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

  “Oh, why couldn’t my first case be a straightforward murder, some intriguing clues, and a handful of stupid suspects?”

  11

  Death of the Dog Star

  Sir Olwen Goodwood was a round-shouldered, thick-necked, heavy set man with wiry grey hair and huge eyebrows that overshot a pair of owlish eyes. From a distance he resembled the grey ghost owl from the night before. Even his skin appeared to have a greyish tinge, though it may have been the way the murky morning light filtered in through the glass lantern. His wife had died in childbirth and he had never remarried. Lady Prudence had been a distant cousin of the Baskervilles and he had always known he would one day marry her. The day of his wedding had been the happiest day of his life. He never recovered from her death and coped by throwing himself into sporty pursuits. When he wasn’t in the saddle, he was out shooting grouse or fishing in his stream. He never travelled abroad and could be heard to say that his small patch of Dartmoor was all a man needed. His two favourite springer spaniels were with his favourite horse in the stable yard awaiting their master.

  The Countess made the downward processional slowly, a rustle of black satin ushering every step, giving Dr Watson and the squire the chance to finish their conversation. As she was traversing the great hall Roderick Lysterfield entered via the servant’s corridor. He greeted her cordially and together they joined the doctor and the squire by the fireplace where Mr Lysterfield explained that he wished to inform Lady Baskerville that he had given the estate workers the day off in honour of Sir Henry’s funeral, and he wanted to know whether the labourers at Doune Quarry and those at The Grinders should also be granted the day off. He would be happy to convey her message to the men in charge if she gave her approval. Sir Olwen supported the engineer’s proposal, praising the man’s thoughtfulness, just as a shimmer of black silk appeared at the top of the stairs. Lady Laura’s face was covered by a black lace veil, and a large jet brooch glistened in the declivity of her ample bosom. She had reached the last step when her legs appeared to buckle and she caught hold of the newel post, crying out as she fell into a swoon.

  Roderick Lysterfield rushed forward and scooped her up before she hit the ground. Dr Watson followed hot on his heels, directing him to the lady’s bedchamber before racing off to get his medical bag and some smelling salts.

  What followed was a short-lived burst of pandemonium. Mr Barrymore arrived at the same time and took in all that was happening at a glance. He rushed toward the stairs but Sir Olwen caught him by the arm to stop him going any further.

  “You cannot go up there,” he screeched. “The lady is in good hands.”

  Barrymore glared up at the golden-haired god mounting the stairs with the damsel his arms – and upon his handsome face was jealousy writ large.

  The Countess decided to intervene and spoke without equivocation. “Mr Barrymore, please go and tell Mr Frankland that his daughter has just fainted and that the funeral will be delayed twenty minutes. He is in his room at the top of the tower a gauche. Inform him that we will be having a nip of brandy in the great hall prior to going to the chapel.”

  Barrymore shook off the hand restraining him and took the stairs by twos, hesitated at the top of the landing, then whirled west and disappeared around the corner.

  Sir Olwen breathed a sigh of relief and rang for the butler. By the time the brandy arrived, so did the vicar. He offered to go upstairs at once to see what he could do but was persuaded by Sir Olwen to first take a brandy.

  The Mortimers arrived next. They were upset to hear what had happened but not surprised. Lady Laura’s health was fragile, teetering on the brink of emotional exhaustion. It was for the best that she be spared the funeral lest it bring on brain fever. Bed rest was what she needed. Her friends would not condemn her.

  Dr Mortimer shared a nip of brandy with the men then went to check how things were going with Lady Laura. At the top of the landing he met Mr Lysterfield coming out of the bedroom. The engineer explained that Lady Baskerville had been sedated by Dr Watson. Dr Mortimer thanked the engineer for his quick thinking and encouraged him to take a brandy while he conferred with his colleague and checked on the patient.

