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

  The doctor refilled Barrymore’s glass when his voice grew barely audible.

  “Thank you,” he said hoarsely before continuing the story. “Shortly before my marriage to Clara, my parents died in a train crash. I inherited the family home and enough money to provide an income for two or three years. In other words, I could afford to support my family whilst studying law. I was articled to a practice in Tavistock. Half way through the trial, my employer who was an excellent barrister, warned me that the case against me looked grim. There had been a spate of wife murders using poison that year and this prejudiced the jury before the trial even started. You may recall the case of Dr Dryden in Richmond Hill using scopolamine and Mr Cruikshank in Covent Garden using arsenic.”

  He took a sip of port to lubricate his voicebox. “As it so happened, my brother-in-law had been to dinner that fateful evening. He vowed that Clara had been in good spirits. He also claimed he had seen me digging out the hemlock from our garden prior to coming in for the evening meal. Both those things were true. He also claimed that Clara was fond of parsley tea and often had a cup on her bedside table to freshen her breath first thing in the morning, and that she knew the difference between parsley and poison parsley and would never mistake the two. That also was true. That is what convinces me she chose deliberately to end her own life. The jury chose to believe the opposite.”

  Agitated, he began to pace the hearth. “My denial fell on deaf ears. My explanation was scornfully dismissed. I said Clara must have gone to bed and then realizing she had forgotten her parsley tea came downstairs to make herself a cup and decided then and there to end it all instead. I felt her good spirits that night had been feigned for her brother’s sake. I had dug out the hemlock because the neighbour’s cat had given birth to malformed kittens and the hemlock was suspected to be the cause. I was questioned as to why I didn’t notice my wife going out into the garden in the dark to get the hemlock when there was a glass of freshly picked parsley on the kitchen windowsill. But that evening I was reading some law notes late into the night and fell asleep in the study. The door was closed. I neither heard her come down the stairs nor saw her. I wish to God I had. By God! I wish I had!”

  His face flushed darkly before resuming a pallid hue. “The jury retired to make their verdict. I fully expected to hang. When, at the last moment, the most fortuitous thing happened. Our housemaid, who I had dismissed after my wife died, returned to Tavistock and swore she saw my wife go out into the garden at about midnight and take some hemlock back into the kitchen. Her bedroom window overlooked the garden and she said she could not sleep that night because it was muggy in the attic. She swore on the bible she never once heard me raise my voice against my wife or blame her for the death of our child. She was asked why she did not come forward earlier. Her answer sealed my release. She had gone to Devon to seek work closer to her family. She was illiterate and could not read the newspaper. She did not know of the trial until she overheard someone speaking of it. I was acquitted. But a rumour soon started that she was lying and that I had paid her to return to Tavistock and perjure herself. My career was finished. My life was ruined. My money had gone to pay legal expenses. I was labelled a wife murderer and shunned by all decent society. My brother-in-law paid some thugs to give me a beating that rendered me partially deaf and almost killed me. My housemaid nursed me without recompense. A year later we were married. I changed my name to Barrymore and with my wife came to Baskerville Hall to work for Sir Charles. The loneliness and isolation suited us perfectly.”

  “Your housemaid was Eliza Selden?” said the Countess.

  He nodded.

  “And did she perjure herself for you?” she posed bluntly.

  He did not appear shocked or affronted. “After the trial I asked myself that selfsame question. I went to the servant’s bedroom in the attic. From the dormer window it was impossible to see the kitchen door or the place where I discarded the stalks of hemlock. She could not have seen my wife go out to the garden to get the poison parsley.”

  “Did you confront her with this fact?” demanded the doctor.

  “The truth would have hanged me. A lie set me free. I chose not to mention it.”

  “You married her out of gratitude,” guessed the Countess.

  “And to save my neck,” he illuminated brutally.

  “I believe she lied because she loved you,” said the other.

  He nodded sadly and reached into the inside top pocket of his frock coat.

  Dr Watson immediately pulled out his gun and aimed it point blank at Barrymore’s chest.

  “No need for that, Dr Watson,” said Barrymore calmly. “I am going to show you this letter that my second wife left for me to read when she drowned herself in her bath. I found it on her dressing table. I chose to conceal it because I did not want it known my wife was illiterate or that our marriage was a loveless one. It may help to convince you that I did not kill either of my wives, though I admit that things would have gone differently had you known about the murder trial when you came that night to confirm the suicide of my second wife. Here it is.”

  He handed the Countess a large sheet of parchment on which was scrawled some illegible handwriting smudged with ink blots. If a drunken spider had been dipped in ink and set to crawl across the page it might have done a better job.

  Derist Jon, I luv yuou with all mey hart butt I canot go on. I no yuou hav traid to luv me bak butt yor hart was with unother and now is for sum on els. I wish yuou wel and go to my God tho I hrave lyed and sinnd. Thunk yuou for wot yuou did for mey little bruthr tho he wos a bad un. Frogiv me. Eliza.

  If they needed proof of Eliza’s illiteracy they had it here. And those few words, though poorly phrased and misspelled, also confirmed his story. The unattractive housemaid who was madly in love with her handsome employer perjured herself to save him from the hangman, and by doing so ended up with a gold band on her finger.

