“Indeed? Mr. Selton seems very generous.”
“So he is, to an extent, but all the same…”
“He must be generous. Those boots of yours were not cheap, were they? It is unusual for a valet to have custom-made shoes. And your suit and overcoat… How agreeable that you can support your elderly mother and still dress so impressively.”
A slow flush appeared on Evans’s cheeks. “I had to save a long time, and these are my best, not the usual thing by far. Surely it is no crime to want to dress well? I’ll wager your shoes are custom-made too. I don’t want to be a valet all my life, Mr. Holmes. I have aspirations. I want to better meself. Is that wrong?”
“Certainly not. Well, we mustn’t keep you, Evans. The Swan awaits. I am certain we can work out some compensation and have a little chat in the next day or two. You do know something about Miss Marsh as well?”
Evans looked a little wary. “I do, sir.”
“Excellent. Our talk may save me a great deal of effort. Well worth the expense! Have a good evening, then. Given your sartorial splendor, I must say I suspect one of your chums at the Swan may be a lady.”
Evans quickly shook his head. “No ladies, sir. I just always likes to look my best.” He put on his hat and quickly walked away.
I shook my head. “What an odious character. I think we had better warn Selton that his valet is not trustworthy.”
Holmes shrugged. “Perhaps. Or we might leave well enough alone. This certainly explains a thing or two.”
Four
The next morning, Thursday, Holmes and I made the long trek uphill to Edgar Caswall’s Castra Regis. Selton had mentioned that Caswall seemed to have taken an odd dislike to him and that we might do better alone. As we walked, the gray-white mists hanging over the green fields around us gradually dissolved, revealing clear, blue sky and the summit above with its gray-brown moorlands. When we reached the weathered castle at last, the climb up its tower stairs took even longer and was more exhausting than that of the day before. As we neared the top, the elderly servant behind us began gasping.
We came out at last into the open air. Holmes walked forward to the wall. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “What a view. Henry, you must see this. The wall is even taller and thicker than at Doom Tower.”
I smiled weakly and shook my head.
“Stay back a foot or two if you must, but have a look.”
I warily advanced, stopped three feet away, advanced another foot. He was right. Below us was rolling countryside divided up into an uneven patchwork of green squares by the hedge rows, the darker green of solitary trees or groves, then the gray stone and finally the expanse of blue-green sea. The castle was the highest point for miles around, but to our left was a rocky ridge and a continuation of the dusky brown moorland which would be spectacular when the heather flowered in summer.
Holmes had set his right hand flat on the thick, rough-stone surface. He shook his head. “Incredible.” He looked left, then right, then stepped back and turned, his eyes fixed on the heavens. His left hand held his tweed hat, and the sunlight shone on his damp black hair and glistening forehead. His gray eyes briefly caught mine, even as he smiled and nodded faintly. “Look up there, Henry.”
I turned. Far off in the distance, set against the brilliant blue sky, hung the brown bird-shaped kite with its hawk face, those yellow piercing eyes and beak. Some kind of tattered-looking tail hung from it, but we could not make out the string. We had noticed the kite during our journey.
On the other side of the tower, near a wall a good ten yards away, stood a man in a black cloak with his back to us. From an elaborate sort of winch with a wooden handle came a taut silver wire, glowing faintly in the sun, briefly visible before it vanished into the heavens in the direction of the kite.
“Wire,” I said. “I suppose that guarantees that he cannot lose his kite.”
Holmes nodded. “Exactly.”
The old servant in his black frock coat had one hand over his chest, his face still red, even though he had managed to catch his breath. “I shall introduce you to the master, sirs.” He staggered forward, taking small steps, in the direction of the man. “Sir. Sir,” he croaked. “Mr. Caswall?”
