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

  She performed a little experiment by climbing on the stool. “The stool is sturdy. It is more like a window bench. It would not topple over without some help.”

  “Be careful!” he warned as she stood on tip-toe to look at the garden bed below, leaning out farther than was wise.

  She pulled back suddenly and lost her footing. He caught her by the arms as she fell backwards and together they knocked over the telescope balancing on the tripod stand. It clattered to the floor with a loud bang that reverberated down the spiral stairs. While he reassembled it she thought how difficult it would have been to push an old man out of the window without disturbing the instrument standing in the way. It was another puzzle that needed solving.

  She glanced back at the window before the door closed. Jock would have needed to jump from the stool to the sill, no mean feat for a dog with short legs, and from the sill he would have seen the drop to the ground. She doubted any dog would jump from such a height of its own accord, not even to follow its master out the window.

  She waited until they reached the gallery before announcing she wanted to see the view from the neighbouring oriel window, to check the trajectory of the fall, and asked him to accompany her. He told her the door was locked and he had no idea where the key might be. She told him she spotted a brass key behind the suit of armour in the niche and thought it might be the key to the door. He swallowed every word.

  “Did you come up here often?” she asked as they paused at the top of the corkscrew stairs and she pretended to retrieve the key from its hiding place instead of her own pocket.

  “Never,” he replied, panting heavily. “The first time I came up to Beryl’s studio was the night she died and I saw the candlelight flickering and thought maybe I had been dreaming she died, or maybe her ghost had returned to haunt the tower. I was surprised and angry to see you and Dr Watson up here.”

  “Were you surprised by the photographs too?”

  “No,” he said. “They belonged to Jack Stapleton. I had seen them before in Yorkshire. He was an amateur photographer and had his own darkroom. Beryl held ballet classes on weekends at the school and he would drug the girls who came to learn to dance and take their pictures. When they woke up, Beryl would tell them they had fainted. He didn’t molest them. But I know it sickened her. But he was not a man to be denied. She fell in love with him so hard and fast it coloured her view of his character for a long time. By the time she came to her senses it was too late. I have made my bed, she would say to me, and now I must lie in it.”

  The Countess unlocked the door and went straight to the oriel window and opened the latch to look out. The white velvet chaise longue was not positioned directly under the window and there was no stool to stand on so she could not see the garden bed directly below. But she could see that the two gardeners had returned to their sweeping and guessed that the body had been removed to the gun room. This was the first time she noted the top of the Yew hedge and the words clipped into the canopy: Baskerville Castle 1899.

  “Your daughter had a lot of exquisite evening gowns,” commented the Countess, feigning curiosity, casually opening one after another of the wardrobes and running her fingers through yards and yards of silk, satin and taffeta, adopting the air of one who appreciates fine fabrics.

  “I know what you are meaning by that,” he said coldly. “They are far too good for a governess and you would be right. She was the mistress of the baronet. He gave her these gowns. He liked her to dress up lovely. He would have married her instead of Laura Lyons but English custom would not stand for it. He loved her from the first. He loved her to the last. He made me his valet so that I could take messages to her and she could pass them back to him about when to meet. I knew what they used this room for. That’s why I never came up here. It weren’t my business. It made her happy to be with him. She should have been mistress of this big house!”

  “That is a strange admission for a father. Did you not disapprove?”

  He gave a scornful laugh, full of contempt. “I loved my daughter. She loved the baronet. He loved her. I am not so righteous as to judge them. I am not without sin. It was a sin they could not marry.”

  “Do you resent Lady Laura?”

  His mouth twisted into a malignant and mirthless smile. “Yes, I resent her but I do not blame her. It was not her doing that the baronet could not marry my daughter.”

  “Did Lady Laura know about her husband’s infidelity?”

  “Yes, she knew. Not at first but later she knew.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “She hated Beryl. You could see it in her eyes. But she never loved the baronet the way Beryl did. So in the end it didn’t matter to her if her husband was unfaithful. She wanted a child but she did not want a husband. She may even have been glad he did not demand his conjugal rights more often.”