  The butler, in the meantime, had had the foresight to deliver a tray with tea things. Mrs Mortimer was doing the honours with the teapot when Mr Barrymore and Mr Lysterfield came from separate directions and almost collided at the top of the stairs. They acknowledged each other with a curt nod and descended side by side but the fact they did not speak spoke volumes. Sir Olwen noted the tacit hostility and moved quickly to hand the pair a nip of brandy. They both downed their measure in one gulp. Roderick Lysterfield then excused himself. Lady Laura had given approval for the labourers to have the day off and he wanted to inform the bosses as soon as possible. Barrymore was helping himself to a second measure of brandy when the Countess, cup of tea in hand, joined him.

  “How did Mr Frankland take the news of his daughter’s fainting spell?”

  Barrymore seemed momentarily distracted. He finished measuring his brandy. “I didn’t speak to Mr Frankland. I went up to the tower on the left as you directed but the door was locked. So I thought you must have meant the tower to the left as seen from the outside so I went up to the other tower. The room was empty but I could tell from the telescope that it was the right room. Mr Frankland must already have gone to the chapel and Jock must have gone with him.”

  Antonio was filling the fire basket. The Countess directed him to go to the chapel to inform Mr Frankland the funeral would be delayed twenty minutes.

  Seven black figures gathered like a murder of crows around the open casket surrounded by hundreds of beeswax tapers. As was the way with corpses, fear and worry had melted out of the face, but so had all the life that was in it. All that was left was a pallid deathmask, like one of Madame Tussaud’s waxworks. The vicar read from Ecclesiasticus. Sir Olwen was invited to deliver a eulogy and scritched on about how much Sir Henry had done for the greater good of Dartmoor. He had given employment to hundreds of men, improved roads and water supply, and provided electricity, not only to his own estate but to the towns and villages which might have been left in the dark if not for his philanthropy.

  Mrs Mortimer gagged on inconsolable grief each time Sir Henry’s noble name was mentioned. Dr Mortimer placed a supportive arm around her shoulder to stop her buckling under the weight of enormous despair.

  Mr Barrymore remained stoic, his brief burst of emotion whipped into line, his broad back unbowed from the merciless self-flagellation.

  The Countess thought Dr Watson shed a tear or two but he may merely have been clearing his throat and blowing his nose.

  No one noticed that Mr Frankland was not among the mourners. The Countess only noticed his absence when they were singing the final Benedectine hymn.

  “He is probably offering comfort to his daughter,” whispered the doctor when she mentioned it. “It is for the best. I have never attended a more dispiriting funeral. It played out like a dreary dirge. Servants will remove the coffin as soon as we depart the chapel and the body will be consigned to the family crypt like a forgotten footnote of history.”

  Lunch was served in the old Tudor dining room where the linenfold panelling was stained dark to match the Tudor furniture. The Countess chose a seat next to Sir Olwen and tried not to get distracted by the long nose hairs that wiggled whenever he breathed through his nostrils. He did not have friends and acquaintances in the normal sense; he had Members, Guns and Rods.

  “Was the late Sir Charles a member of the local hunt?” she probed casually.

  Sir Olwen shook his head vigorously as he tore into some roast pork. “Oh no, I hardly ever saw the man. The roads were not as good back then. It was much more difficult to get from Drogo to Baskerville back in those days. It would have taken the better part of a day. Crossing the great Grimpen Mire was not a feat to be undertaken lightly and it is still quite dangerous despite the engineering works of that American chap. Quakes can pop up u
nexpectedly where none existed the week before. The mire can never be mapped out and drained. It is an exercise in futility. Besides, Sir Charles was a bit of a recluse after he returned from South Africa.”

  “Was he always fond of his own company?” she pursued.

