The Haunting of Torre Abbey (11 page)

“I don’t know why moonlight always makes me feel so melancholy,” she said, “but it always does.”

Her brother rose from his chair and put his arms around her shoulders. “Never mind,” he said in a soothing voice. “Come along and have your cocoa, there’s a good girl. It’ll help you to sleep.”

“There is no sleep for us, not we who lie in the dreary deep—only the eternal sleep of the dead,” she murmured in an expressionless monotone, as though she were reciting a long-memorized text.

Charles Cary looked at Holmes and then at me. “She gets like this sometimes,” he said apologetically.

Elizabeth Cary turned to us and spoke as though she hadn’t heard her brother’s words at all. “It was in the moonlight I died, and in the moonlight he stood beside my grave and cried.” Holmes and I exchanged a look as Cary gently led his sister from the room.

“Come now,” he said. “It’s time for bed.”

He returned shortly. Pouring himself another cognac, he took a swallow before speaking. “I really must apologize for my sister’s behaviour. She’s gotten it into her head that she is a Spanish girl who died three hundred years ago.”

Holmes raised one eyebrow. “Oh?”

Cary sighed. “Yes. There is a legend that among the prisoners taken from the Armada galleon was a Spanish girl who disguised herself as a sailor in order to be near her lover. But they were separated when the ship was taken and she died of the fever without ever seeing him again—or so the story goes.”

I leaned forward. “She died in your ‘Spanish barn,’ then?”

“So they say.”

Holmes unfolded his long body from his chair and walked to the window. He looked out into the moonlit night, the glow of the moon so bright that the trees cast long shadows across the abbey lawn. The moonlight fell upon my friend’s lean profile, so sharply etched that it could have been cut from glass.

“Lord Cary,” he said slowly, “you must find a way to wean her from her drug addiction.”

Cary’s face went red. He opened his mouth to speak but Holmes cut him off.

“Whatever the poor girl is going through is undoubtedly aggravated by whatever she is taking. What is it, by the way? Watson and I agreed that laudanum was the most likely choice.”

Cary nodded, all the fight gone out of him. “Yes. At first it was just every few days, you know, when things seemed unbearable to her . . . but now she seems unable to do without it for more than a day.” He hung his head, and I felt sorry for him.

“I have no particular reason to doubt you,” Holmes replied icily. “However, that does not change her predicament. I’m sure Watson can describe to you the long-term effects of drug addiction.”

It was my turn to go red in the face. I didn’t know if Holmes was referring to his own battle with cocaine, but if he was, I certainly had firsthand knowledge of its effects, living with him as I had off and on all these years.

“Lord Cary,” I said carefully, “you really should listen to what Holmes says. The longer one remains addicted to a substance, the more painful the withdrawal symptoms can be.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “I know you’re right, and I promise you I’ll do something about it when this is all over.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Holmes silenced me with a look.

I awoke sometime in the middle of the night shivering, and as I got up to get another blanket I heard a sound in the hall outside my room. I crept to the door, opened it slowly, and looked out. To my surprise, I saw Elizabeth Cary walking down the hall towards me, carrying a lantern. I opened my mouth to address her, but the expression on her face stopped me cold.

She walked, eyes fixed straight ahead, her long white nightgown trailing after her. When she passed by without seeming to notice me, it was clear to me that she was sleepwalking. I had heard of cases of somnambulant wanderings, but had yet to see one myself. Concerned as I was for her safety, I confess I also felt a thrill of anticipation at the chance to observe the curious phenomenon firsthand. I followed her down the hall, resolved to waken her at the first sign of danger to her person. She walked ahead with slow but confident steps, as though she knew exactly where she was going.

I followed her down the central staircase to the first floor, and when she headed for the door leading to the outside, I almost put out a hand to stop her. Something stayed my arm, however, and I continued to follow her. She unbolted and pushed open the heavy front door as though it were nothing, and stepped out onto the front lawn. Without hesitating, she continued walking directly south, and I had a sinking feeling I knew where she was headed—the Spanish barn.

