Free The Grimswell Curse by Sam Siciliano Page B

predator— an owl, a buzzard, a kestrel, a fox, an adder. It is a mistake to attribute human emotions to the buzzard or the vole. There must exist between them a curious sympathy, a strange bond. The vole’s end is not tragic, only natural, and there is no malice in the buzzard. No, the predators of the natural world are not cruel, nor malevolent.”
    He stepped down off the final slab of granite onto the soft reddish earth. A weary smile pulled briefly at his lips. “That is the difference between the world of men and the world of animals.” We climbed into the dog cart and sat down. The driver cracked his whip, and we were rumbling on our way again. Holmes stared back toward the trees. “Evil does not exist in their world. The buzzard does not toy with his prey. He does not enjoy suffering.”
    “A cat does,” I said. “I have seen Victoria with a mouse.”
    Holmes shrugged. “That is all mere brute instinct. It is not evil. It is over in a few minutes, and the mouse is devoured. The cat does not play with the mouse for days or weeks.”
    “You are in a curious mood.”
    “I have been reflecting upon the Grimswell case and wondering what type of predator is at work.”
    I frowned. “You are not thinking of werewolves or vampires?”
    “Certainly not. Merely someone... extraordinarily cruel. This person is toying with Miss Grimswell like your cat, but her torments are prolonged. This is not evil in the abstract.”
    I looked about me at the lonely expanse of the faded moor covered with the languishing heath, the splendor of summer long past, and at the gray sky overhead, all the blue gone now. I shivered, wishing I had put on my mackintosh to cut the chill. “This is truly a desolate place.”
    “Perhaps, although it is undeniably magnificent.”
    “It does seem a place...” I drew my arms about me.
    Holmes stared at me, his gloved hands resting on the head of his stick. “Yes?”
    “The place for a ghost, some predatory ghost.”
    “I think not, Henry. The moor and that sky are beyond any mere predatory ghosts. Any ghosts here I think we bring with us.”
    “But if a malevolent ghost did exist, this would be the place for him.”
    “No. London is a far better place for a ghost than Dartmoor. Such a ghost belongs amid the stench and squalor of mankind, not out there where all is clean and open and grand. Some decaying mansion would work better.”
    I forced a smile. “I hope Grimswell Hall is not a decaying mansion.”
    “It is not,” Holmes said, “as you will soon see.”
    “But—”
    Holmes raised his stick. “Ah—there it is.”
    I turned to look past the driver. Ahead of us rose what seemed, almost, a small mountain, though hill was probably more apt, and at the summit was a heap of jagged rocks, gigantic boulders of granite stacked in a strange shape with two protruding pieces like horns. We had passed another hill with a tor, but the granite there had been whitish, not black like this. Down the hill from the dark tor, silhouetted against the gray fading sky, was a structure of the same black stone with a single tower rising high above the moor.
    “That is Demon Tor, if I am not mistaken,” Holmes said, “and below it is Grimswell Hall.”
    “It must be quite a view from the tor,” I said. “That is the highest point for miles around. Have you been here before?”
    Holmes smiled. “Yes. As I told you, I know Dartmoor well.”
    It grew darker as the horse lumbered up the hill toward the hall, and damper as well. It seemed foolish to pull out my great coat with our destination so near, but I was soon shivering from the cold. Below us a gray cloudy mass crept out of a nearby valley and a dark patch of woods and curled like smoke toward us.
    “Good Lord,” I murmured after watching for a while. “Is that fog?”
    “It is,” Holmes said. “It can come upon you swiftly this time of year. It is not dangerous unless you are near a mire or bog. If you are, the best thing to do is to