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

  “Did she say where?”

  “No.”

  “Did she sound frightened?”

  “No, that’s why I paid it no heed. She sounded all wrong for seeing ghosts.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, she was sort of purring like Tabby.”

  “Tabby?”

  “The old mouser in the kitchen which gets the mouse and then the cream.”

  The Countess wondered if there were two ghosts or if the ghost seen by Mr Frankland was the same ghost that Beryl Stapleton saw, but before she had a chance to question Nellie further the twins began to squeal. Nellie scrambled to separate them before their tantrum turned to tears. The Countess watched as the carriage rolled out of the stable yard then rushed to the nursery which adjoined the apartments of the female servants in the north wing.

  Beryl Stapleton’s bedroom was small but colourful. There was a dazzling patchwork quilt on the bed in shades of bright pink and daffodil yellow and sky blue. The little curtain had all the colours of the rainbow in it. The window gave onto the great Grimpen Mire. Not a very pleasant view compared to the view from the tower. Beryl did not have many possessions and the search did not take long. Most likely she only used the room for sleeping and her morning toilette. There were some cheap hair brushes and some rather ordinary day dresses but the majority of her garments and all her expensive evening gowns were stored in the tower.

  Nellie’s room was smaller but extremely tidy since the nursemaid had recently cleared out her meagre possessions. Beryl and Nellie were not members of the gentler sex who felt obliged to keep up a correspondence with family and friends hence there was no writing paraphernalia. Nellie was an orphan who had been fortunate enough to have been given a rudimentary education by her previous employer – the late wife of the vicar at Saint Swithin’s - while Beryl had no relations in England.

  She searched the schoolroom next and struck gold. Here she found crayons, pencils, chalk, charcoal, pens, ink bottles, paper, scissors, and envelopes. The children had been diligently practising their letters and Beryl Stapleton could easily have made use of these things after the children had gone to bed.

  On her way down the back stairs the Countess decided to stop by the kitchens. She would offer her condolences to Antonio and perhaps catch him at a vulnerable moment. At this hour of the morning the household servants would be in the servants’ hall having their breakfast. They would have completed several hours work already. Antonio Garcia, however, was not among those scoffing lashings of steamy porridge, cold mutton chops, boiled eggs, and crusty bread with butter and jam.

  She hurried to the top of the tower where she found the door closed but not locked; the key still in her possession. She checked the room but did not linger. Perhaps it was merely the chilliness of the air but the room gave her goosebumps. She thought back to the time Antonio first entered and caught them on the chaise. With her eyes closed she did not see his reaction. Was he shocked by the photographs? She felt that Dr Watson was wrong about it being a shrine. It did not exude that sort of feel – reverent, nostalgic, sentimental. She still couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was, but she knew what it wasn’t. Carefully, she locked the door and on her way back down the spiral stairs realized there were lots of places where someone could conceal themselves. At every level there were storerooms crammed full of old picture frames or surplus chinaware; a latrine and a bathroom; a linen cupboard; a little sewing room; and numerous niches displaying suits of medieval armour. It would have been easy to hide and wait for opportunity to present itself. Pushing someone down the stairs would have been frightfully easy.

  She eventually tracked Antonio down to the study and cursed herself for not checking there in the first instance. He was sweeping out the hearth with a brush and pan.

  “Good morning,” she greeted pleasantly before kicking herself. It wasn’t a good morning for someone mourning the loss of a child. “Please accept my condolences,” she added sincerely – oh bugger there was no delicate way around it and she was tired of pussy-footing. “I could see you loved her very dearly. The way a father loves a daughter.”

  If he was startled he hid it well. He sighed heavily and ceased his sweeping, though he continued to stare at the soot as if in a trance.

