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

  “Perhaps she was modest about her work; not all artists are show-offs eager for an exhibition of their latest canvas.”

  “We are talking about the Costa Rican queen, are we not?”

  He conceded the point and winced. “I would dearly like to see inside that studio. Antonio took the body. I bet he has the key in his possession.”

  “No,” she said. “I do – at least I think I do.”

  “What? How? You?”

  She pushed to her feet and extracted a brass key from her beaded evening purse. “I helped myself to a key in her pocket when I checked the temperature of the body. I’m guessing it opens the door at the top of the tower. Shall we put it to the test while the house is sleeping?”

  The storm that had been threatening all day finally broke. Flashes of lightning turned the gloomy double cube of the great hall a livid white. Scumbled portraits shone luminous and ghastly in their gilded frames. Stag’s heads and boar’s heads appeared to swell in size; glass eyes blinked as if alive. It was like being trapped inside Mary Shelley’s imagination. Here was the house of Dr Frankenstein waiting for a zap of electricity to bring dead bodies to life.

  Thunder cracked the heavens and shook the walls. Great glass sheets crackled under the boom. Electric lights flickered on and off, on and off, then fizzled. They grabbed some candlesticks, lit them using hot coals, and made their way quickly up the grand sweep of stairs, along the gallery to the archway where they paused to check if anyone might be following.

  Nothing stirred. The sound and fury was outside. Inside, all was as silent as a tomb – the dead had not been zapped to life. They mounted the corkscrew stairs and made their way up to the top. The key fit in the lock and the door swung back noiselessly.

  “Well, well, well,” said the doctor. “It appears she was an artist after all.”

  Photographs of nudes covered the stark white walls, female flesh laid bare, tantalizing and pubescent; between the salacious sepia prints were pin-boards of butterflies under glass, hundreds of them. He spotted the Lepidoptera at once.

  “Stapleton’s collection,” he whispered, moving closer with his candlestick. “There’s even a rare Cyclopides here. I know for a fact there hasn’t been a Cyclopides spotted on the moor since 1860.”

  “And I cannot spot any artist’s paraphernalia amongst these things,” she returned, checking through oak wardrobes bulging full of gorgeous gowns – far too expensive for a mere governess. “These gowns are all black or midnight blue or dark purple – as if she were still in mourning. And no camera either? It begs the question – who took the photographs?”

  “Shh, lower your voice,” he warned. “Anything above a whisper will carry down those stairs like a drumroll. Who took the photographs is irrelevant. More than likely they were part of Stapleton’s esoteric collection and his widow brought them with her from Merripit House.”

  She looked unconvinced as she searched the wardrobes for secret compartments which might house writing implements and envelopes. “This chamber has all the hallmarks of a boudoir rather than a studio. There is no easel, no paints and no paint brushes, just five wardrobes full of expensive dresses. But look at this white velvet chaise longue by the oriel window, and the way this cheval glass is angled just so. It suggests a trysting place, an amorous nest for lovebirds.”

  He kept moving around the room, studying the licentious images of young girls in various suggestive poses. “Let us not read too much into things,” he cautioned. “It could just be a dressing room. She was South American. They do things differently over there. Not everyone is fond of chintz and embroidered flowers.”

  “There’s something else about this room. I cannot quite put my finger on it. It seems all wrong for a trysting place. The colour is wrong. And the photographs are arranged in clinical lines. Where are the frills and fringing? The silken cushions? The French parfums? The feathery fans? The lacy petticoats?”

  Masculine brows arched. “Your knowledge of trysting places appears extensive.”

  She ignored the quip and began to study the lines of photographs. Some of the girls looked quite young, no more than six or seven. “There is something repugnant about these sleeping beauty images.”

  “Stapleton was a repugnant fellow, a man of vile scruples and no morals. And the reason this room does not resemble a trysting place is because it is not a trysting place at all.” He paused, savouring his little moment of triumph. “Beryl Stapleton was hopelessly in love with Jack Stapleton. Perhaps infatuated is a better term. No matter how badly he treated her she remained by his side. Some women are attracted to brutes of that sort. This room is not a trysting place because it is a shrine. A shrine to Jack Stapleton!”

