The Grimswell Curse (13 page)

The hall seemed less forbidding in the daytime. Huge windows let the bright morning light spill upon its granite floor and the dark wooden furniture. Fitzwilliams opened a door. “Here we are, sir.”

I blinked my eyes in astonishment. This was a bright, cheerful room which belonged in a London townhouse. There was none of the primordial black granite or massiveness of the great hall. Above the wainscoting was a yellow wallpaper with a bronze and red pattern. The colors in the room were all yellow, gold, cream, brown or red, and delicate lace curtains hung on either side of the many windows. Outside were trees, their reddish-brown leaves moving in the breeze. The odor of an armada of food set upon the sideboard assailed my nostrils, the typical overabundance of an English country breakfast.

Holmes sat at the table, his cup and saucer on the fine linen tablecloth. Beside him was a tiny woman in a black dress, her white hair in a bun. She turned upon me a pair of piercing black eyes. They might be faintly cloudy—cataracts, no doubt—and age might have dulled their fire, but they were remarkable, all the same. In the days of Greece or Rome, she would have been an oracle or sibyl, one of those women through whom the gods spoke.

“Ah, Henry, do join us. This is Mrs. Prudence Fitzwilliams, the housekeeper and another devoted servant of the Grimswells for over fifty years. We have been discussing the family. Madam, this is my cousin and friend, Doctor Henry Vernier, a physician from London.”

I nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fitzwilliams.”

She stared closely at me, her eyes struggling to focus upon my face. Besides cataracts, she might be near-sighted. The corners of her mouth slowly rose. “He’s handsome enough, anyway.”

Holmes laughed, and the old woman released a single sharp hiss of breath. I smiled. “You flatter me, madam.”

“I like a man with a big mustache. William had a black mustache when I first met him.”

Holmes took a sip of coffee. “There is plenty of food to fill a plate. Do so and join us.”

The smells made me realize how hungry I was. All the same, enough food for ten men was set out. I raised several silver lids, took some scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, and shuddered slightly at the kippers. I cannot abide fish for breakfast. Pulling out a chair, I sat across from Mrs. Fitzwilliams.

She seized a cane, then slowly started to rise. “You’ll want coffee, I suppose.”

Holmes stood. “Allow me.” He took a cup and saucer from the sideboard, then poured from a silver pot which had been sitting upon a flickering flame.

With a sigh, Mrs. Fitzwilliams had collapsed back into her seat. “I am the servant here, not you, sir, but thank you. I don’t get around so well any longer, as you can see.” She shook her head, a flash of anger showing in her eyes. “I have not been upstairs in two years now. All those steps. They are too much for an old woman.”

Holmes set the cup and saucer before me. “I too thank you,” I said.

He nodded, then sat down. “You should let the blond servant carry you upstairs, madam. He looks strong enough.”

“I’ll not let him touch me.”

Holmes’s gray eyes watched her. “You do not care for George?”

“Not I. He’s an idle fellow, and one that cannot keep his hands off the girls. Perhaps it would serve him right to have to hoist up an old crone like me.” She laughed, a dry brittle sound. “I’m happy enough down here. Nothing up there but beds to be made and rooms to be cleaned. All the same...” Her eyes shifted upward. “I’d like to see the Tower of Babel again someday.”

Holmes’s forehead creased. “The Tower of Babel?”

“Lord Grimswell’s tower—the one he had built about fifteen years ago. You can see for miles and miles around on a sunny day like this. Of course, even ten years ago it wore a body out getting up there. All those steps! How is the bacon?”

Her black eyes were peering at me. Even her eyebrows were absolutely white. “Very good,” I said.

“One of our tenant’s pigs. His hams are wonderful, too. Lord Grimswell used to say he had never tasted better in any of his travels. That and the whortleberries were his favorites. He loved whortleberries even as a little boy.” Another dry laugh. “Although he was never really little—six and a half feet tall he grew to be, with black hair and eyes. But he loved whortleberries, especially in a pie or tart.” Her mouth slowly opened into a smile; she still had all her teeth. “I had cook make him a pie, the summer before last. When he was a boy, he’d get the juice all over his face and hands, but if he got his clothes dirty he was punished. Nasty bluish-purplish stains they make, a mess especially on white cloth.”

