“Lady Verr said her great-aunt or great-great-aunt was one such unfortunate. There is also an interesting variation of the story which further connects the worm and the Marsh women.”
Holmes leaned forward slightly, setting his hands on his knees. “Yes?”
“In one version, Sir Michael marries one of the former votaries of the grove, a red-headed woman like the worm herself. Thus the family has links both to Christianity by way of Sir Michael and to some earlier pagan cult, Celtic, or perhaps even pre-Celtic by way of his wife. And who knows for how many centuries—millennia even—religious rituals dedicated to the worm may have been carried out at Diana’s Grove?”
A grim comical smile pulled briefly at Holmes’s mouth, vanishing at once. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“Well, this whole story of sacrifices and people hurling themselves into the pit does provide simple motivation for our gigantic specimen: food.”
I shook my head in dismay, but Sir Nathaniel nodded eagerly. “I have thought the same thing myself! This beast may go dormant from time to time—she may sleep or hibernate—but eventually hunger wakes her, and she returns to the surface!”
“Come now!” I exclaimed. “Do we really know this snake is female?”
“The stories all agree on that point.”
Holmes gazed at me and nodded. “We may take its being female as a working hypothesis.”
I shook my head again. “I’d prefer that it remains an ‘it’.”
“And what of Miss Marsh?” Holmes asked. “Do you see any signs of the curse manifesting itself in her?”
Sir Nathaniel shook his head firmly. “Not in the least. She is much too vain and silly.”
“Vain?” I asked.
He nodded. “Is not her pursuit of Adam Selton the height of vanity? Oh, I humor him, but his true friends cannot help reflecting on the unsuitability of the young lady.”
I realized I was frowning. “Unsuitable in what way?”
“Her lack of either wealth or a title.”
A sharp laugh slipped free from my mouth.
Sir Nathaniel looked severe. “What is so amusing?”
“Everyone seems to acknowledge that Lady Verr is after a rich husband. You said so yourself, but you did not fault her for it.”
He shook his head twice, his face reddening. “It’s not the same thing at all.”
“How is it not the same?”
“Lady Verr has a title now. Her husband was a baron. She has traveled in the highest circles. She is a mature woman.”
“Oh I see,” I replied sarcastically. “That makes it perfectly all right, then.” Sir Nathaniel didn’t seem to know how to take this.
“Has the young lady ever shown any signs of a melancholy disposition?” Holmes asked.
Sir Nathaniel shook his head. “Not that I am aware. From what I have seen she is a complete flibbertigibbet.”
Holmes shook his head. “She must have a more serious side. She has lost both her parents and her grandfather in the last few years. Especially given her isolation here, it must have been hard to bear.”
The old man shrugged. “I suppose that is true. She is lucky to have a fine lady like Arabella to look after her now.”
Sir Nathaniel wanted us to stay for tea, but Holmes told him we had business in the village. Micklethorpe was just over the hill from Doom Tower, only fifteen minutes’ walk the old man assured us.
As Holmes and I started down a gravel path winding through a grassy slope below the gray stone manor house, I shook my head. “There was a certain rational semblance to what he said, but you cannot have taken all that gibberish seriously?”
Holmes smiled at me, the hand with the stick rising and falling in time to his pace. “You were not convinced by all his scientific reasoning?”
“I am no naturalist, as we all agree, but I don’t think he is a genuine scientist either.”
“As you noted, there is a certain logic to his conclusions, but he makes some erroneous and gargantuan leaps to get there. For example, the likeliest candidate for the mythical sea serpents of legend is nothing like a snake, not a reptile at all, but a fish, the oarfish. Fish and reptiles are not the same at all, so to see some sort of brotherhood—or sisterhood—between the sea serpent and his white worm, is false. We also know that no animal can live for centuries—none. To assume that great size means longer life is another fallacy. He is certainly sincere, but all the same… The great French mathematician Laplace once said, ‘Le poids de la preuve pour une affirmation extraordinaire doit être proportionnel à son degré d’étrangeté.’
