The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1) Page 20

  “It is just as well we did not summon Lestrade prematurely. We would have ended up with egg on our faces.”

  “Mmm,” she muttered between mouthfuls. “The evening did not go according to plan. We are back to square one. Barrymore was surprisingly honest and I went to bed feeling quite sorry for him. I’m glad we will be attending the funeral of his wife for his sake. Did you notice how he always called his first wife by her name, Clara, but not so Eliza, who he referred to as my second wife?”

  He nodded as he tried to digest his toast.

  “What’s wrong with your appetite?” she quizzed. “Is that nasty cough back again?”

  “No, I just feel sick at the thought of imparting more bad news to our hostess.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  He looked up quickly. “Oh, yes, I would be eternally grateful.”

  “We can go to her room straight after breakfast,” she said bracingly. “By the way, it was wise of you not to let Barrymore visit her. We cannot take any chances. Feeling sorry for someone and trusting them are two separate things. Would you like me to pour you some tea?”

  “Yes, thank you, it might help the crumbs go down.”

  She passed him a cup of piping hot Darjeeling and he felt instantly better.

  “Do you have any plans for the day?” he asked a little more spiritedly, noting that she was wearing an outdoorsy Chasseur style costume in havanna brown.

  She had lots of plans. “I plan to take the Peugeot to High Tor Farm. Don’t worry I will take Fedir with me. Xenia is busy on my new funeral gown. I purchased some black velvet and velvet is always harder to cut and stitch. The Mortimers remain a little bit of a mystery. I think I would like to follow their thread and see where it leads. Mrs Mortimer might even give me a guided tour of the underground ossuary and perhaps even show me Sir Henry’s Last Will and Testament if I ask nicely. Mr Mortimer will not be home. Perhaps, if you have no plans for this afternoon, you could drop in on him at Long Down.”

  “Yes, I think I will. It will take my mind off last night.”

  “Are you still mulling it over? I have consigned it to history. We need to get a move on. We have been here more than one week and we are no closer to solving anything. While you finish your tea I can fetch some new books for Lady Laura from the library. That will give me an excuse to be in the room with you. No Poe or Goethe. I think some Jane Austin is called for.”

  Lady Laura took the news remarkably well. She did not react hysterically. She did not react at all. She just stared fixedly at the wallpaper with the pagodas and cherry blossoms and tiny blue birds without blinking. She even remembered to thank the Countess for the new books. They tip-toed out and left her to rest.

  “She has been rendered emotionally numb by all the bad news that preceded this last piece of bad news,” declared the doctor, relieved that the ordeal he had been dreading was over. “It is a type of shell-shock. I saw a lot of similar cases when I served in Afghanistan.”

  “Yes, her face looked frozen. I thought rigor mortis might have set in from too much time spent in bed.”

  They reached the galleried landing ready to go their separate ways.

  “Can you give me a lift to Long Down in the Peugeot?” said Dr Watson. “I will just get my coat and hat and cane. You can show me the old cemetery you mentioned and explain to me about your odd encounter. I will cadge a lift home with Dr Mortimer.”

  “Oh, sorry, no, I just remembered I wanted to speak to the cook about what Sir Olwen said the other day – regarding Sir Charles’s little scandal. That could take a good hour and you need to set off right away. You can take the shortcut that bypasses Merripit House. It will do you good to get some exercise. Your lungs will thank you for it. See you later this evening,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder.

  “Very well,” he muttered, “I guess the news I have to impart will have to keep.”

  She whirled back. “What news?”

  “It will keep till this evening. Make sure you’re back before dark.”

  She had no intention of speaking to the cook for an hour. Her questioning would be brief and to the point. The scandal probably had nothing to do with current events but she felt obliged to follow every lead. And she had no intention of giving Dr Watson a lift to Long Down because she had every intention at stopping at the little cemetery and leaving some shiny new shillings on Benbow’s grave for the gypsy girl. She hadn’t finished questioning the girl and she wanted to get to the bottom of the headless postman. She felt confident that she was close to cracking the case, and it pleased her to think she might solve the mystery before her sleuthing companion – bless his bumbling heart.

