The Curse of Barcombe Keep

by Brenda Seabrooke

The day was braw for late September and I was glad after luncheon to sit in front of the crackling fire with a journal while Holmes did the same. The afternoon stretched comfortably before us, but it was not to be. At the knock on the door, I glanced up at Holmes, but his attention was on the paper before him. Footsteps on the stairs held no interest for him.

I buttoned my coat and stood as a lady swathed in a black cape entered. Holmes stood then as well, though he didn’t button his coat in time.

“Lady Northington,” Mrs. Hudson announced while taking her cape, revealing a black silk dress trimmed in delicate braid. She wore a fashionable hat which meant that her mourning was recent. I was glad to see, though it had feathers, an entire bird was not perched on the crown. She was of medium height with smooth brown hair drawn back on the nape of her neck.

“My condolences for your bereavement, your Ladyship,” Holmes said as he ushered her to a chair.

She inclined her head and removed her gloves. She wore a wedding ring of plain gold and no other jewelry.

“I trust your loss was not your husband,” Holmes said.

“No, it was not.” Her voice was pleasant. She glanced at me.

“I am glad to hear it. Forgive me, your Ladyship. This is my colleague, Dr. Watson.”

I bowed and she nodded. We sat and she touched her ring, looking at us but saying nothing. Her eyes were brown and sorrowful.

“You are afraid for someone,” Holmes said. “Your husband, perhaps?”

“How—how did you know?”

“You wear your sorrow like your mourning. If it were your child, with that much worry, you wouldn’t have left it to come here.”

“That is true.” She paused and seemed to be considering her words carefully. “My husband never had a thought of inheriting the title or the manor house. We had a comfortable living in Devon. His cousin, Roderick, was always the heir, but even he did not expect to inherit so soon. Their uncle was in perfect health until he fell down the stairs last April. He had no children. His wife had died the year before. Poor Roderick didn’t last but a few months before he, too, fell down the selfsame stairway three weeks ago, and my husband inherited.”

“These deaths were investigated?” I asked.

“Yes. They were both ruled accidents.”

“And this cousin was also in perfect health?” I asked.

“He was. His death was totally unexpected. After the affairs were settled, we moved into the manor house with my husband’s youngest brother, Gerald, and his wife, Helene.”

“Youngest brother?” I asked. “There is a middle brother then? Where is he?”

“Frederick was with his regiment out in Burma—last we heard from him.” She paused.

“What brings you here today?” Holmes asked after a minute had passed.

“I had an appointment in London and thought to ask you—to consult you.”

“There have been no more mishaps?” I asked when Holmes didn’t.

“Well, perhaps. My husband tripped on the stairs Sunday night, but was able to catch himself.”

Holmes steepled his fingers. “I see. In six months those stairs have been the scene of three accidents, two of which were fatal. You have some concerns that they may not have been accidents.”

Lady Northington pressed her lips together and her eyes welled with tears. Before I could provide a clean handkerchief, she removed a black one edged with black lace from her jet-beaded purse and dabbed at her eyes. We waited for her to regain her composure.

“Do you know what to do about . . . well . . . curses, Mr. Holmes?”

He managed not to shout with laughter. “No, I do not. I think you need the clergy for that.”

She turned pale. I thought for a moment she might faint, but she rallied. “The house is cursed.”

“Indeed.” Holmes nodded.

Lady Northington thought he was sympathetic. “Yes. During Cromwell’s time, a Roundhead was caught looting the house. He was hanged on the spot by the Cavaliers, but not before he cursed the house and all the lords of the manor. When King Charles regained his throne, the fifth Lord Northington, upon his return to the house, fell down the stairway and died.

“From 1660 until now, no one has fallen down the stairway or died in a peculiar accident?” I thought that was a long time without mishap with an active curse in place.

“Since the fifth Lord’s death, each new lord had the house blessed on his ascension to the title. My husband’s uncle did not believe in curses and refused the blessing. Cousin Roderick was the same. Last Saturday, my husband had a—a curse remover come and chant prayers on each step of the stairs.”

“And the next night your husband had his accident. You are concerned, but not afraid for him to be left there today. Why, I wonder, is that?”

“Your husband was injured and is staying in bed,” I deduced.

“Excellent, Watson. Otherwise, her Ladyship wouldn’t have left her husband’s side. Is that not the case?”

Lady Northington stared at the two of us. “You seem to know everything already.”

“It is our business to read the signs. I am a consulting detective, and my colleague is a doctor.”

“It is true that my husband’s ankle was twisted. He will not be taking the stairs for at least a week, according to Dr. Oliver.”

