The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1) Read online

  “You castigate me for badgering! What do you call your questioning technique?”

  “I was drawing him out,” defended the doctor.

  “It sounded to me as if you were baiting him.”

  “Well, at least I wasn’t behaving like a simpering milkmaid by waving at him as we arrived.”

  “I was returning his friendly gesture.”

  “It was unseemly.”

  “In Devon perhaps; not in America.”

  “This is Devon.”

  “Then it is high time to introduce modern behavior to this rural backwater.”

  “Indecorous behavior is indecorous behaviour wherever you are.”

  “Perhaps you are just jealous of a man like Roderick Lysterfield.”

  “Ha, the man is a jumped-up lumberjuck!”

  “Don’t you mean jack?”

  “Juck; Jack; he is too good to be true!”

  “If that means you admit he is special, I agree.”

  Scudding clouds filtered the moonlight and the path was rough going. They walked without speaking until they reached the top of the hill where one side of the walkway fell away darkly into Doune Quarry and a biting wind whistled up the steep sides of the cutting. It played havoc with her frilled petticoat despite the Canadian mink manteau overlayering it.

  “Let us examine the facts,” said Dr Watson as the wind whipped them along and he fought the urge to look back over his shoulder while fingering the loaded revolver in his pocket. “Roderick Lysterfield was absent during that first night at dinner at Baskerville Castle.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he could have pushed James Desmond off the platform at Drogo.”

  “You mean he galloped all the way to Drogo dressed as Sherlock Holmes, paced up and down the platform until the train arrived, then lured the old man out of his carriage pretending to be the reincarnation of the famous detective, helping him with his carpet bag, and pushed him onto the tracks as the train was pulling away in order to gain what advantage?”

  “I haven’t thought that last bit through yet.”

  “What about the horse and cart and driver who went in the mire that he so desperately needed to rescue? I presume that wasn’t important enough to bother with after all?”

  “That’s a thought. Have you checked?”

  “Checked what?”

  “Checked whether he was actually there or not during the rescue.”

  “Of course I haven’t checked. He was not a suspect. And as you keep reminding me we don’t even have a case – suicide, accident, accident, suicide.”

  “You missed the first death – James Desmond. We agreed it was murder.”

  “Perhaps we were just keen for it to be murder and read too much into it.”

  “Because of something lacking in our own lives?”

  “Yes, much as it pains me to admit it. Perhaps we are just bumblers, you and I. You were his best friend and I was his daughter, and yet we are not as good as him and never will be.”

  They stayed silent until they reached a fork in the path at the top of a gradient and paused to catch their breaths. One path led to Baskerville Castle. The other led to the old tin mine. A grey ghost owl swooped out of the darkness and hovered ominously overhead before disappearing into the slipstream.

  “He could have planted those envelopes,” he said, scanning a dark-cluster of trees.

  “Who?”

  “Roderick Lilyfield.”

  “Oh, so we are back to him. And you are being facetious again. It is unseemly.”

  “Roderick Lysterfield has a basket that he takes to the castle every day. He carries his lunch away in it. He could sneak the envelopes in and plant them in different places to be discovered after he has gone. It would be a perfect cover.”

  “What about all the other envelopes that were delivered by strangers?”

  “Planted months ago – as you said earlier, great forethought had gone into the planning.”

  “And the envelopes delivered by local people?”

  “Same thing - he drops them off when no one is looking. He is free to go about as he pleases, no questions asked. He is friendly and ingratiating. It is a sad fact of life that good-looking people are not generally suspected of behaving badly.”

  “So you admit he is good-looking?”

  “Yes - in a swaggering, cowboy, pantomime way.”

  They walked past the little forest of wizened oaks that looked like tortured dwarfs frozen in the moonlight. There was a rustling sound in the long grass, and this time his fingers tightened around the revolver as he looked back.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded hotly.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re checking to make sure we’re not being followed by a gigantic hound! Admit it!”

  “I heard something.”

  “Perhaps it’s Mr Lysterfield stalking -,” she stopped dead. “Look! Over there! In the wood!”

  He thought she was teasing and chose not to look.

  “Look!” she repeated, and this time her voice vibrated with fear. “There was only one grave when we came this way earlier and now there are two!”

  She was right! In the place called Wizend Wood there were now two graves marked by wooden crosses. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. “There must be a logical explanation.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  “No!” He caught her brusquely by the arm. “It’s late. Let’s get back to the castle. We can check tomorrow.” He pulled her along the path until they fell into step. The electric lights of the castle were visible now; glowing yellow like demon’s eyes; compounding the feeling that had dogged him all the way – that someone or something was watching them.

  “It has to be him,” said Dr Watson, picking up the thread as they started down the long drive and he began to breathe easier.

  “Because you don’t like him and you wish it to be him?”

  “I will ignore that comment. In each case he had ample opportunity.”

  “So let us examine the facts. Roderick Lysterfield successfully does away with Mr Desmond and then induces the baronet to kill himself. Perhaps he is a hypnotist who is able to convey the power of suggestion via correspondence. Do we need a motive? Or is he a mentally deranged maniac hypnotist who meticulously plans crimes that make no sense for the sake of it? Are we looking at facts, Dr Watson, or are we twisting the facts to suit ourselves?”

