The Haunting of Torre Abbey (17 page)

Unfortunately, this was not one of those showers. A fierce wind whipped up, sending our coats flapping around our ankles, and the fury of the storm only increased as we ran. We covered a good mile or so in the rain, and by the time we were in sight of the abbey we were soaked. The clock tower was a welcome sight, standing stolid and gloomy in the downpour, and we hurried inside, stamping our feet on the stone floor.

We were met by Lady Cary, who soon saw to it that we warmed ourselves before a blazing fire in the west parlour, plying us with brandy as we peeled off our wet outergarments. The raincoats had done a tolerable job of keeping us dry. We hadn’t been settled long in the parlour when Charles Cary strode into the room.

“I hear you had quite the afternoon,” he remarked upon seeing our wet clothing spread out upon the grate, steam rising from our sodden garments as the fire warmed them.

“Yes, indeed—it was quite exhilarating,” Holmes replied.

Cary joined us in a glass of cognac, and soon we were all sitting slumped in armchairs, staring into the fire.

“Torquay seems to be quite the place to be—it’s a pity it isn’t really the season just now,” my friend remarked.

“Right you are, Mr. Holmes—thanks in part to the Cary family,” the priest replied, staring at the honey-coloured liquid in his glass.

“Oh?” I said.

“Yes,” said Father Norton. “Victor Cary was instrumental in developing Torquay, in part by selling off abbey land to the town.”

“I see,” Holmes replied. “Well, progress can’t be halted, I suppose, though it is a pity he had to sell off family land,” he added with a glance at Charles Cary, who sighed and picked restlessly at his hair.

“The rain seems to have stopped,” he said, suddenly rising from his chair. “I don’t suppose you and Dr. Watson would like to take a look at the stables now, would you?”

“On the contrary; I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” my friend replied. “That is, if Father Norton will excuse us.”

“Oh, certainly,” the priest replied with a wave of his hand. “I know how Charles likes his horses, and with good reason. It’s a fine lot he’s got out there—that black stallion is as good a horse as you’ll see in Devon or anywhere else, I’ll wager.”

“Thank you for the compliment,” Charles Cary said, but his voice was tight and his lean body shimmered with tension.

Father Norton smiled and poured himself some more cognac. “I suppose I should know. After all, I was a jockey for a while.”

Holmes looked at him with interest. “Really? You do continue to surprise, Father Norton—really you do.”

The priest laughed. “Well, if you’re looking for anything more exotic about me, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you there. I’m really just a simple parish priest.”

Holmes smiled. “Oh, I shouldn’t underestimate yourself, Father. In my experience, there’s more to just about everyone if you look hard enough.”

Father Norton looked at Holmes as if he were not sure how to interpret this remark, but he was too shrewd to show any discomfort he might feel at being under the great detective’s scrutiny. Instead, he too rose from his chair.

“I’d best be getting on, I suppose—Lydia’s bound to be wondering where I am,” he said, pulling on his raincoat, which had more or less dried by now.

“Give my regards to your sister,” Charles Cary said as the four of us headed towards the front hallway.

“I will be sure to tell her you said so,” the priest replied, buttoning his coat. “And thank you for a most convivial afternoon. I’ve always believed in enjoying life’s little pleasures, and I’m glad that my vows do not include abstinence from a good French cognac.”

“Yes, indeed,” Holmes murmured as we followed Charles Cary out through the vaulted entryway of the abbey. The rain had abated, and a thin, pale rainbow was beginning to form in the rays of the setting sun as we trudged across the sodden lawn.

The stables were on the other side of the Spanish barn, and as we approached that structure I couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread. The stables were cheerful enough, however, with the sweet smell of hay filling the air as we approached. Lord Cary owned four horses: a big black stallion by the name of Richmond, a fat little white pony which had been Elizabeth’s as a child, a beautiful palomino, and an elegant little strawberry-chestnut mare. I noticed there was one empty stall at the end of the row.

“This will be your horse for the hunt, Dr. Watson,” Cary said as we stopped in front of the chestnut mare’s stall. Her arched neck, shapely little head and small, sharply pointed ears indicated the presence of Arab blood. She snorted gently as we approached, leaning her head out of her stall, her delicate nostrils flaring.

“This is Ariel,” Cary said as she nuzzled his hand with her soft, finely sculpted nose.

I held out my hand and felt the velvet softness of her muzzle as she sniffed my palm, hoping no doubt to find an apple or a sugar cube.

“I hope she doesn’t live up to her name,” I said, thinking of the mercurial, troublesome character in 
The Tempest
.

Cary laughed. “Not in the least. She is the most compliant, good-natured of animals—aren’t you, Ariel?” he said, stroking her thick red mane. In response she nickered—a low, barely audible rumbling from deep within her chest—and nuzzled his shoulder.

“All right,” he said, extracting a carrot from his jacket pocket. “Here you go—there’s no fooling you.”

She took the proffered carrot, holding the thick end between her lips as she chewed on the other half.

“Ariel can eat a whole carrot without dropping any of it—can’t you?” Lord Cary said with a pat on her neck. “She’s a very clever girl, very clever.”