Holmes nodded. “It seems the removal of the curse did not entirely work.”

“Yes, that is undoubtedly true. With my husband safe, I took the liberty of coming here. I have read of your cases.”

“Quite right.”

Lady Northington leaned slightly forward in her chair. “You’ll help us end this accursed curse?”

“Indeed I will.”

She looked inordinately relieved. I didn’t know how Holmes would do it, but clearly he was ready for the challenge.

“Take some notes please, Watson.”

I reached for my notebook, always at hand, and the pencil tucked into it. Holmes wanted to know where everyone was at the time of the three falls.

“My husband and I were in Devon for the first two deaths. We went to Gloucestershire for both funerals, but after the first one returned home. After the second, we remained there.”

Holmes ascertained the whereabouts of the rest of the family at the time of the deaths in April and a few weeks earlier. The middle brother, Frederick, was in Burma with the Army. Gerald, the youngest brother, was in London staying with his wife’s relatives. I wrote down their address.

“Excellent,” Holmes said. “I have some business here this afternoon, but we shall be on the train to Gloucestershire as soon as possible. Lady Northington, I must ask that, after your return, you stay in the room with your husband. Do not go down to dinner, or leave his side for any other reason.”

She was puzzled but agreed.

“I trust the stairs are not in use for the present?” I said

“No, everyone is using the servants’ stairs.”

“Please give Watson any relevant details. I must excuse myself.”

I continued eliciting the whereabouts of the servants in the household, and then saw the lady downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the hall with a packet for the lady’s return to Gloucestershire. “Ginger biscuits,” she said. “These will help with your journey.”

“How thoughtful!”

“It was at Mr. Holmes’s behest.”

That was odd. Holmes was unfailingly polite to women, but I hadn’t known of him to be so concerned with their appetites outside of his presence. I saw the lady to her waiting cab and returned to find Holmes writing out telegrams.

“She seemed much relieved that you’re on the case, but why did you tell her to remain with her husband? Do you think she can protect him from a ghost or a curse? Wouldn’t a footman be a better choice?”

“Come now, Watson. Do you expect the Roundhead to appear and grapple with a footman?”

“No, certainly not. I don’t believe in ghosts or curses.”

“Perhaps this case will make a believer out of you,” he said without looking up.

I waited for him to continue, but he did not. I went to my room and packed a bag, adding my Webley just in case.

Holmes was in and out of the sitting room and his bed chamber as he waited for answers to several of his telegrams, but before all of them had returned, he sent one more as we left for King’s Cross.

We had the compartment to ourselves after the first stop, and I sought to question him. “Really, how do you expect to foil a two-hundred-year-old curse?”

“It will be revealed in good time.”

I suspected he hadn’t a clue, hence the plethora of telegrams searching for information about the family and the manor. “You don’t even believe in curses either.”

“Of course I do. Anyone can lay a curse on anyone.” He took out one of the telegrams delivered to our rooms before we departed and read. “‘A curse shall befall each Lord of Barcombe Keep. Let them fall as I fall.’ Uttered by Willy Beedles just before he was hanged in the stairwell.”

I gaped at him, amazed at the information that he could obtain. I would have laid a bet that he did not believe in curses any more than he believed in ghosts or banshees or magic lamps. “You cannot possibly give this any credence.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why would I not? It has been well-documented by a number of sources.”

“You are the most rational being I have ever met. Curses are not rational—especially curses uttered by a Roundhead over two-hundred years ago.”

“We shall see, Watson, we shall see. Tell me, did you notice anything about Lady Northington?”

“Beyond the fact she’s an attractive, intelligent, well-spoken lady in double mourning? No. Surely you don’t suspect her of an attempt to get rid of her husband.” I was attempting levity. I didn’t like Holmes going in that direction. Suspicion of the wife was in my experience the wrong spouse.

“My dear Watson. Such a thought never entered my mind. If that were the case, she wouldn’t have consulted me, but carried out her schemes and hoped the constabulary didn’t winkle it out. No, her concern was genuine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“This case is complicated at the moment, but I suspect it will prove to be something simple in the end. Now I suggest we get some sleep. We are staying at Barcombe Keep, and may not get much there.”

He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. I followed soon after. We awoke as the train approached the village of Barcombe.

“Interesting name, “Holmes remarked. “My research revealed that Bar comes from bere, meaning wood, and combe from the Welsh cym meaning valley. The Keep dates back to about the twelfth century, but was hit with bombards during The War of the Roses. It remains a ruin. The present house dates from 1490 and has gone through several renovations. The latest was a half-hearted Palladian make-over of some of the inside—notably the entrance. I think money became a problem and the work was abandoned.”

