The Grimswell Curse by Sam Siciliano Page B

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