  He ignored her taunt. “Lysterfield must have an accomplice.”

  “Let us then, for argument sake, settle on Lady Baskerville as the accomplice?” suggested the Countess sardonically. “Lady Baskerville, while married to the baronet and carrying the baronet’s child, pretends to gaze longingly at Barrymore during dinner, but all the while she is secretly in love with the American engineer.”

  “Love! Yes! That would give us a motive!”

  “Bravo! Perhaps you can try out some of your questioning technique on Lady Laura when we return to the castle.”

  “That is not at all amusing. He could have pushed Beryl Stapleton down the stairs. I questioned the butler the next day. I asked him if anyone had paid a visit to the castle during my absence at Drogo. He told me no one had been to the castle – only the American engineer. And it was the way he said it. The engineer could come and go without being suspected of coming and going. Seen and yet not seen.”

  “I saw Roderick Lysterfield myself that day sprinting away from the castle as I was returning from my promenade around the lake with Gaston; as for pushing Mrs Stapleton down the stairs, well, it could have been Nellie because she was jealous, Antonio because he was exasperated with a daughter who was disobedient, or even Algernon Frankland because his latent desires were thwarted. Such an act would not require strength or brute force.”

  His mind was running ahead of itself and he almost tripped up. “I need to speak to the housekeeper at Lafter Hall to discover if Lysterfield paid a visit the day Eliza Barrymore died.”

  “Oh, real
ly now, Dr Watson, you are not suggesting he galloped to Lafter Hall while Barrymore was out shooting rabbits with his new gun, and drowned Eliza Barrymore in her bath.”

  “He had ample opportunity.”

  “So did half of Devon. But you said yourself it was suicide. Dr Mortimer concurred. In fact, you admonished me for daring to think otherwise and Dr Mortimer was adamant it could have been nothing else. I beg you not to share your wild hypotheses with anyone else before you have thought them through more carefully. You will merely make an idiot of yourself and embarrass me in the process.”

  With hearts pounding, they stumbled across the threshold of the castle and though neither would admit it, neither could shake off the uneasy sensation of being followed all the way.

  Dr Watson was greatly relieved to see the footman still posted outside Lady Baskerville’s bedroom door. Fedir had been diligent in his duties. If anything happened to Lady Baskerville he would never forgive himself. It was one thing to be a fool and a bumbler in his own eyes, but to fail in his duty of care would be unforgivable.

  The Countess saw the light still on in Lady Baskerville’s room and though she had made that sardonic remark about Lady Baskerville and Roderick Lysterfield being lovers in jest as soon as she said it she wondered if there could be any truth to it.

  Lady Baskerville did not mind being disturbed though the hour was late. Day and night had no meaning to someone confined to their bed.

  Dr Watson joined the countess and together they recounted pleasantries about the evening spent at Merripit House. It was the lady herself who informed them of Jack Stapleton’s final resting place and settled the mystery of the second grave. She had made the decision to inter his remains as swiftly as possible and had chosen the same spot as for his gigantic hound in Wizend Wood. The master mason would carve an epitaph on a small headstone as soon as he finished the effigy of Sir Henry for the family tomb. The funeral for Sir Henry was to take place tomorrow. It would be a private service held in the new chapel with the vicar from Saint Swithin’s presiding.

  Since they had just spent the evening with the American engineer the Countess did not think her question would appear impertinent. “Will Roderick Lysterfield be attending?”

  “Oh, no,” said Lady Laura, sounding surprised. “I have never met the man. I understand he is industrious, intelligent and charming, but he is not family.”

  “You have never met him?” The Countess sounded equally surprised.

  “I know that sounds very ungracious of me, but the last few years have been particularly difficult health-wise. I miscarried twice and was encouraged by my husband and Dr Mortimer to lead a quiet life. I therefore did not concern myself with the transformation of the gardens beyond the castle walls. I left the details to my husband. He met many times with Mr Lysterfield and praised his skill and ingenuity, but I had usually taken myself off to bed by the time they met to discuss progress. It did not matter to me if Holywell Pool was ten acres or twenty. It did not matter if Stickle Brook was dammed or not dammed. It did not matter if the lake had one bridge or two. I mean no disrespect but if the American engineer is invited to the funeral half the workforce will expect to be invited too. There will be just family, meaning myself and my father, the Mortimers, who are like family, Mr Barrymore, who is facing a difficult time and may welcome the support of his neighbours, plus Sir Olwen from Drogo, oh, and my two dear friends from London,” she added almost as an afterthought, rallying a smile.

  Tomorrow would prove to be an emotional and trying day, a drain on her nerves, and a test of her ability to rally more than a feeble smile. “Goodnight, dear lady,” said Dr Watson. “It is late and we have kept you up. I hope we have not tired you too much.”

