The Haunting of Torre Abbey (14 page)

Our questioning of the Cary family led us to no further clues; Elizabeth could tell us nothing more than when she fired at the Cavalier he disappeared in a puff of smoke, which Holmes said was undoubtedly the lycopodium powder. Charles insisted that the gun was loaded with real bullets when he gave it to her, and we could find no one else who admitted to handling the gun. At Holmes’s urging, Charles took the gun back from his sister.

I was seated in the east parlour the next morning when Holmes entered the room brandishing a newspaper.

“I am convinced that whoever is behind this has employed the help of a professional magician,” he announced, seating himself in front of the fire. “I took the liberty of procuring a recent issue of the local paper in Torquay this morning. It just so happens that a magician by the name of Merwyn the Magnificent was playing the old opera house in Torquay last week. Coincidence? I think not,” he concluded with satisfaction.

“I think I’ve heard of him,” I said. “He plays regularly at various theatres in the East End, I believe.”

Holmes looked at me in mock amazement. “I say, Watson, you surprise me, really you do. I had no idea—”

“Very well, Holmes,” I answered brusquely. “I didn’t say I had ever gone to see him.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t think less of you if you had,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “In any event, I see that tomorrow night this Merwyn fellow has a performance scheduled in London.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It might be worth my while to pay him a visit.”

“I need to go into town and check up on my practice,” I said. “Why don’t I go talk to him for you?”

“My dear Watson,” Holmes replied, “you don’t look at all well. I doubt that a trip to London would be advisable for you just now.”

“Oh, well—if you don’t trust me,” I answered huffily, “why don’t you just say so?”

“My dear fellow, it isn’t a question of trusting you; I simply don’t want you risking your health by tramping all over London.”

“Nonetheless, I feel I should go in and make an appearance at the surgery—not that McKinney isn’t doing a splendid job, I’m sure, but I just don’t want him feeling I’ve left him in the lurch all this time.”

Holmes sighed. “Very well, Watson; it seems your mind’s made up about this. I would never think of standing in your way once you have settled on a course of action.”

I looked at him in disbelief, but saw at once the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Really, Holmes,” I muttered, but he laughed, not his usual dry sardonic chuckle, but a deep, full-bodied laugh.

“Come, come, Watson, I’m only tweaking you. You will let me have my fun, won’t you?”

“I don’t see how I can prevent it,” I replied, feigning irritation, but the truth was I was pleased that Holmes would entrust me with such an errand. I only hoped that I would rise to the occasion; though I didn’t say it, I was still weak, and my illness, though greatly diminished, was not yet altogether gone.

“There is another reason I would appreciate you doing this for me, Watson: I am loath to leave the Cary family alone just now.”

“Oh? Do you think . . . ?”

Holmes shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, Watson; I only know that I fear for their safety.”

“What exactly do you want me to do with this Merwyn fellow?”

“Merely observe his reaction.”

“His reaction?”

“Yes. When you suggest to him that you suspect him of involvement in a crime.”

“Oh? What sort of reaction am I looking for?”

“You are a student of human behaviour, Watson. A flush to the face, stammering, vehement denial—anything that would indicate his guilt.”

“I see. And then?”

Holmes leaned back in his chair and laced his long fingers together behind his head. “You offer him a bribe, Watson.”

“A bribe?”

“Yes. That is, you pay him to reveal who he is doing business with.”

“I see. And if he won’t tell me?”

Holmes smiled. “Oh, he will—provided the price is right. And we shall see that the price is indeed not only right, but irresistible.”

“I am very much flattered that you would entrust me with this responsibility,” I said. “I hope I will not fail you.”

“No fear of that, Watson—I wouldn’t send you if I thought you were not up to it,” he said with unaccustomed warmth in his voice. I confess I felt a twinge of apprehension at his words, but was all the more determined that I would not disappoint his trust in me.

I took the early train to London the next day, and sat gazing out the window as the granite 
tors
 of Devon and Dorset flew by and were replaced by the soft grassy hillsides of Hampshire and Surrey. Lulled by the motion of the train, I let my head sink back onto the seat rest and dozed off. Dream images flitted through my head as I napped, the stately halls of Torre Abbey merging in my brain with thoughts of our flat in Baker Street. In my dreams I saw Lady Cary standing in a blue dress in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, the flames reflecting off her face as she lifted it to mine . . .

