Holmes shook his head. “I did not say that.”
“That thing we saw—you said it was a fake, a fraud!”
“And so it certainly was.”
“But then… There is no White Worm,” I groaned.
“Do not be so sure of that, Henry. Oh, I do not believe in a prehistoric serpent a hundred feet long living in a hole in the ground. However, something has half-devoured the livestock and Evans.”
“For God’s sake—what is it?”
“I have some… ideas.” He raised his right hand, spreading apart his fingers. “But enough idle speculation. We have all had more than enough to digest for one day!”
* * *
By the afternoon of the next day, the weather had changed dramatically. Massive gray clouds had swept in, obliterating the sun, and the temperature had dropped several degrees. Holmes was still resolved to see Caswall, but we decided to take the dog-cart. Better that than lumbering uphill and down on foot in pouring rain.
Arabella gladly gave us her permission to use the cart, but her smile faded when she heard our destination. Holmes explained that we had promised Caswall that we would view his collections of weaponry and dead animals, and our visit was long overdue. Her smile returned, although a more ironic variant. “You must be on your best behavior with Edgar, Mr. Holmes. It is in everyone’s interests that our marriage goes forward.”
Holmes nodded. “Undoubtedly.”
As we took the road uphill, the clouds became blacker still. We had not seen a thunderstorm in Yorkshire yet, but the sky certainly looked threatening enough. The landscape grew bleaker, the few trees smaller, stunted-looking, and the grass and heather brown and squat. These were the high moors of Wuthering Heights, the kind of blasted setting where it made sense that you would find elemental forces and troubled spirits like Heathcliff, Catherine—or Edgar Caswall. The tower of Castra Regis with its primitive gray-black stone fitted the mood. Set high against the dramatic stormy sky, we could also see a brownish shape quivering and dancing—Caswall’s hawk kite.
“I can’t believe he is flying a kite in this kind of weather.”
Holmes was wearing his rustic woolen walking hat and a black macintosh. His lips formed the customary sardonic smile. “The sky god is not troubled by storms—to the contrary, he enjoys them. It is well that he is using wire, rather than string. String would never hold in these winds.”
A wagonette bearing six people approached us. It could only have come from the castle, and one of the women looked like a maid I had seen there before. We had to pull to the side for them to get around us. “Where are you going?” Holmes shouted to the driver.
“Anywhere away from that bloody lunatic!” The man shook the reins, urging the big draft horse on.
Holmes glanced at me. “I wonder what has happened.”
A cold drizzle had begun to fall, and a couple of times I had to grab at my hat to keep it from flying away. The black, dead oak on the ridge seemed to have faded into the dark sky, the contrast much less stark than our last visit when the sky had been a brilliant blue. We reached the main doorway at last, and I waited under the arch while Holmes tied up the horse.
He touched it gently on the neck. “It will be easier going downhill, old fellow.” He joined me, then raised the huge brass knocker and thwacked the door twice.
I wanted nothing more than to stand before a blazing fire and dry out some. Surely Caswall would not be outside on his roof with a major storm approaching? But my hopes were immediately dashed by the old butler who told us the master was “up top.” Holmes and I plodded after the poor old man up all those winding stone stairs and stepped back out into the elements. The wind hurled cold drizzle in my face, and again I had to grab at my hat.
“This is insanity, all right,” I muttered.
Caswall stood a few feet away at the north side enveloped in a heavy black cloak, his back to us. Next to him was the kite hoist, but the wire was hardly visible. Nearby was a small stone shelter with a roof built into the wall, a place where a guard or someone else might stand out of the wind and rain, but Caswall had not taken advantage of it.
Holmes and I went forward, while the servant quickly retreated. With the wind, Caswall could have never heard us coming, but all the same, he turned. His face was very pale against the dark sky and his black garments. The storm blew his black hair all about, and his mono-brow was a long black smear above his nose. He smiled triumphantly and folded his arms, waiting for us subjects to come pay homage.