The train halted at the station and he went inside, I assumed, to pick up a reply to one of his telegrams from the station master while I found the carriage from The Keep.

Holmes smiled with satisfaction as we climbed into the coach.

“Did you get the reply you expected?” I asked when he didn’t enlighten me.

“Oh yes. This carriage is the height of comfort.”

“Not a height we usually reach.” We hired our vehicles from whatever was available, often a dog cart, unless the client offered transportation. I sank into the soft, cushioned comfort and remembered his errand. “What did the telegram say?”

“About what I expected, but we must not theorize ahead of the facts.”

“Really, Holmes, I should have the same information you have in order to solve the curse of Barcombe Keep.”

“We need to keep an open mind. With this information, I fear that you would veer toward a solution. Indeed, your mind might be forced to that conclusion.”

I was irritated with him. “And yours is not?”

He snorted but did not deign to reply. I was not the one believing in curses. We fell into an uncomfortable silence.

The night was dark and the hour was late when we reached the door of Barcombe Keep, a hulking stone-and-plaster house. Except for the entrance, it appeared to be primarily half-timbered Tudor trim and mullioned windows. I expected to see arrow slits but later, in the morning light, some windows proved to be wide with views of the lake and wood, thanks to the partial Palladianizing.

The heavy door swung open to a large room with paneling painted in grand scenes from mythology divided by marble pilasters. The butler, Jayson, saw to our cases and coats.

Holmes asked him if he was on duty when the three falls occurred. “Yes, sir. It was my misfortune to find them.”

“All three of them?” I asked.

“All of them. I won’t be forgetting for a long time.”

He showed us where all had been found on the marble floor. “All but the present Lord Northington. He managed to catch the banister rungs and stop himself about halfway, giving his ankle a nasty wrench.”

“Did you see anything that might have caused these falls?”

“It was dark. The small lamp by the door were the only light. His Lordship gave orders after his fall to keep the room lighted at night.”

I noted several small lampstands that had been placed about the room to cast their light upward, but the great chandelier had not been lit.

“Everyone in the household is using the servants’ stairway for now, until this curse is lifted.” He gave Holmes a meaningful look. I hoped that no one expected Holmes to do that job. No matter what Holmes said about believing in curses, I was sure he was here to solve what may have been two murders and an attempted murder.

After being told that we would see Lord and Lady Northington in the morning, we were shown to our rooms by the housekeeper, Mrs. Boone, who was nervous when Holmes insisted on using the deadly stairs. He went ahead and the maid and footman with our bags had to follow. I was behind him. We held onto the smooth banister and took each step carefully up the curving stairs. I don’t know what Holmes expected. A banshee to rush screaming at us? The ghost of the hanged Roundhead to push us backwards.

As I rounded the curve I saw the maid, clearly terrified, turning her head from one side of the stairs to the other and the nervous footman looking behind him on every tread?

“The curse appears to be specific to the Northingtons,” Holmes said over his shoulder. “You have nothing to worry about.”

That did nothing to alleviate their fears. The maid gasped as the footman gulped.

We reached the upstairs hall without mishap and were shown to our suite, where a welcome light repast awaited us on trays in a sitting area between rooms.

It was now ten o’clock. I anticipated an early turn-in, but it was not to be. Holmes ate half of his meal and then chided me to finish up.

“Surely you don’t expect anything to happen on our arrival.”

“Indeed, I expect just that. The entities responsible for the accidents will not expect us to be ready for an incident.”

I hastily swallowed the last of my tea. “Nothing’s happened so far.” I gave Holmes a look and removed my coat preparatory to getting more comfortable when we heard a scream. Holmes grabbed a lamp as we rushed into the dark hall. I raced after him, expecting to see a twisted figure lying at the bottom of the stairs.

Instead, we confronted a woman, her face contorted as she stared at a figure slowly turning at the end of a rope hanging above the stairwell from an upper bannister.

As her cry soared over the scene, I took her by the shoulders. Her hands grasped my shirt. I should have grabbed my coat before leaving our rooms, but this was an emergency. Propriety was of little import in the face of terror. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.”

My words failed to comfort her. A fresh scream burst forth. She seemed not to see me.

“Madame, I am a doctor. Please pull yourself together.”

“Is it my husband?” she rasped out, her throat no doubt hoarse from the effort.

“Decidedly not.” Holmes had put down the lamp. He had found a cane somewhere and used it to attempt to hook the figure’s feet.

