The Baskerville Curse (Watson & the Countess Book 1) Page 5

  The Countess decided it was high time to throw a cat among the cosy coterie of pigeons. Or should that be two cats? One old tom and one silken feline would be sure to stir up the coop.

  “Do you think they know about the anonymous letters?” she whispered as they commenced their procession down the stately stairs.

  “Yes,” replied Dr Watson. “The master of a great house can hardly lock himself away in his study without it being noticed. And for the last ten years these people have had only each other for company in this lonely corner of England. One cannot keep secrets in such a secluded setting.”

  She changed the subject just as they reached the last step. “The only philosopher I know who committed suicide was Socrates.”

  “Which means the maxim would be: Know Thyself.”

  Introductions were conducted and the foreign name with all the vowels raised eyebrows every time. Time ticked along convivially as glasses were topped up with French champagne, but Lady Laura began to throw anxious glances at the longcase clock in the corner. Mallard, the butler, dressed in black livery with a dark green waistcoat, waddled in and out several times to discuss the delay of dinner. They were awaiting the arrival of Mr James Desmond. He was expected on the last train which had pulled into Coombe Tracey more than an hour ago. The carriage driver, Perkins, had returned alone to say that no elderly gent had stepped off the train. Lady Laura made the decision to go into dinner. Dr Mortimer was asked to fetch Sir Henry from his self-imposed prison and escort him to the formal dining room.

  The dining room had a marble fireplace and walls covered with flame red damask that matched the window draperies. An immense chandelier was suspended from an ornately plastered ceiling. The ten guests took their places at a polished mahogany table. Sorrel soup was being ladled out of a silver tureen when Sir Henry shambled in looking gaunt, unshaved, and haggard. He had lost considerable weight and his crumpled clothes hung off his bones the way ill-fitting rags hang off a scarecrow. The thick dark brows were intact but the steady eye was now a listless gaze underscored by dark circles. The quiet assurance he once exuded was but a dim memory and he looked much older than his near-forty years. He appeared disoriented, like a man on his way to the gallows in a state of numb disbelief, and had to be directed to the chair at the head of the table by the butler. Dr Watson tried to hide his shock.

  Sir Henry blinked incessantly. Lady Laura asked for the chandelier to be extinguished and for candles to be lit to spare her husband from discomfort. He recognized everyone at the table and acknowledged their presence, but his weak attempt at bonhomie seemed unnatural and forced - not because he was acting the hypocrite, but because he took no pleasure in the company of his closest friends. He should have been the rooster of this magnificent hen house. He had every reason to crow and strut – a splendid home, a beautiful wife, his first child on the way - and yet he gave the impression of a cock with his head on the chopping block.

  Conversation was stilted and there were frequent gaps where the slurping of soup or the chewing of chestnut-stuffed pheasant was the only sound in the room. Everyone made an effort to sound genial, but since no one dared talk about the one thing that stared them in the face their words soon became as hollow as the scarecrow propped up at the end of the table. When Mallard dropped a glass everyone jumped. Lady Laura gave a gasp, the Westie under the table gave a mock-heroic growl and Eliza Barrymore almost choked on a sprout. It was as if a bullet had been fired from a gun. Nerves were highly strung and stretched to bursting.

  They were midway through a delicious sherry trifle when Mallard reappeared. An unfortunate nasally intonation lent his voice an odd quacking sound. He announced that a stranger had arrived and was waiting in the hall to speak to the master of the house. Sir Henry failed to respond. Lady Laura instructed the butler to show the visitor into the dining room, thinking it might be Mr James Desmond, arriving late and hungry, and called for a bowl of soup to be sent straight in. But the man who entered was not a retired clergyman. He was wearing riding clothes and looked as if he had just taken part in a cross country hunt. It was the steward from Drogo. He had important news for Sir Henry that he did not wish to deliver in front of the others, especially the ladies.

  Sir Henry appeared not to hear him and did not look up but continued to shuffle food around his plate. Dr Mortimer spoke for him. “There are no secrets among friends. Speak freely.”