Holmes’s French was quite good, but he had not passed much of his youth in France, as I had. I could hear his accent. “‘The weight of proof for an extraordinary claim must be proportional to its degree of strangeness.’” I nodded. “In other words, extraordinary claims require… extraordinary proofs.”
Holmes nodded. “Exactly, Henry, exactly. By the way, you must restrain that knight errant aspect of your character when we are around the old gentleman.” I gave him a puzzled glance. “Your rushing to Miss Marsh’s defense.”
“He is maddening! He condemns her for wanting Selton and assumes her motivation is greed, but with Lady Verr all is forgiven, all is excused.”
Holmes laughed. “Exactly so. A beautiful woman like her levels Sir Nathaniel’s massive walls of reason and rationality with a single smile.”
I shook my head. “That’s almost poetic! And quite apt. They say love is blind, and that certainly applies in his case, although perhaps it is more infatuation.”
“Yes, Henry, it does apply.”
There was a rustic wooden sign with “Micklethorpe” carved in it pointing to a path on our left. Holmes turned onto that path. “What exactly is our business in Micklethorpe, anyway?”
“Truly grave and serious business, Henry. We must find a pub.”
I laughed. “You had me there. I thought you were serious. A glass of beer does sound wonderful after all this fresh air and walking.”
“I was serious, Henry—it is not mere thirst. Libraries and books are not the only places where one can conduct useful research.”
Micklethorpe was one of those extraordinarily picturesque and quaint English villages. It had the requisite worn gray old church with a steeple and a nearby ancient graveyard, a few stone cottages with slate roofs, a small shop with a window for the post office and telegraph, and of course, a public house, the White Swan, which looked as if it had stood there with its wooden sign since the days of Robin Hood.
After the bright sun on the moors, the interior of the pub seemed like a cave. Massive oaken beams crossed the ceiling, and everywhere was dark, aged, rough-hewn wood. The publican was stout and ruddy-faced, his appearance indicating a fondness for his brew. He wore a white apron and was smoking a clay pipe when we entered. He filled two heavy glasses with beer and set them on the gray slate counter.
Holmes raised his glass and took a drink. “Excellent, excellent, sir. I have not tasted better in the countryside.”
The publican had placed his pipe stem between his teeth, and he gave a slight nod.
“My friend and myself are visiting Mr. Selton at Lesser Hill. Perhaps you know Mr. Selton?”
The publican nodded again. “All right, he is. No airs like so many from the town.” His eyes had a certain warning look with this pronouncement.
“We are taking in all the local scenery and estates. Perhaps you can help settle a dispute between my friend and myself.” He turned toward me.
“What dispute?”
“We are considering a night-time visit to Diana’s Grove and its ancient sacrificial site by the sea. I argue that in these enlightened times, one need not worry about ghosts or malevolent spirits, or any influence from the past, while my friend says it would be best to stay away from such a place after dark.”
Three creases appeared in the publican’s forehead, and he drew slowly on the pipe.
“Well, sir, what would
you advise?”
“Do as your friend says.”
“Indeed? What can there possibly be to fear?”
The publican shrugged and did not speak.
“Nasty things,” someone muttered. We turned and saw a little man in rough garb sitting at a nearby table.
“Nasty things?” Holmes took his glass and sat down across from the man. I joined him. “What sort of nasty things?”
“Never you mind.” The man took a big swallow of some dark ale. He looked to be about forty, his hair cut short, not by a barber, and he hadn’t shaved in several days. “I knows what I knows. First a calf gone, then a cow. It’s near wiped me out. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Surely you cannot imagine something in Diana’s Grove had anything to do with your cattle disappearing?”
“Can’t I?” He laughed dully.
“I would think cattle could wander off and be lost.”
“You don’t know much about farming, do you, squire?”
“I suppose not. Perhaps something attacked them, a wolf for example.”
The man laughed again. “No wolves here, not in two or three hundred years.”