When I awoke, the train was just pulling into Paddington Station, the heavy exhale of air from the steam engine like the sigh of a great leviathan. I climbed stiffly from the train and took my place among my fellow Londoners, amidst the scramble of commuters coming and going, the endless daily rush which is modern city life. A thick pulse of white steam poured from the locomotive as I strode up the ramp leading to the street. The one-legged newspaper seller was in his usual place on the sidewalk just outside the station, and I bought a 
Daily Telegraph
 from him.

The hustle and bustle of London felt strange to me after the monastic quiet and solitude of life at Torre Abbey. I stood on the street corner for a moment and looked around: nowhere in the city was there more of a mixture of the upper and lower classes than in front of a rail station. Elegant gentlemen in top hats and stiff black frock-coats hurried past street vendors hawking their wares; rough-looking grooms in scuffed black boots leaned against the backs of their rigs smoking and trading jokes, their cloth caps pulled low over their eyes. Middle-class families hurried into the station, their picnic baskets packed for a day trip to Surrey or Kent. It was a brilliant October day, the air bright and clear, and even the many unsavoury smells of London seemed muted in the crisp air.

I hailed a cab to my medical offices, where I paid a call on Dr. McKinney to see how things were going. His report that everything had been quiet the past few days was reassuring; it seems the flu epidemic had worn itself out, gone as quickly as it had arrived. I then headed for Baker Street, to check in on Mrs. Hudson, sort through the mail, and put my feet up for a short time before my evening excursion began.

As I entered the front hallway of 221B I was greeted by the welcome aroma of roast beef, and no sooner had I closed the door behind me than Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the hallway, wiping her hands upon her apron. Holmes had sent her a telegram saying that I was on my way, and she was evidently well prepared for me.

“Now you just come right in and have a nice glass of something, Dr. Watson, while I get some dinner on for you,” she said by way of greeting.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied with a smile. In her own way, our landlady was as eccentric as her most famous tenant.

I took her advice and had a glass of claret in front of the fire. I dozed off for quite some time, because when I awoke the October sun was beginning to sink reluctantly behind the buildings, reflecting red and gold upon the window panes before sliding slowly behind the town houses across the street. Outside, the clop of horses’ hooves along the cobblestones increased as people made their way home at the end of their workday.

At Holmes’s request, Mrs. Hudson had gone over to the theatre earlier in the day to procure a program of the evening’s events, and I studied it as I sipped my claret. The language of the flyer was rather amusing: “Merwyn the Marvelous Performs Astonishing Feats of Magic and Other Death-Defying Acts!” A picture of the magician swallowing a sword accompanied the assurance that spectators would be “amazed and astonished” by his “skill and courage,” and promised the added attraction of Merwyn’s “lovely assistant Miss Caroline Cocoran,” the “Belle of Atlanta.” A picture of Miss Cocoran showed her to be a fleshy blond wearing an outfit that looked as if it were from a Parisian dance hall: corset, garters, and tights, all under a filmy skirt which left little to the imagination. I settled back in my chair and permitted myself a smile—this was a far cry from my usual trips with Holmes to violin concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. I couldn’t help looking forward to seeing Merwyn the Magnificent and his lovely assistant Miss Caroline Cocoran.

Mrs. Hudson’s excellent roast beef complete with Yorkshire pudding put me in an even more receptive mood, and I went off to the theatre in a cheerful mood, ready for an entertaining evening. The night was cool but clear as I settled into the back of a hansom cab, the horses’ hooves clipping smartly along the cobblestones. I felt a curious sense of contentment settle over me as I gazed out the window at the cozily lit windows all around me. On the streets people headed homeward, brown paper packages tucked under their arms—a joint of beef, perhaps, or a rack of lamb. After the oppressive atmosphere of Torre Abbey, there was something comforting in the thought of my fellow Londoners all around me, inside their houses fixing dinner or getting ready to go out for the evening. I hadn’t realized until just then how claustrophobic I felt at Torre Abbey, hemmed in somehow—by what or whom I did not know, but now that I was back in London I felt a sense of liberation and escape, as though I were a prisoner newly released from a long jail term.