“Then who?” the woman cried out.

“No one living,” Holmes said.

The woman slid down in a faint. I caught her before she hit the floor.

“See to her, Watson. She will be Helene, Brother Gerald’s wife. I have work to do.”

“But who is the hanged man?”

“No one.”

Doors opened along the hall as the Northingtons straggled out in dressing gowns and the servants rushed down the back stairs.

Jayson and Mrs. Boone, the housekeeper, were in dressing gowns as well, but their hair was not rumpled like the maids and footmen.

Only Lord Northington was absent because of his injury.

Mrs. Boone ushered everyone into a nearby empty bedroom while I carried the fainting woman to a sofa along one wall of the hallway. A maid brought tincture of lavender. Several sniffs of it brought her around.

“Keep her warm,” I told the maid.

I made my way into Lord Northington’s room, where I introduced myself. He seemed like a likeable fellow, quite irritated with being forced to recover in bed. His wife explained the event to her husband while I ascertained that his Lordship was unhurt, in case he was supposed to be the intended victim while everyone else was lured out to the hall. It would not be the first time that we had encountered such a ruse, but he was as well as could be expected following his recent accident. I returned to the scene on the stairs.

Holmes and Jayson directed two footmen, one with a knife to cut the rope, and the other below to catch the figure hanging from it.

The footman sliced the rope and the body fell on the footman. He yelped and disentangled himself from it.

I descended the stairs to study the victim.

The footman laid the body on the floor and stepped back, ready to be of service but staying as far away as he could go while still remaining in the hall. “He’s . . . he’s—” babbled the young man.

“A man,” I said. “Why are people afraid of dead bodies? They are the safest beings on the planet. They can no longer hurt anyone.

I reached to turn him over. The body was surprisingly light as it rotated, and I recoiled at the dreadful rictus facing us. I’d seen the horrors of war, but never anything this grotesque.

“I told you, Watson, it is no one. It is a guy—just clothes stuffed with what looks like old sheets.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” the younger footman said. “Them looks like the gardener’s clothes,”

“Indeed.” The face was limned with charcoal. Its mouth was drawn back to show huge teeth. The eyes bulged, the nostrils flared. It was hideously ugly.

“Show this linen stuffing to the maids and see if they have any knowledge of it.” Holmes unbuttoned the coat and trousers to reveal the bunched-up sheeting. Jayson took it from him. I noticed that he was wearing gloves.

We went into the Northingtons’ room to check on their condition. Holmes introduced himself and, finding that all was well, we returned to own suite..

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking this is a complicated case that will be revealed as simple.”

“You said that before. Do you still believe in the curse?”

“Of course. Look to your shirt, Watson.” He went into his room.

What did he mean by that? I had removed my coat earlier, but when the screams began had not stopped to don my dressing gown. I looked at myself in the mirror and discovered smudges on the white cloth. I concluded that they must have got there when I examined the guy.

I retired then, but sleep did not come soon. I was baffled by Holmes’s continued insistence in his belief in curses.

Morning brought knowledge that the sheets were from the mending room. I joined Holmes as he questioned the staff. The rope was from the barn, and could have been picked up by anyone at any time. The knot was common and revealed nothing. The rough clothes, including the worn boots, were from the gardener. At his cottage, the man’s wife, a plump woman with serious grey eyes, said that she hadn’t noticed any missing garments but they might have been taken at any time from the clothesline behind the cottage. The boots were kept in an outside box.

“I telt ’im dinna be traipsing yer mucket boots on me clean flaer,” she explained. “Leave yer clarty boots outside, I likes ma flaers ta be clean.”

“Quite right,” I said. “Cleanliness is important.”

She looked at me for a second. “If you sayin, sir.”

I had no answer for her, and we took ourselves back to the house after a walk around the gardens and a smoke.

* * *

Later in the morning, Holmes talked to the members of the family. Helene was the thin blond with an aristocratic nose and blue eyes who had found the guy. When she smiled, which was rare on this grey day, winsome dimples flashed in her cheeks.

“I left my room last night to see how my sister-in-law was feeling after her journey to London. I have ze premonition something was to happen. I worried and wanted to see if she needed anything for the night. I didn’t want her to venture onto ze stairs.”

She spoke with a faint trace of a French accent. I had a feeling she clung to it because it set her apart from the English.

“A bit of French snobbery, eh, Watson?” Holmes said later.

“Possibly. I have noticed this affectation before.”

“Last night,” Holmes said, “Brother Gerald had already retired to their rooms at the far side of the house. When he responded to the screams of his wife, he wore a dressing gown over his night clothes. In all the household, only Helene was still in her mourning dress. Do you not find that strange, Watson?”

