The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1) Page 18

  The Countess decided a generous gesture was called for but she had given all her spare change to the post-master. Suddenly inspiration struck! In an instant she pulled off her Indian paisley shawl and held it out. “Here, take this,” she said, “You can have it. It’s yours. I don’t want to take your dog. You can keep him too. Jock can have your old shawl to keep him warm and you can have this new one.”

  Mesmerised by the jewelled colours of the Raj; the girl’s small black eyes widened until they were the size of saucers. “His name is Snowy!” she snapped. “If you mean what you say put the shawl down on Benbow’s grave and go back over there by that stump.” She spat out the instructions just as the last words of the big speech finally sank in. “What letter?”

  The Countess placed the shawl on the grave marked Benbow and backed off to show she meant no harm. “The letter you delivered to the master of Baskerville Castle last month.”

  “What of it?”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  The gypsy girl grabbed the paisley shawl as if it was a live snake about to bite her and secured it tightly around her waist. “You can’t have the shilling back! It’s mine! I hid it under one of the gravestones so Jago cannot steal it from me!”

  “I don’t want the shilling. I just want to know who gave you the letter.”

  She gave a wild laugh. “A demon!”

  “What sort of demon?”

  “You won’t believe me. No one does.”

  “I’ll believe you if you tell me.”

  She hesitated and scratched her head. “The headless horseman!”

  “You saw him?”

  She looked back over her left shoulder as if checking to make sure the phantom horseman wasn’t about to make a sudden appearance and nodded quickly.

  “He spoke to you?”

  She nodded again.

  “What did he say?”

  “Deliver this to the Master of Baskerville and there is a shilling for your trouble.”

  “What sort of voice did he have?”

  The girl looked confused.

  The Countess elaborated. “Was his voice deep and low like a man’s voice or high-pitched like a woman?”

  “Like a man-devil.”

  “Did the voice sound like it came from these parts or from some country far away where they talk different?” What she meant was did it have an accent or a lisp?

  “From these parts.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “Dog Hole Gorge.”

  “Were you alone?”

  Another nod of the head.

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Gathering vetches for the pot.”

  The Countess decided to challenge the gypsy’s veracity. “The headless horseman only comes when there is a thunderstorm.”

  “It did thunder! I hid under Dog Hole Tor and the demon came out of the storm on his demon horse!”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Countess Volodymyrovna! Countess Volodymyrovna!”

  The moment the Countess turned her head toward the call of her manservant, the gypsy girl grabbed the dog and disappeared over the nearest granite spur. Annoyed at having the conversation cut short, she was about to reprimand Fedir when she spotted Jago on his dog cart heading their way and hurried back to the safety of the landau.

  So much for keeping a watchful eye out for Barrymore! Dr Watson was snoring in the wing chair with his book on his lap. The Countess put her hand on his knee and gave him a gentle shake.

  “Here, read this,” she said, thrusting the letter into his hand as soon as he stirred. “It’s from your chum in Tavistock. There was no telegram because he sent a letter instead. It runs to several pages. I’m going upstairs to change back into my black satin. We can discuss the contents in your bedroom in twenty minutes. Ring for tea and sandwiches.” She delivered the last bit as she crossed the hall and mounted the stairs.

  If he was still drowsy when she thrust the letter at him he was wide awake by the time he finished perusing the contents. He had been secretly worrying that Jensen Saint Giles might fail to deliver but his friend had excelled himself. At five-thirty he ushered the countess into his stately chamber where a pot of Souchong and some thinly quartered cucumber sandwiches awaited.

  “It is damning stuff, n’est-ce pas?” she said, popping a sandwich into her mouth and gratefully accepting the cup of tea he passed into her hand. “I am parched. I had an encounter in the old cemetery but that is another story. The matter relating to Barrymore is more pressing. I have been giving it some thought. I think we should confront him straight after the funeral of Gaston. What say you?”