  “Yes I loved her, though she was always willful and stubborn, even as a little girl, and so beautiful. Men fell in love with her too easily. And she fell in love with them back. But she loved the wrong sort. When she fell in love with Jack Baskerville I told her it would not end well. He was cruel and jealous and the worst sort of gambler – one who always lost – but he had a cocky swagger and a smile that sparkled like fool’s gold. She met him on one of them Mississippi paddle-steamers. She was a dancer. I was second captain. It was easy work, floating up and down river. He had some money left to him from his mother’s estate but it didn’t take long for him to fritter it away. He drifted down to Mexico, one step ahead of his creditors. She followed. I went too. We eventually ended up back home in Costa Rica. When his losses got too big to ignore he changed his name to Jack Vandeleur and decided to chance his luck in England. She could not bear to be without him. I could not bear to be without her. She was all the family I had. In England Jack changed his name to Stapleton and his luck seemed to change too. He opened a school in Yorkshire and they got married when she told him she was with child. But there was a sickness in the school. It closed down. She lost the babe. Then we came to this god-awful place because Jack got an idea about how to claim the fortune he believed was his birthright. She was excited at first. She wanted to be a proper lady. But when she found out he meant to murder someone she got the wind up. She was not a bad girl. But it was too late. Jack would not release her from the marriage and he could be violent if his wishes went unmet. In the end it did not end well – just as I always said.”

  “Do you think she tripped down the stairs?”

  “Beryl was a dancer like her mother. She never once tripped over her own feet. It was not in her nature to be clumsy.”

  “Do you think she was pushed?”

  He nodded.

  The next question was crucial and there was no tactful way to phrase it. “By whom?”

  “I do not know. I do not know,” he repeated with solemnity.

  She was about to ask him if his daughter had been conducting an affair with the baronet when the butler interrupted them. Bluntly, he instructed Antonio to clear his things out of the folio room and go back to sleeping with the other male servants.

  Alone in the study, she grabbed the chance to make another search. Unfortunately, no secret compartment revealed itself, either in the desk, bookcase or any part of the floor or wall. She even checked the padding in the chesterfield. Disappointed, she turned to go. She reached the door then looked back at the coal scuttle, retraced her steps and tipped the contents back into the grate. As she sifted through the black powder with bare fingers a torn scrap of paper, edges singed, poked out from the little midden. She worked a little more frantically and there was another.

  “Can I help you, m’lady?”

  Ouch! She banged her head on the Gothic mantel and tried not to groan as she addressed the pretty parlour-maid poised in the doorway.

  “I dropped my diamond ring and it bounced into the fireplace,” she lied, managing to sound convincing despite the fact her eyes were stinging and she was up to her elbows in soot.

  I know who you are.

  I know who you are not.

  “They don’t make any sense,” Dr Watson pronounced unhappily, after studying the two scraps she had rescued from the dregs of the fire. “By the way, what if I had been performing my morning ablutions naked when you burst in after such a peremptory knock?”

  “You forget I am a widow. I was married for three years so I am hardly likely to be shocked by the sight of a half-naked man sponging himself.”

  “One day you must tell me all about your late husband but in future I suggest you knock and then wait before t
hrowing open the door if we are to remain friends.” He began to cough and took a sip of the lemon tea with honey she had deposited on his bedside table.

  “Is the tea helping?”

  “Yes, oh, yes, thank you for the tea.” He glanced at the bracket clock as he replaced his empty glass. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I must hurry if I am to go to Coombe Tracey to send that telegram. Perhaps you should leave now.”

  The Countess had already bathed a second time, changed her morning dress for a costume tailleur of grey wool with scalloped edges, and breakfasted; the fact he was just getting out of bed and looked grey around the gills did not bode well.

  “I can go to Coombe Tracey in your place. You need to stay in bed. You can write down what you want me to say in the telegram and I can sign off using your name.”

  He began to protest but she cut him off.

  “I need to buy some black satin for a funeral dress and some black lace to use as a veil. I thought I had packed for all eventualities, alas, I will not be so remiss in future.”

