The Grimswell Curse (11 page)

Holmes’s gray eyes watched me. “Amorous thoughts, Henry?”

I actually blushed. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Forgive me. I know Michelle’s picture is there, and your eyes give you away. Deduction had little to do with it. I should have allowed you the privacy of your thoughts, especially since it is I who dragged you away from her.”

“I was not dragged—I wanted to come.”

“Thank you all the same.” The mocking smile returned. “If I had been alone this evening I fear I would have dropped Miss Grimswell. I could never have held her up without your help.”

“One would hesitate before carrying her over the threshold. I tried picking up Michelle once in jest. She is probably some twenty-five pounds lighter than Rose, and I still wrenched my back in the process. Luckily, one is not often asked to haul women about.” I yawned. “I cannot believe it is only nine. It feels like it should be at least midnight.”

He nodded. The rain had stopped, but we could hear the low, distant cry of the wind outside on the moor. “I agree. Oh, while you were occupied, I spoke with Miss Grimswell—Constance, as she insisted I call her.”

“And you have escaped to tell me about it?”

He nodded, the pipe between his lips, then withdrew it. “A charming woman. She works very hard at being disagreeably agreeable. And she begged for my forgiveness. I saw no sign of sarcasm or insincerity. To the contrary, she was so abject in her misery that I cannot believe in it.”

“She is rather eccentric. The Grimswells are an odd bunch from what we have seen of them. Of course, with Miss—with Rose, there may be some explanation.”

“Constance has assured me we are welcome to stay as long as we wish—until I can unravel the threads of the mystery, as she put it. She was less happy when I told her Lord Frederick is arriving tomorrow, but when I agreed he might not be a suitable husband for Rose, she grew more cheerful.”

I shook my head. “A harmless old busybody. I suppose this obsessive interest in Rose is understandable, since she has no other relations or children of her own.”

“Except a sister.”

“Oh, yes. She said something about her being in a madhouse. She worries the same thing might happen to Rose. I tried to assure her that it would not.” I put my hand over my mouth, stifling a yawn. “I am about ready to turn in myself.”

“I suppose we must wait until tomorrow to question the Fitzwilliamses and the staff. Have you met the old woman, Mrs. Fitzwilliams? She is remarkable. Fitzwilliams is the house steward and has been with the Grimswells for over fifty years. He became steward some forty years ago when Victor’s father, Robert, was still alive and viscount. Victor inherited the title and the hall in sixty-eight when his father died.”

“I wonder what his father died of.”

“I did ask Fitzwilliams that question—heart failure.”

I shook my head. “Bad hearts and melancholy minds. A difficult legacy. No wonder Constance is uneasy.”

Holmes drew in on the pipe, shrugging his shoulders as he did so. “Every family has its share of lunatics and drunkards. A melancholy disposition has been common in both the Verniers and the Holmeses. As for bad hearts, some ‘bad’ thing must kill us all in time.”

I laughed, then yawned. “Are you not tired?”

“Yes, but I wish to think for a while. You do appear ready for bed.”

“I am, but it would require too much effort to get there. I shall sit here enjoying the fire for a while longer.”

Holmes only nodded, the pipe stem between his lips. The wind was a constant, steady murmur. Perhaps the hall was situated such that the wind always blew here. I shifted in the chair and closed my eyes.

The vistas I had seen earlier in the day passed before my eyes, the English countryside seen from the train, green fields and woods full of the brown, yellow and crimson of autumn, then the brown wastes of the moor with the desolate gray sky hanging overhead. My mind wandered, returned to Grimswell Hall and the library. Rose Grimswell stared at me, her pale face surrounded by darkness. She would fall. I started, my body jerking as I tried to catch her. I came awake briefly, taking in the dim room and Holmes smoking the pipe, and then I slept.

Later I was staring at an ancient oak tree, its limbs gnarled and black. Something was in the tree, but I could not see it. A predatory ghost? No, it was only a raven, an enormous black bird on the lowest limb. It gave the strange guttural cry so different from the caw of the rook. Its eyes were curiously alert. “Henry.” Had the bird spoken? “Henry.” It had!

I opened my eyes, and it took a second or two to remember where I was. Holmes’s face was close to mine, reddish light bathing him, and his strong fingers gripped my wrist. The coal on the grate was smaller.