  He had been giving it some thought too. “I think we should confront him before the funeral.”

  She checked the bracket clock on the black marble mantel and shook her head. “There will not be enough time.”

  “What if he chooses to rush away straight after the funeral?”

  She finished gobbling down another dainty sandwich. “We can hint that Lady Laura will be joining us after dinner in the library.”

  “Will he fall for such an obvious falsehood?”

  “To a man who is besotted nothing is obvious. And he does not suspect we know anything about his past. He will go eagerly into the library like a fly into the parlour of a spider. Antonio can be posted in the great hall should he try to make a run for it. And Fedir can be posted to the stable to watch his horse and his darling Bessie should he choose to flee from another door.”

  “Very well,” he assented. “Now what is this other encounter? What old cemetery?”

  She gulped down the rest of her tea and grabbed another sandwich to go. “There is no time. I must get to the library and choose a reading for Gaston. Something about gardens. That should be easy considering the English consider the whole of England to be one big garden. And if you are going to do another reading, don’t choose The Fall of the House of Usher.”

  The chapel was not gurged in gold. Most of yesterday’s candles were nothing but stumps guttering in pools of their own clumpy wax; flickering faintly before dying.

  The Countess read Keats – To Autumn – first in English and then in French.

  The doctor, mindful not to offend, also chose Keats. He read – When I Have Fears.

  The remains of Gaston de Garrone would be cremated and the ashes placed in an urn that would stand in the centre of the rose garden that fanned out from the south-east corner of the castle. Every morning the sun would warm the cold stone and those who were taking lunch in the old dining room with the triple aspect would catch a glimmer of reflected light and perhaps spare a thought for the French gardener. In summer the roses would burst into bloom around him and fill the air with their heavenly scent. In years to come, ladies would stroll past and say “I wonder whose ashes are buried here?” “Who was this Frenchman buried so far from home?” “Who was Gaston de Garonne?”

  But Nature would not forget him. Nature would honour him. Nature did not judge or condemn. It bloomed for saint and sinner alike. The rose did not ask “Is this a good man?” “Is he worthy of my scent?” “Should I send out new buds for him come spring?” A chorus of ladybirds, bumblebees and butterflies would quietly sing his praises. Gaston did not need God’s moral nod to enter heaven. He did not need Saint Peter’s approval to pass through the pearly gates. He had made a little paradise here on earth. And the answer would come from the perfumed air: “He was a gardener.”

  Dinner was a sombre affair. They were a disparate quartet; sick to death of funerals and anxious to be elsewhere. The vicar wanted to be tucked into a warm bed in the comfortable guestroom set aside for him. Mr Barrymore desperately wanted to see Lady Laura. And Dr Watson and the countess wanted to confront the man whose dark secret they now knew. The Countess initiated some artful manoeuvring as only a woman can.

  “You must be exhausted, vicar,” she sighed sympathetically. “Three funerals in two days. I don’t know how you manage so many readings an
d so many hymns. It must be difficult choosing what is appropriate and so very, very taxing on the brain.”

  He agreed that it was tiring but added that he enjoyed selecting readings and hymns and was heartened that she thought them appropriate.

  She feigned a yawn, hoping it might be infectious. “I find funerals so emotionally draining. They take their pound of flesh from each of us but more so from you, vicar, since you must preside over them and offer endless comfort to the bereaved.”

  He mumbled something about flocks and shepherds while she feigned another yawn. Dr Watson picked up her cue.

  “I think I will be having an early night,” he said, heaving a sigh. “I feel wrung out. The death of Sir Henry has taken its toll on me; and the terrible accident with Mrs Stapleton coming so soon after it, and the unnatural death of the French gardener to top it off. It has been taxing, to say the least. I must say, vicar, it was good of you to step in at the last moment to consecrate the new chapel on top of all your other duties. How was your day in Grimpen hamlet?”