I had little desire to go near that structure again, filled as I was with a sense of its tragic past, and yet I followed after her as though I had no will of my own, curiosity driving me on. What could she possibly have in mind to do, asleep or not, at the old tithe barn? She walked quickly across the expanse of yard, going straight as the crow flies rather than taking the curving dirt path to the barn.

My legs trembled as I followed her. The building loomed in front of us, long and low, silent as a tomb. To my surprise, the door was unlocked. She pushed on it and it swung open with a loud creak. I stood upon the sill as she went inside, the flickering light of her lantern creating ghostly shadows on the interior of the vaulted ceiling. Still apparently unaware of my presence, she walked to the far window and gazed out at the dark branches of the old oak tree. And then she began to sing, not in English, but in a foreign tongue which I recognized as Spanish.

As I stood watching her, my head began to swim, and I felt the same sense of creeping dread which had overcome me the first time I entered this place. I put my hand to my head, and as I did, I thought I caught a movement out of the corner of my left eye. That end of the barn was almost entirely in darkness, however, and as I peered through the shadow I thought I could just make out the outline of a person moving towards me. I stepped back instinctively, but at that moment I lost consciousness, falling into an even more profound blackness than the one surrounding me in the Spanish barn . . .

“Watson! Are you all right?”

I opened my eyes to see Holmes kneeling over me in the semi-darkness. I felt a damp cool sensation at the back of my neck, realized it was grass and that I was lying on my back upon the lawn. I looked up at Holmes’s face, framed by a full moon hanging high in the sky.

“What happened?” I said.

The back of my neck hurt, and I felt stiff and sore, as though I had been lying on the cold wet grass half the night.

“I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” Holmes replied with a sigh. “I only arrived in time to find you lying here.”

“Where’s Miss Cary?” I said, struggling to sit up.

“Steady on, Watson,” Holmes murmured, laying a hand upon my shoulder. “Take it easy and don’t try to get up too quickly. You don’t know yet the extent of your injuries.”

“I’m quite all right,” I replied, but my words belied how I felt. There was a ringing in my head, and my neck ached. I felt a lump forming at the back of my head.

I told Holmes everything I could remember—following Elizabeth Cary out to the barn, listening to her sing, and then losing consciousness.

“Did you just faint, or did someone hit you?” Holmes inquired, helping me to stand up slowly.

I felt the rising lump on the back of my skull and shook my head. “I’m not sure. I could have sustained this bump when I fell. I can’t really say—all I know is that suddenly everything went black, and the next thing I knew I was lying here.”

Holmes frowned. “You’re not well, Watson, and shouldn’t be out at night wandering around. Someone moved you from the barn. I wonder if a young woman could drag a man weighing—what, thirteen stone . . . ?”

“Twelve and a half.”

“Even so, it is a distance of approximately twenty yards or so.”

“I suppose she could.”

“Perhaps, but it would be a fair accomplishment. And you’re quite certain she was sleepwalking when you followed her?”

“Either that, or she wanted me to believe she was.”

Holmes paused to consider it. “Well, the plot thickens, as they say. Come on, let’s get you back to bed,” he said, putting an arm around me and helping me to walk back towards the house.

“By the way, Holmes,” I said, “what are you doing up at this hour?”

“Thinking,” he replied offhandedly “And actually, I am concerned about young William, so I thought it wise to keep watch over him tonight.”

“That’s all very well,” I remarked. “But you can’t keep watch over him every night. There’s an extra bed in my room—why not put him in with me?”

“When you are feeling better, Watson,” Holmes replied. “I shall catch a catnap later on. As you know, I require little sleep.”

This was true enough; however, even in the moonlight I could see the fatigue in my friend’s face, the circles under his eyes. Our stay at Torre Abbey, it seemed, was beginning to take its toll on both of us.

The next day I slept late, rising only in time for lunch, which I had in my room. I still did not have much appetite, and was only able to finish half of my soup before dozing off again. I awoke to a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said sleepily.