  Clotilde was up to her elbows in flour making scones for Mr Frankland’s funeral. The service was to be held tomorrow at Saint Ethelberga’s in Fernworthy with afternoon tea to follow at the rectory adjacent to the church. The funeral had been slotted into a week day so as not to clash with Mrs Barrymore’s funeral at Saint Swithin’s.

  Fernworthy was a small village not much bigger than Grimpen hamlet. The church of Saint Ethelberga had been endowed over the centuries by the squires of Lafter Hall, the ancestral pile of the Frankland family who came over with William the Conqueror. It was Norman in style with a perpendicular tower and a beautiful lych gate. Mr Frankland would be buried in the adjoining churchyard and had stipulated that his grave be marked with an astrolabe that he himself had designed. It was stored in one of the closets off the tower stairs.

  Clotilde was planning to bake one hundred scones. Mr Frankland was a man who had amassed quite a lot of friends and an equal number of enemies. They would all wish to pay their respects.

  The Countess sat down in a rocking chair by the range where Tabby purred peacefully in her basket. She opened with some conversational questions about the funeral before moving onto the topic she preferred and began to parlay in French.

  “Sir Charles had a long history in these parts the same as Mr Frankland, did he not?”

  “Yes,” replied the cook, kneading the dough.

  “He was master of Baskerville from a young age – about twenty or thereabouts?”

  “Yes, I believe so but he never lived here long. The house stood empty for years and years. There was no proper staff kept on, just a couple of retainers who were too frail to go into service anywhere else – an old caretaker and the old laundress.”

  “Sir Olwen mentioned something about a scandal just before young Sir Charles went off on the Grand Tour with his Latin tutor and then on to South Africa to make his fortune.”

  “That was before my time,” said Clotilde. “I was with him only for the last two years of his life. You would need to ask the mother of Perkins and Dogger. She is eighty years old and like all old people she remembers things better the further back in time you go. She lives in a cottage behind the pigeonnier. She was the laundress and her cottage used to be the wash-house in the days of Sir Charles’ parents. Follow the brook behind the pigeonnier where the brambles grow wild and cross the little wooden bridge. I do not know her name but everyone calls her Queenie. If you go, bear in mind, her appearance will frighten you but, well, enough said, you will see for yourself.”

  The Countess thanked Clotilde and headed straight for the pigeonnier, picturing a hook-nosed, hunch-backed hag, but half way across the cobbled yard she spotted Fedir polishing the Peugeot and changed her mind. She had a more important thread to follow. She instructed him to have the automobile at the front entrance in ten minutes and went upstairs to fetch her fur cape, fur hat and fur muff. Queenie would have to wait.

  The old cemetery was devoid of human life. Fedir waited in the Peugeot while she placed some coins wrapped in a linen handkerchief on Benbow’s grave. There was every possibility Jago or one of his cronies would find the little treasure instead of the intended recipient but she would just have to take that chance. She looked around to make sure she was not being watched then clambered back into the automobile and directed him t
o drive her to High Tor Farm.

  During the cold light of day the Yew Allee was not nearly as menacing as it was in the moonlight, even so Dr Watson hurried his steps to the ogee gate, fighting the urge to look back over his shoulder. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he stepped onto open moorland. His heart was beating fast and he felt out of puff and took a moment to light a cigarette and inhale deeply, allowing the warm smoke to expand his airways and slow his pulse.

  After a few more healthy inhalations, he set off along the narrow path that wound past Wizend Wood with the two graves now marked with small headstones – one for Jack Stapleton and one for his gigantic hound. He had no doubt that in years to come this twisted wood would become a place of ghostly hauntings and spectral happenings. New legends would be added to those of the headless horseman and the hairy hands, and a hundred years from now, people walking late at night would swear they saw a phantom with a butterfly net and a ferocious beast with green-glowing jaws.