  A cloud fell over the vicar’s shiny round face which was perpetually perspiring and, coupled with his bald pate, reminded everyone of a rosy red apple dotted with dew. “Oh, I cannot complain while doing the good Lord’s calling but there are so many men and women there worn out with work, so many old and frail, so many children sick, I didn’t know where to start and I didn’t think I would ever finish. And some parishioners are easier to administer to than others. The unfortunate inhabitants of Grimpen are not open to the Word of God and so their prayers go unheeded.”

  “Indeed,” affirmed the Countess. “Do you have another busy day tomorrow, vicar?”

  “Yes,” he replied, polishing his shiny pate, “Sunday is my busiest day.”

  “So you must start back for Coombe Tracey bright and early?”

  The apple nodded wearily.

  “Saint Swithin’s is fortunate to have a minister who leads by example,” added the doctor.

  The apple drooped on the bough. “I think I will have an early night too. If you will excuse me, a guestroom in the west wing beckons. Bon nuit.”

  Barrymore, who had been paying scant attention to the conversation, looked up quickly. “I was hoping to speak to you after dinner about the funeral arrangements for my wife, vicar.”

  The vicar frowned like a man who had just found a worm in his apple. “We can discuss the arrangements tomorrow after mass. I haven’t seen you at church for some time Mr Barrymore. It will be good to see your face among the congregation. Au revoir.”

  Barrymore coloured slightly from the veiled reprimand but his swarthy complexion and the dark beard hid it well. The worried pallor of old had long gone, banished by an antipodean sun – no freckles for him – and he was hardy handsomer for it. The thick and shaggy beard from his butlering days had been neatly trimmed and now served to outline a strong jaw that hinted at strength of character. Up close, a few silver hairs showed through the rich dark strands, but from a distance no one would have guessed that this was a man who had weathered fifty years.

  It was time for more feminine manoeuvring. The Countess put on her prettiest conceit.

  “Shall we retire to the library for port and cigars, gentlemen? I believe Lady Laura may soon be joining us for some hot cocoa.”

  Barrymore used the backs of his knees to push back his chair so forcefully it landed with a loud thud on the bare oak boards. Quickly, he picked it up; remembering himself; and offered his arm to the lady. Dr Watson patted the letter concealed in his top pocket as the countess swept past holding onto the fish who was well and truly hooked. Walking a few paces behind, he also patted the revolver concealed in his other pocket.

  “God must have given men two hands so that they could balance a cigar in one and a crystal tumbler in the other,” commented the countess flippantly as the two men positioned themselves either side of the fireplace in an attempt to look relaxed. Alas! Barrymore, as twitchy as a cat on hot bricks, kept throwing desperate glances at the door. The doctor, mindful that things could turn dangerous in the blink of an eye, swallowed his port in one gulp to give himself a free hand should the need arise.

  “It is most unusual for a man to change his name after marriage,” the Countess broached so non-chalantly she could have been talking blandly about the weather.

  Barrymore swallowed some port the wrong way and coughed violently. “It is not a crime to change ones name. I think it might be more common than you imagine.”

  “Sans doubt,” replied the Countess in French, recalling how he had no trouble comprehending the word ‘gauche’ the morning of Sir Henry’s funeral – that being the morning she sent him to the tower to find Mr Frankland. “But it is unusual for a man to change his name to his wife’s mother’s maiden name – n’est-ce pas?”

  Barrymore’s eyes flicked to the door. Perhaps he was checking to make sure his love’s desire was not about to walk in on the conversation, or perhaps he was hoping she would, and the conversation could be diverted. He adopted a cavalier tone, slightly patriarchal; the sort men favour when putting an uppity woman in her place. “Your tone of voice suggests something sinister and underhand, Countess Volodymyrovna. I presume you are alluding to me. But there is no hidden motive and no great mystery to it. My wife’s mother’s family had been in service to the Baskervilles for over one hundred years but the connection was severed when the Barrymores had no sons, only daughters, and the Hall was closed up due to the young Sir Charles choosing to live in South Africa. When we heard Sir Charles had returned to Baskerville Hall and my wife expressed a desire to return to her Dartmoor roots I thought it would be much easier to gain employment with Sir Charles if we first restored the old family connection.”