The door opened and Holmes entered quietly. He walked across the room and stood over my bed, shaking his head. “You never should have been wandering around last night. However, I wish I had been with you, to see what happened.”

“I’m only sorry I didn’t see more,” I said with regret. “Are you going to tell the Cary family?”

“I think we should mention that you saw Elizabeth sleepwalking, then watch their reaction. It’s best not to offer any details other than that, and see what they do.”

But when we mentioned it to Charles and Marion Cary, they appeared utterly nonplussed; both claimed they were unaware of any such behaviour on Elizabeth’s part. Charles actually seemed very concerned, and said he would speak to his sister about it, but that he would wait until after the séance.

That night we consumed a light dinner of soup and cheese. It seems our medium, Madame Olenskaya, had told Father Norton that too much food could cloud the mind and make communication between this world and the next more difficult. By eight-thirty we had retired to the west parlour with our coffee. In spite of his evident concern about his sister, Charles Cary made no secret of his contempt of the proceedings. He stood in front of the fire glaring into the flames, an island of isolation, lost in his own thoughts.

Father Norton arrived at precisely nine o’clock, accompanied by his sister Lydia. Lydia Norton was tall and straight in the way Scottish women are, as slim at fifty as she no doubt was at twenty, with sandy hair and a handsome, taut-skinned face (“Good bone structure,” my anatomy professor would have said). Her profile was as sharp and clean as the prow of a boat, her eyes bright as a terrier’s. All in all, she gave the impression of extreme alertness—the kind of schoolteacher that children would not even try to outwit.

Lydia Norton shared the same ironic half-smile as her brother, except that on her it was not so much droll as a bit arch. It was as if one of them had borrowed it from the other, in a kind of unconscious imitation. In spite of their natural sardonicism, though, even Lydia and her brother looked apprehensive as we awaited the appearance of the medium.

Everything came to a halt with the entrance of Madame Olenskaya. She entered the room with all the theatricality of an opera diva. She was a large, florid woman, with loose folds of skin at her jowls like the dewlaps of a basset hound, and she lumbered into the west parlour of Torre Abbey with an authoritative air, as if unimpressed by its wealth and grandeur.

A heavy aura of perfume hung about her, filling the air with its musky scent, thick as a London fog. There was a familiar odour of sandalwood to it, and I found myself thinking of my days in India and the smell of incense floating over the marketplace, the staccato cries of vegetable sellers at their stalls mixing with the buzz of flies in the torpid air. The medium’s fingers were festooned with colourful rings with gems of green, vermilion, and gold, and shiny silver bracelets hung from her arms. Around her neck she wore a single necklace of green and gold beads with a simple carved wooden hand at the end; the little finger and thumb were the same size and curved outward. I had seen that design somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where.

She seated herself in the most comfortable armchair and gazed around the room at the rest of us; we all expectantly awaited her cue. I wondered what Holmes thought of her. He sat at one end of the couch, one elbow on the armrest, his chin resting upon his hand. I was intrigued in spite of myself; there was something about her presence which both reassured and commanded, and I was content to sit passively while she spoke in a deep, husky voice with traces of what sounded like a Russian accent.

“There is a time in the final flat grey hour before dawn when the heart sinks, and the spirit is deadened as it is pulled closer to the other world—and the doorway between the two realms slides briefly open. Physicians will tell you that is the time when most deaths occur, and many births as well—that dark hour of the moon when it is not yet day but no longer quite night. It is during that hour you must be most vigilant, for the spirits that walk abroad will come to you then, seeking to pull you into their world. Resist them—resist their soft playing voices and seductive ways, for if they sense you weaken they will surely pursue you until you sink into their world, and are lost to this one forever.”

We all sat listening in silence, with only the ticking of the grandfather clock as punctuation to her words. There was something about the way she spoke which was both lulling and mesmerizing; I felt my limbs relax and my heart beat slower as she spoke. Thick waves of her perfume washed over us as she moved her heavily braceleted hands, the jewelry tinkling like so many silver bells.

