The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1) Page 4

  “Was that your old groom?” enquired the doctor.

  “No,” replied Lady Laura. “You are thinking of Perkins. That was his twin brother. He is very good with dogs and has been put in charge of the kennels. My husband was keen to do some hunting as soon as Monsieur de Garonne finished contouring the hills surrounding Holywell Pool. He purchased some hunting hounds from the squire at Drogo, Sir Olwen Goodwood, who is Master of the Hunt, our local magistrate and the man who oversees all our legal affairs. The kennel keeper is known as Dogger.”

  “Speaking of your husband,” continued the doctor, suppressing a cough and adopting a genial tone. “Will I have time to meet with Sir Henry prior to dinner?”

  The chirring notes dropped several registers. “I am afraid not, Dr Watson. He has locked himself in his study and rarely comes out. I begged him on my knees to join us for dinner tonight and he consented not because he took pity on me but because he holds you in such high regard. I dare not say anymore now. I will come to your bed chamber in half an hour and explain myself.”

  “Do you mind if I sit in?” asked the Countess.

  Lady Laura put the bold request down to the forwardness of foreigners. “No, no, what I wish to impart is, well, it is a life and death matter.”

  “I am acquainted with the tragic history of this house. I am cognizant of the depth of your fears. I am the daughter of –”

  “The Count of Odessos!”

  Lady Laura regarded the doctor’s outburst with dismay. “Yes, yes, so I understand, but, well, oh, why not? Why ever not? It cannot do any harm? You will hear of our curse soon enough, now that you are a guest in our tragic house.”

  Countess Volodymyrovna, with the help of her Slavic maid, dressed in record time, choosing an evening gown of lemon chiffon lavishly adorned with looped rows of pearls secured at intervals by crème tassels. She was rapping on the doctor’s bedroom door in the south wing less than one hour after being ushered upstairs. He was pacing the Persian carpet by the hearth where a fire blazed brightly; dinner-suited and smoking a cigarette. He offered one to her. She declined.

  “I take it you want me to refrain from declaring my relationship to Sherlock Holmes?”

  “Most certainly! In fact, I must insist upon it! If you wish to remain in this house and retain my confidence in…”

  There was a soft rap on the door. Lady Laura entered, dressed in a vibrant velvet gown of cobalt blue that did little to disguise her girth. A stunning parure of blue sapphires graced her heaving bosom. She was still a striking looking woman, despite her current fraught demeanour. She chose a comfortable chair by the fire, rested her manicured hands on her belly and commenced her monologue. They listened without interrupting.

  “For the last seven years, while the old Hall was being remodeled, my husband and I resided at Lafter Hall with my father. It was an excellent arrangement that gave me time to rekindle the paternal bond severed after my first marriage to a brute so violent it makes me shudder to think of him even now. When we moved back here, my father came with us. The landscaping was well on the way to being finished and we decided to hold a small party this weekend to celebrate the tenth anniversary of my husband’s inheritance and the magnificent transformation of our home, prior to the grand fete a few months from now which will celebrate the birth of our first child and my husband’s fortieth birthday. But at the start of this month my husband received an anonymous letter. It predicted he would kill himself before the month was out. He dismissed it as the rant of a madman. But I could see him brooding on it. He soon received another. It predicted he would throw himself into the mire on the last day of the month. Again he laughed it off. But he became withdrawn. His manner changed. Soon there came another. I managed to catch a glimpse of it but he tossed it on the fire before I could finish reading it. It was more cryptic than the first two. I tried to broach the subject but it made him angry just to speak of it. I knew others came, one after another, and I questioned the servants to try to ascertain the number but I could not question all of them every day. One day I saw a large stack of envelopes and letters in his study. I was shocked at how many there were. I was skimming through them when he entered and flew into a rage. For the first time since we married, I felt frightened of my husband. He grew cold and distant and frequently lost his temper. He stopped visiting my bed chamber, and to stop me visiting his, began to sleep in his private study. Antonio, his valet, was the only person permitted to enter. My husband has the only key and keeps the door locked. Antonio sleeps in the nearby folio room, adjacent to the library. My husband is terrified - terrified that he will fulfill the mad prophecy. You will see the terror on his face, the terror in his eyes, the terror that has been sapping his strength and gnawing at his sanity all month. As for me, I am terrified that my child will be rendered fatherless before it is even born.”