“Holmes—Watson—you’ve come at last. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you?” Holmes said.
“Oh yes.” He opened up his arms, and in one hand was a grotesque little statue of a naked woman carved in white stone, all swollen hips and breasts. “Now that you are here, I can send the last message.”
He withdrew a metal disk and connected the tiny statue to it with a piece of wire. He stepped over to the hoist, threaded the disk onto the wire, then stepped back. The little statue danced and bobbed for a few seconds. Since it was stone, I wondered if it might be too heavy to go up, but sure enough, soon it seemed to skip up a notch or two, jerked briefly, then began to hop its way sporadically up along the wire.
“Go and be destroyed, harlot bitch!” Caswall snarled.
Holmes and I looked at each other. Neither of us could think of any appropriate response, so we kept silent. Caswall seemed even more deranged than last time. Again I thought of Caligula and the other mad Roman emperors after Augustus.
“I see a little inclement weather does not bother you,” Holmes said.
Caswall shook his head fiercely. “Certainly not.”
In the distance, a particularly black cloud briefly lightened. My eyes swept quickly about the top of the tower. “Would the castle happen to have a lightning rod?” I asked.
“Lightning rod!” He glowered at me.
“Yes, it’s a device which…”
“I know what a lightning rod is, Watson. I am the master of the sky and the elements, the god of storms and thunder! What need has a being such as I of a lightning rod?” He began to laugh in earnest, and the sound made the back of my neck feel cold.
Holmes set one gloved hand over the brim of his hat to keep it on. “Mr. Caswall, we have come to congratulate you. We have heard something about a marriage with Lady Verr.”
Caswall’s lips twisted into a sneering smile. “So she thinks.”
“Is she mistaken, then?”
Caswall nodded. “Oh yes! Do you think I would willingly put my head in the noose? Let the dirty little whore…” He launched into a series of vicious curses and foul language, which made me draw back slightly. Holmes, however, managed to remain completely impassive before this torrent of abuse directed at Lady Verr.
“Very clever, Mr. Caswall. You tricked her into thinking you were going to marry her.”
“She dared to speak of ultimatums—and she takes me for an utter fool.” He laughed sharply. “She spoke to me of love, Mr. Holmes, and she again offered herself to me. She is tempting bait, but could any sane man possibly believe that a woman like her could care for anyone but herself? She is utterly and totally selfish.”
My mouth twisted into a smile. I looked away, and my mouth formed the words, You should know.
“No, no, I am not so easily caught, but I wanted to lure her to complacency so I could have my revenge.”
“Revenge? What has she done?” I asked.
He gave me an incredulous stare. “She is a monster, Watson—a monster. She has a dual nature. She is all voluptuousness and honey, all white limbs and curves and tempting flesh, but she is also a monster who would suck the life from a man and consume him entirely. I have finally figured it all out. The old story was true. She is the White Worm. She can become the great white serpent which dwells in that dark hole in the ground. She has lived for centuries, taking different forms, sleeping for a while in her lair, but always she returns to her alluring female shape to seek a man
to devour. The knight thought he had killed her, but she eventually grew a new head. However, her time has finally come. I am going to eliminate the curse of the White Worm once and for all.” His black eyes had an exultant glee.
“And how are you going to do that?” Holmes asked.
“It is quite simple. Modern technology will provide the means to obliterate this ancient threat.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Dynamite, Watson—a vast quantity of dynamite! I shall have it taken to the grove on May Day, to the sacrificial site, and dropped into the creature’s lair. When it is ignited, she will be destroyed once and for all, along with her hiding place. Both will be blown to bits—pieces of her stinking bloody flesh hurled across the countryside! Diana’s Grove—the Lair of the White Worm—will be gone forever.”
Holmes stared at him, a tenuous smile working at his lips. “Not exactly subtle, but that is certainly one way of approaching the problem.”
“Once she is gone, there will be no one to interfere with Diana.”
I struggled to keep my face neutral.