“Not if she were going to check on her sister-in-law. It makes perfect sense to me. She felt something was about to happen. She remained dressed in case she needed something from another part of the house.”

“Why did she have this premonition, do you think?”

“People have them. My great-aunt always knew when a family member had died.”

Holmes steepled his fingers, an indication that he was thinking. “Yes. Premonitions sometimes can be convenient.”

We spoke to the staff. Everyone, including the butler, was convinced that the curse was still in effect. The curse remover had only thwarted it briefly, and they were certain it would strike again any time now.

“Could be wunna us,” a kitchen maid called Daisy said, her eyes wide with excitement and fear as she plucked at her apron.

The servants didn’t feel themselves exempt from the curse. “Stands to reason donnit?” said the footman. “The guy was a warning to us,” he explained. “He were dressed like us and stuffed with sheets ironed in the laundry. Clear as a picture.”

We retired to the library to speak to remaining family members.

Gerald, the younger brother, came in from riding, explaining that nothing could keep him off his horse except foul weather. He was smaller and less well-formed than his Lordship. “That confounded curse!” He slapped his leg with the riding crop. “All those centuries without mishap and suddenly my uncle’s lack of belief in it caused it to attack. And my cousin’s as well. Like they were daring it.”

“It couldn’t have been someone with a grudge against the family?” I asked to steer him in a different direction.

He brushed off the suggestion. “I know of no one. My uncle was a kind man, well-liked in the valley. The only hate ever evidenced toward the family was from the Roundhead who cursed us.”

“That was over two centuries ago.”

He bowed his head in acceptance. “A curse is a curse.”

* * *

“What do you make of him?” Holmes asked me when we were alone.

“He, like everyone else here, believes in that curse.”

“Yes. Very much so.”

“I don’t know why you are so enthralled by it. We know very well a curse didn’t cause those falls. And it didn’t cause that guy to hang from the stairwell.”

“How do you know that, Watson?”

“Because that was real rope, real clothes belonging to the gardener, sheets from the sewing room, and a face drawn on by a human using charcoal. Those are facts, not superstition.”

“You are correct. They are tangible facts.”

“I’m glad you agree with me.”

“But who is to say that a curse didn’t cause it to happen?”

“Really, Holmes. You are not treating this case seriously.”

“Am I not?”

We fell silent, until Lady Northington came to the library, questioning whether she should arrange for an exorcism.

“I am neither clergy nor an exorcist, my Lady.”

“It would make the servants feel more comfortable,” she said.

“And then if something else happens, they will feel more afraid, as if there is nothing to be done. I think you don’t want that to happen.”

“I do not. I see what you mean. The curse remover didn’t work. Since none of the family were on the stairs, the servants now think the curser caused the guy to happen.”

“Do you believe this, your Ladyship?”

She bowed her head. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“Stay in your room and avoid the stairway,” Holmes said. “The curse seems only able to operate there.”

After she left, I chided him. “Surely you know you are dealing with murder here.”

“A curse is a curse, Watson, as Gerald said.”

By noon a drizzling rain darkened the day. Holmes and I dined in our sitting room. This might have been construed as rude, but Holmes had told everyone to keep to their rooms. The family avoided all stairs while the servants scurried around in pairs using only the back stairs, and as little as possible.

Holmes and I ate silently, listening to the patter of rain until he folded his serviette and slid it into the silver ring engraved with the Northington coat of arms. I had just done the same when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” Holmes said.

Lady Northington rushed into the room, her face pink with the exertion. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, I’ve solved the case. Jenny, my maid, just told me that the gardener’s wife was a Beedles before she married.”

“Calm yourself, your Ladyship,” I said.

“Jenny is mistaken,” Holmes said. “Her maiden name was not Beedles, but Peebles. She is from Scotland, as is her husband.”

“All the best gardeners are,” I said. “Even in this foul weather, I can tell the work of a master gardener.” I was loath to put blame on the man. “It would hardly be a trick of the gardener to make a guy out of his own clothing and boots.”

“I guess not. I will have to stop Jenny before she tells the others.”

“She was quick to blame Peebles,” Holmes remarked when she had returned to her rooms.

I laughed. “She would be hard put to find a better gardener. My guess is that she is clutching at straws. Peebles and Beedles may sound similar to one not accustomed to a Scot accent.”

“Yes, she no doubt is. She’s desperate to get this business cleared up as I am before there is another death.”