The man swung around. His arms were folded against his chest, but his face—and especially his eyes—were a shock: harsh, arrogant, edgy, extreme. The eyes were that dark brown often called black, and his eyebrows dipped slightly over his aquiline nose, hardly thinning, the effect being of one thick black line drawn across his face. The wind had further tousled his mane of curly black hair, and his thick lips had a sneering sort of smile. I don’t generally believe much can be made of first impressions, but he looked so disturbing, I knew something must be wrong with him. The family was supposed to be of ancient Roman stock, and he had a face which would have fitted any of the mad emperors who followed Augustus.
“These gentlemen have come to pay their respects, sir.”
Caswall nodded imperiously. “Welcome to Castra Regis, gentlemen. Welcome to my tower.”
Holmes nodded. “I am Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps you have heard of me. And this is…”
Caswall lowered his arms and stared at me. “Dr. Watson. Yes, of course. So it must be.”
“I’m sorry, but I am Dr. Henry Vernier.”
“Nonsense—don’t try to lie to me, John! It will not work. It is you. Of course it is Watson.” He stepped forward and grasped my arm fiercely. Surprisingly, given the power and vigor of his countenance, he was not a very tall man, a good six inches shorter than I. “You must give up Holmes for good. You have found a new and better subject. You will become my amanuensis, my Boswell.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “Indeed?” was all that I could manage.
His face was inches from mine, more than uncomfortably close.
“Yes, John. I will tell you all my secrets, and you will write them down and make me and my marvels known to the world.”
I nodded, smiling nervously, then pried his fingers lose and took two steps back.
“Your time has come and gone, Mr. Holmes. You had your day in the sun with the English public, but now a new and greater hero will take your place.”
Holmes’s mouth pulled into a one-sided smile, even as one black eyebrow rose. “I yield my place most willingly, sir.”
“That’s noble of you. You are wise to bow to the inevitable.”
I swallowed nervously. “That’s quite a kite you have there. I see that you must enjoy playing with your kite and…”
“Playing?” His black eyes opened so wide the whites showed around them. “Playing! I do not play. I commune with the heavens.” He looked around warily, although it was obvious enough that only Holmes, I and the servant were present.
From a wooden shelf below the winch, he withdrew a thin metal disk some six inches across. He took some crayon or grease pencil and wrote in large letters: ZEUS = TARANIS = CASWALL. “A simple equation.” The disk had a hole in the center, and a split which he could open up to get the hole into the wire. He slid the disk a way up the wire, then let go. It drooped for a minute, then the wind caught it and sent it flapping like some weird bird up the wire; it hesitated, then flew again. We all watched as it rose upward into the sky. “These runners are not truly necessary, of course, but they facilitate things.”
I smiled warily at Holmes, murmured softly, “Taranis?”
“The Celtic version of Zeus,” he replied, then more loudly: “Quite remarkable, Mr. Caswall. I see you have come up with a clever solution for direct communication with the heavens. And the hawk shape of your kite?”
He shook his head angrily. “All the wretched white birds—gulls and especially doves. Crows and ravens are my brothers, but insipid white doves all cooing and shitting everywhere! The kite keeps them at bay.”
Holmes nodded. “Another clever solution. You have certainly made your mark in the neighborhood since your return to Yorkshire. How long exactly has it been?”
“About seven mont
hs. I arrived the day of the autumn equinox, the exact point of balance between the light and the dark.”
Holmes nodded. “Ingenious. And you have settled in so well. We are just visiting this corner of Yorkshire and thought we would call.”
He stared at me. “But Watson must remain.”
“Yes, I can see that now,” Holmes said. “However, we have some business nearby to which we must attend before he can stay.” I tried to smile, but some of my dismay must have showed.
“In the interim I shall make some notes for him.” Caswall seized a pair of binoculars from the shelf and gazed up at the kite. “The message is almost there.”
“Do you know your neighbors well? We were thinking of visiting some of the notable estates, such as Diana’s Grove.”
Caswall nodded. “Arabella’s home. Yes, the house—and she—are worth a visit. The embodiment of female charms and voluptuousness.” He raised his right hand toward the heavens. “This is my domain.” He suddenly strode across the stone floor to the opposite wall, then pointed down toward the thick green grove of trees and the gray house. “And that is hers. The sky for me, the earth for her. To each his dominion.”