“Is it a family tradition to name your animals after characters from Shakespeare’s plays?” Holmes inquired.

Cary smiled. “Not at all. She was born here, and my mother named her when she was just a young filly. Perhaps she was reading 
The Tempest
 at the time; I don’t really know. But as with all horses of good blood, as you probably know, the name of the horse should include something from the names of both the sire and the dam. Her mother was Airy Morning, and her father was an Arab named El Dorado.”

“I see,” I said, stroking the mare’s muscular neck. “Your mother rides, then?”

Cary looked away. “She used to.”

“Oh? She gave it up, then?” said Holmes.

“Yes.”

“Did she have an accident or something?” I said.

“No,” Cary replied, and I could sense the subject was a delicate one. I glanced at Holmes, but Cary was already walking towards the next stall.

“What about you, Mr. Holmes—do you think you can handle Richmond?” said Cary, standing in front of the huge black horse. The animal stood looking at us, his enormous head draped over the door of his stall, ears forward.

“I don’t see why not,” Holmes replied. “He looks to be a capable enough animal.”

“Actually, he had a brother, Mystic Rider, who belonged to my father, but after his . . . well, we sold him to a neighbouring estate.”

“That explains the empty stall,” I remarked.

“Yes.” Cary patted the big horse. “Richmond is a stallion, and they can be a bit harder to handle.”

Holmes shrugged. “I’ve always believed it’s more a question of your will over theirs, Lord Cary, if you don’t mind my saying so. The smartest horse is no match for a really strong-willed rider.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Cary slowly, “so long as they know you’re not afraid of them.”

“Holmes isn’t afraid of many things,” I hastened to interject.

“Very well, Dr. Watson,” Lord Cary replied, smiling. “Then it’s settled: you shall have Ariel and Mr. Holmes will take on Richmond. Mind you let him run out ahead of the pack, Mr. Holmes—Richmond likes to be in the lead at all times.”

Holmes nodded. “Very well. With those long legs I don’t foresee that being a problem.”

Just beyond the stables was a fish pond, where a few mottled orange carp swam lazily about just below the murky green surface of the water. I stood watching them while Cary fed and watered the horses.

I thought I heard a bird nearby, and turned to see young William and Annie standing behind me. She held his hand, and in his other hand he carried a small bouquet of wild flowers—Queen Anne’s lace, fall daisies, goldenrod.

“He picked them for you, sir,” said the chambermaid as William handed me the flowers, a shy smile on his face. William was under Annie’s close supervision during the day; Holmes had arranged that the girl would keep an eye on him, not letting him out of her sight, though he did not tell her why he was especially concerned about the boy’s safety. I was glad to see she took her duties most seriously. I had grown fond of the boy since we had become roommates; he had a sweet, innocent nature, and far from finding his lack of language a barrier, I found him better company than many adults I knew. Holmes had made several attempts to get the boy to communicate further what he had seen the night his mother died, but without success; he had revealed what he knew, it seemed, and could only repeat the same mimed actions we were already familiar with.

“Why, thank you, William,” I said as he handed me the flowers. “That’s very thoughtful of you. They’re lovely—where did you find them?”

“They grow in the fields and along the streams all around here, don’t they, William?” said Annie, and the boy nodded vigorously.

“I think there may be some fish in this pond, if we look carefully and are very quiet,” I said.

“Oo, fish, William—he loves watching fish, don’t you?” said Annie. “Why don’t we sit next to Dr. Watson and look for them?”

Again he nodded his consent, working his mouth as hard as he could, but all that came out was a kind of strangled yelping sound, rather like the bark of a small dog.

“Come on,” said I, “come sit right here and help me look.”

They were just about to sit down on the grass next to me when suddenly I heard a commotion back in the direction of Torre Abbey. I turned to see Lady Cary running from the building, crying hysterically.

“It’s the mistress!” Annie exclaimed. “What’s wrong, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I’m going to find out!”

I immediately jumped to my feet and ran as fast as I could to her aid, Annie and William following me not far behind. I was not the first to arrive—Holmes and Charles Cary were already there by the time I had covered the several hundred yards of ground. Lady Cary had collapsed in her son’s arms, crying uncontrollably.

“He’s dead!” she wailed.

“Who? Who’s dead?” said Holmes.

She raised her tear-streaked face. “Caliban! Someone’s killed Caliban!”

“Killed him?” said her son. “Who on earth would do that?”

“I don’t know,” she responded, “but I found him just now, poor little thing! He’s dead and I’m afraid he’s been poisoned!”

Annie shook her head sadly. “Why would anyone kill a poor little dog?”

I looked at Holmes and thought he suspected, as I did, the answer was related to Caliban’s sudden fit of barking the other night. I took a deep breath; it was clear that not even the animals at Torre Abbey were safe from the vengeance of a desperate and ruthless killer.

Lady Cary was inconsolable over the death of her beloved terrier, and I gave her some valerium drops to calm her down. Everyone in the household now was quite unnerved; even placid, stoic Annie trembled at the sight of the poor animal’s little corpse. The dog was lying just outside the butler’s pantry, not far from his food bowl, and Lady Cary’s conclusion of poison seemed reasonable to me.