Madame Olenskaya rose from her chair and pulled the curtains closed on each of the windows. Then she turned down the gaslights in the room one by one, until the only source of light was a single candelabrum in the center of the round oak table. She then approached the table.

“Come, enter the circle,” she said, her voice low and resonant. “We must all join the circle of spirits, inviting them back into our world so we can communicate with them. Come,” she said, extending a hand in my direction. I rose from my chair, pulled toward her by the power of her personality. I took a chair on the other side of Lady Cary, who sat directly to the right of Madame Olenskaya. On her left was Charles, and to his left sat Elizabeth. Father Norton took the chair to my right, and his sister Lydia sat on his other side.

“We must all join the circle in order to beckon them back into this world,” said Madame Olenskaya. “They need to feel welcomed and safe, and when we create the circle of hands we allow them to step out from the shadows and communicate with us.”

I glanced at Holmes, who stood calmly and joined the group at the table. He took the only chair left, between Elizabeth Cary and Lydia Norton.

“Now,” said the medium, her cheek jowls quivering, “we must all join hands. Once the séance begins, under no circumstances are you to let go of the person’s hand next to you. If you do, you shall break the spell prematurely, and injury could result.”

She paused and looked around the table to judge the effect of her words upon the assembled company. Elizabeth Cary looked back at her with burning intensity, while Charles appeared bored and impatient. He shifted in his chair and sighed as if he wished this were all over. Lydia Norton glanced at her brother, who smiled back reassuringly. Next to me, Lady Cary trembled a bit and ran a hand over her hair, a nervous habit I had noticed before.

Finally, I looked at Holmes, but the expression on his aquiline face was impenetrable. When he wanted to, Holmes could be close as a clam; his devotion to reason allowed him greater control over his emotions than most people had.

“Now,” said the medium, “let us all join hands and begin.”

Father Norton’s hand was steady and cool, but Lady Cary’s hand in mine felt icy. Impulsively, I squeezed it to reassure her, and she looked at me, apprehension in those beautiful blue eyes. Until that moment I had experienced no fear, but now I felt a thin little shiver of anticipation thread its way up my spine.

Madame Olenskaya bent forward and blew out the candles on the candelabrum in the center of the table, and the room was pitched into blackness. It was a dark, overcast night; not even a glint of moonlight filtered through the heavy curtains. Some coals still glowed in the fireplace, however, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found I could see the dim outlines of shapes. Without the use of sight, however, my ears suddenly seemed unusually keen. I was aware of every sound within the house: the mournful ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall outside, the faint creakings and shudderings of an old house; I could even hear the breathing of the people sitting around the table. To my right, Father Norton inhaled slowly with a raspy, hoarse sound, and Lady Cary’s breath came in soft little gasps. I was marvelling at this variety of sensory input when Madame Olenskaya spoke. Her voice was low and resonant, and while not loud, it filled the room.

“I call now upon the beings of the other world! Come, O ye spirits, reveal to us the secrets of your dark ways—we are listening!”

Her words died away, leaving only a faint ringing sound in the air which floated and dissipated like ripples on a pond. We sat in silence for a moment. Someone coughed. The metallic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed preternaturally loud.

Suddenly a pitiful groan emanated from the other side of the table. I had an impulse to leap from my chair to see who was in distress, but the sound of Madame Olenskaya’s voice pinned me to my chair.

“Nobody move!” she said in a commanding voice. “Someone is in the room with us. Who are you? Can you speak to us?”

The groan gathered in volume. In the semi-darkness I could just make out the form of Elizabeth Cary, who was seated directly across from me. She swayed from side to side as the groans grew louder, and there was no doubt in my mind that she was the source of the sounds. Lady Cary’s hand tightened around mine as Madame Olenskaya spoke again.

“Tell us—tell us why you have come. What knowledge do you bring from the next world?”

The groans stopped and I heard Elizabeth Cary making strange throaty sounds, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t quite get the words out.