  Barrymore had escaped the hangman but had locked himself into a loveless marriage from which there was no escape. He had kept a secret but paid a terrible price for his silence.

  The doctor and the Countess looked blankly at each other while Barrymore stared mesmerically at the flames. It was the ex-butler who eventually broke the silence with an eloquent soliloquy.

  “I presume Lady Laura will not be making an appearance for some hot cocoa. I presume you used her as a ruse to lure me into the library. That tells me you know that I love her deeply though my love is unrequited and hopeless. I presume you wanted a confession. Though I also presume I did not give you the confession you expected. I confessed a secret that still shames me after twenty-five years and pains me more than I can say. If you suspect that the deaths of my two wives have anything to do with the deaths here at Baskerville Castle you are mistaken. If you choose to summon the police and have me arrested for the death of my second wife you will be wasting precious time and delaying finding the real culprit committing real murders and possibly putting Lady Laura’s life in greater danger. My fate is currently in your hands. What will you do?”

  The Countess spoke first. “You may return to Lafter Hall. I do not believe you will try to flee. I do not believe the deaths of your wives are linked to what is happening here. I feel that this matter has something to do with inheritance though I cannot say how or why. Dr Watson may contradict me. That is his prerogative.” She turned to her fellow sleuth for a response.

  He hardly knew what to say. He felt sorry for the sad and broken man who not half an hour ago he was ready to see hanged for a double murder, and who he had hoped to pin at least five, if not six, more murders on. It seemed ludicrous now that Barrymore could kill anyone. Either the pathetic wretch now slumped in the wing chair was a consummate liar and brilliant conman, or he was telling the truth. He tried to think what Sherlock would say. He would say: does it fit the facts?

  Yes, Barrymore’s words and actions fit the facts. He and the Countess had thought all along that Barrymore was well educated, that he
was above his wife in station, that their marriage was mismatched, and that he harboured a dark secret. The suicide note left by Eliza Barrymore rang true. It fit the facts. It was not fabricated for their benefit and pulled out of a pocket like a fluffy white rabbit from a magic hat. He admitted to loving Lady Laura. His admission fit the facts. His behavior throughout ran according to the facts. Everything Jensen Saint Giles had unearthed in Tavistock fit the facts.

  “I do not intend to detain you,” said Dr Watson. “You are free to return to Lafter Hall and free to go about your business.”

  Barrymore stood up to leave and reached the door. “May I come tomorrow after church and visit Lady Laura?”

  Dr Watson thought about the request. “No,” he said, erring on the side of caution. “If her life is in danger then it is best that she not have any visitors at all. I think you can appreciate that we will make no exceptions. Not even for you. Good evening to you, Mr Barrymore.”

  The ex-butler turned to go then turned back a second time. “Will you be attending the funeral of my wife? I will be providing afternoon tea at Lafter Hall following the service at Saint Swithin’s.”

  Without hesitation, the doctor and the Countess nodded simultaneously. It was then that Dr Watson remembered they had posted Antonio in the great hall and Fedir in the stable. He offered to walk out with Barrymore on the pretext of needing a cigarette and a breath of fresh air.

  As the two men crossed the great hall, Dr Watson told Antonio he could now go to bed.

  The Costa Rican asked if he could speak quickly to the Countess about a matter that concerned him but the doctor told him the Countess had gone to bed.

  The evening was windless and still. The sky was clear of clouds. Dr Watson pulled out his silver talisman and offered a cigarette to Barrymore who declined. He lighted one for himself and inhaled deeply.

  “Do you think death can be infectious, Dr Watson?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean to say, is it possible that there is a causal link between one death and another simply through the idea of death?”

  “As a man of medicine and a student of science I would say that nothing can be discounted until it is proven to be false, but I cannot see how the notion of death can transmit itself from one person to the next and cause death. It would have to be a communicable disease of some sort and not merely an idea.”

  “Mmm,” Barrymore pondered thoughtfully. “I just wondered why my wife chose this time to end her life. I wondered if the deaths of Sir Henry, Mrs Stapleton and Monsieur de Garonne may have infected her brain. The same with my dear Clara - I wondered if the death of our child infected her brain and caused her to take her own life.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” said Dr Watson, blowing a plume of warm smoke into the frosty air. “But perhaps we need to make a distinction between infection in the scientific sense and infection that is emotional. One death can certainly cause another in the emotional sense. Despair, guilt, heartache - are emotions that could certainly be linked to prior deaths, but I don’t know that I would call them infectious.”

  They reached the stable yard where Fedir emerged stealthily from the shadow of a doorway. Dr Watson told him he could now go to bed and then bid the other a safe goodnight and turned to go back inside. It was at this point that he realized he had no key and that the heavy front door had slammed after him. He caught up to the manservant skirting the north wing.

  “Do you have a key?” he enunciated with exaggeration as Englishmen do when speaking to foreigners.

  “Not need key,” replied Fedir. “Doors all have bolt. Mallard, he bolt all doors before he go to bed. Front door it stay open because Mallard know visitor still not go. He wait for when we come in. Key only to use for doors inside house. Not need key for doors go outside.”