  “Oh no, he was quite a lively fellow in his younger days. The Baskervilles kept a fine stable and he was an excellent horseman. He had a good head for politics too and was quite ambitious. My father always said that Charlie Baskerville would eventually become our local Member of Parliament. But something happened when he inherited this place, or just before he inherited. He was about eighteen or nineteen and I was about three years younger. I went on holiday around that time; went to stay in Scotland with my godmother at Cruddock Castle and did some shooting with Lord Cruddock and the Earl of Lomond. I shot my first stag that year. It was a memorable time. I shall never forget it.” He appeared to go all wistful and nostalgic and blew his nose to stop from blubbering.

  “What happened with Sir Charles?” she prompted after he recovered from dreaming about dead stags.

  “What?”

  “You were saying something happened when he inherited Baskerville Hall.”

  “Oh, yes, it was some time ago now and I was much younger then. I am nearly seventy, you know – though I can still ride for the better part of a day and out-shoot the younger bucks.”

  “About Sir Charles?”

  “Ah, yes, Sir Charles.” Beetling brows took on a life of their own as he mopped up the gravy on his plate with a tranche of bread. “Something happened before he inherited; definitely just before. I remember when I returned from Scotland I heard it said that he went on the Grand Tour quite suddenly with his Latin tutor because of something that had happened. Something had been hushed up rather quickly. Young people weren’t kept in the know back in those days. Families handled their private affairs with discretion. Scandals were treated with sensitivity.”

  “Scandals?”

  “I was speaking generally. I was not being particular. It was some time ago and times were different back then. Elders kept their own counsel and servants knew better than to gossip.”

  “Of course,” she concurred. “But you say he later became a recluse so something must have brought about his change of character.”

  He drained his glass of red wine and waited for the butler to refill his glass. “Well, it was hardly surprising after what followed.”

  “What followed?” she echoed, adopting an interested pitch.

  “His parents died less than a year later. They were going over to meet up with him in Paris when their ferry sank during a force ten gale. The gale brought down a lot of trees when it hit the coast. My father had to replant acres of forest. Funny, how a man can recall some details but not others. Anyway, Sir Charles never returned to Devon. He went to South Africa instead and made a fortune managing a gold mine or diamond mine or p’raps both. He eventually returned in 1887, two years before he died, still unmarried. Everyone did their best to introduce him to eligible young fillies but he declined every invitation that came his way. To his credit, he did good works improving roads and the rail line and such, but not on the scale of his heir, Sir Henry. Now there is a name that will long be remembered in the annals of Dartmoor.”

  They all drank a toast to the memory of Sir Henry after which the squire screeched on about the many achievements of the late baronet. It soon became impossible to steer him back to what it was that had been hushed up rather quickly. Most likely it was an unsuitable liaison. Such scandals were common with willful young men set to inherit a fortune. She would speak to the French cook; servants always gossiped. Nothing had changed in the kitchens since the days of Solomon.

  Dr Watson spent the time chatting to Dr Mortimer and was invited to join the amateur archaeologist at Long Down where he was engaged in the usual skulduggery at one of the Neolithic sites.

  “I’m afraid I will have to decline,” said Dr Watson. “Countess Volodymyrovna and I plan to return to London first thing tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you won’t stay another day?” intervened the vicar disapprovingly. “There is a funeral for Beryl Stapleton tomorrow morning. Lady Baskerville has given permission for it to be held in the chapel; and a funeral for Monsieur de Garonne in the evening to save me coming back a third day. It appears most uncharitable to leave on the morning of a double funeral.”

  Uncharitable or not, Sir Olwen emphatically declared that he was not accustomed to attending the funerals of servants and gardeners.

  The Mortimers also begged off. They would not be able to attend either funeral as one of their daughters was travelling from Bristol to Plymouth and would be visiting for the day.

  Mr Barrymore did not go so far as to admonish his counterparts but he expressed that he would be attending both funerals since Lady Baskerville would be counting on her closest friends for a show of support. He further mentioned that servants deserved to be treated with common decency in life and dignity in death. He then issued an invitation to his friends to attend the funeral of his wife at Saint Swithin’s five days hence, and finished by reminding them that though his wife had been a mere servant at the beginning of her life, she died a lady, not with regards to noble title but with regards to respectability.