  She thought about hopeless women and brutish men while she moved to the oriel window to watch the storm sweep across the sky. There was something powerful and thrilling about storms that made her heart race and her nerve endings spark. Brutish men had that same effect on hopeless women. Perhaps it was innate for womankind to be attracted to such men, even to worship them, despite the danger to themselves. There was an undeniable sexual energy about men like that, it was the thrill of fear that set hearts racing; a paradoxical excitement that thrilled and terrified at the same time, arousing lust and female desire. The Neolithic people who lived in those huts on the moor worshipped gods of thunder and lightning exactly because they were dangerous. She threw open the oriel window and felt the power of the storm, but of course, like all civilized souls, she loved storms providing she was safe and warm inside, not out...

  What was that! Someone was on the moor! She could see a figure whenever the lightning flashed. A man, or perhaps a boy, was running across the great Grimpen Mire toward the area on the map she remembered as the old tin mine.

  “Come quick! Look! On the moor! Someone running!”

  “Where? I cannot see anyone. You are imagining it.” His eyes continued to sieve the darkness until the next livid flash. “Oh, yes, now I see him! What the deuce is a boy doing out on the moor on a filthy night like this?”

  They heard footsteps and their blood ran cold. Someone was tramping up the stairs. There was nowhere to hide and no escape. They hardly knew what they were doing as they leapt onto the chaise longue and went into an amorous clinch. He was kissing the side of her neck when they heard an angry lisping voice.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Dr Watson felt so flustered he forgot himself. He forgot that he was an honoured guest and that the man barking at him was a lowly servant. The Countess did not appear to suffer from the same lapse of sang froid and responded haughtily.

  “We are not required to explain ourselves. What are you doing up here?”

  Antonio shrugged. “I came to make sure the window was closed.”

  He secured the oriel latch. Rain had formed a little puddle under the window. He knelt down to mop it up with his neckerchief. They decided to leave him to it.

  “Do you still have the key?” whispered the doctor when they reached the base of the corkscrew stairs. “Or did you leave it in the door?”

  She patted her beaded evening purse and smiled archly. “I still have it.”

  “Good, we may need to visit that room again.”

  “Really, doctor, your male intuition is starting to astonish me.”

  They were about to go their separate ways to bed when she grabbed his arm.

  “Are you tired?”

  He thought all that talk about trysting places had gone to her head. Hang on! Perhaps she was going to suggest they go gallivanting after that mad boy on the moor!

  “What do you have in mind?” he said cautiously.

  “When we were coming down the stairs I noticed via the arrow loops that a candle was burning in the opposite tower. Algernon Frankland must be awake. According to Gaston he is an amateur astronomer. He has a powerful telescope and there’s no fog tonight.”

  She had already made up her mind by the sounds of it. And after what had happened to Beryl S
tapleton, he wasn’t about to let her go up to the top of the next tower on her own. He heaved a breath and mounted the stairs – seven stories of stairs! Though to be fair, each level was condensed because the ceilings were lower and they didn’t need to count the ground floor.

  Algernon Frankland was wearing a blue dressing gown and some tartan slippers. The room was sparsely furnished with a single bed, an armchair, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and several tables littered with mathematical instruments and maps of the heavens. Jock was curled up at the foot of the bed. He cocked an eye, gave a mock-heroic growl then went back to dreaming doggy dreams.

  “Come in, come in,” squawked the old man. “I saw you going up to Beryl’s little studio. The arrow loops provide a glimpse of those coming and going. You cannot see very clearly but you can spot a lighted taper. I wondered if you might pop in and pay me a visit. I’m sorry I cannot offer you any refreshment. I have just finished the last drop of grand cru and the maid won’t venture this way till first light. Take a seat, doctor. Rest your weary bones in that armchair. You look fagged and that cough is turning phlegmatic by the sounds of things. Wrap yourself in that woolen blanket. There’s no heating up here. Heat plays havoc with my gout. Besides, the window is open all night.”

