The Grimswell Curse (39 page)

“But even if she were not married,” I said, “how could they possibly claim her fortune? Her will left most everything to medical charities. We sent that letter to her solicitor.”

“Ah, but when the long-lost Grimswell appeared from America or Australia to reclaim the title, he would have argued that his dear cousin would have left everything to him if she had only known of his existence. A good solicitor would have had little trouble getting Grimswell Hall and the land—they generally go with the title—and most of the rest of her fortune as well, I suspect. However, were she married, retrieving the money from Digby or his family would have been far more difficult. They decided to hazard all on a final effort. Of course, the murders had shown to all but the most superstitious that something was terribly amiss. What did they threaten in the note?”

“That you... that you would all be killed. Torn to pieces, one by one.” Her voice caught in her throat.

Holmes smiled grimly. “Constance would have liked to kill us all.”

Michelle was staring at Rose, her eyes pained. “I wish... I wish you had told me.”

Rose sighed. “I dared not, but do you not see?” She gripped Michelle’s hand in hers. “I could never have done it if not for you.”

Michelle stared closely at her. “Oh, my dear—I do not know—”

“I have never met anyone like you. Being around you has made me see that... And when you talked that way last night, I... I realized that perhaps I might actually do something. I was so tired of being buffeted about—of being toyed with and... tortured. You made me understand that I could fight them, that I...” She put her hand alongside her cheek. “Oh, my head is spinning, and I am so tired of all this.”

Michelle put her arm around her. “Well, I am glad it has ended and that you were not badly hurt. When I saw that dog running at you... Thank God Hartwood was there.”

I glanced at Holmes. “So he was hoping to protect Rose?”

“Exactly. He knew her life had been threatened, and he feared the worst. He may have been the only inhabitant in all of Dartmoor who would have willingly chosen to spend the night near Grimswell Hall. The locals are terrified of the place. He determined to watch the house and see if he could apprehend the mysterious man on the moor.” Holmes looked at Rose. “He admires you greatly.”

“He is very... kind. I must admit that when I saw that dog coming at me I completely froze. I was expecting a man, not a great beast.”

“I wonder how many nights Hartwood spent out there,” I said.

Michelle smiled. “Two. I asked him about it while I was stitching him up. Also, ‘admire’ does not do justice to his feelings for you, Rose.”

She sighed wearily, then raised her eyes and stared at Holmes. His smile faded away, a puzzled look appearing in his eyes. “Mr. Holmes, who... whom do you think I should marry?”

His brow furrowed, his lips parting. Rose continued to stare at him, color appearing in her cheeks. Holmes ran his long fingers back through his black oily hair. “My dear young lady, I could not presume... to tell you such a thing.”

Her eyes with the swollen black pupils had a hot intensity. “No?” she murmured.

“No.”

Michelle glanced at me; we both understood. Rose lowered her gaze at last, then wiped at her eye with her fingers. “Forgive me. I... I should not have...” We had seen her dressed in black for so long that the white gown was still a surprise. She pushed her black hair back over her shoulders, and her long throat rippled as she swallowed. Her cheek had begun to swell and change color. Holmes gazed across the hall at the fireplace, where coal smoldered on the grate.

“I could not presume...” His voice was almost a whisper. “I know very little about such matters, or about women. They remain one of life’s mysteries. My own heart belongs to another, one of the few whose life has been as dark and strange as my own, one who may never...” He stopped abruptly, then stared again at Rose. “I can tell you this. You are young, quite beautiful, intelligent and remarkably talented. You have more to offer most men than they could ever give you in return, and any man who is not an absolute imbecile would be honored to have you as his wife.”

Rose stared at him, her eyes going all liquid. At last she said, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

I felt as if something were caught in my throat. “Every word he said is true.”

Rose turned to me. Michelle smiled. The silence of the great, empty hall was overwhelming, and we all let the quiet sink into our weary bones. I closed my eyes, savoring the moment, feeling the link between us four and my sense of relief. For once at Grimswell Hall, I could not hear the moan of the wind.