  The next fork in the path took him in an easterly direction, away from Doune Quarry and Merripit House. In the distance he could see Roderick Lysterfield digging in his vegetable patch and gave a friendly wave that was cheerfully returned. Long Down was a broad valley that ran between the Grimpen Mire to the north of the castle and the fertile farms to the south. It was littered with fantastic rock formations that had equally fantastic names such as Bowerman’s Nose and Brat Tor.

  In the mists of time Long Down had been inhabited by people who lived in stone huts. Dartmoor was their hunting ground, and they killed and ate the animals that now featured proudly on coats-of-arms – wolves, bears, stags, unicorns and wild boar. They did not have churches but stone circles, such as the ones at Grey Wethers and Scorill, proof that they believed in a power greater than themselves and placed importance on the passage of the moon and stars.

  Not far from one of the tors was a wide but shallow excavation that was essentially a large grave. Dr Mortimer’s head could be seen bobbing up and down like the early bird after the worm, as he hopped from one spot to another to measure, unearth, and extract a new treasure to add to his collection.

  Dr Watson called out but the other was so wrapped up in his work he failed to hear, consequently, when he jumped down into the open grave Dr Mortimer leapt back in fright and dropped the object in his hands.

  “Oh, Dr Watson you did give me a fright!” he said, taking out a red neckerchief and smearing perspiration across his dusty brow. “I thought you would not be joining me.”

  “My plans changed. I hope you do not mind.”

  “Certainly not! Delighted to have your company!” He picked up the object he had dropped. “Take a look at this specimen. What age do you make it?”

  Dr Watson examined the fragile cranium. “A child, certainly, not more than ten years.”

  Dr Mortimer nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, I thought the same - about eight or ten years of age. Now, look at the skull carefully. What do you notice?”

  Dr Watson thought back to the most recent skull he had examined – that of Mr Frankland with its huge gash at the back. “This skull is remarkably unmarked. There are no cracks, no splinters and no gashes to indicate a violent death.”

  “Yes, yes,” he gurgled excitedly. “All the other skulls are exactly the same. Their skeletons likewise indicate no violent breaks from a battle-axe or nicks from a knife-wielding marauder. These children were all laid out neatly in this grave at the same time yet there is no indication of violence. What does that tell you?”

  “How many skeletons are there?”

  “Ten so far but I haven’t finished excavating. I think there might be more.”

  “All of them children?”

  “Yes.”

  “If they were not tossed in haphazardly and their bones show no signs of violence then I would say it was ritual sacrifice or perhaps death from disease. I think the latter is more likely. Plague perhaps. That would account for the large number of dead. Shouldn’t the skulls be kept with the skeletons?”

  “Oh, no,” he explained. “I am only interested in the skulls.”

  “What will you do with the other bones?”

  “I will bag them up and store them in the hay loft with all the others. I have no use for them but I cannot leave them exposed to the elements. They would become fodder for wild animals, or worse, become souvenirs to the curious and the superstitious, amateur bone collectors who have no idea what they are doing, who will then converge en mass on my little world and turn it upside down. It is unthinkable what unscientific havoc they would wreak.”

  Dr Watson strolled around the boneyard, gazing dispassionately at the rows of little skeletons, and wondered if a thousand years from now some bone collector would unearth and examine the skeletons in the crypt at Baskerville Castle or the rose garden or the oak wood. What would they make of Beryl’s broken neck, Gaston’s grisly remains and a gigantic hound buried outside the castle walls? Their skeletons would become fodder for the curious and superstitious and fanatical. Yes, that’s what Dr Mortimer had become. He was loath to think badly of his friend but the medical man he had long respected had turned into a souvenir-hunting fanatic. He was so caught up in his own little world nothing else existed. But who was he to judge? Perhaps that’s how one survived in this windswept wilderness. Perhaps shutting oneself off from all the nefarious deeds and strange goings-on was the only way to stop from slipping into madness.