  He limped across the chamber and lowered himself onto a stool by the oriel window and craned his neck toward the Countess. “Would you like to take a look through my telescope, dear lady? It’s a clear sky now that the storm has blown itself out. I suppose you want to see who that chap is who is criss-crossing the moor. Help yourself. Take a look. Be my guest.”

  The heavens were a starry blur of golden pinpricks set against a black backdrop but after a bit of tweaking she managed to get a clear view of the tiny figure darting toward the old tin mine. It was definitely a boy. And at his side ran a pack of dogs that loped just like dingoes.

  “Thank you, Mr Frankland. That is a marvellous telescope. What are you looking at tonight?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Moon or stars?” she clarified.

  “Ah, yes, tonight it is Sirius – the brightest star in the night sky with a visual magnitude twice as bright as Canopus.”

  “Astronomy is such a fascinating subject. I’m thinking of purchasing a telescope myself. The constellations are endlessly interesting. Every grouping has its own story: Pleiades, Orion, and so forth. Can you show me Sirius?”

  Dr Watson fell asleep in the armchair and snored in unison with Jock while Algernon Frankland warmed to his favourite topic.

  “Certainly, dear lady. Constellation Canis Major. Let me pinpoint the heavenly location for you. The ancient Egyptians based their calendar on Sirius, you know. Its rising marked the annual flooding of the Nile. The ancient Greeks associated its twinkling with being star-struck. The Dog Days of summer get their name from Sirius too. The Romans celebrated Sirius by sacrificing a dog. It ensured a good harvest. And since you have lived in Australia you may find this fact interesting: The flagship of the First Fleet that sailed to Australia with its bounty of convicts was named HMS Sirius. Here we are! Behold the Dog Star!”

  While she admired the Dog Star she told Mr Frankland about Beryl Stapleton’s accident.

  “Ah,” he said. “That explains that scream. I thought perhaps the maid saw the same ghost that I saw.”

  “You saw a ghost?”

  “Glimpsed it through the arrow loops.”

  “When?”

  “Ah, good question. Morning, afternoon and evening have no meaning. I am only interested in day and night. Jock’s bark woke me and I think it was day. I fell back to sleep.”

  7

  The Dogs in the Night

  Countess Volodymyrovna dreamed of stars, storms, and hounds from hell gorging on death. The first thing she remembered upon waking was Algernon Frankland’s ghost on the stairs. Either he really was an old goose or he’d had too much grand cru.

  Xenia was preparing her mistress a cup of hot chai sweetened with stewed plums. It was a morning ritual born on the Steppe. Her mistress would drink it while soaking in the warm bath scented with rose petals and herbs.

  “What is the gossip in the kitchens today?” the Countess put to her maid.

  “The two children are crying all the nych. They go with Nellie this morning. They go to Salis-berry to the house of Mr Frankland’s spinning sistra.”

  “Spinster sister,” she corrected. “And it’s night not nych.”

  “Tuk,” said Xenia.

  “Speak English. It is good for you to practice whenever you can. What are the names of the children?”

  “The names are called Edmund and Eglantine. Lady Basketville is worried at them.”

  “Lady Baskerville is worried about them.”

  “Tuk. She is worrying all the night not nych. I am worrying too. This house is cursing everyone. Fedir say there is much bad happenings. The dogs they keep me awake all the night not nych.”

  “What dogs?”

  “The devil dogs that make bark in that bad place out there.” She pointed to the window and made the sign of the cross in the Orthodox fashion, crossing herself three times.