* * *

Next morning, a Thursday, we awoke to discover that several inches of snow had fallen, and a blizzard had begun. We could not leave Dartmoor for another four days. It was a peaceful time, everyone relieved that the danger which had hung over Rose was gone at last. She played the piano often, and we spent several pleasant hours in the conservatory. The gray-white light of the desolate sky shone through the glass upon a jungle of green ferns and palms and lit up the koi, their colorful, scaly forms contrasting with the blue tiles. It felt odd to look up from the fish and see huge fuzzy snowflakes drifting about beyond the glass.

Constance was laid to rest in the frozen ground the day before we left, the funeral the strangest I have ever attended. Her son was still below Demon Tor on a slab of granite, covered by more than a foot of snow. Rose was good-hearted enough to ask about recovering the body, but Holmes told her the effort would be far too dangerous. Spring might come before the body could be found. The mother and son deserved their fate, but not so Rose’s father. The dying Constance had told Holmes that Victor lay at the bottom of Grimpen Mire, deep in oozing mud. A sheet of ice now sealed his tomb. Three Grimswells were dead, while Jane remained at the asylum in London, but at least with Rose safe, there was hope for the future of the family, if not for the Grimswell name. And in the end, what did a name—a mere jumble of letters—matter?

We left the following Monday morning. The ride to the village revealed a different Dartmoor than I remembered. Gone was the dark, somber moor; the snowy plain was vast and white, only a few black or brown leaves or shoots showing, and the streams had frozen solid, blue ice gripping the lichen-stained boulders. The wind on our faces was glacial. The sun came out, blinding on the snow. Overhead buzzards still soared, and once we saw a fox break into a trot and hide behind a slab of granite.

In Grimpen we waited silently for the train, pacing about to keep warm. Rose looked grave. Even Digby appeared uncharacteristically thoughtful. We three men all wore heavy black overcoats and gloves. Holmes had on his silk top hat, a sign he was ready to return to proper London society. Rose also wore black, but Michelle had on her mauve coat with the sable collar and cuffs.

We heard the train before we saw it, the plume of smoke appearing in the distance, and soon the locomotive pulled into the station, the ancient engine clanging and banging. The porter stepped down, and Holmes and I handed him our suitcases.

Michelle smiled at Rose. “It is time to say goodbye, but we shall see you soon.”

Rose managed a smile. Her face looked pale in the bright sunlight, the blue in her eyes overpowering the gray. Her black hair was bound up and hidden under a hat. She seemed ready to cry. She sighed, white vapor appearing before her mouth. “I do want to stay here by myself for a while, but even so... We have been through so much together. I shall miss you all very much.”

Michelle kissed her on the cheek. “You will always be welcome in our home. Remember that. I expect you quite soon—no more than a month.”

“Thank you, Michelle—for everything.”

I set my hand on Rose’s shoulder, then embraced her. “We truly have been through a great deal together, Rose.”

“Oh, Henry—we have.” She stared at me, her eyes hesitant, then her mouth stiffened, and she leaned forward to kiss me, a little awkwardly, her lips only half touching mine. She drew back and stared at me. “You are the kindest man I have ever known.” She swallowed once, let go of me and stepped back. She turned to Michelle. “You are a very fortunate woman.”

Michelle smiled at her, then her eyes shifted to mine. “I know.”

Digby’s smile was weary. “Goodbye, Rosie.”

“Goodbye, Rickie.” She kissed him on the cheek, the kind of kiss a sister would bestow upon her brother.

Holmes drew in his breath, turned and looked at Rose. She extended her hand, the big white fingers hidden in the black leather of her glove. Holmes took her hand with both of his. “Goodbye,” he said. They stared at one another.

“Thank you again. For... for giving me back my life.”

The corner of Holmes’s mouth moved upward briefly. “I am certain you will do something remarkable with it.” He let one of his hands fall, but she kept hold of the other and looked at him with her large, serious eyes under the thick black eyebrows.

“Wait!” someone cried.

There, the picturesque village of Grimpen with its stone buildings and church spire behind him, was Doctor Hartwood, his right hand raised high, his face flushed, and something under his left arm—a dog, a puppy—the mastiff which he had brought to the hall. The dog began to squirm, and Hartwood had to hold him with both hands.

“I had to say goodbye, but I was delayed by a patient. Glad to catch you in time.” Hartwood’s face was all red, and his mustache had ice on it. He wore an oiled canvas jacket and tall leather boots. He shook our hands, his grip crushingly strong, the puppy pinned to his chest and staring up at us. “How is the arm?” Michelle asked.