  The steward had no choice but to obey. “A dead body was found on the train track at Drogo station this evening. The dead man was carrying a letter in his bag. It was an invitation to come to Baskerville Castle. The letter had been addressed to Mr James Desmond and the signature at the bottom was that of Lady Baskerville. Sir Olwen bade me ride here as fast as I could to deliver the news.”

  He waited for a response but no one spoke. They were all stunned by the news of the death of a man they had never met. This time Dr Watson took charge, clearing his throat with a short cough.

  “You say the body was found on the track – did he fall?”

  “There were no witnesses so I cannot say whether he fell or not but what else could it have been but an accident. He was an elderly chap so he may have slipped as the train was pulling away.”

  “Since Mr Desmond was travelling to Coombe Tracey there was no reason for him to get off the train at Drogo station. Do you have any idea why he might have been on the platform?”

  The steward looked confused by the question. The doctor elaborated.

  “Was there some sort of unexpected delay on the line? A need to switch trains perhaps?”

  “No, the train came and went as usual. The station master said all was as it should be –except for the body on the track. But the gent may have decided to stretch his legs and then forgetting himself, as old folks do, in his hurry, slipped, and tumbled to the track.”

  The bowl of soup was brought in and the steward sat at the place that had been reserved for the man who would now never arrive. He ate heartily. As did Eliza Barrymore, who, unlike the others, had not lost her appetite, and managed to finish her sherry trifle and take a second helping larger than the first.

  The Countess posed a question while the dessert wine was being passed round. “You say the letter was found in his bag. What bag would that be?”

  “One of them big old-fashioned carpet bags – it was left on the platform. That’s how the station master knew something wasn’t right. Sir Olwen has the bag at Drogo, and the body too. He will make arrangements to have them both returned to Cumbria; unless Sir Henry would prefer to make alternative arrangements. I am to let him know when I return.”

  The steward looked hopefully at Sir Henry but he remained mute. Once again, Dr Mortimer spoke for him.

  “Let your master know that Sir Henry would be most grateful if Sir Olwen would take charge of such matters in his capacity as local magistrate and family solicitor. Sir Henry has not been feeling himself lately and Lady Baskerville’s condition renders her indisposed.”

  The Countess took a sip of Madeira and looked quizzically at the steward. “If Mr Desmond was going onto Coombe Tracey and merely stretching his legs why should he remove his travel bag from his carriage and take it onto the platform?”

  “That I cannot say, madame,” replied the steward, wiping his chin with his napkin. “Thank you for the soup Lady Baskerville. If there are no more questions I will return to Drogo. It has been a long day and I have a long ride ahead of me before I can call it a night.”

  “One last question,” said the Countess. “You mentioned that there were no witnesses. But was there anyone, apart from the station master, who might have seen something before or after the accident?” She was careful to use the word accident and not anything else.

  “You would need to ask the station master,” replied the steward tersely. “Good evening.” He reached the door before hesitating and turning back. “Madame, there was someone,” he said, “on the platform waiting for the train - a spivvy gent, smoking a pipe, pacing up and d
own as if he were late for an appointment. The funny thing is he didn’t get on the train. The station master saw him striding away toward Dog Hole Gorge. The station master mentioned it in passing because he thought it odd but he didn’t connect it with the accident.”

  Dr Watson’s voice reverberated eagerly across the table. “Would the station master be able to describe this man in greater detail if we pressed him?”

  “He already did that,” returned the steward confidently. “Let me see if I can recall his exact words. The gent had a nuggetty beard and a nuggetty head of hair underneath one of them deer-stalker hats. He was wearing tweeds and had an Inverness cape fitted to his coat. He even mentioned the gent by name because the gent introduced himself and he remembered the name because his wife had read some books written by the very same gent. It was a proper English name as befits a writer. It was John Watson.”

  At the conclusion of dinner Sir Henry returned to self-imposed exile and Dr Watson did his best to gain a private audience, but the baronet waved him aside, refusing to discuss the state of his health.