Holmes instructed everyone to leave the kitchen immediately so that he could work undisturbed. Charles Cary escorted his mother and sister to their rooms and saw to it that Annie and William were out of the way. The boy evidenced curiosity, but was not allowed to see the poor dog, nor was Elizabeth, whose already delicate state of mind was becoming increasingly fragile.

Grayson alone seemed unmoved by the turn of events, expressing sympathy over the death of the dog, but his implacable manner remained intact throughout.

Holmes bent over the dog, sniffed at it, examined the floor all around it, then turned his attention to the partially eaten bowl of food.

“I think in this case Lady Cary is not far off,” he remarked, removing a sample of the food and placing it in a small saucer.

“I say, Lord Cary,” he said to our host as he entered the kitchen, having seen to it that the other members of the household were settled.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

“I noticed when I was in your quarters that you have a small laboratory set up.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Is everything in good working order?”

“Yes; as you know, I’m a medical student. I use it occasionally in my studies.”

“May I use it?” Holmes inquired. “I have one or two tests I should like to perform.”

“Certainly. Everything is at your disposal.”

“Come, Watson, we have work to do,” he said, starting to leave the kitchen. “Oh, one more thing, Lord Cary, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Yes?”

“I suppose in your laboratory you have either sulphuric or hydrochloric acid?”

“Yes, I have a container of hydrochloric acid. It is clearly marked.”

“Good. And might you by any chance also have a sample of pure metallic zinc?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I just updated my supplies so that when I am not at school I might be able to—”

But Holmes was already gone, walking swiftly from the kitchen, head down, lost in thought, intent on his next move. I followed behind, curious as to what he had in mind.

Lord Cary’s laboratory was not bad—not as complete as the one Holmes had set up in our rooms at Baker Street, perhaps, but sufficient, apparently, for his purposes. I watched as he lighted a Bunsen burner and watched as he adjusted the bluish flame to the proper height.

“What do you intend to do, Holmes?”

“Watson, have you heard of the Marsh test?”

“Yes, I believe I have, but I couldn’t tell you what it is exactly.”

“A very simple and effective way to determine the presence of arsenic,” he said as he poured out hydrochloric acid into a beaker containing a small amount of zinc. “There are other tests as well; the Reinsch test, for example, is more precise, and able to detect much smaller concentrations, but I suspect this will be quite sufficient for our purposes.” He then added the sample of the dog food to the solution and placed it over the flame. Once the acid had evaporated, he pointed to a white substance left at the bottom of the beaker.

“Arsenic oxide, Watson! Just as I thought—the poor animal was given arsenic in his food. Lady Cary was right—someone deliberately poisoned her dog!”

Unfortunately, the constabulary of Torquay were singularly unimpressed with the poisoning of a dog. Such crimes were apparently not uncommon in and around the town, so we were told; with the quickly expanding population of the region, people who had come to live in a quiet, remote seaside village now found themselves increasingly surrounded by newcomers. Given such conditions, a certain amount of resentment and hostility was inevitable. Though there was very little violent crime around Torquay, apparently pets were often considered fair game in the settling of local feuds. The fat sergeant told us that he had received several reports of suspected poisonings over the past few months. I suspected, however, that his obvious indifference to the fate of the Cary family owed more to the bad blood created by Victor Cary during his lifetime.

“Well, Watson, it seems we are on our own once again,” Holmes commented as we returned to the abbey in the Carys’s brougham.

“What next?” I replied. “Perhaps we should not go on tomorrow’s hunt.”

“Oh, no, by all means we should attend the hunt. First of all, I am most concerned about the safety of Charles Cary and want to keep an eye on him; and I am further convinced that the killer may very well reveal his or her hand tomorrow at the hunt.”

“Really? How so?”

Holmes shook his head. “I cannot say for sure; I wish that I could. All I can say is that we must be on our guard, Watson.”

That night I had trouble sleeping; even a cognac after dinner couldn’t calm my overwrought mind. I lay in my bed tossing and turning, listening to the creaking and groaning of the ancient building around me. In the middle of the night I heard a soft rain begin to fall, splashing on the eaves, pattering gently upon the window panes, and I finally fell into a fitful slumber.

I dreamt I was riding across an open field at twilight on the little strawberry mare. It was growing dark and I was anxious to get somewhere. The field seemed to stretch on and on, though, and there was no sign of a building anywhere. I called out at one point, but there was no reply, so I kept riding. I had the strange sense I was being followed and looked over my shoulder, and to my horror I saw a rider on a black horse wearing long flowing robes: the Demon Hunter! Panicked, I urged my horse into a gallop, but still my pursuer was gaining on me. Faster, faster we rode along the moors, until we reached the cliffs overhanging the sea, the waves crashing upon the rocks beneath. I dismounted and looked down into the abyss, at the swirling water which lapped at the jagged edges of the boulders beneath. Behind me, that sound of hoofbeats grew louder. I closed my eyes and jumped, and felt myself falling, falling . . .