  The Countess tracked Nellie down to the stable yard. Perkins was brushing down one of the chestnut mares and the stable lads were shoveling horse dung. Dogger - a bucket of water in each hand - was heading toward the kennels behind the carriage house. Fedir was spit-polishing the Peugeot with a chamois cloth. The glossy paintwork gleamed in the crisp morning light. Nellie, wearing a warm travelling cloak, was fussing over the twins who were being helped into the covered wagonette for the long ride to Salisbury. The children’s eyes were red and puffy. Nellie’s swollen eyes indicated she had been crying all night too. The offer of a linen handkerchief edged in lace seemed to assuage her grief.

  “I came to bid you a safe journey,” said the Countess.” Mrs Stapleton’s accident is such a terrible business and coming so soon after the tragic death of Sir Henry it must be difficult for the children to cope with. They are so fortunate to have someone like you to care for them, Nellie.”

  “I do my best,” Nellie sniffed, mopping her eyes.

  “You said yesterday that you had been looking for Mrs Stapleton because you hadn’t seen her all day,” she prompted gently, trying not to set off a flood of tears. “Did Mrs Stapleton leave you with the children often?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs Stapleton came and went as she pleased. I did all the supervising of lessons for reading and writing and counting. And how those children did squabble over whose turn it was, and how they would whine and turn their noses up at their food at mealtimes too! Why, anyone would think they were a little prince and princess! But they were born common like everyone else round these parts and just struck it lucky when their mother died on the birthing bed, being so young and no ring on her finger, and the baronet taking pity and giving the pair of them to his good wife because she had just lost another babe! ”

  “You are such a hard-working and sensible girl, Nellie. I’m sure you will make an excellent governess and a good mother when your time comes. I wonder what Mrs Stapleton did with all that time on her hands.”

  Nellie blew her nose. “She just swanned around all day. If I ever needed her I would always find her up in that tower.”

  “She must have been an excellent artist. Did she instruct the children in drawing?”

  “Oh, no! Sometimes she sang songs to them in some foreign tongue and last thing at night she read them a bedtime story but it was me who taught them their ABC. If the mother tongue was good enough for Jesus it is good enough for those children.”

  “Jesus spoke English?”

  “Oh, yes, otherwise how could he have written the bible?”

  “I never thought of it like that. You are very clever, Nellie.”

  “Thank you, Countess Voldo – I can never get my tongue around foreign names.”

  “Volodymyrovna,” the countess supplied. “Yes, it has too many consonants and not enough vowels or perhaps the other
way around. One day I may change it to something easier.”

  “You could just marry someone,” Nellie suggested. “Mrs Stapleton had a foreign name until she married Mr Stapleton. Her name used to be the same as Sir Henry’s valet.”

  “Her name was Antonio?”

  “Garcia,”corrected Nellie. “And he used to be called Anthony until Sir Henry made him valet.” She frowned as she gathered her thoughts. “Or else it was Antonio first and then he changed it to Anthony and then he changed it back again to Antonio. The vicar’s wife, bless her kind heart, said folks should stick with the name the good Lord gave them.”

  “Antonio and Mrs Stapleton were brother and sister?”

  Nellie gave her nose one last wipe and held out the handkerchief. “Oh, no! Thank you for the hanky. He was her father.”

  “Are you sure about that, Nellie? Please keep it. Consider it a gift.”

  “Oh, thank you! Yes, I heard her call him papa one time when she thought no one was listening. Are you sure about the hanky? It looks like a foreign one. I don’t want anyone to say I stole it.”

  “It is Breton linen and Flemish lace. No one will accuse you of stealing it, Nellie.”

  “Well, since it is a British hanky, I shall keep it. Thank you kindly. I better go. The children are getting skittish already and we have a long road ahead of us.”

  “Before you go, Nellie, I wonder if you might remember the last time you saw Mrs Stapleton – I mean before that last time at the foot of the stairs.”

  Nellie’s young brows knitted themselves over and under, pearl and plain, before settling on the pearl. “I saw her the night before last when she came to read to the children; dressed to the nines in midnight blue. She always wore dark stuff and a bad omen it was considering how things were with the master. But mourning always suited her.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Yes, but I paid it no heed.”

  “What did she say that you paid no heed?”

  “She said she saw a ghost.”