“Perhaps feral dogs, then. And were neither of these animals seen again? No bones or other remnants?”
The man had black eyebrows and eyes; he scowled, then smiled bitterly.
“What is it, man?”
“It don’t make no sense. None at all.” He stared down at his beer, shaking his head. “It couldn’t have been.”
“You’ve piqued my curiosity, sir,” Holmes said. “What couldn’t have been?”
“A fisherman told me, old Ned told me, he saw her floating out at sea.”
Holmes seemed genuinely surprised. “Someone saw your cow floating in the sea?”
“Yes, just off the coast near here, a-bobbin’ and a-floatin’, all bloated and swollen and… half eaten, big bites out of ’er.”
Holmes shook his head. “How could he possibly know it was your cow?”
“She was a Highland breed with a curly black coat, the only one in the county. He could see the black and her horns.”
Holmes tapped at the table. “Incredible. And… he did not consider fishing her out of the sea and bringing her ashore?”
The man laughed in earnest. “Are you barmy? Why ever would he do that? Cow’s far too heavy, and why would you want to bother with the carcass? Can’t eat such a cow, not after a few days in the ocean and all the guts still insider her. Most of them, anyway. Better the fish have her.”
I felt sick to my stomach and took a big swallow of beer. “This makes no sense,” I said.
“When did the cattle first begin to go missing?” Holmes asked.
Again the man scowled. “’Twas last October or so, just before the first snows. Old Farley up north of the grove lost one.”
“And sheep have gone missing too?”
He nodded. “Aye.” He stared at Holmes. He had obviously been drinking for quite a while. “For a city fellow, you’re awful interested in livestock.”
“I still don’t see why you think Diana’s Grove has anything to do with this.”
“Light there at night, green light shining through the trees and the mists. Not natural, not natural at all.”
“Perhaps it was only someone with a lantern.”
“No green lanterns round here.” He rose awkwardly to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the table, then went to the counter. “Another, Ted.”
The publican shook his head. “You’ve had enough.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!”
“No. You’ve had enough. Go home and have your supper.”
“So my business isn’t good enough for you! I’ll go elsewhere, I swear I’ll go elsewhere.” He slammed down the glass, turned and lurched toward the doorway.
The publican stared warily at Holmes. “You ask too many questions, mister.”
We finished our beer and rose to leave. A large man with a reddish beard sat in the corner near the door. He gave us a hard stare. Outside, we blinked our eyes at the bright light, then started back along the path to Doom Tower. The sun was lower in the sky now to the west.
I shook my head. “I had so hoped this would be a pleasant holiday in the country and nothing more, but I don’t think it is going to turn out that way.”
“No,” Holmes said. “I don’t think so either.”
“That was truly a bizarre story—the cow floating out at sea! That must be a mistake.” Holmes only shrugged. “How could the cow get out there in the first place?”
“Perhaps someone threw her from the cliffs.”
“But half eaten? And wouldn’t she have simply washed ashore? This is all very odd, and Sir Nathaniel’s lunatic speculations… With the case of the Grimswell Curse, there was an obvious motive—Rose’s great fortune, over four hundred thousand pounds. But Miss Marsh and her aunt have almost nothing. Could… could there possibly be some factual basis to this story about the worm?”
Holmes glanced at me from under the brim of his walking hat. “You know my thoughts on ghosts, phantasms, werewolves, vampires and all such kin. I have never encountered any true otherworldly manifestation—only men. And women. I think this will turn out the same.”
“But if cattle and sheep have gone missing, and people are seeing odd things at night in Diana’s Grove, someone must have gone to a great deal of trouble.”
“Yes, a great deal.”
“But why? Again, where is the motive?”
“We shall have to wait and see, Henry. I have some ideas, but they are only ideas, idle conjecture, at this point. One must resist the temptation to speculate too soon. We have not even rounded out our cast of dramatis personae. Tomorrow we shall meet Mr. Edgar Caswall. I must admit to a certain anticipation.”