“What time is it?”

“Do not move, but look in the doorway.”

I turned slowly. A figure in white stood there, the face in shadow. Rose Grimswell, I realized with a start. Gone was the usual black dress. She looked so different in the long white nightshirt, and her hair was down. She was so tall, and although her face was hidden in shadow, the black hair fell on either side, spilling out onto the white cloth. I was about to rise, but Holmes squeezed my wrist again.

“What on earth is she doing?” I whispered.

“I do not know.”

“How long has she been there?”

“I am not certain. Let me handle this.”

She had not moved, although she must have heard our voices. The room was absolutely silent except for the low cry of the wind and the occasional rattling sound of something up the chimney. The figure advanced a step, but her bare foot made not a sound on the carpet. The back of my neck felt oddly cold, and I resisted the temptation to jump up out of the chair.

“What does she want?” I whispered.

“Keep still.”

She sighed softly, then came closer so that her face was finally in the firelight. She appeared to be staring past us at the fireplace. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth parted ever so slightly. Her black hair was all tousled and cascaded awkwardly about. Her appearance was so different with her hair down. With that wild unkempt mane, the long nose and jaw, the thick lips, broad shoulders and full bosom, she resembled some woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting, one of Rossetti or Burne-Jones’s sensual damsels. The shape, the weight, of her breasts was evident under the cotton fabric. Her large white hands hung at her sides, and her bare feet were also white and big, her ankles and wrists oddly slender. I had not realized before then just how beautiful she really was. However, the expression on her face—or rather, the lack of expression—worried me. Her stare was vacant, as if she could not see or hear us.

Perhaps she is mad, I thought. “My God,” I whispered. “She—”

Holmes’s hand tightened, his eyes angry.

“Why do you hate me so?” Her voice was dull, yet anguished. “I love you. I have never done anything to you.”

I opened my mouth, but Holmes squeezed again, his face warning me not to move.

“Please tell me why.” She was silent, her eyes fixed on the same spot.
“Please.”

I realized I was holding my breath and eased it out. This must be a hallucination—she saw someone or something standing there before the fire. She was talking to it. The sight of her staring at the empty air made the back of my neck feel colder still.

She raised her arms, her long fingers opening up, spreading out. “Please forgive me, whatever...” The pathos in her voice was heart-wrenching. “Did you never love me, not even a little? I always tried to please you, and I thought...” Her arms slowly sank, her hands forming fists as she advanced closer still. She was only a few feet away, but she did not appear to even see us.

“Oh, please, father—please... All I have ever wanted was for you to...”

She was talking to a dead man—or his ghost. Perhaps because she was his daughter, only she could see him. Now that truly was superstitious nonsense.

“Why must you torture me!” Her voice rang out. “Please stop it—please. You say such hateful things. I cannot understand. I had thought... I had thought you had come to care for me, at last. But I must have been wrong. I was a fool. Nobody could love me—not you— not Digby.” She turned her head to stare at another spot about three feet away. “Is it you, Rickie? You do not love me either. Do not try to deny it—I am not so stupid. You think because I... You think you can get away with anything. You
cannot
.”

She turned away from both her imaginary beings. “I am so sick of it all. What is the point of any of it? Why should I feel so terrible? I have done nothing...” Abruptly she turned her head. “What is...? Why are you staring at me that way? You... you would not hurt me? Please stop that. You are frightening me. You are so pale. That is not your face at all—you are not my father—you are something else, something wicked, and you hate me.”

Her voice had grown increasingly loud and fearful. She raised her hands again. “Please stop—before it is too late. Don’t hurt me—please don’t hurt me—oh, I cannot bear it when you look like that! For God’s sake—do not...” Her eyes had opened wide, and she grasped the bottom of her face, covering her mouth with her big hand.

I could stand it no longer. I stood, but she still did not see me. Holmes grabbed my wrist. “Keep silent,” he hissed.

“But she must be completely insane! She should be restrained before—”

“She is not insane—have you never heard of somnambulism?” he whispered.

“I...” Suddenly it all fit into place, and I felt a complete idiot. “Of course. Sleepwalking. But she is about to have a nightmare. We must wake her.”

“That could be difficult and might make her worse. Leave this to me.”

