The Haunting of Torre Abbey (12 page)

Father Norton rose from his chair. “Well, there’s one way to find out—we can simply ask her.”

Madame Olenskaya smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I see. So then this event becomes nothing more than the overactive imagination of a romantic young girl?” She shook her head. “Believe that, if you want to; I cannot prevent you from thinking what you will. But surely I am not the only one who noticed that the voice we heard tonight was not the voice of Miss Elizabeth Cary. Does she speak Spanish?” she said to Lady Cary, who shook her head.

“No. A little French, but no Spanish.”

“Ah,” the medium replied, something like triumph in her voice.

She looked around the room at the others, who had no reply. Lydia Norton rose and stood next to her brother, as if drawing security from being near him. Her lean, aristocratic face was impassive but her jerky movements indicated that she was unnerved—as were we all, I think. Lady Cary wrung her hands and looked at me. I had nothing to say; Madame Olenskaya was right, of course. Unless Miss Cary was a gifted actress, it was all certainly very strange, to say the least. At length Holmes spoke.

“You know,” he said, “I have always maintained that whenever you have eliminated the possible, whatever remains—however improbable—is the truth.”

“And what do you think the truth is here, Mr. Holmes?” said Lydia Norton, taking her brother’s arm.

Holmes shrugged. “It is too early to tell. There are many things yet to be ruled out. However, I have not yet eliminated the possibility that Torre Abbey is indeed haunted.”

There was a little gasp of breath from the collected company. Their surprise at hearing these words from such a personage as Sherlock Holmes was no less than my own. Father Norton shook his head.

“Good Lord,” he said. “Good Lord.”

Only Madame Olenskaya seemed unmoved by Holmes’s statement. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, an expression of undeniable satisfaction. She fingered the sandalwood necklace around her neck. “There are many things under heaven and earth, Horatio,” she said in a sly voice.

I was a little surprised to hear her quoting Shakespeare, but Holmes nodded. “Indeed there are, madame, indeed there are.”

Elizabeth Cary’s dramatic exit had broken the mood, and Father Norton and his sister went home shortly afterwards. After seeing Madame Olenskaya out, Marion Cary returned to the parlour.

“I hope your daughter will be all right, Lady Cary,” Holmes remarked as she joined us by the fire.

“Elizabeth is a very fanciful child,” Marion Cary replied dourly, and once again I was struck by the coldness in her attitude towards her daughter. It was so different from the way she treated her son; her azure eyes would light up when he entered the room, and her affection for him was evident in her every gesture. But with her daughter it was just the opposite; she treated her with an indifference bordering on disdain, as if she were dismissive of the girl’s very presence in the house. I couldn’t help but wonder if her mother’s coldness was a factor in Elizabeth’s nervous disorder.

“Well, if you will excuse me, I believe I will retire for the night. I have had quite enough excitement for one evening,” Lady Cary said.

After she had gone I mentioned to Holmes her coldness toward her daughter.

“Yes, I’ve noticed it myself,” he replied, emptying his pipe into the grate. “Curious, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t uncommon for a parent to favour one child over another,” I said, “but this seems above and beyond favouritism to me.”

“Yes, I quite agree,” he answered, carefully stuffing the bowl of his pipe with shag tobacco. “No, it’s something else, something buried in the family’s past, perhaps. There are many things about the Cary family which have not yet come to light.”

“Oh? What leads you to that conclusion?”

Holmes struck a match and lit his pipe before replying. “Unless I am very much mistaken, they are hiding all kinds of information from us, Watson.”

I put my legs up on the sofa where I sat and lay back to contemplate his statement. I stretched out my limbs, which felt heavy and sluggish from the damp Devon air. Sitting here in front of a blazing fire, I was at last comfortable, and with a glass of cognac to warm me, I was losing the stiffness which had plagued my joints ever since we arrived at Torre Abbey.

“Family skeletons in the closets, do you think?” I said, leaning my head back on the armrest.

Holmes lifted his glass and peered at it as if it were a crystal ball in which he could read the future. “I don’t know about skeletons, but I would say secrets, most certainly.”

“Any of them pertinent to this case, do you think?”

Holmes smiled rather grimly. “Ah, well, that remains to be seen, Watson. But the past has a way of creeping up on the present just when you least expect it.”

At that moment Charles Cary returned to the parlour. He looked drawn and weary, and sank into the chair nearest the fire with scarcely a word to us. He sat staring into the flames until finally I spoke.

“How is your sister feeling?”

He looked at me as though my words surprised him; then, sitting up, he ran a hand through his thick hair, which shone like burnished copper in the firelight.

“She is resting. The events of the past few days have simply been too much for her to handle. She does not have the strongest constitution and is somewhat given to nervousness, as you know.” He sighed and stared moodily into the glowing flames of the fire. “I never should have given in to her desire for a séance; it was a foolish idea. It has only upset her.”