“How could the old harlot ever imagine I would prefer her over a youthful virgin? No, no, I was willing to take her if she would assist me, but she lied to me. She told me she could make Diana submit, that she would make her understand, but all that time, she was actually doing her best to turn her against me. How else to explain that the girl could resist? No, only Arabella’s interference can explain the failure of my powers. She is, indeed, a goddess, but even a goddess can be destroyed by a sufficient amount of dynamite.” He smiled and nodded.
Holmes’s nostrils flared, and his eyes briefly caught mine. The sky behind Caswall lit up for an instant, and then within a few seconds, a long low rumble followed. “Exactly how much dynamite are we talking about, Mr. Caswall?”
He shrugged. “About a ton. It took two carts to deliver it yesterday.”
Holmes drew in his breath slowly. “And where might that dynamite be just now?”
“In a safe place, Mr. Holmes. It is in my tower, at the very top, a large chamber just beneath us.”
Holmes drew in his breath. “I see.”
A black cloud seemed to be advancing along the ridge toward us. This time I saw the lightning, a jagged, impossibly bright streak of blue-white light flowing out of the clouds down to the brown barren ridge. The crash was almost instantaneous, and I flinched wildly.
Holmes again looked at me, then at Caswall. “Well, sir, this has been most interesting, but I am afraid we must be running along.”
“But you have only just arrived! I can finally show you my weapons, I can show you my collections.”
“Another time, sir—the storm is—something of an inconvenience, and it reminds me—we have business elsewhere. Henry.” He turned and started for the doorway. I quickly followed him. Rain had begun to pour down in earnest.
“You must come back again soon!” Caswall cried behind us.
We practically ran down the stairs and strode into the great hall. Holmes grasped the old butler by the arm. “Who is left here in the castle?”
The old man glanced at an equally tiny old woman all in black standing nearby. “Only me and my wife, sir. The others are gone.”
“You must get away—there is dynamite in the tower—the lightning storm may set it off.”
The old man shook his head. “We cannot leave the master.”
Holmes gave me a wild glance, then drew in his breath resolutely. “We don’t have time for this. I shall take him, Henry—you take his wife.” With that, he stooped and swung the butler up over his shoulder like a sack of flour. I scooped up the old woman and carried her in my arms. She weighed hardly anything. Neither of them cried out or struggled. They must have been relieved.
We made it through the front door, leaving it open, and Holmes put the old man in the back of the dog-cart, I the old woman. They sagged against one another. Holmes quickly untied the horse while the rain and wind lashed our faces. I sat beside him as he took up the reins. “Surely if the castle has lasted this long…”
Holmes shook his head, even as he took the reins. “The stone tower might take a lightning strike, but no one has ever stored a ton of dynamite up there before.”
A great crash of lightning made me bolt upright, and I waited an instant before letting my shoulders sag. “He is certainly absolutely crazy.”
We were going downhill, and Holmes let the slope assist us, driving much faster and certainly more recklessly than on the way up. All the same, it seemed painfully slow As we left the castle further and further behind, I felt myself gradually relax. The wind lessened once we reached the base of the ridge, but the rain had soaked our hats and macintoshes. Occasionally the barren brown moors would light up, and the crash of thunder would follow in an instant.
“Maybe he isn’t…” I began.
Again the landscape lit up, again the crash—which swelled, which grew and changed—became impossibly loud. The landscape brightened even more, but with a reddish tint, even as a hot wind came howling through the rain. The horse cried out, and Holmes struggled to control it. I turned but the fireball was finished. Black smoke poured forth from where the castle had stood. Something hit my hat, then my hand. I raised my hand, felt something else hit my back, my leg. The deluge of stones lasted only a few seconds, and luckily all were small.
Holmes managed to calm the horse at last. I drew in my breath and shook my head. The cold rain poured down around us. I looked up again at the top of the hill where Castra Regis had stood for so long. The smoke obscured everything, but I doubted much of the structure remained. Caswall would have died instantly. One of the old servants groaned softly.