While I didn’t see that he was doing anything useful, I knew from past experience not to push. Much of his method was related to fierce thinking and smoking his pipe. I hadn’t seen him with the latter. Maybe this case was more than could be measured in pipes.

That afternoon, we were in for a surprise when the middle brother, Frederick, unexpectedly returned from Burma. He sent for us as soon as he learned of the events of the weekend, and last night’s occurrence on the stairs. Holmes and I hastened to the library where he awaited us.

He was about thirty, as erect a young man as one would expect from an army officer. He was casually dressed in trousers and soft coat. He stood against the fireplace, one arm leaning on the mantel. Like his brothers, he had dark hair and eyes.

“So you are Sherlock Holmes. I have heard of you. Word gets around. Even in Burma.”

“This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson, late of the Berkshires.

Northington inclined his head. “Nasty business, Maiwand.”

I returned his nod. “It was that.”

“You didn’t just arrive from overseas,” said Holmes. “My information is that you arrived back from Burma several weeks ago—just before your cousin’s death, as a matter of fact. Why the delay in visiting your family?”

“There is a certain young lady I desired to see. And then I spent a bit of time in Aldershot.”

Holmes nodded as if he had known all of it previously.

When we were alone, he admitted he had already confirmed the whereabouts of the middle brother from the one of the telegrams that he received at the station upon our arrival. “He was as he said, visiting a lady and after that in Aldershot. The army keeps up with its officers on leave.”

“This, then was the information that you withheld from me so that I wouldn’t be predisposed to suspect him. He could have been responsible for the murder in a few weeks ago, as well as last night’s folderol.”

“He could have been, but he wasn’t. And I would hardly call what happened last night ‘folderol’. More like a desperate play to provoke a reaction. In any case, I believe that I now have all the information necessary. We must now seek confirmation. Now let us have a nap so as to be ready to end this curse.”

“And solve the murders,” I added.

“Those, too.”

* * *

As the afternoon waned, the rain hardened to flinty chips that fell with a staccato rhythm. After a light repast, we settled down in front of the fire in our sitting room. I dozed and I assumed that Holmes did as well, though every time I jerked awake he was staring into the flames. At about half-past-nine, he arose.

“It is time.”

“Time for what? For the curse to strike again?”

“Yes, I think exactly that. Come, we must conceal ourselves. And bring your Webley.”

He strode to the door and opened it silently. I pocketed my revolver.

In the darkened hall, Holmes insisted we wrap ourselves in a pair of dark traveling rugs that we’d brought to our rooms earlier that afternoon, in order to blend into the shadows. The lamp in the hall had burned out, and none of the servants seemed to have wanted to attend to it at this hour. I made myself small behind a chair with a view of the stairs. Holmes concealed himself in the shadow of a large chest from a previous century.

Outside, the storm worsened, striking with howling wind, thunder, rain, and flashing lightning. If there was a curse, this would be the time that it would appear. The noise would cover the sound of any movement. The darkness would cloak nefarious activity.

At half-past-ten, the storm settled down somewhat but every now and then it renewed its frenzy. It was a night to be tucked into a warm bed, not lurking in a lord’s hallway. The floor was hard. Our positions were cramped. A clock somewhere in the vast reaches of the house chimed eleven times.

Sometime before midnight, a dark hooded shape entered the hall where Holmes and I waited. I couldn’t tell if it were man, woman, or wraith as it glided down several steps and bent to some task. I couldn’t see what the task was but it did the same on the left and right side of the step.

The shape straightened and continued down the stairs and out of our sight.

A door opened and closed somewhere among the multitude of bedrooms in the ancient house and a tall erect figure strode down the hall in the direction of the stairs. It was, I ascertained from his movements, Frederick.

As the figure neared us, Holmes rose from his concealment and put his hand on its arm.

Frederick, trained in eastern warfare where a breath could mean your last one, didn’t make a sound. Holmes whispered something in his ear and Frederick nodded.

He started down the stairs, and had only taken a few steps before he tripped, letting out a yell as he fell to the floor below and lay unmoving. As I started to go to Frederick, Holmes directed my attention to a small dark figure ascending the stairs. We backed into a shadow. The figure stepped around Frederick’s body and bent to one side and then the other at the fifth stair from the top.

“Your Webley!” Holmes whispered.

I pulled it from my pocket. “Halt or I’ll shoot!” I cried. My voice sounded loud in a sudden lull in the storm.

At the same time Frederick rose from the stair where he had been lying. The figure before me uttered a moan as Frederick grasped its arm.

“Do not attempt to faint again, Madame,” Holmes said.