  “Thank you, Antonio, you have been very honest. I have been trying to understand the secrets of this house and you have helped me. I am still no closer to solving any puzzles. I still have no answers. But I think I am one step to closer to the truth.”

  He moved about efficiently, closing the wardrobes and the window latch, perhaps to disguise the fact his rheumy old eyes were pricked with tears. “If you have no objection, I would like to stay here a bit longer. Mallard will be looking for me to bring more wood in before it gets dark, so I won’t be long. I will put the key back behind the suit of armour.”

  “I will tell Mallard that I sent you on an errand and that you are still engaged doing my bidding, that way you won’t be in trouble for slacking on your usual duties. Stay as long as you like.”

  Dr Watson’s reaction to the news that Beryl and the baronet were lovers was to be expected. Though he considered himself to be a mature man of the world, he was a bit of a puritan at heart. He couldn’t imagine marriage without love and fidelity. And his opinion of the baronet had taken a battering since returning to Devon. He had admired the baronet from their first meeting and placed him on a pedestal. But his paragon of virtue was starting to reveal feet of clay.

  Perhaps it was her Ukrainian upbringing and the fact she had been given up by her mother and never knew her father, but the Countess did not find such things shocking. She was vexed by it not from a moral standpoint but because she couldn’t see how knowing it might fit in with all that had happened at Baskerville Castle. Lady Laura did not love her husband so she was unlikely to be jealous of his mistress and may even have been thankful that he did not visit her bedchamber more than necessary to conceive a child. She wanted a child so she was unlikely to induce her husband to commit suicide. And Beryl was hardly likely to kill the baronet. Nor was Antonio. Their lives were made infinitely easier by their association with him. No one had a motive. The deaths-cum-accidents seemed meaningless and random.

  They sank into comfortable armchairs by the fire and smoked an after-dinner cigarette. After knowing each other for only one week the silence between them seemed perfectly blissful. They looked like a mutually contented married couple - except that married couples rarely were.

  Dr Watson’s news was easier to digest. It went down well with a glass of port and some hot cocoa. While examining the body of Mr Frankland he discovered a contusion to the back of the skull caused by a blunt instrument. Since the body had landed face first, Mr Frankland must have been hit on the back of the head before falling.

  “Ah, that made sense,” she said, grateful that something did. “It would have been extremely difficult to push him out the window without knocking over the telescope. He would surely have put up a bit of a struggle and therefore knocked it over. But if he had been hit on the head first he might already have been unconscious. Someone could then just drag him to the stool and tip him out - voila! They could even move the telescope out of the way and then replace it. I thought it couldn’t be done by a woman. But if he had been hit on the head first, a woman might have had the strength to bundle him out the window.”

  “What do you make of Anton
io?” he solicited, changing the subject.

  “I think he is surprisingly honest. My husband used to say that people who have suffered a lot tend not to put a gloss on things. They talk straight – were his words.”

  “Hrrmph,” he responded consumptively, “if anyone pushed old Frankland out that window it was the lisping valet.”

  “On what do you base that theory?”

  “He is an accomplished liar. He couldn’t talk straight if he tried. He worked us the same way those two spruikers hovering over the mummy worked the gawping crowd at Lady Felicity Fanshawe’s”

  “What motive would he have?”

  He had already thought it through and had an answer at the ready. “Resentment - Frankland is the father of the woman who is married to the baronet. Antonio is the father of the woman who isn’t. He might say it doesn’t bother him but resentment is an emotion that can stew away and then bubble over. The two men meet in the tower and are exchanging words and before you know it Frankland has boasted that his daughter is carrying the heir or something like that and Antonio has snapped. He is hot-blooded. Hot-blooded types tend to act impulsively.”

  “Is that a scientific assessment?”

  “Well, how else can you explain his amazing powers of observation?”

  “If powers of observation make you guilty then my father should have been locked up every time he set foot out the door.”

  “Then we are back to square one with no suspects and no motive but yet another death.”

  “Another death or another accident?” she challenged. “You thought it was an accident when you first saw the body.”