“Quite sensible. And you must know Miss Marsh as well, Diana Marsh.”
If Caswall’s smile had had a certain sneering quality, now it changed to more of a leer. “Yes, I know the young virgin. She is ripe for the picking.”
Holmes’s eyes briefly went hard, but he quickly recovered. “I have heard rumors—I hope I am not being too forward—of a possible matrimonial union between you and Lady Verr.”
Caswall shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps. But only if she proves worthy. Only if she shows that she appreciates my powers and can assist me in my great endeavors.”
I was still uneasy about his earlier words. “I suppose then she’ll come here and Miss Marsh can remain at Diana’s Grove. Perhaps…” He was staring at me as if I were mad. “Perhaps she will marry someone near her own age.”
Caswall raised his head high and shook it three times. “No, no—impossible. Impossible. She must first learn submission.”
I could not hide my disgust. “I think not! I’ll wager that she’ll marry Adam Selton.”
Caswall’s eyes shot open again in that extreme way, even as he clenched both fists. “Selton—Selton! That great lumbering oaf, that… yokel! She could not possibly choose a clod of mortal clay over the divine.”
Holmes nodded, his mouth locked in a grimace of a smile. “I see. And do you know Sir Nathaniel de Salis?”
“I do. He is a wise and worthy gentleman. We spend an occasional evening together discussing both the natural world and the heavenly one that lies just beyond our mortal ken.”
“I suspect there can be few who would appeal to you in Micklethorpe or Whitby.”
“No one, Mr. Holmes. Foolish stupid mortals grubbing for money and slaving at the land or fishing the waters. What can such worms teach one such as I? I was not sure at first about returning to Yorkshire, I who had traveled the great globe, who had seen the wonders of the pyramids, the glories of Greece and Rome, the dark depths of Africa and the Indian continent, but I realize now that I came because this is my true home—here, high in the sky, amidst the clouds and the elements of the air. Here atop Castra Regis, I am truly lord and master!”
I tried to restrain a shudder. I had seen occasional cases of lunacy, but rarely one so pronounced, so extreme. How could someone like Lady Verr possibly consider marrying him? No amount of money was worth that.
“And have you heard the local tales of the White Worm, Mr. Caswall?”
“Certainly. The worm is Lady Verr’s creature. It lives in the pit at the grove.” He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“And is it… a dragon or merely some great serpent?”
He shrugged. “The beast is female, as in the old tale. As a female, she is vain, sensual, stupid and very, very dangerous—only not to me. To you, without a doubt, but not to me. My male powers protect me. As for you, do not go near the pit at night. That is when the worm likely comes forth. And for God’s sake—do not commit foul blasphemy!—do not worship a mere worm.” This last was said with the greatest possible contempt.
I glanced at Holmes. “Had we better not be leaving?”
Caswall clapped a hand on my shoulder. “But you will return soon, yes, John?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Before you go, you might like to see my museum. Two large chambers hold my most treasured objects. One room is filled with lethal weapons: tomahawks and clubs of the American Indians, Chinese high pinders, Afghan double-edged scimitars made to cut a body in two, ghost daggers from Tibet, the terrible kukri of the Ghourki in India, assassins’ weapons from Spain and India, to name a few. The other room contains my animal specimens: stuffed serpents of every variety, giant insects from the tropics, fish and crustaceans covered with weird spikes, dried octopuses, and, preserved in bottles, various embryos and…”
“Fascinating,” Holmes said. “Unfortunately, we are rather rushed today. We shall return another time when we can linger and truly savor your collection.”
Caswall seemed genuinely disappointed. “Very well. I hope it will be soon. I suppose…” He pulled out another silver disk. “There are many messages to be sent, and I must track their progress. The heavens may seem adamantine and immovable, but it requires a strong will to maintain that fixed order.” He scrawled something on the disk, then fitted it onto the wire.