  She handed him some writing paper and a pen from the desk by the window. While he dried his hands and penned some instructions she recounted what she had found in the school room. He seemed unimpressed so she moved on to what Mr Frankland had said about seeing a ghost, but he dismissed it as the ranting of a lonely old man who drank too much red wine. When she told him what Nellie had said, he dismissed it as the foolishness of an impressionable and jealous girl. When she mentioned Antonio it was another matter.

  “I should have realized the lisp meant they were related. His confirmation of your belief that Beryl Stapleton’s fall was no accident means we could have three murders on our hands.”

  “When I asked him if he knew who could have pushed her down the stairs I got the impression he was hedging. I think he knows more than he is letting on. I will try and coax the name out of him.”

  “First things first, you need to go to Coombe Tracey to telegraph to Jensen Saint Giles. We need to find out what Barrymore is hiding. I remember Sherlock always saying: Follow every thread and one will lead to the truth.”

  She glanced out of the window as she returned the pen to its place on the desk. The south side of the house offered the best panorama of Holywell Pool. It had started to rain and droplets were dimpling the silvery water.

  “Did you hear any dogs barking in the night?”

  He shook his head. “I took an aspirin with some whiskey before meeting you in the library for dinner and consequently slept like the dead as soon as I sank into Frankland’s armchair. I only woke at first light when the maid brought up the old man’s breakfast. That’s when I transferred myself to this bed, and I must say it was lovely to sleep in something other than a chair. Why do you ask? Did you hear dogs barking in the night?”

  “No, but I dreamt of dogs barking in the night. I’m wondering if I dreamt it because I heard it in my sleep.”

  The Countess did not travel in the Peugeot to Coombe Tracey. Rain had set in and the automobile had no roof. She opted to take the brougham and one of the chestnut mares. Fedir acted as coachman, supplanting Perkins who did not bother to hide his displeasure. Since she had rushed her breakfast she decided to stop at the Thistlethwaite Inn before going to the telegraph office. Mrs Mortimer was there along with Mrs Barrymore. The two ladies were enjoying a Devonshire tea and invited her to join them.

  Eliza Barrymore was gushing about the garden plans Gaston de Garonne had presented the night he came to dinner. She was very keen on the Elizabethan knot garden and the costs had been nutted out over ten courses that lasted well into the evening, which then entailed the Frenchman spending the night in the guest room to avoid riding back in the thunderstorm. Neither woman had yet heard the news of Beryl Stapleton’s death. When the countess informed them of the tragic event Mrs Mortimer looked stricken. Her hand trembled as she replaced her tea cup. Mrs Barrymore continued to feed her face, seemingly unaffected.

  After her scone and tea, the Countess bid the ladies farewell and hurried to the telegraph office. She asked the man at the office to bring the reply to Baskerville Castle as soon as it came through and left a handsome tip to encourage him in this endeavour. Next, she paid a visit to the haberdasher. Fortunately, Xenia was an excellent seamstress and knew her measurements by heart. She would be able to cut and stitch a funeral dress in next to no time, though a couple of extra maids would come in handy. She made a mental note to speak to the housekeeper. On her way back to the carriage she stopped to buy a small gift for her new friend in the hope of cheering him up and speeding his recovery.

  The dreary rain had finally ceased but the sky continued to look weepy. Russet tracts of moorland appeared leeched and colourless. The air looked grey. They were making good progress in the brougham and had just passed through the hamlet of Grimpen when the horse began to limp. Fedir jerked on the reins and advised the countess not to remain in the carriage in case the animal bolted while he examined the horseshoe for a stone. She climbed down and walked a short distance to what she thought was a scatter of tors where one of the boulders might make a good seat, but it turned out to be an old graveyard.

  Grey rocks poked out of the wet sod between clumps of withered cotton grass, not in neat rows but higgledy-piggledy, like the discarded broken fangs of Hugo’s gigantic hound. Most of the headstones, hoary with lichen and moss, had no markings, but every now and then a few letters could be seen scratched into the gangrenous stone: Cayzer, Benbow, Yeth, Marlowe, Noah… She meandered between the broken graves, checking the inscriptions, and concluded that the names were ancient, bestowed before the tradition of surnames took root. No date of birth or death appeared on any of the gravestones.