Holmes shook his head. “I am glad we did not linger.”
This set me laughing uncontrollably. I knew it was excessive.
“And we shall not be able to see his collections.” This I also found hilarious, and Holmes laughed nervously as well. At last he shook his head. “That certainly settles things for Lady Verr, once and for all. Edgar Caswall’s fortune is lost to her.”
I had a final look at the smoking ruins against the dark stormy sky. Something was gone, something was missing—the kite, the hawk kite. Holmes shook the reins, and we started down the path through the tall brown grass.
Eleven
At his request, we dropped the sodden old butler and his wife off at a nearby farm where they knew the owner. When we returned to Diana’s Grove that afternoon and told the ladies what had happened, Arabella only laughed, convinced this was some bizarre attempt at humor. Holmes and I grimly insisted we were not joking.
Diana’s eyes were open wide, revealing the pale blue-green circles of the irises. Her mouth pulled out ever so slightly at the corners. “Remember that terrible crash we heard, the one that was so loud? We thought it was only thunder very near, but…”
Arabella’s smile slowly faded. “You say he had a store of dynamite in his tower? For God’s sake, why would he have had dynamite?” She looked at me, then at Holmes.
“He wanted to destroy the White Worm, Lady Verr, and he associated you with that mythical creature. He was convinced that its lair was indeed at Diana’s Grove, and he planned to drop the dynamite down the pit and blow it to pieces.”
An odd pained laugh slipped from Diana’s lips, and she immediately covered her mouth with her slender white hand. Michelle stepped nearer and grasped her arm lightly just above the elbow.
Arabella shook her head, even as her hands formed fists. “That bloody damned stupid fool.” Her words were full of venom. “I should have…” She laughed once, then again, then louder still in a long rippling melodic run.
Holmes frowned. “Madam?”
“You must be enjoying this, Mr. Holmes. Seeing all my clever plans and stratagems go up in smoke—literally up in smoke—all in an instant.”
Holmes gave his head a brusque shake. “Not in the least. Your plans have nothing to do with it. I never enjoy seeing a
nyone die unnecessarily, even the worst of men, and in Caswall’s case, his obvious insanity was a mitigating factor. It’s also something of a miracle that none of his servants were killed as well.”
“Ah, Edgar—for once he actually had me fooled. And of course, he was deluded to the end, or perhaps merely ignorant to the point of idiocy. One cannot simply dump dynamite into a pit—it must be treated with great care, and in this case, the pit always has water at the bottom which would soak the dynamite, probably rendering it useless. And then to actually store the dynamite at the top of his tower! Such colossal stupidity.” She shook her head, then smiled again fiercely. “No more stupid than willingly marrying a madman! I suppose I should be grateful to him for sparing me from my folly.”
Holmes stared at her, his brow creased. “Perhaps you should, madam.”
Again that rippling laughter. She shook her head. “You must excuse me. I… I need to compose myself.” She strode from the room.
Angela had been seated nearby, dressed all in black, silent and impassive as ever, but she rose and quickly followed her mistress. Her dark eyes were carefully neutral, but her full lips curved slightly upward at the corners.
Diana laughed once, a sound different from any I had ever heard her make. Michelle squeezed her arm. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Diana shook her head. “I feel so strange. I did not like Mr. Caswall—I must admit I was afraid of him. I am glad he is gone, but I would not wish such a death on anyone.” She shook her head.
I nodded. “I think that is how we all feel, Diana. Crazy as he was… Before today, I had not realized just how much he hated your aunt.”
Again she shook her head. “Oh I don’t understand—I don’t understand at all! Aunt Arabella and Mr. Caswall—how can you talk of love and marriage and actually hate someone! None of this makes any sense to me at all.”
“That is because you lack guile or duplicity, Miss Marsh,” Holmes said. “And despite what you may sometimes think, innocence is a virtue.”
“Dinnertime is at hand,” I said, “and I for one could certainly use an aperitif, a particularly strong one.”
The White Worm Page 23