out there,” I said.

  Michelle smiled. “Two. I asked him about it while I was stitching him up. Also, ‘admire’ does not do justice to his feelings for you, Rose.”

  She sighed wearily, then raised her eyes and stared at Holmes. His smile faded away, a puzzled look appearing in his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, who... whom do you think I should marry?”

  His brow furrowed, his lips parting. Rose continued to stare at him, color appearing in her cheeks. Holmes ran his long fingers back through his black oily hair. “My dear young lady, I could not presume... to tell you such a thing.”

  Her eyes with the swollen black pupils had a hot intensity. “No?” she murmured.

  “No.”

  Michelle glanced at me; we both understood. Rose lowered her gaze at last, then wiped at her eye with her fingers. “Forgive me. I... I should not have...” We had seen her dressed in black for so long that the white gown was still a surprise. She pushed her black hair back over her shoulders, and her long throat rippled as she swallowed. Her cheek had begun to swell and change color. Holmes gazed acros
s the hall at the fireplace, where coal smoldered on the grate.

  “I could not presume...” His voice was almost a whisper. “I know very little about such matters, or about women. They remain one of life’s mysteries. My own heart belongs to another, one of the few whose life has been as dark and strange as my own, one who may never...” He stopped abruptly, then stared again at Rose. “I can tell you this. You are young, quite beautiful, intelligent and remarkably talented. You have more to offer most men than they could ever give you in return, and any man who is not an absolute imbecile would be honored to have you as his wife.”

  Rose stared at him, her eyes going all liquid. At last she said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

  I felt as if something were caught in my throat. “Every word he said is true.”

  Rose turned to me. Michelle smiled. The silence of the great, empty hall was overwhelming, and we all let the quiet sink into our weary bones. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, feeling the link between us four and my sense of relief. For once at Grimswell Hall, I could not hear the moan of the wind.

  * * *

  Next morning, a Thursday, we awoke to discover that several inches of snow had fallen, and a blizzard had begun. We could not leave Dartmoor for another four days. It was a peaceful time, everyone relieved that the danger which had hung over Rose was gone at last. She played the piano often, and we spent several pleasant hours in the conservatory. The gray-white light of the desolate sky shone through the glass upon a jungle of green ferns and palms and lit up the koi, their colorful, scaly forms contrasting with the blue tiles. It felt odd to look up from the fish and see huge fuzzy snowflakes drifting about beyond the glass.

  Constance was laid to rest in the frozen ground the day before we left, the funeral the strangest I have ever attended. Her son was still below Demon Tor on a slab of granite, covered by more than a foot of snow. Rose was good-hearted enough to ask about recovering the body, but Holmes told her the effort would be far too dangerous. Spring might come before the body could be found. The mother and son deserved their fate, but not so Rose’s father. The dying Constance had told Holmes that Victor lay at the bottom of Grimpen Mire, deep in oozing mud. A sheet of ice now sealed his tomb. Three Grimswells were dead, while Jane remained at the asylum in London, but at least with Rose safe, there was hope for the future of the family, if not for the Grimswell name. And in the end, what did a name—a mere jumble of letters—matter?