  When she got to the end of the little cemetery where one of the gravestones had toppled over, she decided to take the weight off her legs. Fog had started to creep in and she hugged her winter manteau closer to ward off the cold that came with it, her thoughts drifting to the father she had never met and the fact he didn’t even have a grave for her to visit, though rumours had started circulating of his resurrection. She didn’t know what to believe any more. One day she would make a pilgrimage to Reichenbach Falls and perhaps Dr Watson would come with her. She was growing very fond of the doctor and did not want to think about parting ways once they returned to London. He was a genuine gentleman.

  Eventually, she roused herself from her reverie and stood up to return to the carriage but the fog had thickened and she could no longer see the road. She began to follow a path and had gone a short distance when she spotted a figure was moving noiserlessly toward her; it seemed ghostlike, like a phantom floating on the fog. The figure was exceedingly tall and reed thin. The left hand gripped something jagged that glinted as it caught the eerie metallic light. The right hand clutched something that looked like a wet sack. As the phantom closed the distance she could see that the jagged thing was a steel trap and that the wet sack was not a sack at all but a limp dead fox, neck broken, one paw dangling by a thread, dripping blood where the creature had tried to gnaw it off in a desperate bid to escape capture. The phantom had a bandage around his head and over one ear and in an instant she knew who he was.

  “You lost?” he growled.

  Her throat thickened and it strained her vocal chords. “No, er, well, not really.” She looked back hopefully over her shoulder, checking for a familiar landmark or grave when she saw another figure in the fog. And then another. And then a fourth, much smaller than the first three, possibly a boy, hanging back, half-hidden behind a gravestone.

  “This be our land,” continued the gypsy, circling slowly the way a hungry predator circles helpless prey, “and you be trespassing.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding both contrite and surprised in an effort to appease him. “I didn’t realize this was your land. I’ll be on my way. My coachman is seeing to the horse. The horse had a stone in her shoe. The carriage is on the Grimpen road - if you will just point me in the right direction.”


  The swarthy face looked to left and right then smiled chillingly. “What direction would that be lads?”

  The men chuckled, though there was nothing merry in the menacing rumble of grunts and snorts. One man was clutching a brace of dead rabbits. The other was carting a hessian sack tied at the top with a bit of twine. The sack twitched frantically from side to side. Whatever was inside was still alive.

  “We might find some lost treasure before we escort the young lady back to the Grimpen road,” suggested the first gypsy.

  Nodding in rabid agreement, the other two gypsies licked their lips.

  The trio was within arm’s reach and she could see their blackened teeth and the hairs bristling from their warts, smell their collective putrid breath and the horrid stench of their bodies, when she heard a familiar foreign refrain like a fog horn in the distance.

  “Countess Volodymyrovna! Countess Volodymyrovna!”

  The refrain got closer and closer until Fedir appeared. He took one look at the three gypsies and bunched his fists. The trio put down their little treasures and stalked towards him just as a black beast came out of nowhere and reared up in fright, almost throwing the rider. The horse whinnied and stamped the ground and strained at the bit as the rider fought to steady it; his storm coat flapping angrily like the wings of a giant bird of prey.

  “Call your gypsy hounds back,” ordered the horseman while the sleek black steed continued to wheel round and round, sensing danger. “Or you will answer to me, Jago. Now!”

  Jago stood his ground for several anxious minutes, scowling fiercely, weighing up his chances, then gave the nod, and reluctantly the gypsies backed off, retrieved their butchered bundles and vanished into the murk that seemed to swallow them whole. The rider turned to the Countess.

  “Are you all right, m’lady?”

  Terrified at how close she had come to being robbed and possibly even violated, she nodded her head, unable to find the words she needed.

  “I take it that is your carriage on the road?”