Behind me, he lit a lantern and set it on the chest. Frederick flicked the hood off the figure and I found myself staring down at Helene. In her hands she held a gossamer strip of fabric which had been tied to the banisters on each side of the stair.

“Helene!” Frederick said in horror at what his sister-in-law had tried to do to him, along with the realization of what she must have done to his uncle and cousin, and to have attempted on his brother.

Her name was echoed by her husband, Gerald, when the rest of the household, hearing Frederick’s cry, came on the run, including Lord Northington, walking with the assistance of his wife and the aid of a cane.

“Why did you do it, Helene?” Lady Northington said.

“I should be the countess!” she hissed at her sister-in-law.

“We were fond of you,” replied our client, aghast. “You killed two members of our family. You tried to kill my husband, and tonight his brother.”

“You do not know what it’s like to be a poor relation! To have no home!”

“You had a home here,” Lord Northington said, looking lordly in his burgundy dressing gown with the crest on the pocket as he leaned on his cane.

“It is your home!” She spat the words at him. “I wanted my own!”

“No,” Holmes said, “You wanted his Lordship’s home, and you didn’t care how many you killed to get it.”

Lord Northington looked at his younger brother, Gerald. “Were you part of her schemes?”

Gerald shook his head, looking dazed and shocked. He denied knowing anything about his wife’s activities, even as the rest of the servants crowded into the hall from above stairs.

“I have found no evidence to implicate him,” said Holmes. “His wife procured the clothing and made the hanged guy. Mrs. Peebles told me she often came by with suggestions for the garden as if she were the lady of the manor. She would have known that the gardener’s boots were never allowed in the house, and when the washing was hung on the line behind the cottage. She could have procured sheets during a nighttime ramble. It was simple to tie the cloth across the stairs and send notes to her victims, then retrieve and destroy them while the household was in disarray. Did you not get one asking you to meet your brother in the library?” Holmes asked Frederick

“I did. I thought it odd under the circumstances, but thought maybe he wanted to speak to me in confidence away from others.”

Holmes nodded. “Exactly what she wanted you to think. The library was chosen because it’s near the accursed stairway. You wouldn’t have used the servants’ stairs.”

“It might have worked if Holmes hadn’t been on the premises with his finger on the pulse of the household,” I said.

Frederick almost shivered, but managed to keep himself under control.

“I don’t know if you were involved in these murders or not,” his Lordship told Gerald, “but I don’t want you at Barcombe Keep. You must leave on the morrow. Keep your wife locked in her bedchamber tonight. I’ll send for the police then.”

“I shall sleep in my dressing room. I swear I did not know what she was doing,” Gerald said. “I thought she was visiting friends in April and earlier this month.”

“She was impersonating a maid and committing murder,” Holmes said, “but it is possible that you didn’t know. Not every spouse realizes that he or she is living with a cold killer.”

Gerald took his wife’s arm in a firm grasp and led her away.

Jayson sent the servants back to their rooms. They were puzzled and confused. “Do that mean there ain’t no curse?” one of the footman asked.

“It does indeed,” the butler assured him.

His Lordship thanked Holmes and me. Holmes inclined his head. “Just to be safe, keep your doors locked tonight.”

“How did you know it was Helene,” I asked him when we were alone.

“Your shirt told me.”

“My shirt? How is that possible?”

“When we found her, after she had screamed at supposedly discovering the guy, she grasped your white shirt. Remember that I told you it was dirty? She’d had no time to clean the charcoal from her hands from constructing and hanging the guy. When you rushed to her aid, your shirt was clean—I had just seen it. She had the misfortune of encountering a gentleman sans coat coming to her rescue. The marks wouldn’t have been noticeable on the dark fabric of a coat, or even a dressing gown.”

No doubt everyone slept better knowing the curse was a lady—all but that particular lady. By morning the storm had ended, leaving a drenched valley with many downed tree limbs. After a subdued breakfast, we heard a cry outside.

“Your Lordship! Come quickly!”

It was the gardener. The members of the family and the household poured out of Barcombe Keep. A groom brought a trap for Lord and Lady Northington. The rest of us trailed it down the long drive where some of the groundskeepers were gathered around a soaked bundle of clothing.

I stepped forward and examined the clothing that contained the remains of Helene, felled by a huge limb from a giant oak.

Holmes examined the surrounding ground, but the rain had washed away any footprints or other clues. Only the groundskeeper’s footprints were visible walking toward the body and then away.

The coroner was called, but Holmes and I left before he arrived, after a word with his Lordship.

“I shall tell the coroner my sister-in-law went for a walk early this morning and a limb must have fallen as she passed under it. She was in the habit of walking early.”