  “Eliza Selden was from these parts?” probed the Countess, lulling him into a sense of false security.

  He nodded. “Her father was coachman and her mother was a housemaid as was her mother before her and so on – always in service here at Baskerville until it was closed up.”

  “Where did they go after it was closed?”

  “Mr Selden found employment as an ostler at the coaching inn at Coombe Tracey and Mrs Selden went into service for the vicar at Saint Swithin’s.”

  “Was your family always in service too?”

  “We are all of us in service one way or another by choice of our vocation.”

  “Was butlering always your chosen vocation?” she rephrased.

  “I did have aspirations to better myself when I was younger, but a tragedy in the family curtailed my hopes and butlering was a good alternative.”

  “What tragedy was that?”

  “My first wife died.”

  “That is indeed a tragedy, Mr Barrymore, and your second wife too. Very tragic. What did you say was your previous name?”

  He answered quickly, as if anticipating the question. “I didn’t say because you did not ask. It was John de Chivers.”

  “Your family was not from these parts?”

  “No, they hail from Tavistock.”

  “What was the name of your first wife?” interposed the doctor in an interested monotone, fingering the revolver in his pocket.

  “It was Clara.”

  “Clara de Chivers,” murmured the Countess. “I believe I have heard the name before but I cannot think where or in relation to what,” she lied.

  A few beads of sweat broke out on Barrymore’s brow. The doctor offered to top up his port, to ease his Gordian misery and to stop him doing something reckless.

  Antonio made an appearance at the door leading to the great hall, looking agitated, as if he had something to say, but the doctor dismissed him with an abrupt wave of his hand and a glowering look.

  “I was grief-stricken when my wife passed away,” said the doctor, passing Barrymore a fresh port. “It is always tragic to lose a loved one. And when you are a doctor and can do nothing to ease suffering – it is even more tragic. Did your wife suffer from an illness?”

  Barrymore tos
sed his half-spent cigar on the fire and ran his index finger around the inside edge of his cravat. “No, she did not suffer from an illness. She died by her own hand.”

  “Suicide,” observed the Countess mildly. “An unfortunate coincidence - the same as your second wife.”

  The healthy colour drained from the ex-butler’s face. He was starting to look as pale as a corpse. “Yes,” he croaked, tipping his port down his throat and replacing his glass on the table to disguise the fact his hand was shaking.

  “A double tragedy,” said the doctor, fingering the trigger of his loaded revolver.

  Barrymore fell into the nearest wing chair and let his head fall into his hands. They gave him a few moments to gather himself but watched closely for any sudden violent move. When he lifted his head he looked from one to the other of his interrogators despairingly. His wretched face looked like a wrung out jaundiced rag in the yellow firelight. His carboniferous eyes, moist from unshed tears, glistened like wet coals. And his strong baritone voice sounded like a death song.

  14

  A Sack Full of Trouble

  “You can stop this charade. I will come clean since I believe you know my story, or at least part of it. My first wife, Clara, took her own life by drinking poison parsley tea after our child, a boy, died for no discernable reason in his cot at sixty-two days of age. Poison parsley is better known as hemlock. There was an inquest. Did she wrap the babe too tightly? Did she not wrap it tightly enough? Was there enough air in the room? Was it too hot? Too draughty? Was the window closed? Was it open? Was the coal fire smoking? Was the flue clear of soot? Death was eventually deemed to be by cause unknown. I later read up on so-called cot deaths and discovered them to be a common cause of infant mortality. The mother is always blamed. Most of the women end up in a penitentiary or a lunatic asylum. Some are killed by their unforgiving husbands. I did not hold her to blame. But she blamed herself. She could not bear to live. I was charged with her murder.”