  “I was hasty in my assessment,” he admitted with a grimace. “The knock to the back of the head and the fact that the dog was thrown out the window destroys that theory. It is murder.”

  “In that case the obvious suspect is Barrymore. He went up to find Frankland. He had ample time to bang him on the head and push him out the window.”

  “Motive?”

  She considered the question thoughtfully and took the time to finish her cigarette. “He wants to marry Lady Laura but he knows Frankland will oppose the match on the grounds that he is not good enough for the widow of a baronet!”

  “Very good!” he exclaimed. “Yes, it makes sense! Finally something makes sense. He could have killed his wife to clear the path - and got rid of the baronet for the same reason.”

  “And Gaston?”

  “An accident with the dingoes in the stable, as I said. Do you think it might be time to summon Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard?”

  She shook her head. “Tomorrow is the funeral of Beryl and Gaston. Let us not disturb the dignity in death they deserve. If we haven’t heard from your friend in Tavistock by the day after tomorrow we will summon Lestrade and tell him all we know.”

  He nodded quickly and rattled off his thoughts unpunctuated. “The Mortimers aren’t coming to either funeral tomorrow, but my guess is that Barrymore will arrive early to try to gain an audience with Lady Laura, we can observe him carefully and see if he incriminates himself, and after the first funeral I can go to Coombe Tracey to telegraph my chum and find out what the delay might be; I will return in plenty of time for Gaston’s funeral in the evening; you can keep an eye on Barrymore and make sure he doesn’t go into Lady Laura’s room, I don’t want her unnerved, but take care not to reveal that we suspect him - he might be dangerous.”

  She was already shaking her head before he had even finished. He wondered if she had heard a single word.

  “I need to buy more black satin,” she announced importantly. “And I need a black tophat with a crepe de Chine bow. This wretched veil was a nuisance all day. I had to wrestle it into place all through the service. And it has messed my hair. We have two more funerals tomorrow and then another two after that – Eliza Barrymore and Mr Frankland. This house party has turned into one long funeral! I will go to Coombe Tracey in your place and telegraph your friend and sign your name. You watch Barrymore. The vicar will be here so don’t get distracted. And you can rely on Fedir not to let Barrymore anywhere near Lady Laura. Enlist Antonio’s help if you need it. The way he kept track of everyone’s movements in and out of the chapel shows what a truly observant fellow he is. He could be invaluable in keeping an eye on Barrymore.”

  It was reassuring to know she had listened, but not reassuring that it was for the purpose of contradiction. But experience had taught him there was no point arguing with a woman about fripperies when it came to personal vanity. “Make sure you take Fedir with you to Coombe Tracey. Take Xenia as well. There’s safety in numbers. As for Antonio – I don’t think we should trust him.”

  13

  The Day of the Double Funeral

  Limpid pools of watery light filtered through the stained glass windows of the chapel on that cold autumn morning. Antonio did not weep. Long ago his tears had turned to stones.

  The funeral was brief but not lacking in dignity; both Dr Watson and Countess Volodymyrovna did a reading. None of the mourners lingered in the old dining room though it was a warm and pleasant spot. Antonio hovered by the door as tea and coffee were dispensed and he looked like a man who had something he wanted to get off his chest but Mallard ordered him back to his chores. No sooner was the meal concluded than everyone went their separate ways. The funeral for Gaston de Garonne was not until six o’clock in the evening.

  The vicar decided to use the afternoon to visit his wayward flock in the hamlet of Grimpen. Barrymore brought his darling Bessie and his new Purdey with him and intended to explore pockets of the great Grimpen Mire. Dr Watson positioned himself in a wing chair in the great hall with his book where he could keep an eye on anyone trying to gain an audience with Lady Laura. The Countess exchanged her dolorous gown for something more vivacious, ordered the landau with the two chestnut mares and went off with her servants to Coombe Tracey.

  There was no sign of a telegram but a letter had arrived yesterday from Tavistock. The sender was one Mr Saint Giles and it was addressed to Dr John Watson.