  Although he had intended to stay all day and help out with the dig, he invented an excuse and set off across the Grimpen Mire toward the old tin mine.

  15

  The Dog Cart

  Molly sprinted out of the garden gate and barked ferociously at the horseless carriage trundling up the long drive, alerting her mistress to the fact an intruder was about to darken their doorstep. Mrs Mortimer, busy in her walled garden, pruning the hydrangeas, appeared a few moments later. She seemed a bit embarrassed as she removed her garden gloves and downed her secateurs and invited her visitor inside.

  They chatted about the funerals just gone and the funerals yet to come when the Countess noticed six silver frames on a pie crust table. The Countess guessed the six young women in the photographs were the six daughters who had married and moved away.

  “Beautiful photographs,” she complimented. “The chiaroscuro is excellent - a difficult feat to master when dealing with human faces. Too much light and one can look like a Carravaggio cartoon. Too little light and one can look like a sepia ghost.”

  “My husband often uses a camera for his archaeological work and has become quite the expert at capturing the light at just the right angle. He has a dark room in the cellar.”

  “Oh,” trilled the Countess enthusiastically, “I have always wanted to see a dark room. Do you think you could give me a quick tour? We won’t disturb anything.”

  Before Mrs Mortimer could say no the Countess was half way to the door.

  “The cellar can only be accessed from an outside door at the far end of the house,” said Mrs Mortimer. “There used to be a trapdoor in the scullery but it was closed off years ago so that the servants would not interrupt my husband at his work or disturb his precious collection.”

  A key hung on a nail above the door at the foot of a short flight of stone steps. Mrs Mortimer explained she never visited her husband’s domain – she found his passion morbid. Molly chose not to follow them down the stairs and parked herself on the flagstones.

  The unlit cellar did not have the smell of a dank, dark, musty hermit’s cave or the strangely perfumed air of an alchemist’s lair. It smelled chloroformed and etherized, more like a hospital than a tomb. Her guide found the switch for the electric light and a thousand grinning skulls greeted them. Museum was a misnomer. This was Golgotha-on-the-moor.

  The Countess had visited the catacombs in Paris and Rome and did not find them gruesome. There was no denying they were morbid spectacles but the curators had somehow managed to turn the leftovers of life into a c
elebration of death; they were not merely underground ossuaries but burial chambers aesthetically arranged where the dead did not sacrifice their dignity to the living. But here, the skulls were simply stacked in the name of scientific advancement. Their names were long forgotten. They were now called: A67, B34, C152.

  The cellar was as large as the house, if not larger. Corridors ran off at various right angles. Numerous doors, all closed, were set into the thick stone walls. Mrs Mortimer tried several of the doors before she found the door to the dark room. The Countess feigned interest in the photographic paraphernalia. When Mrs Mortimer explained that she was claustrophobic and feeling nauseas, the Countess thought she would be forced to abandon her tour. But her guide cupped a hand over her mouth, thrust the key into the Countess’s hand and fled, mumbling for her to lock the cellar door on her way out.

  As soon as she was alone, the Countess checked the other rooms. Most of them were store rooms crammed full of science and medical equipment, test tubes, Bunsen burners, hurricane lamps, tools for digging, brushes, slide rules and glass jars with things floating in formaldehyde. One of the last rooms she checked turned out to be a doctor’s surgery. There were the usual diplomas and certificates on the white-painted wall. A bare light bulb was suspended from the centre of the barrel-vaulted ceiling over an examination table which stood in the middle of the room. Over the table was draped a white sheet. Along one wall was a wooden bench with a Belfast sink and under the bench was a line of buckets. A white towel hung from a hook and on a shelf just above it were some bottles of chloroform and some vials of scopolamine. On another shelf was a neat line of surgical instruments – scissors, scalpels, forceps, and so on. In the corner was an old-fashioned camera on a tripod stand draped in a black cloth. The sort no one used anymore now that Kodak had invented the portable box camera. She was about to close the door when she stopped dead and looked back. A camera on a tripod stand!