The Grimswell Curse (30 page)

We did so, but by the time we joined him, he was on his knees again. “Look here.” Several brown spots stained the white granite and its luminous coating of yellow and green lichens. He rose. “I do not think I shall need you to lead me to the body, Doctor Hartwood.” He pointed with the ferrule of his stick at the trail of dried blood across the rocks.

Although the leaves of the dwarfish oaks were gone, it felt colder in the woods, and the wind was a low murmur through the gnarled, barren branches. Ferns sprouted between the rocks, their saw-toothed leaves huge and green, and the trunks of the oaks seemed to have grown out of the rock itself. Their bark was spotted with lichens, and whitish-green moss clung to the twigs at the end of the branches.

George lay face down in a hollow between two trees, his head and back covered with a heavy tweed jacket. It had a few rents in the fabric where the crows must have picked at it, and his trousers were torn. Holmes pulled off the jacket, and we could see his yellow hair, one whitish ear and his white shirt.

Holmes knelt, then slowly pulled him over. “Oh Lord,” I whispered, turning away. His lifeless eyes were still open, his jaw slack, but his throat was a bloody, mangled mess, his shirt front all stained reddish brown.

“Poor man,” Michelle whispered. “What could have done that to him?”

“The cause of death is obvious,” Holmes said. “The jugular was severed, but this... It is supposed to resemble the work of a wild beast, our giant dog, but... Notice how sharp this edge is here, and... I wonder, Doctor Hartwood, do you have a scalpel or probe in your bag?”

“Both. Which would you like?”

“A probe.”

Hartwood handed him the long, slender silver instrument. Holmes explored the wounds with the tip slowly and meticulously. I tried to assume my stiff-upper-lip medical manner, but I noticed the dried blood all over George’s face and his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. I felt cold and queasy. “Do close his eyes, Sherlock.” He did so. Michelle glanced at me, then took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “I never much cared for corpses,” I said.

Hartwood had knelt beside Holmes. “He must have died last night. Rigor has come and gone.”

“Around eight in the evening,” Holmes said. “Ah—as I expected. Look at this.” He was holding the probe at the end, and the shaft sank into George’s throat some three or four inches. By way of sympathy, I felt a cold twisting sensation in my own belly. “Someone thrust a knife into his throat, something with a long, narrow blade. That is what killed him. Then that person used some other instrument to rip at the throat and simulate the work of a wild beast. However, no animal could have produced a wound this deep.”

“Why would they have carried him here?” Hartwood asked.

“Are there any tales told about these woods?”

Hartwood smiled faintly. “Many. All sorts of ghouls and fiends lurk here.”

Holmes stood up. “An excellent spot for a werewolf or vampire.”

“But you have just demonstrated—”

Holmes smiled. “I was being ironic, doctor. Our ghoul has his reputation to live up to. Perhaps we should frustrate his plans and not tell anyone we found the body here.”

From somewhere deeper in the woods came several caws. I raised my eyes and through the branches saw some small hawk soaring overhead.

Holmes bent over, wiped the probe on George’s shirt, then handed it to Hartwood. “Thank you. We had better take the body back to the hall. Perhaps we had better fetch a horse.”

Hartwood shrugged. “No need. I’ll carry him.”

I raised an eyebrow. “It must be at least a mile.”

“Exactly,” Hartwood said. “No use bothering with a horse.” He put the jacket over George’s face, then took an arm and leg and hoisted him up over his back. A small branch cracked and broke. Holmes adjusted the jacket so it would not fall off, and then we left the woods.

The day was still a fine one, but I had only to glance at Hartwood and his grotesque burden to recall that a murderer was loose on the moor. Before, the knowledge had been hypothetical, abstract. I had not known Lord Grimswell, but yesterday at this time George had been alive and well. I wondered again what he had wanted to tell us.

“Burden” was perhaps the wrong word to use for George’s corpse: Hartwood showed no signs of discomfort or strain whatsoever. He might as well have been carrying a sack of feathers. When we had almost reached the house, he stopped. “I cannot just lug him in like this. I’d best set him down and get someone to help me fetch him later.”