  The Countess aimed a thin and abbreviated smile at the post-master before launching into a polite but frosty dressing down. “I believe I paid extra to have this missive delivered to Baskerville Castle as soon as it arrived.”

  “No, madame,” contradicted the post-master, “you paid extra for a telegram to be delivered to Baskerville Castle as soon as it arrived.”

  She was tempted to argue the point, but since a queue had formed in the post office she heeded the adage about waging battles and winning wars and swallowed her considerable pride, emptying into his palm her shillings and pence. “In future, should any telegram or letter arrive addressed to Dr John Watson please deliver them immediately to Baskerville Castle. Good day to you, sir.”

  After completing her other purchases, she hurried to the landau and as soon as the wheels were tearing up Devon dust she was tearing open the letter from Tavistock and her eyes were flying over the damning prose. Jensen was indeed a diligent and thorough fellow who considered no detail too trivial to document. This letter would tighten the noose around Barrymore’s neck. And a confession would hang him for a double murderer.

  While she was reflecting as to the best course of action – whether to confront Barrymore before or after Gaston’s funeral, whether to unmask him during or after dinner, whether to confront him with the facts first up or whether to try to trick him into an admission of guilt by alluding to his secret past, whether to first summon Inspector Lestrade or whether to risk him flying the coop by revealing what they knew – she glanced out of the carriage window. They were just passing the old cemetery. On one of the hoary grey headstones was sitting a young gypsy girl and on her lap was a little white dog.

  The Countess banged on the roof of the landau with her umbrella; it juddered to a halt.

  Alarmed, the girl spotted the landau and pushed to her feet, almost dropping the dog. The dog whimpered and the Countess could see that its back leg was bound with a dirty
red checkered rag. The girl was about ten or twelve years of age with matted black tresses that hung halfway down her back in wind-whipped tangles. She was wearing knee-length boy’s breeches under a grimy grey pinafore with a torn hem and over her thin shoulders was a ragged shawl, knotted at the front.

  “Wait!” the Countess cried when the girl began moving awkwardly in the opposite direction, dragging one leg which she presumed was because of the weight of the injured dog before noticing that one boot was bigger than the other. The gypsy girl had a clubfoot. It slowed her down and gave the Countess a chance to catch up. When she was within earshot she decided to try some Ukrainian since it was a Slavic tongue not dissimilar to Romany, and probably something the older gypsies still used among themselves. It worked. The girl looked back over her shoulder.

  “Who are you?”

  “Never mind - I just want to ask you something.”

  “You will take my dog!”

  “No, no,” the Countess assured. “I will not take your dog.”

  “Jago wants my dog,” she hissed. “But I won’t give it up! It’s mine! I found it! It’s finders- keepers!”

  “I won’t take your dog,” she repeated to no avail.

  Having gypsy blood coursing through ones veins meant being naturally mistrustful of outsiders. Carefully, the girl put the dog on the ground and covered it with her shawl.

  “Come closer and I will claw your pretty eyes out and scratch your pretty face!” she threatened baring a row of teeth like a she-wolf protecting her young.

  The Countess persisted. “I know that little dog. His name is Jock. He has a broken leg. His owner is dead and he is in need of a good home. You can keep him if you would like to look after him. And I can see you care for him. I just want to speak to you about a letter.”

  The gypsy girl took a moment to digest the big speech. She was not retarded but no one had ever spoken so many words to her in one go. She was used to words that came short and sharp. Collect some kindling! Chop the cabbage! Feed the pigs! In her world praise came with a double meaning. The only time anyone said anything nice to her was usually just before a beating. Who stirred this lovely cabbage soup? Bang! A slap to the side of the head! It’s burnt on the bottom and stuck to the pot you useless little cripple! Who put this big log of wood on the fire? Slap! It’s still green! It will smoke all night you stupid tzigana! She tried to fathom the double meaning in the words she just heard but there were too many of them swimming inside her head. The dog gave a whimper and she glanced down to make sure it wasn’t trying to stand on its broken leg.