Holmes had set one hand upon the table and leaned back in the chair. “From what you told me earlier, I take it he was a good master.”

“He was...” Her voice had a tentative note. She stared down at her gnarled hands, the skin covered with kidney-colored spots. “He left every servant a generous gift. For William and me, a thousand pounds apiece. Can you imagine such a fortune? Not a servant went without something. Even George got his hundred pounds. And he said in his will William and me was always to have a home here at the hall, even should we no longer be able to work.” She blinked several times, her eyes glistening, but even tears seemed an effort. “A kind man always, but a troubled man, a man that could not or would not control his thoughts. And we know where that leads.”

“Where is that, madam?” Holmes asked.

“To the Devil, of course. One should not sit about all day thinking. It’s true what they say about an idle mind being the Devil’s workshop. All sorts of strange things will pop into your mind if you let them. That’s one benefit to being one of the working folk rather than a master. We be so busy, we don’t have time to worry and fret.”

I swallowed a mouthful of eggs and set down my fork. “Do you truly believe the Devil can influence men for worse?”

Her eyes opened wide. “Surely. Only a fool doesn’t believe in the Devil. His handiwork is everywhere.”

Holmes’s laugh was gruff, nearly mute. “It is indeed. One can argue that his presence is much more clearly manifest than that of the deity.”

She gave him a puzzled look. “I know what I’ve seen. Only last week the groom Ned had a fury come upon him. He would have beat the old brown cob to death had George not pulled him away. A madness came on him. He beats his wife, too. It was the Devil—anyone could see that. I had William let him go. We all have to fight the Devil, but Ned seemed to welcome him. And Lord Grimswell, sitting up late at night in his tower, his mind melancholy and desperate to start with. Might as well hang out a signboard welcoming Old Scratch.” She shook her head. “Oh, he fought the Devil—he wrestled with him, but in the end...” Her voice faded away, but her eyes still burned.

I pushed my plate away, my appetite suddenly gone. Holmes watched her closely. “You think the Devil won?”

She hesitated, then sighed wearily. “I hope not, but it was Demon Tor, after all, a cursed place if ever there was one. Many’s the time I tried to tell him ’ware of the cursed place, but he would only laugh at me. I pray he did not jump.”

“In the end, I’m not sure it matters much either way,” I said.

“Do you know nothing, young man? Are you some pagan heathen?”

I shook my head, reflecting that an agnostic was probably a pagan heathen in her book.

“If he jumped, he is damned for sure. Even now the eternal fires’d burn his flesh, while all about the wretches howl and writhe. Hell has a deadly stench, icy winds and fiery ones, and the understanding that you must suffer forever—that it will never end—makes the pain and fear even worse.” Her voice shook slightly, and I felt something like dread coalescing about my heart. Her eyes glistened and her head sank. “I pray it is not so.”

“The man who drove us here yesterday was reluctant to be caught on the moor after dark,” Holmes said. Mrs. Fitzwilliams raised her head but said nothing. “I suspect there are tales about a man in black wandering...”

“There are always such tales! I heard them as a girl. Spirits... spirits have always wandered at night on the moors, ghosts and... worse. There are the damned, of course, and minor devils who wish to ensnare others, and also those poor souls trapped between Heaven and Hell. They must wander for many a year to atone for their sins, but at least they are not truly damned. They will have peace at last.” Her brown eyes gazed out the window at the trees, but she seemed to see some other place. “They are not... hungry.”

“
Hungry
?” I said.

“Sometimes the dead feast on the living, but though they may eat flesh or drink blood, it is souls they desire.” Her eyes had not moved. “Then the victims become wanderers themselves, though good people be not truly cursed. They will be saved in the end.”

A smile played about Holmes’s lips—a humorless one. “Sometimes the living feast on the dead. They would steal from the dead—or from the living.”

The old woman stared at him, her face grim. “That’s true enough.”

“Miss Grimswell—Rose Grimswell—does not seem to think her father jumped.”

Mrs. Fitzwilliams’s mouth twisted about. “The girl is a fool—but it’s not her fault. Why should she have gone to all those schools and been encouraged to...? Her father should have found the girl a husband. He seemed to want her to end up like him. Too much thinking isn’t good for a body. It’s not natural. We wasn’t meant to sit about all day thinking strange thoughts and writing scandalous books. Lord Grimswell could have interested himself in farming and sport, like his father, but he had to be different. Look where it got him?—dead and buried. At least he didn’t end up in a madhouse. I hope...” Her eyes were glistening again, and her tiny hand fumbled at a pocket for a handkerchief.