“What? What is it?” asked Madame Olenskaya. “What have you come to say to us?”

“It—it is the hour . . .” She struggled to release the words.

“What? What hour is it?” Madame Olenskaya said in a husky whisper.

“The . . . hour . . . of . . . the . . . moon,” the girl replied, and at that moment it struck me that 
she was speaking in a voice other than her own!
 It was a full octave lower, with a throaty quality which was normally absent from Elizabeth Cary’s speech. There was also a hint of an accent—Spanish perhaps, or Portuguese.

“Please don’t take me there—anywhere but there,” the girl suddenly cried in a plaintive voice.

“Where are they taking you?” Madame Olenskaya asked gently.

“No,” the girl went on, as if she hadn’t heard the question. And then she said something in a foreign language which I was fairly certain was Spanish.

“Elizabeth, are you all right?” I recognized the concerned voice of Charles Cary.

“She is no longer your sister,” Madame Olenskaya replied. “She will not respond to you as Elizabeth.”

“Not the barn,” the girl whimpered. “Not there!”

Suddenly the air was rent by a piercing scream. I felt as though all the blood in my veins was instantly frozen. There was the sound of a chair hitting the floor, the sharp yellow flare of a match in the dark, and the gas lamp was lit. I looked up to see Charles Cary standing by the gaslight, a smouldering match in his hand. His overturned chair lay on the floor at his feet.

“That is quite enough!” he cried. He hurried over to his sister and put his arms around her. She sat limply in her chair, her head upon her breast, as though she had fallen into a faint.

I rose from my chair and went to Miss Cary’s aid. Her pulse was weak but steady, and her pale forehead was wet and clammy.

“I think you should take her up to her room to rest,” I said to Charles, who nodded and helped his sister to stand. The rest of the assembled company watched in silence as he helped her out of the room. Holmes remained seated until brother and sister had left, then he rose and examined the seat Miss Cary had been sitting in. He ran a long hand over the back of the chair, peering closely at the wooden arm rests, then he lifted the entire chair up a few inches from the floor. Evidently satisfied, he put it down again and lit a cigarette.

Father Norton turned to Madame Olenskaya. “What did she mean by the ‘barn,’ do you suppose?”

Madame Olenskaya shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps Lady Cary can enlighten us.” She looked at Lady Cary, who remained in her seat, trembling, her face white. “Do you know of this barn she referred to? Is it somewhere around here?”

Lady Cary looked around the room as if she were contemplating an escape route. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “The Spanish barn,” she said softly.

“The Spanish barn?” said Lydia Norton with a look at her brother.

“Isn’t that what they sometimes call the old tithe barn?” the vicar said. “It’s something to do with the invasion of the Spanish Armada, I believe.”

“What is the Spanish barn?” said Madame Olenskaya to Lady Cary.

Lady Cary looked at Holmes, but he stood in front of the cold fireplace calmly smoking, one arm resting on the mantel. Lady Cary sighed and shook her head.

“There is a legend concerning that structure. Like so many stories about Torre Abbey, it is bound up in the actual history of the place. In 1588, during the invasion of the Spanish Armada a galleon was captured off the coast of Devon. The crew were all taken prisoner and brought to the abbey, where they were housed in that building.”

She paused and looked down at her hands. “It is not a proud moment in English history. There were four hundred sailors, and they were terribly overcrowded—many died of disease and starvation.” She sighed deeply and continued. “The legend has it that among the crew was a young girl disguised as a sailor in order that she might follow her lover, whom she loved so much that she was willing to follow him into battle. The story goes on to say that she was among those who died. They say her spirit walks at night searching for her lover.”

There was a pause and then Holmes spoke.

“Very touching,” he remarked, and it was hard to tell whether there was an edge of irony in his voice or not. He looked at Lady Cary keenly. “Was your daughter aware of this legend?”

“The Cary family has lived in Torre Abbey for centuries, Mr. Holmes,” she replied quietly. “Stories have been passed down among family members for as long as that.”