  Dr Watson thought about this snippet of information. Once a French window was unbolted - say from the study or library or conservatory - so that someone could step into the garden, it stayed open all day and did not get bolted until Mallard bolted it at the end of the evening after everyone had gone to bed. The butler could not go about bolting French windows all day and he would not be so presumptuous as to bolt them in case he locked his master, mistress, or one their guests out of the house.

  Dr Watson did not know how this snippet might be useful, or if it was useful at all. Perhaps it was just another loose thread dangling in front of his eyes to distract him from something genuinely significant and vital.

  “Who knows that Mallard only bolts the doors at the end of the day?”

  “All know.”

  They walked a little further without speaking; hugging the shadows.

  It was Fedir who spoke first. “Something not good happen tonight.”

  Dr Watson thought the manservant was asking a question and taking liberties and was about to discharge a sharp reprimand when he realized it was a statement of fact. “Something not good happen? What sort of not good thing?”

  “Not know yet. Men all talk quiet when see me come. Tonight they not see me in stable. They talk of wild dogs and secret place.”

  “What wild dogs?”

  “Not know.”

  “What secret place?”

  “Bad place out there.” He pointed into the darkness, toward the great Grimpen Mire.

  “How many men?”

  “Lot of men. Men from stable and men who work garden. Perkins, he go early. Dogger, he go last of all just before you come with Mr Barry.”

  He didn’t bother correcting the manservant. He was too busy thinking about what bad thing might be happening out on the moor in the middle of the night. His mind boggled - and if he had any doubt that the unknown was more terrifying than the known that doubt was immediately trampled by his vivid imagination.

  They arrived at the front door where the manservant tugged on his arm and his voice dropped to a furtive whisper.

  “Mallard, he go bad place after we go bed.”

  The doctor’s heart leapt into his throat and throbbed hotly at the thought that someone from inside the castle was involved with some nefarious deed outside the castle taking place on the moor under cover of darkness this very night. Barrymore was riding back alone to Lafter Hall, four miles to the south. Had he and the countess put the man’s life in danger by detaining him in the library? He couldn’t bear the idea of another corpse torn to pieces by wild dogs. “How do you know Mallard will go to bad place?”

  “I hear men talk. I hide in stable. They say Mallard, he come later, after we go bed, he bring sack.”

  “Sack? What sack?”

  Fedir shrugged his shoulders just as the heavy door opened and Mallard appeared from behind it, framed in gold by the vast array of electric lights illuminating the great hall.

  “Come in, Dr Watson. I saw through my bedroom window when Mr Barrymore galloped out. I have been waiting for you to finish your cigarette and make the circuit. I will lock up and go to bed myself. Ah,” he sounded surprised and annoyed, “you have the Countess’s man with you.”

  Dr Watson concluded Mallard could not have overheard any part of their conversation because he was taken aback by the appearance of Fedir. He waited until they reached the top of the stairs then jerked Fedir by the sleeve into a niche, putting his finger to his lips to indicate not to say a word. As soon as the electric lights were extinguished he indicated with his head for Fedir to follow him. They raced swiftly up the corkscrew stairs to Mr Frankland’s room. The door, thankfully, was unlocked. They crept toward the oriel window, pushed it open a fraction and waited in the dark.

  A few minutes later, they spotted a dark figure cutting through the moonlight across the grassy sward toward the Yew Allee. The figure moved with a queer waddling gait and the faster it moved the queerer it looked. In its hand was a large sack that did not flap in the wind, but bobbed from side to side, suggesting that it was not an empty sack but a full one.

  The doctor scratched his head - why would a butler be taking a sack onto the moor in
the middle of the night? And what was in the sack?

  Dr Watson didn’t sleep a wink all night. With the terrible howls coming off the moor shortly after he crawled into bed, that caused his blood to run cold, he lay awake for hours, worried sick about Barrymore. Did the man get home safely or would his body be found torn to pieces? He was worried sick about what might be going on in secret out on the moor too. And he was worried sick about how he was going to tell Lady Laura that her father was dead. The Countess found him in the eau de nil breakfast room, propped on his elbows, staring dismally at his cold toast.

  “Where is the vicar?” she asked brightly. “I thought he would be up early.”

  His sombre voice matched his sombre mood. “The vicar breakfasted at the crack of dawn and set off early for Saint Swithin’s.”

  “What’s the matter? You sound like death; you look like it too.”

  He straightened his shoulders and tried to muster some courage. “I must inform Lady Laura that her father is dead. I fear the news may bring on irreversible brain fever.”

  The Countess helped herself to some crispy bacon and scrambled eggs from the sideboard. “You must simply bite the bullet. She will not thank you for withholding the news. She is entitled to know her father is dead.”

  He knew she was right and heaved a sigh. The sooner he got it out of the way the sooner he would be able to deal with the consequence. He picked up his cold toast and took a bite but he might as well have been eating yesterday’s newspaper. He wanted to tell her about Mallard but it was too risky to broach the subject in the breakfast room with servants coming and going. He tried a safer topic.