  The doctor was confident that this so-called curse could be cleared up by the close of evening. Sir Henry was an exemplary fellow in all respects – rational, noble and courageous. Lady Laura had most likely exaggerated the danger in her own mind. It was not uncommon for women in the latter stages of pregnancy to become full of imaginary fears. “Rest assured, dear lady; no one can induce a man to do away with himself if he is of sound mind.”

  Lady Laura clenched and unclenched the linen handkerchief in her lap. “I am no longer certain my husband is of sound mind. I fear the anonymous letters have unhinged him.”

  “I will speak to him tonight, as soon as I can steer him away from the other guests,” promised the doctor. “This is clearly the work of someone with an axe to grind, perhaps a disgruntled employee. Besides, according to the letters, your husband has nothing to fear once this night has passed. I can always give him a sedative to calm his nerves or a sleeping draught to help him sleep soundly through to the morning.”

  Lady Laura looked as if she might die of gratitude. “Oh, doctor, would you? Would you, please? Oh, how easily you have solved everything! How marvelous you -”

  “You described the third letter as cryptic – in what way?” interrupted the Countess. “Was it a riddle of some sort?”

  Their hostess folded her hands back on her belly and gave pause for thought. “Not a riddle as such. More like a piece of ancient wisdom.”

  “Like the riddle of the sphinx?” prompted the Countess.

  Lady Laura’s brow furrowed. “Oh, I am explaining it badly. Who was that Greek philosopher who committed suicide?”

  As soon as she said it she bit her tongue. The Countess moved quickly to divert distress.

  “How many letters would you say there have been?”

  Their hostess was forced to concentrate. “I cannot say exactly. The first one came on the first day of the month and there has been one every day since, usually several on the same day, and that is only what I managed to glean for myself. My husband became quite secretive as the days passed. He was only trying to protect me, I know, but fear is a strange beast and it is the unknown that feeds that fear.”

  “How were they delivered?” continued the Countess, “Did they come by post? Or were they delivered by hand?”

  “None came by post. The first was delivered to the door by a gypsy girl with a clubfoot. She said a demon gave her a shilling to deliver it to Baskerville Castle and put it into the hands of the master. Others were handed to my husband by the French cook who found one in the kitchen, the scullery maid who found one stuck in the dish rack, the gardener who found one in the potting shed, the groom who discovered one in the stable, and so forth. Then there were local folk who would come to the door clutching an envelope – the butcher’s boy, the school mistress from Coombe Tracey, the vicar from Saint Swithin’s, even our solicitor, Sir Olwen, brought a letter one evening that had been pushed under his door. And that is not taking into account strangers who arrived bearing an envelope! It was like a plague had come upon us!”

  “Were all the envelopes identical?” pursued the Countess.

  “Not at all – large and
small; expensive and cheap; white and colored; manufactured and handmade – all different!”

  “Were they all addressed identically?”

  “The all said: The Master of Baskerville. But some were typed, some neatly executed in pencil, some childishly scrawled in crayon, some smudged in charcoal, some with a pen and ink flourish, and some had the letters cut from newspaper.”

  Letters cut from newspaper rang an ominous bell, but Dr Watson kept this fact to himself. The notion seemed preposterous, outlandish, and yet one name continued to sound a loud warning – Stapleton.

  Ten years ago, Beryl Stapleton had been the anonymous authoress of a letter cut from newspaper, but the motive had been benevolent, a warning that Sir Henry’s life was in danger. This time it appeared to be the opposite. But what would she gain from Sir Henry’s death? He had been more than generous. He had provided her with comfortable lodgings and gainful employment. Could some unseen hand be directing her actions?