“Calm yourself, madam,” Holmes said gently.

She sniffled once, then wiped feebly at her nose. “I don’t want Rose to end up that way. I told her to go back to London and marry her young man. He’s a marquess’s son. He must amount to something. Why did she want to come back here where there’s only old half-dead folks and all those memories of her poor sad father? She should go back, Mr. Holmes—before something bad happens—before... This is not a good place for her. I know it, Mr. Holmes, I know it. Please...”

Holmes laid his long fingers on her wrist. “I shall help her.”

She sniffled again. “Someone needs to look after the poor silly fool, the great ninny.”

“What about her aunt?” I asked.

Mrs. Fitzwilliams’s jaw stiffened, even as she sat straight up and let the handkerchief fall. “What about her? Who asked her here? Tell me that, young man, tell me that!”

“Madam, I only—”

“It wasn’t me, I can tell you. And she’s no aunt—she’s hardly a blood relation. If poor Agnes hadn’t died as a child, she would be a real aunt. Lord Grimswell didn’t ask Constance—he never wanted her around. He kept her away except for a few days a year. If it was me, I’d send her packing, but William is the polite one. She’s a Grimswell, he says. Well, Reginald Grimswell—that accursed one—was a Grimswell, too, and I wouldn’t have him under my roof. Trying to tell cook and me what should be on the menus! Her and that George, they... I’m not dead yet, and until I am, I’ll run this house, not some bossy big horse who—”

“She did not arrive until after your master’s death?”

She nodded. “You have that right, and then she moves in for good. Rose could throw her out, but the old hag has her completely cowed. Blood isn’t everything, Mr. Holmes—not always. And Constance is
not
an aunt, not a sister. Her father was Lord Grimswell’s uncle. Maybe you can tell me what that makes her—it is
not
an aunt.”

“You are correct. Lord Grimswell and Constance would have been first cousins. If Constance or Jane had had children, they would have been Rose’s second cousins. I don’t know what exactly the relationship between Rose and Constance would be.”

The old woman’s mouth was a taut, curved line of disapproval as she nodded. “Not an aunt—hardly an aunt. Hardly a blood relation at all.” She sighed. “I should not let her annoy me so. It isn’t Christian—but she’s no Christian either. I... I do worry about Rose, Mr. Holmes. I do.”

“That’s natural,” I said.

“I was nearly sixty when she was born. Her mother was a good woman, very sweet-tempered, but the poor girl died before she was even thirty. Rose was only two. She was a pretty child and always a big one, just like her father. She was taller than me when she was ten years old. It was hard when I was already so old, but I never had a child of my own. William and me...” Her voice died away. She had the handkerchief in her hand again.

Holmes hesitated, then set his hand on her wrist again. I knew he would have been much more reluctant to touch a younger woman. Her mouth twitched into a feeble smile. “Forgive me. I get so weary with it all. Why should some people live so long—too long—while others...? Oh, I have work to do.” She put her handkerchief into a pocket, seized her cane and struggled to her feet.

Holmes and I stood. “Thank you,” he said. “We must talk again soon. I have a few more questions.”

She smiled, her black eyes still smoldering. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere. Except to the grave. I suppose the good Lord must know what he’s doing.” She sighed again, then started for the door. “He’d better.”

I could see that she had severe arthritis. The movement we took for granted must be a torment for her. She had nearly reached the door when it swung open, and Rose Grimswell stepped into the room. Although both wore black, the contrasts were striking: besides youth and age, there was the difference in size. Rose was over a foot taller, her back unbowed, her shoulders broad and strong, her face unlined, her hair black not white.

Rose smiled. “Good morning, nanna.” She looked much better. Her cheeks had some color, and her blue-gray eyes were not so haunted.

“It’s time you were down, girl. It’s after nine.”

Rose’s smile faltered. “I know, but—”

“Eat your breakfast—eat a good breakfast. You’ve been eating like a bird, and that won’t do. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Rose watched her leave, then smiled at us. “Good morning.”

I smiled. “You slept well.”