Holmes raised his eyes; they had been far away. “Quite so, doctor, quite so.”

Hartwood slipped George off his back, then leaned him against the trunk of a yew. We got the tweed jacket about his shoulders. At least his eyes were still closed. Hartwood touched the dead man’s face with his big hand, the gesture curiously tender for so big and powerful a man. “Poor devil.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered the face and throat with it. “I wonder if he even knew what was coming.”

“He knew,” Holmes said. “He knew.”

We continued down the path, then went up the two granite steps to the massive oaken doors. Holmes used the knocker. The door soon swung open, revealing Fitzwilliams. The old man looked terrible, his eyes haunted, his mouth almost bluish. Holmes stepped past him, but Michelle took his arm. “What is the matter? You had better sit down.”

A great wail echoed through the vast hall, and then Constance swept toward us. She wore the usual black dress, and her outstretched hands clutched a white handkerchief. “Can it be? Is George dead?”

“Yes,” Holmes said.

She gasped, then sobbed loudly, her hands tightening about the handkerchief. “Catastrophe follows catastrophe! Disaster follows disaster! Truly we Grimswells are accursed.”

Holmes took half a step back, his eyes sweeping the hall. “Where is Miss Grimswell?”

“Disaster,” sobbed Constance, “black disaster.”

Hartwood stepped forward and seized her arm. “Where is she?”

Constance drew in her breath. “Let go of my arm, young man!”

He did so, his face grim. “Where is she?”

“In the conservatory.”

Holmes let his breath out through his teeth. “She is well?”

“Certainly.”

“Then what has happened?”

Constance bit at her lip, her red-rimmed eyes opening wide. “Victor has disappeared!”

“Victor,” I mumbled. “Who is Victor?”

“Lord Grimswell,” Holmes said.

“But he is dead!” I exclaimed.

Michelle had helped Fitzwilliams to a chair, but he still appeared dreadful. “His body has vanished,” he said. “From the vault—the family vault in the Grimpen Cemetery.”

Holmes gave a single piercing laugh, then bared his teeth and shook his head. “Oh, marvelous! Better and better—what will this devil think of next?”

Something in his eyes made me seize his arm. “Sherlock, are you quite well?”

He drew in his breath slowly. “Forgive me, I... One could almost admire so perversely devious a mind if it were not...” He turned to Fitzwilliams. “Sir, I must speak with you. Perhaps in the library.” And then to Constance: “Is Miss Grimswell alone in the conservatory?”

“Yes, Lord Frederick went out to try to find you.” She sniffled. “Oh, whatever will become of us all?”

Holmes turned to Michelle. “Could you see to her? She should not be alone.”

Michelle nodded. “Of course. Henry, perhaps you could get Mr. Fitzwilliams a brandy. He is not well.” She grasped my wrist. “Watch him.” She started to leave, then turned to Doctor Hartwood. “Would you like to come with me?”

His eyes showed brief amazement, then he slapped at his trousers with his cap. “
Yes.
”

Michelle smiled. “Come, then.”

I went to Fitzwilliams and put my hand on his shoulder. He felt so frail and bony, so little left of him.

Constance sobbed loudly again. “I wish I had never been born into this terrible family! Will our troubles never end? Oh, what can happen next?”

Holmes’s mouth formed another brief, ghastly smile. “That I think I know.”

F
itzwilliams sat in one of the library’s massive oak chairs; it made him appear even smaller, diminished. He slowly sipped at the glass of brandy. Some color had returned to his wasted cheeks, yet he still appeared ill.

Holmes stood with his back to us, one hand grasping his other wrist as he stared out the windows. “Your loyalty is commendable, but I assure you that I shall not allow any scandal to blacken Lord Grimswell’s reputation. Remember, too, that he is dead now and his daughter’s very life is at stake. The time for delicacy is past.” He turned. “He was seeing Mrs. Neal, was he not?”