The mood outside the theatre was festive. Orange sellers and jugglers vied with purveyors of roasted chestnuts, sweetmeats and various other savouries for the attention of the crowd gathering in front of the theatre. I was greeted by their cries as I alighted from the cab and paid the driver.

“Oy—get your meat pies here—fresh and hot!”

“Oranges, ripe and sweet—heyo!”

“Pickled eel, pickled eel—best in London!”

The street swarmed with seekers of merriment: office clerks and their sweethearts, young families out for the evening, sailors with their fancy girls—and I found such liveliness refreshing after Torre Abbey, where the dead seemed to hold more sway than the living.

The large poster in front of the theatre showed a picture of Merwyn the Marvelous inside an elaborately decorated rectangular cabinet with half a dozen swords protruding from the box, their handles pointing in every direction. He had a broad smile on his face, and the lovely Caroline Cocoran stood just above him, a sword in her hand, ready to plunge it into the box. Underneath the picture, garish lettering proclaimed “See the Sword-Box and Other Death-Defying Acts!”

I smiled to myself as I climbed up the stairs to the ticket-booth. All the cheap tickets were taken, but there were still quite a few left in the orchestra section, and I purchased a seat in the third row centre. As I gave my ticket to the ticket-taker I was jostled by someone to my left, and, turning to look, I saw an elderly gentleman, wizened and bent over from age. His heavily creased face was like a ploughed field; the hand of time had clawed deep furrows into his skin, etching the passage of years into the canvas of his cheeks. He tipped his hat to me.

“Beg pardon, sir; my apologies to you. I’m old and my balance isn’t what it once was. That’s why I need this,” he said, indicating his cane, which was of polished mahogany with an unusual and ornate handle, a bronze head of a falcon.

“That’s quite all right,” I replied, and entered the theatre. It had seen better days—the red velvet curtain which covered the stage was frayed at the edges, and the ceiling was blackened with soot from years of gaslighting. The performance was late in beginning, and I took the opportunity to study my program. Merwyn the Marvelous had just returned from a tour of Germany, it seemed, where he “stunned and delighted audiences everywhere with his magical expertise and showmanship.”

Finally the ragtag band of musicians in the orchestra pit began to play a somewhat halting waltz, and I turned my attention to the upcoming performance. The curtain opened to reveal a stage bare except for a single pine coffin. The lighting on stage was dim, and suddenly there was a puff of smoke. The audience murmured as the lid of the coffin opened slowly and a little man got out. At first I wondered who he was, but then realized from his costume—formal evening wear, complete with a yellow-lined silk cape—that he was indeed Merwyn the Magnificent. The promotional posters had done a fine job making him seem a good deal larger, but now that he stood on the stage before us, I guessed that he was no more than five foot four in his stocking feet.

He looked out over the audience and smiled.

“Welcome,” he said in a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, “to an evening of terror and magic!”

Merwyn the Magnificent did not disappoint. Assisted by the lovely Miss Caroline Cocoran, he performed the sword-box trick advertised on the poster, as well as various sleights of hand involving playing cards, little red balls, live doves, and even a live fish. Finally he came to what he referred to as “the most challenging, the most dangerous, the most death-defying challenge of all”: to catch a bullet between his teeth while blindfolded—a bullet fired from the other side of the stage out of a gun held by Miss Caroline Cocoran. The feat, he said, had been taught to him by an Indian swami who had the ability to hold his breath underwater for half an hour or more.

By that time I was feeling somewhat sleepy. I had risen early, and Mrs. Hudson’s excellent roast-beef dinner and the accompanying claret was beginning to have a soporific effect upon me. I sat watching the stage through half-closed eyes as Miss Cocoran took aim at the magician, who stood in a dramatic pose worthy of William Tell, his eyes covered by a red kerchief. I was aware of the heavy floral perfume of the lady next to me as Miss Cocoran raised the pistol, took aim and fired.