“Your concern for your sister is touching, Lord Cary, since you yourself supply her drug habit,” Holmes remarked drily.

Our young host reddened, the blood creeping up his neck to his fair-skinned face. He looked at Holmes with fury and I thought for a moment he might strike him, but then Cary turned away.

“You don’t know how she’s suffered—you can’t possibly understand,” he said quietly.

“Perhaps,” replied Holmes. “Although suffering is unfortunately not restricted to the privileged classes. Maybe I understand more than you might think.”

I supposed Holmes was referring to his own drug habit—or perhaps to some secret sorrow buried deep in his past. I knew little of his early life; outside of my acquaintance with his brother Mycroft, Holmes’s family was a mystery to me. He rarely spoke of such things, and I was not one to pry.

“Our life here at Torre Abbey has not always been a pleasant one, Mr. Holmes, despite what you call ‘privileges,’ ” Charles Cary said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Our father was not an easy man—far from it. I won’t bore you with the sordid details of our family life, but poor Elizabeth, being of a delicate disposition . . . well, I did my best to shield her from my father’s moods, but I fear I was not always successful.”

I leaned forward. “What about a sanatorium? Surely you can afford that.”

He looked at me imploringly. “I swear to you, I have urged her to commit herself to a sanatorium to conquer her addiction—without success. I’ve even thought about committing her myself, but I could not bring myself to do it.” He stared down at his hands, which he wrung until the veins stood out. “I too have my limits, it seems. Perhaps it is the coward’s way out to cater to her addiction, but I cannot bear to see her suffer.”

Holmes rose from his chair, unfolding his lean body and stretching up to his full height before he spoke. “Lord Cary,” he said in an icy tone which I recognized, “the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to shake her from this deadly habit. And I trust Watson will agree with me—but one does not have to be a man of medicine to know that.”

I nodded. “Surely you recognize that what Holmes says is true, Lord Cary.”

Cary hung his head. “I know,” he replied softly. “Your words strike me to the quick—really they do. I know I have been neglectful in my duties as a brother—and as a son—but I mean to make good on that now. Even if it means taking a semester off from medical school, I am prepared to do what must be done. I only hope it is not too late.”

Holmes lifted his glass of cognac and swirled the golden liquid within so that it caught the glow of the firelight.

“I hope so too, Lord Cary.”

I looked at my friend, his face grim in the dim light, and his words sent a shiver of dread up my spine.

“Did you remark the ornament on the necklace Madame Olenskaya wore, Watson?” he said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was a carved hand; the design looked familiar to me, but I can’t think where I’ve seen it.”

Holmes blew a puff of smoke into the air. “It is none other than the Hand of Fatima.”

My Arabic lore was a little rusty, but I recognized the name. “You mean Fatima, daughter of Mohammed?”

“The same. In the right hands, it is considered to be a symbol of good fortune; however, in the wrong hands . . . well, let us just say it is one of those symbols which can work either way.”

“I see. And Madame Olenskaya?”

Holmes smiled. “If that is really her name.”

Charles Cary gave a short laugh. “Her real name is probably Gladys Birnbaum or something like that. To tell you the truth, I only hired her to help put my sister’s fears at rest once and for all—and look what I accomplished,” he added bitterly.

“I’m not surprised your sister is full of morbid fancies,” I remarked. “I got quite caught up myself in a book of Devon legends yesterday while you were all at the funeral.”

“Oh?” said Holmes. “You didn’t mention anything about it to me.”

“I found it in the library. Grayson says your father was quite fond of that particular book. I was quite caught up by the poem about the Demon Hunter.”

Cary looked at me, but in the dimness of the room I couldn’t tell what his expression was. “What drew you to that one?”

“I’m not sure, really. It was quite chilling, though, I thought.”

“It’s supposedly about one of my ancestors, Hugo Cary—the one whose portrait hangs in my father’s study.”

“Ah, yes—the Cavalier. I remarked upon it when we first arrived,” said Holmes. “You said there were all sorts of stories surrounding this fellow.”

Charles Cary warmed his glass of cognac between his slender hands. “The poem Dr. Watson read is the verse version of the tale. My father used to read it to me when I was a boy.”

I told Holmes the story and he listened with interest, his long fingers pressed together. “I don’t remember seeing that book in the library yesterday,” he said when I had finished.

“Neither do I. Perhaps someone had taken it out and was reading it earlier.”

“Perhaps.”

I looked at Charles Cary. To my surprise, his face was crimson.

“Is there any truth to it, do you think?” I asked.

Charles Cary shrugged. “Who can say? They say that Hugo Cary went mad and was often seen riding about the moors on a black horse—and that when locals speak of seeing the Demon Hunter galloping over the moors, they are seeing the Cavalier—the ghost of Hugo Cary.”

