Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [38]
“Did you see anything?”
“No, I did not; nor, I will say, did I stay to look about more closely. I was on the other side of the door, and had closed it, before I could think clearly once more. When I did, I locked the door, and later told the servants that we would not be using that room for a time, and that they need not bother with it unless we told them otherwise.”
“The servants,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “Have they been with you for some time, or did they work for Mr. Karswell?”
“None of Mr. Karswell’s servants stayed on, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald; “they were dismissed immediately upon his death. From what I heard of them I would not have wished to employ any of them. A queer, secretive lot, apparently, who were disliked almost as much as their master. No, the servants here have all been with us for some time, and I trust them implicitly.”
“Has anything else untoward happened?” asked Holmes. “Have either of you noticed any signs of your things having been tampered with, or has anything gone missing that you cannot account for?”
“No, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “The — disturbances — seem confined to that one room.”
“I think, then, that we should take a look at this rather singular-sounding room,” said Holmes, rising. “Will you show us the way?”
We followed the Fitzgeralds out of the room and made our way up the stairs. The spring day was drawing to a close, and the lamps were lit throughout the house. Was it my imagination, or did the hall seem a trifle darker outside the door before which our host and hostess halted? Such a thought had, I felt, occurred to Flaxman Low, for I noticed that he glanced sharply up and down the hall and then up at the light closest to us, which seemed dimmer than its fellows. Before I could remark on this, however, Mr. Fitzgerald had produced a key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door in front of us, and pushed it open.
A sudden cold draught played around my ankles with a force which startled me, as if a tangible presence had pushed at me from within the room. I could see from the looks on the faces of my companions that they had felt what I did, and I confess that I hesitated for a moment before entering the room.
It was a large room, and I imagined that it would have been pleasant in the daylight, with its wide windows looking out over the expanse of lawn, and the paneling on the walls creating a warm, rich glow. However, in the evening dusk, with lamps the only source of illumination, and the strange tale we had been told still ringing in my ears, it presented an aspect almost of malignancy. I had a sudden feeling that we were intruding in a place which contained dark secrets, and if one of my companions had suggested we leave I would have followed willingly. However, both Holmes and Low advanced to the centre of the room and stood looking about with penetrating glances, taking in every detail. Holmes turned to Mr. Fitzgerald.
“Where are these marks of which you spoke?”
“Over here, Mr. Holmes.” We followed him to one side of the room, where he knelt and pointed to a section of wall beside the fireplace, which was surmounted by a carved mantelpiece embellished with leaves and branches. We could all see plainly the deep scores running along the wood; they did, in truth, look like the claw marks of a large dog, although I would not have liked to meet the beast that made them. As Mr. Fitzgerald went to stand up, he glanced to one side of him, and uttered a soft exclamation.
“There are more!”
“Are you sure of that?” Low’s voice contained a note of urgency which was not lost on Mr. Fitzgerald.
“I am positive! The last time I looked they extended no further than this panel” — he pointed — “but now you can see for yourselves that they continue further along the wall, up to the fireplace itself. I don’t understand