I shook my head. “I suspect he is the craziest of the bunch, and that is saying something.”
We had come up a rise, and the sea appeared before us, the waters a dark deep blue, glistening, quivering, but almost flat, awash with yellow highlights from the sun. We paused to take in the view.
“A cow out bobbing and floating, half eaten.” Holmes laughed softly. “Remarkable.”
* * *
That evening after supper, Holmes and I went outside to see the sunset from the ridge at Lesser Hill. Selton remained inside. Perhaps even he was weary from all the walking he had done! After ironically asking my permission, Holmes slowly smoked a single cigarette as the orange disk slipped below the hills to the west. The clouds went pink and orange, and the waters of the sea took on a brilliant glow, reflecting the dappled sky upon their rippling surface. It was cool, but we were dressed warmly, and the evening was truly spectacular. The sky darkened, a few stars gradually appearing. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to go in.
Holmes finally sighed, turned to the left, then laughed softly and shook his head. “Nicely done.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Look there, toward Diana’s Grove.”
I could see the dark shape that was the woods beside the sea. “I don’t see anything.”
“Give it a moment.”
A green light suddenly lit up the grove, a spot of glowing color against the darkness. “What on earth?”
“I think that is supposed to be our worm.”
“Are you serious?”
“You heard people speak of the mysterious green light. You have now witnessed it yourself. There is your proof the monster exists.”
“I don’t find any of this very amusing. Where can that light be coming from?”
“You don’t think it is the serpent’s glowing eyes?”
“No!”
“Neither do I. It probably is some type of lantern, an enormous one, with a lens of green glass.”
“But who would do such a thing?”
“Again, Henry, we shall have to wait and see. Let’s go back inside. It’s getting cold.”
I shook my head. “The stars will be trul
y spectacular in another hour or two.”
“Yes. We must come back outside and have a look.” A brief smile pulled at his lips. “Perhaps the worm itself will appear.”
We opened the door and went through the entryway into the main sitting room. Evans strode toward us. He wore a well-cut woolen suit and long overcoat, and carried a bowler hat of lustrous black felt. Compared to his master, he was quite lanky, his face thin with high cheekbones. He had that typical fair but ruddy English complexion, his blond hair parted neatly on one side, the pomade obvious. His pale-blue eyes matched his coloring, but they had an air of calculation.
“Ah! Going out for the evening?” Holmes said.
Evans nodded. “Splendid night for it. The moon will light the way to Micklethorpe and the Swan. Time for a pint or two with some local chums.”
Holmes nodded, but Evans lingered, hat in hand. He was staring expectantly at Holmes, who glanced at me, then smiled faintly. “How long have you worked for Mr. Selton?” Holmes asked.
“Nearly four years, sir. And if I may say so, no one knows him better than me.”
Holmes nodded again. “Yes, a valet often knows his master well. He is privy to his secrets, to the emotional storms and various tribulations. Sometimes the valet becomes a confidant.”
Evans smiled. “Funny you should say that, sir. Truly, I am very close to Mr. Selton. He is my employer, and I know my place, but all the same… He tells me things. I know all about him. And Miss Marsh as well.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I hate to see him troubled so, and everyone has heard about the famous Sherlock Holmes. I know you want to help him. Still, I’m not sure as how… Well, I’d be happy to talk with you, Mr. Holmes, but all the same…”
“You might want some compensation.”
Evans looked relieved. “Compensation? Well, if you insist…”
“And if I do not insist?”
Evans looked worried, the mask of amiability briefly slipping.
“Don’t worry, Evans, you shall have your compensation. I can oblige you with a few pounds for certain facts.”
“And I shall only give them to you because I know you have the master’s best interests at heart!”
“I certainly do.”
“I hope you do not think…” Evans tried to look embarrassed, but I was not convinced. “It’s just that a valet does not make a great deal of money, and I have an old mother that needs my aid.”
The White Worm Page 7