He paused and took a sip of cognac, and I couldn’t help noticing the shiver which travelled through his thin frame.

That night I insisted on taking young William to sleep on the spare bed in my room. To my relief, Holmes agreed; I could see even his iron constitution was beginning to crack under the strain of too many sleepless nights.

“Mind you bolt your door from the inside, Watson,” he cautioned me as we trudged upstairs. He gave the same reminder to the Cary family as we adjourned to our separate rooms. Though they grumbled when Holmes suggested moving the sleeping arrangements, eventually they acquiesced. Lady Cary gave up her elegant quarters and moved into a bedroom next to Holmes, and Elizabeth Cary took a room next to her brother so that he could keep an eye on her. That left only the servants to worry about; Annie gratefully agreed to move into a spare guest room on the other side of my room, but Grayson demurred, saying he preferred to remain where he was.

To my surprise, Holmes did not insist, and let the butler have his way. In fact, when Grayson suggested that whoever was behind this was not interested in him, Holmes nodded.

“I’m rather inclined to agree with you, Grayson,” he remarked. “Still, you will be careful, won’t you?”

“Indeed I will, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler replied smoothly as he turned down the gas lamps before padding quietly off down the hall.

“A singular character, Watson,” Holmes commented when Grayson withdrew.

I had to agree with him, but I was exhausted myself, and went to my room. I found Annie there waiting for me, holding William by the hand.

“You’ll be a good boy now, won’t you?” she said, attempting to smooth the boy’s unruly black curls. He nodded and shoved a thumb into his mouth, clinging tightly to her hand.

“Come along, William,” I said, reaching for him, but he shrank from me and pressed up against Annie’s plump body.

“Go along with Dr. Watson now, there’s a good boy,” she said, disentangling her hand from his. He made little whimpering noises and twirled a strand of hair around one finger.

“Perhaps I should help you put him to bed,” she said. “He’s been ever so lost since—well, since, you know.”

“What did you tell him?” I whispered as we entered the room. Grayson had lit a fire in the grate, and the room looked inviting in the warm orange glow of the fire.

“I told him his mum had gone up to heaven to sleep with the angels.”

“Did he understand you?”

She shrugged her plump shoulders. “Who can say, sir? It’s hard to know as what he understands. Mind you, there are times I think he understands more than the rest of us, and other times when I’m just not sure.”

William seemed pleased with my room—he let go of Annie’s hand to investigate the intricately carved mahogany chest at the foot of my bed, running his fingers over the animal figurines, lions and tigers, that graced the top of the chest.

“That’s ever so nice, isn’t it, William?” Annie said as his hand rested on the head of one of the lions.

He looked up at her and made one of his little grunting noises, his lips moving as though trying to form words. Watching him struggle to speak, I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this poor motherless wretch of a boy. It seemed cruel that Nature had robbed him of the usual means of communication with his fellow beings, so that he was stranded behind a wall of silence.

“I’ve got to go now, William,” Annie said gently, backing slowly out the door. “Dr. Watson here will look after you. He’s pretty good at communicating what he wants, sir,” she added. “Aren’t you, William? He likes it when you sing to him, sir. It seems to soothe him.”

“What shall I sing?”

“Anything, sir. He just likes to be sung to. Well, if you have any trouble with him, sir, you can come get me.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Annie, thank you.”

“Very good, sir,” she replied, and with a little curtsy closed the door behind her.

I looked over at William, who stood, hands in his pockets, staring at me with his great dark eyes.

“We’re going to be fine, aren’t we, William?” I said, but he just continued staring at me. “Here’s your bed over here,” I continued, pointing to the little single bed in the corner under the eaves. He must have understood, because he walked quietly over to the bed and sat on it, gazing at me expectantly.

Without his saying a word, I was aware that he was waiting for me to sing to him. I sat down on the edge of the bed. To my surprise, he immediately laid his head upon my shoulder, pressing his body against my side. Though I had no children of my own, there seemed something so natural—comforting, even—about the warmth of his body next to mine. A pang of regret pierced my heart. At that moment fatherhood seemed like the most natural, most desirable thing in the world. Some deep, ancient instinct within me awakened, and without thinking I placed a hand upon the unruly black curls. I felt the weight of my duty: to protect this innocent child against whoever or whatever lurked outside the thick, vine-covered walls of the abbey.

“What shall I sing to you, William?” I said, stroking the boy’s tousled hair.

He snuggled closer to me and murmured, a tiny soft sound which was indeed like the cooing of a baby bird. I looked out of the arched cathedral windows in my room, into the night sky, which lay like a starry blanket over the sleeping moors of Devon. The words of a song from my own childhood came to me, a song my mother used to sing to me. Softly, I began to sing.