“Oh, dear Lord—please stop that—please...”

“Miss Grimswell, pay no attention to that thing there.” Holmes’s voice was loud, but oddly gentle. “It is not your father, and it cannot hurt you.”

She did not move for several seconds. “It is not him?”

“Of course not. He is fond of you. He is no such monster.”

She still regarded the same spot. “Are you sure it cannot hurt me?”

“Yes.”

She turned to look at us. Although she appeared, finally, to see us, something was still curiously vacant in her stare. “Who are you?”

“I am Sherlock Holmes. Do you not remember me?”

She stepped closer to him. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, the famous detective. You have read all of my adventures. You know how remarkably clever I am—how I am never wrong.” I could hear the irony in his voice. “I am your friend, Miss Grimswell, and I have figured it all out. That is not your father. That is someone else, someone evil. Your father loves you.”

“Oh, does he? Are you... are you certain of that?”

Holmes hesitated only a second. “Yes.”

“Oh, thank God—thank God.” Her voice shook with emotion.

I smiled sadly and murmured, “Poor girl.”

“He is going away,” Holmes said. “Do you see? We have frightened him away.”

She turned back to where the imaginary father had been, then smiled. “Yes. He is gone.”

“And now we must go back to your room,” he said. “You must go to bed. You must...” She was smiling at him, her arms at her sides, but she had not moved. He stepped closer, reached out and touched her arm. They were the same height, Holmes a tall, slight figure in his dark suit, she so obviously a woman under the white nightshirt. “We must...”

She stepped nearer and grasped both his arms above the elbows with her large white hands. “I love you,” she whispered fiercely.

I have never seen Holmes so completely surprised, so utterly astonished. He said nothing for a few seconds. “I—this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know.” She released him, then unfastened the top button of her nightshirt and thrust her dark hair back over her shoulders, letting her head fall back and her breasts thrust forward. Her collarbone and the long expanse of her throat were tinted orange by the firelight. Holmes glanced at me, his eyes wide, but before he could speak or move, she threw her arms about him and drew him to her.

“Miss Grimswell!” he exclaimed.

One hand touched the back of his neck, the other had him low about the waist. She pressed her cheek against the side of his face. Her eyes were closed, but she was smiling. “I am yours,” she whispered. “Take me.”

I stepped sideways. Holmes’s eyes were desperate. “Wake her, Henry—wake her at once.”

I coughed once, then said, “Miss Grimswell, this is Doctor Vernier.”

“Go away,” she murmured.

“This is... this is your physician speaking. You cannot... This is hardly... You must leave my examining room. Everyone is staring at you. This is hardly the place, my dear young lady. Whatever are you doing? And you have no clothes on.”

“For God’s sake, Henry!” Holmes said.

Abruptly she released him, then stepped back and raised her hands awkwardly. “Where are my clothes?”

“Here they are, but why are you wearing only a nightshirt?”

“I...” She stared ahead, then covered her mouth. “I don’t know.”

“You must have forgotten to dress this morning. It is a common mistake. Actually, you belong in bed. We must leave my examining room and get you back to bed.”

“Oh, yes—thank you.” Her hand reached out and seized mine. Michelle had powerful hands, but hers were stronger yet.

Holmes drew in his breath, then stepped warily back and collapsed into the chair. He was still staring at her.

“Come with me,” I whispered to him. “It may take two of us to get her back to bed.”

He stood without saying a word. I led her to the door, her hand still in mine. “And here is my wife, Doctor Doudet Vernier. You remember Michelle, Miss Grimswell. She likes you very much. She has brought you a robe, and she is putting it on you.”

Rose Grimswell was quiet after that, but I kept up a constant stream of inane chatter. We went down the hallway to her bedroom. The maid Meg was snoring loudly on the sofa. “Your legs feel very weary, do they not? It would be very pleasant to lie down. And it is cold—so very cold.”

“Yes,” she murmured.

I drew aside the covers, and she lay on her side, her nightshirt rising to show her bare, slender calves and ankles. I hesitated, then touched her white foot. The skin was icy cold. “You are freezing.” Quickly I drew the blankets over her. It was a relief to have her covered up. “It is good to lie still, to be warm and comfortable, and know that all is well. No one will trouble you now, and you will sleep peacefully.”