Free The Grimswell Curse by Sam Siciliano

sure?” I asked.
    “Because she is beautiful. Beautiful women have a way of looking after themselves.”
    My frown returned. “That may also be true, although I do not care for your cynical tone.”
    “How can one regard the behavior of men and women and avoid cynicism?” He went to the window and drew in his breath, his back to me, his fingers grasping at the sill. “What does it all mean, this pathetic mating dance? These lacerated hearts, these ridiculous longings and desires, this incessant pain—all this... nonsense.” He was quiet briefly. “Why should such a simple business cause such turmoil? Man is unique among the animals in this respect. For them it is all roaring, growling or butting horns, and then they run off, or they have what they desire—for the moment. They are better off than we.”
    I stared at his back, astonished at his fervor. “No,” I said. “They are not better off.”
    “No?” He still would not face me.
    “No.” I took a step nearer. “Once it is all settled... If you really love one another, then it is quite wonderful.”
    He turned, a tight smile on his lips. “I shall have to take your word for it. I fear, however, that this particular episode has not turned out so well for Miss Dobson. All the same, she is a woman—as she said—who has learned to take care of herself. She will find some lovesick puppy who will take her, money or no money, reputation or no reputation.”
    “That is cruel,” I said. “And what of Lord Frederick? Is he blameless?”
    “No one is blameless, Henry. But you are mistaken if you think I cannot see his faults. Miss Dobson told me little I did not suspect. Have I not harped upon Miss Grimswell’s fortune? Are his intentions not obvious to anyone? Even Miss Grimswell must have her suspicions.”
    He picked up his pipe from the ashtray where he had set it. “I did learn one thing. His cruelty is something of a surprise—the ‘giantess’ and the ‘milk cow.’ He has a mean streak beneath his tiresome amiability.” He relit the pipe, drew in two or three times to get it going, then eased out a breath of smoke. “I do not care for men who are cruel to women, regardless of the women’s class, virtue or appearance. And if he intends in any way to harm Miss Grimswell, he will pay for it—he will pay dearly.” If Digby could have seen Holmes at that moment, he might have reconsidered coming to Dartmoor with us.

Four

    L ate the next day Holmes and I climbed into a crude rented carriage, aptly called a dog cart, and started off for Grimswell Hall. Lord Frederick raised his hand in a grudging farewell. Stern words from Holmes and his threatening to abandon the case (something I knew he would never do) had persuaded Digby to remain behind at the Grimpen inn for one night. Holmes had also argued that it was unclear how the lady would receive us—her servants might not admit us—but two would be less overwhelming than three. Shrewdly, he also suggested he would help prepare the way for Digby’s triumphal arrival the next day.
    After several hours on the train enduring Digby’s incessant chatter, Holmes and I were only too glad to sit in silence and enjoy the ride. A cold dreary rain had been falling in London, but shortly before we reached Grimpen, the sun had broken through the clouds. Now its golden light gleamed along the desolate length of the moor, the autumnal heath and bracken a radiant brown along the rolling earth.
    I had not been to Dartmoor before, but it reminded me of the moors of northern Yorkshire. One had the same sense of the sky somehow opening up, becoming more vast, yet somehow nearer; the sky joined with the land to form a single mute presence, a great slumbering creature, brown and gray and cavernous, a dormant behemoth with a cold misty aura. The old gods of earth and sky lurked nearby, and relics of Neolithic man—a solitary monolith of jagged black granite all spotted with brilliant lichens or smaller, mossy slabs