“That part is true,” Holmes said, “though I suspect she left on her walk soon after we retired last night.”

“It was a most unfortunate accident,” his Lordship said. “You understand?”

“Indeed,” I said. The three of us looked at each other but did not voice our thoughts.

“Perhaps a remittance is in order for your younger brother. I hear Australia is lovely this time of year,” Holmes said.

“I shall see to it—a change of hemispheres as a balm to the bereaved.”

* * *

I wasn’t sorry to leave the formerly accursed Barcombe Keep behind us. We boarded the train for London and settled ourselves. As we pulled away from the station, I opened a journal that I had brought for the return journey.

“It was just as I told you,” Holmes remarked.

“And that was?”

“A complicated case that proved to be simple.”

I looked up. “How can complicated be simple?”

“It was a complicated case involving the use of an old legend to cover a series of murders. But it was a simple case of murderous greed by a small woman who might never have been suspected if only she had waited to commit the next murders. Frederick’s return stirred her to act precipitately, and she decided to try and kill him last night as well, before he could return to Burma. Otherwise, she would have targeted Lady Northington next. Then she would have made arrangements so that the Lordship’s mourning would apparently lead to his suicide caused by grief. Frederick would have been dealt with sometime after that, leaving her husband, Gerald, as the eventual possessor of the estate.”

“I say, Holmes, you sound like a murderer.”

“Not I, Watson, but I have to think the way they do to catch them. I must say, Helene is one of the more cold-blooded woman that I’ve encountered.”

He gazed out the window at the sodden landscape as we passed by.

I remembered the small figure of the murderess. So innocent-looking with those yellow curls, those dimples, those clear blue eyes.

One more aspect of the case needed clearing up.

“Tell me—is there any time that you’ve ever believed in a curse?”

“Indeed, I have.”

I was skeptical. He had to be pulling my leg, but there was no hint of humor in his austere face and penetrating eyes. “How is that possible, when we’ve just seen that the curse was engineered by that murderess?”

“I believe that curses can be laid, so that the effects ripple through the real actions of men and women. I don’t believe that something supernatural causes things to happen, but sometimes, if the cursed is a believer, it can seem as if the curse is real. Amongst primitive peoples, a curse is often a death sentence simply because the victim believes it to be so.”

“Most of the inhabitants at Barcombe Keep believed in it.”

“They did, but the curse was only directed at the Northington family, so that the others, such as the staff, were safe from its clutches.”

“You knew all along the human factor was at work.”

“Of course. But if the subjects believe in the curse, it can be as deadly as a poison dart. In this case, the dart was a bit of gossamer stretched across the stairs.”

“What about the guy? Why something that was so obviously constructed by a human hand?”

“Yes, that was a mistake, but I think that Helene did it to show the curse was still in effect following the curse remover’s visit and his Lordship’s escape. It served its purpose. The servants now had something tangible to frighten them, and the family was shaken as well.”

“Why would she do it? Surely it was impossible to think that she could get away with it.”

“She stated her reason: She wanted to be the countess. She had three more to kill before she could reach her goal, and then her husband would become the Lord of the Manor.”

“Three? Lord Northington and Frederick. Who was the third?”

“Lady Northington.”

“Why? She cannot inherit the title.”

“No, but the child she is expecting would, if it’s a boy.”

I stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“Simple deduction, my dear Watson.” He crossed his arms and smiled at me.

“What kind of doctor am I? I didn’t even suspect.”

“Come, come. You didn’t miss anything. I spoke to her cabby while you took notes upstairs in Baker Street and, for a hot cuppa and one of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent scones, he told me the traffic that morning in Harley Street was thick as thieves. Her Ladyship had obviously been to a consultation.”

“And that’s why you asked Mrs. Hudson for ginger biscuits. Ginger would be a restorative.”

We were quiet contemplating the events of the last two days.

“Do you think Gerald was involved in the scheme?” I ventured.

“It is a possibility that the other Northingtons must always consider. I think they believe that he killed Helene. I saw bruises on her throat, but with that great limb and its branches, proof would be impossible either way. The family will certainly be safer with him in the Antipodes.”

“There’s plenty of scope for criminal activity down there,” I said.

“The family will bury her at The Keep and hope she and Gerald will be forgotten.”

No doubt she has been forgotten by all but a few who tell chilling stories in the night. And by me, recounting the story these many years later. I remember most vividly my shock at the thought that Sherlock Holmes believed in supernatural curses. I was relieved to learn his cool rational intellect was still extant.