Fitzwilliams sighed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How long had this been going on?”

“A few months.” Fitzwilliams stared down at the glass of brandy; only his dark brown eyes did not reflect his age. “He... he wanted to marry her.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

The old man continued to stare at the brandy. “It was very nearly arranged, I believe.” He lifted his head. “It made him happy, happier than...”

Holmes set one hand on the table. “And did they meet mainly on the moors?”

Fitzwilliams nodded. “Yes. He went for walks, once or twice a day. He... often winked at me before he went out.”

Holmes’s eyes were fixed on the old man. “And did they often go up to the tor? Demon Tor?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

A peculiar dizziness suddenly swept over me, a milder form of my vertigo, and I sat down in one of the other chairs.

“So he had probably gone to see her the evening he was... he died?”

Fitzwilliams raised his head, his face again losing color. “Yes.”

“She could not have pushed him,” I said, almost to myself. “He was a big man, while she is so small and slight.”

Holmes glanced at me. “If someone is slightly off balance or if they are not expecting it, a very slight shove will suffice.”

“Oh, dear God,” Fitzwilliams groaned. He took a big swallow of brandy.

“Most likely another person was involved. I shall discover the truth. So you kept Lord Grimswell’s involvement with Mrs. Neal a secret?”

“Certainly—certainly. How could I have ever suspected she...? His heart was not good, and Doctor Hartwood said it was heart failure. Why cause a scandal when...?” He licked his thin, pale lips. “Lord Grimswell was a gentleman. He wrote those strange books and was very intelligent, but he was a gentleman. He would never have... His behavior toward Mrs. Neal must have been proper. Perhaps he should not have seen her alone, but he would have never... dishonored her. I could not allow people to spread ridiculous stories, and then too, the lady begged me not to tell.”

Holmes rose up briefly on the balls of his feet. “Did she?”

“She was very upset. She said they had agreed to be married later that summer, but now that he was gone, she did not want anyone to know about it.”

Holmes tapped nervously at the table. “Now, think very carefully before you answer this question. Did Lord Grimswell ever actually tell you himself that he wished to marry Mrs. Neal?”

Fitzwilliams frowned momentarily, then nodded. “Yes. A month before he died. He said it would be good to have a young mistress in the hall again after so many years, but... he wondered how my wife and Miss Rose would take to her.”

Holmes nodded, then rubbed at his chin. “What did you think of Mrs. Neal?”

“Think of her? I did not know her.”

“But she did come to see you, you said.”

He shrugged. “She is very pretty. She seemed sweet enough, and she did weep for the master.”

“Did she?” Holmes’s voice had a certain sarcastic edge.

“Yes, sir.”

Holmes nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fitzwilliams.” He turned to me. “Henry, would you accompany me to Merriweather Farm?”

“Now?”

“Yes—now.”

“Of course.”

Holmes started for the door. I poured more brandy from the decanter into the old man’s glass. “Sit here until you feel quite recovered.”

“Thank you, sir.” He looked up at me, his face anguished. “Did I do the wrong thing?”

“Certainly not. Your behavior was exemplary, but it was good of you to tell us the truth.”

I hurried down the stairs and found Holmes waiting impatiently by the front door. We walked through the trees and headed out onto the moor. The landscape had become familiar to me, the desolate but beautiful expanse stretching to the horizon and the vast blue sky with banks of clouds, but I hardly saw anything, my thoughts in turmoil.

At last I said, “Do you think she killed him?”

“Probably not.”

“Who then?”

“Our man in black, the fellow we saw atop the tor last night.”

“That was not—it was not Lord Grimswell?”

“Of course not!”

My head ached. I felt the pain about my eyes, as if it had poured into the sockets, and my thoughts were wild and scattered. One won out over the others. “You told Constance you knew what might happen next. What did you mean?”

“That is the reason we are on our way to Merriweather Farm.”

My mind was sluggish, but with the realization I felt a sudden visceral fear. “Mrs. Neal—you think—something may happen to her.”