  After the mourners departed, Dr Watson and the Countess took a bottle of Madeira and two glasses into the library and settled themselves into armchairs either side of the fireplace.

  “I don’t know about you,” began the doctor remorsefully, “but I feel we have been suitably chastised.”

  “I didn’t know where to look when the vicar talked about being uncharitable.”

  “If you have no objection I think we should stay for an extra day or two.”

  “No objection at all. We owe it to Beryl Stapleton and Gaston de Garonne to attend their funerals; as Barrymore so succinctly put it – to provide dignity in death.”

  “He is a very articulate fellow.”

  She nodded as she measured some Madeira into their glasses and handed one to him. “I got the distinct impression he was addressing his equals not his betters.”

  “I got the distinct impression he was hoping to steal some time with Lady Laura and not merely show charity to those of lower rank, though I think you are right about him considering himself an equal - he did not appear to put himself in the same class as his wife. His tone of voice was defensive toward her humble beginnings but he seemed to neatly separate himself from that same humble start in life.”

  “Which reminds me, we still haven’t heard from your friend in Tavistock. I am beginning to fear he is not up to the job.”

  “Jensen is a diligent chap. He likes to be thorough. That’s another reason not to run out early. And there’s something else that is worrying me – when Lady Laura came out of her swoon she looked - how can I explain it? - possessed.”

  “Possessed? Do you mean demonically possessed?”

  “I know it sounds unscientific but I cannot describe how strange she looked. Her face was transfixed and totally white, as if all the blood had drained out of it. Her eyes were wide open and full of wild terror. The pupils were darting violently about the room.”

  “What did Mr Lysterfield make of it?”

  “I don’t think he witnessed it. He deposited her on the bed and stayed with her until I got the smelling salts but she was still in a swoon. It was after she came out of her swoon that she reacted like a baby bird trapped in a cage full of rats. He took his leave as soon as I arrived. I admit I was wrong about him. He is a first class fellow.”

  “She sounds like a woman on the verge of nervous breakdown.”

  “I fear it is already too late to save her; I fear for the unborn child. She was shaking uncontrollably and making incoherent babbling noises. Fortunately, there was some scopolamine on her bedside table. I had to sedate her. Dr Mortimer arrived a few moments later but I couldn’t explain to him how demented she looked. I cannot explain it to myself. Perhaps you w
ere right and it is this house that drives people insane. They are driven to the edge of madness and then they do mad things – send crazy letters to themselves, commit suicide, push servants down stairs, take lewd photographs, breed dogs to kill.”

  She poured them both another Madeira to help settle their nerves and turned on some table lamps to dispel the gloom of low hanging beams and the weighty wisdom of hundreds of unread books.

  “Tell me what Sir Olwen said about royal prerogatives. I trust you had enough time to drill him before I joined you this morning?”

  He took a gulp from his glass and felt the liquor warm his gullet. “Yes, he was a font of information and he managed to explain it all in layman’s terms despite the fact he is a retired barrister. It goes something like this: A person is ennobled by royal prerogative, basically at the whim of the reigning monarch. A parchment bearing the Great Seal creates the peerage. This is called a patent. The patent describes how the title may descend after the death of the original peer. This is called the remainder. The remainder usually comes with a limitation. Most often this means it is limited to male heirs, legally begotten, meaning not illegitimate. The Baskerville baronetcy is of the type I just described.”

  “What happens if there are no male heirs legally begotten?”

  “The title becomes extinct.”

  “And the money and the house can be willed in accordance with the last baronet’s wishes?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if Lady Baskerville has a daughter, the daughter can inherit her father’s estate, because there is no title and hence no entailment to male heirs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lady Baskerville could inherit her husband’s estate in her own right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So who has Sir Henry bequeathed his house and his wealth to if there are no male heirs? Did he think of that? Or did he just presume he would eventually sire a little baronet?”