“Nearly healed. My surgery professor at Edinburgh was no better at stitching. I must admit... most male doctors could not do half so well.”

Michelle beamed, delighted with the compliment.

“Miss Grimswell, I hope you bear mastiffs no grudge.” His smile was suddenly wary. “That beast on the moor was no relation to this wee fellow, and...”

Rose smiled. “Of course not.” She took the dog with both hands and held him up. “He’s as beautiful as ever.” The puppy wiggled its paws, its head lolling as it tried to lick her face. She laughed.

“You’ll take him, then?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“He’ll make a good guard dog.”

“I don’t think I shall need a guard dog, but I would like a pet.”

Michelle stroked the puppy. “When he is fully grown, you can put him on a leash and walk through Hyde Park. I shall help you select the right dress—definitely not black. You will need to fight off the men with a stick.”

Rose smiled while Hartwood looked dismayed. “I shall not need a stick—the mastiff will do,” she said.

Hartwood and Digby had shaken hands without a word. We stepped aboard the train. Rose was still smiling at us, the puppy in her arms, but her eyes had an odd sheen. They glistened and shined in the brilliant sunlight as she stared at Holmes and me. I could see that she did not trust herself to speak.

Soon we were seated in our first-class compartment, the barren, snowy moor rushing past us, even the distant tor all covered with white. Digby shook his head. “So Hartwood triumphs with a mutt while noble Digby, vanquished utterly, departs in ignominious defeat. Ah, well...” He sighed, then smiled a tight, deprecatory smile. “I suppose it is fitting, although...”

“Although...?” I asked.

“Well, Rosie and I had a chat, and we are to be just friends. That was how she put it—she wants to be my friend. Nothing is more infuriating, I tell you, no fate sorrier, than to be reduced to a mere friend. For God’s sake—what young red-blooded man wishes to be
friends
with a woman?” He said this with such comical loathing that both Michelle and I laughed, and even Holmes smiled.

“Can’t blame her, though. I behaved like... Curious how I could have missed what she was worth until it was too late. I suppose I saw her as the ugly duckling for so long, that I didn’t notice when she finally became a swan. I say, that’s rather clever, isn’t it? Oh well, you all saw it at once, while I... No character, I suppose. I think I’ve learned a lesson or two. Maybe I can still reform, turn over a new leaf, rise from the ashes, that sort of thing.” He looked at Michelle. “Tell me, Doctor Doudet Vernier, you do not find me totally repelling, do you? Perhaps you could give me a candid, impartial opinion.”

Michelle smiled wickedly. “Not totally.”

Digby shook his head. “I asked for that.”

“If it is any consolation to you,” Michelle said, “I did tell her that I thought she should marry no one for a few more years. I know many do not share my opinion, but twenty is much too young to be married. I told her to write, play the piano and toy with the affections of many eligible, handsome young men. Besides, it is always good to make a man sweat a bit before yielding.”

She was smiling at me. “Oh, so that explains it,” I said.

“Perhaps all is not lost.” Digby nodded. “Yes, hope springs eternal in the breast and all that rot. Still, the dog worries me. Every time she looks at the slobbering canine, there’s another reminder of old Hartwood. No, I am bested. She will marry him, bear a dozen enormous children, male and female, six of each, with hands and shoulders worthy of the village smithy.”

Michelle’s eyes grew stern. “What is wrong with large hands and shoulders?”

Digby grinned. “Why, nothing at all. I find ’em charmin’ in a woman, quite irresistible.”

Michelle laughed. “No, you are not totally repellant after all.”

Holmes took out a pipe and began to pack it with tobacco. His eyes stared out the window at the snowy moor.

“I say,” Digby said, “that’s a beauty of a pipe—isn’t it from the hall?”

Holmes glanced down. “Yes. It was a gift from Rose.”

Digby looked mournful. “Well, you have more to show than... I hope she paid you a goodly sum as well. I’m afraid I haven’t a penny, but she can afford to be generous.”

Holmes only shrugged.

“She did pay you, didn’t she?”

Holmes sighed, then gave Digby a withering glance. “She did offer to pay me an extravagant sum of money, but I declined.”