  His thoughts took a chilling turn. Had Jack Stapleton’s body ever been retrieved from the mire? More to the point - had it even gone into the mire? Or was it merely something they all assumed at the time? The thought filled him with fresh fear. The thought he might be dealing with the same clever fiend frightened him more than he could bring himself to admit. His simple solution no longer seemed so simple after all. Lady Laura had only read the early letters and skimmed some others. What if the prophecies had turned into threats? What if the time frame had been extended? What if the tone had grown malevolent? He would need to speak to Sir Henry as soon as possible. He would need to speak to him in private. He would need to discover the name of the sender of the anonymous letters before this matter could be put safely to bed and the Baskerville curse dispelled once and for all.

  Lady Laura levered herself out of her chair. “I must leave you for now. The other guests will be arriving any minute. They may already be gathering in the great hall. We are meeting there for pre-prandial drinks. Please make your way downstairs when you are ready. I feel immensely heartened, doctor, now that you are here. Your presence is a great comfort. I knew you would know what to do. I knew you would take charge. I knew you would solve it all in the same way you solved it ten years ago. I always suspected you of being the real brains with Mr Holmes taking all the credit. You are brilliant, just brilliant!”

  While Dr Watson continued to bask under the golden rays of fulsome praise, the Countess pressed another question.

  “Lady Laura, do you have any of the letters in your possession?”

  Their hostess shook her head fervently and a bunch of hazel ringlets bounced from side to side. “My husband kept them all in his study. And since the study is kept locked, I cannot grant you access. But that hardly seems pertinent now.”

  As soon as the door closed the Countess turned to the doctor who was busy heaping coals onto the fire to disguise the fact his cheeks were radiant enough to be able to read in the dark.

  “A sleeping draught and all is solved - how brilliant of you, Dr Watson.”

  “No need to take that facetious tone,” he retorted defensively. “You are taking the bleating of a vulnerable woman too seriously. I was never in Sherlock’s league and never claimed to be.”

  “Then you don’t believe the plague of envelopes will resolve itself by morning?”

  “I concede it could not be the vengeful fantasies of a servant or workman with an axe to grind. It is too clever by half.”

  “It smacks of genius, n’est-ce pas? To amass so many envelopes and to have them hand delivered without leaving a trail of crumbs to follow would require meticulous attention to detail and considerable forethought. Some person or several persons in collaboration have planned this well in advance of its execution.”

  He nodded gravely, suppressing a cough. “The letters cut from newspaper suggest the handiwork of Beryl Stapleton but what motive could she possibly have? If only the prophecies had been directed at Lady Laura, well, they would have made more sense.”

  “The ex-inamorata clearing a space on the marital bed?”

  “Exactly! But why direct them at Sir Henry?”

  “He is her bread and butter and possibly her jam and cream too.”

  “He is also a man - less prone to hysterics.” He put a hand up, pre-empting her feminine protests. “I know, I know, but he always struck me as pragmatic and rational. Not the type to succumb to suggestions of doing away with himself. The whole idea seems laughable.”

  “Yet neither Sir Henry nor his good wife appears amused.”

  He was genuinely surprised to find they appeared to be reading from the same page; it dispensed with tedious explanation and tiresome justification. “What about her late husband – Jack Stapleton?”

  She looked intrigued. “You think he might still be alive?”

  “It is far-fetched but not impossible. Any anything that is not impossible should not be discounted. No one actually witnessed him drown in the mire. And with Sir Henry out of the way the son of the black sheep finally inherits.”

  “Yes, I see, a man cannot be held accountable for the actions of his dog - especially if that man is a wealthy baronet. No case was ever brought against him.”

  “Sherlock once suggested three possible ways Jack Stapleton-cum-Baskerville might claim his inheritance. It stands to reason he might still do so. He might establish his identity with British Authorities in some foreign country and then have the wealth transfered; adopt an elaborate disguise; or hire an accomplice and then share the spoils.”

  “If that is the case, the birth of an heir would scuttle his plans and would account for the short duration of the prophecy – before the end of the month.”

  “Which brings us back to the last day of September - shall we join the other guests in the great hall? I believe it is time to see where this mystery might take us.”

  Feeling optimistic, the doctor offered the Countess his arm, but before they could reach the great hall they were waylaid by a falsetto of accented syllables. It caught them at the spot where a flight of stairs from the bachelor’s apartments met the galleried landing.