  Lady Laura, looking anxious and unnerved, tendered her apologies and retired to her boudoir. However, she begged her guests not leave early on her account and beseeched the men to avail themselves of port and cigars in the smoking room, and the ladies to partake of hot cocoa in the oval drawing room where a card table had been positioned in a well-lit alcove.

  Countess Volodymyrovna and Dr Watson lingered in the flame red dining room, pretending to admire the old family portraits by Kneller and Reynolds and the latest one executed in the pre-Raphaelite style - Sir Henry as a knight in armour slaying a gigantic black hound with the sword Excaliber.

  “Accident or murder?” The Countess winced at the baronet’s taste - John Singer Sargent would have been a much better choice.

  “Murder.”

  “The bag on the platform suggests he was lured off the train.”

  “By someone dressed up as Holmes calling himself Watson.”

  “Our man is cocky.”

  “And cunning.”

  “Which makes him doubly dangerous.”

  “One step ahead of us already.”

  “Did you notice Barrymore stealing glances at Lady Laura?”

  “Like a pathetic booby with a schoolboy crush.”

  “I swear her face softened when she looked his way.”

  “I am sorry to say wealth has not brought her any happiness.”

  “He seems a little hard of hearing.”

  “An old affliction he bears well.”

  “With a witless wife it may even be a blessing.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Death did not dull Eliza Barrymore’s appetite tonight.”

  “I counted eight sprouts, two servings of trifle and don’t forget the jam tarts.”

  “Do you think our hostess may be conducting an illicit liaison?”

  “Not in her delicate condition.”

  The Countess laughed as she whirled her way toward the door. “Oh, how little you medical men of science understand the female of the species!”

  The oval drawing room was a feminine concoction with a crystal chandelier taking pride of place in a rondel in the ceiling and a series of watercolours depicting idyllic scenes of rural life gracing the blue silk walls. Eliza Barrymore had positioned herself on a blue silk settee, nearest the pot of hot cocoa and a bowl of candied jellies. Meredith Mortimer was seated at the other end. The two friends made a perfect pigeon pair – garrulous and taciturn, solid and ethereal, respectably dim and thoughtfully dull, robustly puritanical and timorously virtuous.

  Beryl Stapleton was standing by the French window looking onto the terrace, fanning her face with a black feathered fan, not because the room was hot but because she must have felt suffocatingly bored; a rare orchid in a crystal palace full of common garden weeds. The sultry Costa Rican beauty was even more attractive up close than from a distance. Her dark hair and darker eyes shone with a seductive lustre and her curious lisp seemed to add to rather than detract from her exotic appeal. The Countess, who had not been seated near to the governess during dinner, made a move to engage her in conversation.

  “Winter will soon be upon us soon, do you sometimes yearn for warmer climes?”

  Beryl Stapleton regarded her warily over the feathery rim of her fan. “I have accustomed myself to the English weather. It holds no fears for me now.”

  “I agree it does take some getting used to; so different from South America. I travelled to Mexico with my step-aunt once. We went to see the Mayan temples. The sun was glorious. That’s what I remember most vividly - that golden sun. Costa Rica is close to Mexico, isn’t it?”

  Beryl fanned her face. She was the sort of woman who would have enjoyed the company of the opposite sex rather than her own. Understandably, women would have felt threatened by her dusky beauty and steered clear of her. She would have had very few, if any, female friends. Men, on the other hand, would have found her easy to engage in conversation. She would have smiled seductively and they would have garbled on, encouraged by her silence and the mesmerizing lustre of her gaze.

  “I believe so.”

  “There are only two seasons? Summer and winter - is it summer or winter when you get all that rain?”

  “Winter.”

  “Oh, that’s right, but it is still very hot and tropical, being so close to the equator. They are more like the wet season and the dry season. Isn’t that how people refer to the seasons?”

  Beryl shrugged. “I do not know how people refer to the seasons.”

  “It was a Spanish colony. Do you speak any Spanish?”