  She held out her hand in a gesture of touching gratitude. “Dear Dr Watson, I invited you to Devon to celebrate what I believed would be a happy occasion, but that plague of letters ruined everything before you even arrived. And you have had no peace since. I am the most selfish hostess in all of England, yet I do not know what I would have done without your reassuring presence. Feel free to return to London. Do not stay in this dreary place any longer than you must. Take your lovely new friend with you,” she smiled fondly at the Countess, “and go as soon as you can. It will soon be winter and we will be snowed in. I have good Dr Mortimer to oversee the delivery of my child, and good Mrs Mortimer too, who has had training as a midwife. She has promised to come to live at Baskerville for the last few weeks of my confinement. I will be well cared for. After the funeral I will feel better. This may come as a great shock to you, and I do not seek to offend you, or speak ill of the dead, or tarnish myself in your eyes, but after this last terrible month, which has taken its pound of flesh from me, it is a relief that my husband is at peace. When my child comes and the workmen leave I will be at peace too. You must not worry for me. Tomorrow all will be well.”

  “Do not admonish yourself for I do not think less of you for speaking freely and unburdening yourself. But your praise is undeserved. You are too kind. I have solved nothing and when I go away from this place I will go with a heavy heart.” Gently, he kissed the pale hand.

  The Countess took her cue from her companion and also bid their hostess a gentle good night. Once in the passage, she followed the doctor down the corridor, and spoke in a lowered tone so as not to be overheard by the footman. “We should grab the earliest opportunity to speak to Sir Olwen about royal prerogatives and wills. I still feel this matter is related to inheritance. And although Lady Laura thinks all will soon be well I cannot help but recall what Dr Mortimer said about her being made homeless. You should quiz Sir Olwen as soon as possible. He may not stay to lunch after the funeral and I feel he will talk more freely with you than with me since you are cut from the same cloth.”

  “I do not hunt,” he pointed out acerbically.

  “I meant you are a man.”

  Where once he would have responded to the suffragettish taunt, all he could manage was an acquiescent nod. He no longer thought this so-called matter was related to anything but run-of-the-mill misfortune. Most likely it had its beginnings in ordinary workplace grievances, probably involving the majority of the work force who could not keep pace with the demands of the American engineer. That would account for the number and variety of anonymous letters. The number of accidents and deaths on the estate was probably astronomical and that’s why Sir Henry had to employ his own doctor. What was a horse and cart doing after dark near Doune Quarry anyway! The tracks were treacherous enough in broad daylight! It was an accident waiting to happen!

  She continued to dog his steps down the hall. “Did you believe Lady Laura when she said she had never met Roderick Lysterfield?”

  “Yes, she has most likely never met ninety per cent of the workmen on the estate.”

  “You are probably right. A love affair is highly unlikely anyway. She is far too insipid for a man who is so strapping.”

  He rounded on her sharply. “That is a most unkind thing to say!”

  “Yes, it is,” she admitted frankly, “but we must be free to speak our minds. I would not repeat that unkind comment to another living soul but we must be nothing less than frank with each other if we are to work together at solving cases. Did you always agree with Sherlock?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you always hold the same opinion of people?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “Were you able to speak freely?”

  “Always.”

  “So it must be that way for us too.”

  “So be it, you are blind to the engineer because you are enamoured of him!”

  “And you are blind because you are jealous!”

  “You think he cannot be guilty because he is exceedingly handsome!”

  “And you condemn him because he is!”

  He drew breath. “Being frank gets us nowhere.”

  “Very well, let us examine the facts.”

  They both drew breath but she was faster.
<
br />   “It is a documented fact that most criminals are exceedingly ugly. I paid a visit to Reading Gaol once with some evangelical missionaries distributing bibles and the inmates were all fearfully ugly – bulbous noses, bulging foreheads, twisted mouths, crooked teeth, eyes askew, misshapen features, deformed bodies.” She gave a little shudder.

  “That is because the exceedingly handsome ones are never caught.”

  “So you continue to condemn him for his handsomeness?”

  Sighing heavily, he was forced to consign another theory to the dustbin of failure. “Lady Laura’s voice betrayed no feelings toward the engineer whatsoever, which means that although the engineer had ample opportunity to plant the letters and carry out the crimes I reluctantly concede he had absolutely no reason for doing so.”

  “Mmm, but did you notice how her voice softened when she mentioned Barrymore?”

  The doctor’s bedroom was not in the bachelor’s wing but next door to Lady Baskerville’s in the south wing - a stately guestroom fit for royalty with rich green damask walls and sumptuous green velvet hangings with matching green bullion fringing. The mantle was black marble and the furniture was strong and masculine. It gave onto the lake and offered the best views of the garden. Everything about it illustrated the high esteem in which his hostess held him. But he felt like a fraud. He was not in Sherlock’s league and should have set his hostess straight on that matter right from their first meeting. Instead, he gave her reason to hope he could solve the latest curse of the Baskervilles.

  “Yes,” he affirmed, unable to stifle a yawn, as he reached his bedroom door and placed his hand on the ornate brass knob. It had been a dog of a day from start to finish and he was bone tired. “Lady Laura seems to be harbouring some warm feelings for her neighbour but let us not read too much into it. We can observe what happens tomorrow but I am not expecting an eleventh hour confession from anyone. I think it might be for the best if we leave the day after the funeral.”