  “La comtesse! Quelle surprise! Enchante; encore; toujours!”

  “Bonsoir,” she smiled as some thick wet lips smacked a kiss on her silk-gloved hand.

  The Frenchman beaming from ear to oreille like a wet froggie hoping to turn into a prince had a gold tooth that glinted whenever his rubbery bouche stretched sideways.

  “Ma Cherie, what joie de vivre your jolie presence brings to this English bog! What esprit de corps your charm bestows upon this dull Bastille! The English, they are so boring, so ennuyant, so lacking the etiquette, politesse, finesse. They do not comprehend the creative Francais. I have been dying slowly in this fen plus froid. But tomorrow, tomorrow, la comtesse you will see my coup de theatre when I give to you the grand tour. You will witness the transformation of English merde to le parc francais!”

  The Gallic ponce finished gushing and drew breath. The Countess drew breath too.

  “Monsieur, allow me introduce to you Dr Watson. Dr Watson let me present to you the famous French landscaper, Monsieur Gaston de Garonne.”

  The two men shook hands like prize-fighters about to bash each other’s brains out. Gaston then leaned closer and whispered something into the Countess’s ear.

  “Ah, mais non,” she smiled coyly, “i lest mon ami, c’est tous.”

  4

  The Long Night

  Dr Watson and the Countess paused at the top of the stairs while Monsieur de Garonne continued his buoyant descent. The Countess wanted to gain a discrete first impression of the other guests and the upper gallery provided a perfect bird’s eye view.

  To one side of the chimneypiece stood a handsome man, tall and broad of stature, with a neat black beard and a tidy head of black hair. He was immaculately fitted out in white tie and tails and the bespoke suit sat well on his masculine frame. He called to mind a raven. Chatting to the raven was a guest wearing gold-rimmed spectacle
s which he kept pushing back onto his beak-like nose; also tall but decidedly thinner and scruffier; who moved restlessly from foot to foot; slightly back bent as he leaned forward to talk, scratching his head or tugging at his cravat. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his nose and out popped an acorn, a magnifying glass, a pencil, and a Swiss army knife. She likened him to a bower bird. She took the former to be Mr John Barrymore and the latter to be Dr James Mortimer.

  Monsieur de Garonne, attired like a haut ton peacock wearing a silk cravat and a beret a la that master of French couture, Monsieur Charles Worth, approached an elderly gentleman seated in the tapestried wing chair and struck up a conversation. The man who was seated had a shock of white hair and a waxy pink complexion which recalled a venerable snow goose. One leg was elevated and resting on an ottoman. This was most likely Mr Algernon Frankland, the litigious father of Lady Laura. On his lap was curled a West Highland Terrier.

  Two ladies were seated on a settee. Either side of them, twin table lamps cast them in a duality of golden light. One was short and round and plump, with a massive mono-bosom that started at her neck and finished at her waist. Her frizzled hair was liberally sprinkled with feathered bits and bobs. She was draped in a red paisley shawl that throbbed in the flickering firelight. It made her look like a cross between a robin red-breast and an aging Sarah Bernhardt caught in some unflattering limelight. She was helping herself to some jam tarts on a nearby tray table and chirping garrulously. The other, wearing a pale-grey gown, appeared dull in comparison. There was a streak of silver in her hair that probably made her look older than her years. She had all the hallmarks of a timorous dove about to take fright. The robin was most likely Mrs Eliza Barrymore and the dove was Mrs Meredith Mortimer.

  The seventh member of the party was Lady Laura Baskerville. Her cobalt velvet gown glowed celestially as she flitted about like a bluebird, fluttering nervily from nest to nest to check on her chicks. She turned suddenly and froze mid-flight when a tall, slim, elegant figure draped in midnight blue taffeta swanned into the hall. Mrs Beryl Stapleton? The new arrival ignored the two women on the settee and made straight for the peacock and the old goose instead. The raven and the bower bird watched from under hooded lids as the dark swan swished across the room, moving with a dancer’s sylph-like grace.