  “A leettle.”

  “One of the romance languages, isn’t it? They say that if you speak French and Italian then Spanish is easy to learn. The grammar is not so hard. Do you think that is true?”

  “I would not know. I do not speak French or Italian.”

  Countess Volodymyrovna decided to give up. “It has been lovely chatting to you,” she lied.

  Mrs Barrymore was describing the horrors of the Australian sun to Mrs Mortimer. “Scarlet Pimpernel is the thing for freckles. A wife can so easily let herself go but it is her moral duty to keep herself looking attractive for her husband. The Good Lord declared marriage to be sacrosanct and it is beholden on the wife to keep the sacred fires burning.”

  Meredith Mortimer nodded politely.

  Mrs Barrymore continued in this vein until Gaston de Garonne materialised. The men had drifted from the smoking room to the billiard room but he preferred the company of women and suggested a game of ecarte. Eliza Barrymore reacted enthusiastically; Meredith Mortimer was too polite to voice an objection; Beryl Stapleton was happy to have her boredom relieved. Since the game required four people, Countess Volodymyrovna feigned fatigue and excused herself. She did not enjoy card games and intuited she would glean no useful information from the quartet while they concentrated on trumping one another. She went to bed.

  After several hours had passed, and the electric lights had been extinguished, the Countess secured her peignoir and made her way to the chamber of Dr Watson. She was familiar with large country houses, having stayed in dozens of them with her aunt, and easily navigated the corridors guided by moonlight that filtered in through lancet windows. The doctor’s door was unlocked so she let herself in. He was sitting up in bed, reading a collection of short stories by Edgar Allen Poe. He bookmarked The Murders on the Rue Morgue and cocked a brow.

  “I take it that you are not here for the purposes of an illicit liaison?”

  “No, but if anyone should have observed me entering your bedroom, I will permit them to draw that conclusion. Did you learn anything interesting from the men?”

  “Several things, but I cannot be sure if the information is relevant or not.”

  She sat on the corner of the four-poster and wrapped herself in a spare eiderdown to ward off the cold since the embers in the fire had all but died. “Go on then.”

 
He put down his book and thought for a moment. “Well, Sir Henry’s trusted valet, a man by the name of Antonio - I knew I had heard the name before - was manservant to Jack Stapleton. He comes from Costa Rica. When I tried to gain an audience with Sir Henry, he deliberately blocked my path until the door could be locked from the inside. He is more guard dog than valet.”

  “He and Beryl would make a formidable pair if they ever put their minds to it.”

  He nodded solemnly before moving on. “The conversation took an interesting turn when someone mentioned a mutilated pony by Cleft Tor. It was the third such mutilation in as many months. The Beast of Dartmoor, a ferocious wildcat, is said to be responsible. The talk soon turned to local legends. As well as Hugo’s hound from hell, there are numerous spectral hounds that roam the moor at night. A ghostly sighting is usually followed by a violent death. Then there are the usual pixies and phantoms haunting bogs and graves. Then there are the hairy hands that nab anyone crossing Sticklepath Bridge, though that is no longer a problem because the bridge, originally crossing Stickle Brook, has been submerged under twenty feet of water because Sir Henry dammed the brook and turned it into a ten acre lake. It has been quaintly christened: Holywell Pool. But the legend I liked the most was the one about the headless horseman who rides through Dog Hole Gorge prior to a thunderstorm.”

  “I prefer the one about the hairy hands. Remind me not to go swimming in the lake. What else?”

  “Hundreds of men work on the estate, including chain gangs of convicts from Princeton who are granted day leave. Doune Quarry is a busy place with quarrying going on six days a week; likewise for The Grinders - the gunpowder grinding works, which brings in a substantial profit for the estate. And that does not take into account the scores of men who have transformed the moor into a veritable Garden of Eden. They have come from all over Devon. Many brought their families with them. The residents of Grimpen were relocated to Coombe Tracey to accommodate them all and the hamlet has grown into a sizeable village. ”