“Well, we shall leave you to your most essential work, Mr. Caswall.” Holmes started for the doorway, and I quickly followed. Behind us we briefly heard the buzzing noise of the disk beginning its journey.
It was only after we had made the long descent and the old servant had closed the massive castle doors behind us, that I finally spoke. “My God, Sherlock—I have never seen such a case before! It is not subtle in the least. He is completely raving mad.”
Holmes nodded. “Truly he is, Henry. You could see that immediately in his eyes.”
“And would Lady Verr actually consider marrying him?”
Holmes’s smile was brief. “It would obviously not be a marriage of love. The lady has a strong will. I think she might be a match for him.”
I shook my head. “And the way he talked about Miss Marsh—disgusting. If I were a relation of hers, I would not let him anywhere near her.”
Holmes nodded grimly. “I agree with you there. He is all sickness and corruption, while she is all innocence.”
I smiled. “Perhaps not all innocence.”
He frowned slightly. “And what do you mean by that?”
“She is clearly in love with Selton, and I don’t think her feelings are merely platonic.”
Holmes shrugged. “I suppose not.”
We had started down the path. On either side were long, brown grasses, gray stone covered with moss and lichens, and dull, gray-brown heather bushes. A stunted tree thrust itself free from crevices in the rocks, but the top branches were black and withered, no doubt blasted by lightning. I felt the cool steady wind on my face.
As we walked, I slowly regained my composure, so much so that I could say, “And will you be sorry to lose me?”
Holmes had his blackthorn stick in his right hand. He turned to stare at me, the brim of his tweed hat shadowing his eyes. “Lose you?”
“Yes. I must soon return to help Mr. Caswall write his divine book.”
Holmes laughed. “It will be a sad day, Watson, a very sad day, when you must leave me.”
We arrived back at Lesser Hill shortly after noon to discover a fancy brougham and a pair of grays before the house. Selton introduced us to his parents who had just arrived: Mr. Richard Selton and Mrs. Ann Selton. In an odd reversal, the lady turned out to be the larger, a sturdy woman a good six feet tall with a pinched, unhappy face. Mr. Selton was half a foot shorter, somewhat stout, but with massive shoulders, arms and hands. His dark-brown hair was thin on top, but his enormous mus
tache hid his upper lip and curved down half an inch on either side. He had the same blue eyes as his son, eyes which regarded us warily.
Much to Adam’s discomfort, the elder Selton demanded to speak with Holmes alone. Holmes insisted that I be included and affirmed my trustworthiness. Selton grudgingly nodded, then led us to a small over-decorated sitting room filled with furniture. He did not ask us to sit down, but immediately folded his arms. “Whatever my son is paying you, I shall double it if you can end his absurd infatuation with Diana once and for all.”
Holmes had also folded his arms. His black hair shone faintly, still damp from our long walk, and his face had some red-brown color to it. “Paying me?”
“Come, come, Mr. Holmes. I know why you are here: some ridiculous letter about white worms and curses on the Marsh daughters. Clever enough, but obviously from someone who, in pretending to drive him away, wishes to bring them together.”
Holmes gave a sharp laugh. “Do they now? After careful consideration, I came to the opposite conclusion. I think someone wants to separate them.”
Mr. Selton frowned. “If that were truly the case… Well, regardless, I want you to do whatever you can to make him see the unsuitability of the lady. What has he offered to pay you, anyway?”
“Twenty pounds a day; two hundred when the case is resolved to his satisfaction.”
Selton’s eyes widened, even as he seemed to freeze. Gradually his mouth pulled into an ugly smile. “If you think you can name any preposterous sum and that I shall believe you…”
“Sir, I am not in the habit of lying to try to raise my fees. You asked what your son had offered me, and I have told you.”
Selton’s smile faded, and he shook his head. “The boy is crazy. He has no understanding of money.” He swallowed hard. “Very well, then. I said I would double his offer, and I shall. Forty pounds a day, and… four hundred upon… satisfaction.” Saying such words aloud obviously pained him.
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