The Haunting of Torre Abbey (18 page)

The morning of the hunt the day dawned bright and clear, the air as crisp as the tiny green fall apples which lay scattered on the ground underneath the spreading branches of the Carys’s apple trees. I awoke early, excitement creeping up my spine as I pulled on the breeches and boots Cary had lent me the night before. The breeches fit well enough, but the boots were a bit tight around my calves. Nevertheless, I succeeded in pulling them on and crept downstairs to avoid waking the rest of the household. The rattling of pots and pans coming from the kitchen told me that I was not the only early riser that morning; I could make out the voices of Grayson and Annie over the clatter of cutlery.

I arrived in the dining room to find Holmes already seated at the breakfast table, a steaming pot of tea in front of him. The early morning sun shone shyly through the French windows upon the immaculate white linen tablecloth.

“Ah, Watson, join me in a cup of tea, won’t you?” Holmes said, pouring me a cup from the blue-flowered china teapot. “Nothing like a good Assam blend to fortify us for the day ahead,” he said, placing the cup in front of me as I took my place at the table across from him. He looked more comfortable in his riding boots than I was in mine. Lord Cary’s jacket was a little short in the sleeves, but other than that, the riding habit fitted him admirably.

“Well, Holmes, you look quite to the manor born,” I said, taking a sip of tea, which was hot and strong, with the stringent taste of Assam.

“I am sorry about your boots, Watson; I hope it doesn’t spoil the day for you.”

“Oh, is it that noticeable?”

Holmes smiled. “Perhaps they will be more comfortable once you are on horseback.”

Just then Grayson entered with a fresh pot of tea, and as he set the pot upon the table, Holmes addressed him.

“You are a man of many talents, it would seem, Grayson.”

“I don’t know about that, sir,” the butler replied as he removed the empty teapot.

“Oh, come, don’t be so modest. You spent time in the theatre in India, did you not?”

“A little,” Grayson replied without looking up from his task. “Will that be all, sir?” He was clearly not anxious to talk about his time in India.

“Yes, thank you,” Holmes said, and the butler withdrew to the kitchen.

“How on earth did you know that?” I said when he had gone.

“I didn’t, Watson. For once, I was just guessing—though I’ll admit it was an educated guess. The fact that he plays the flute so well, the pierced ears, a certain way he carries himself and uses his voice—all of this indicated he’s had training as an actor.”

“And what might that lead you to conclude?”

“Possibly nothing, Watson—or possibly a great deal.”

Soon the rest of the household was stirring, and before long Charles Cary appeared, looking every inch the lord of the manor in his smart white jodhpurs, shiny black boots and red hunting jacket.

“Ready for the big day?” he said as he seated himself at the breakfast table.

“Yes,” I replied, although I was more afraid than I would have willingly admitted; still, I was determined to make a good show of it and acquit myself with honour on the field.

The hunt was to gather at the bottom of the apple orchard, and, once mounted, Holmes and I followed Cary on his horse down the path to the orchard. Riding behind him, I noticed Charles’s horse was walking strangely, and seemed to be favouring one leg. I trotted up next to him and pointed it out.

“I thought something seemed odd,” he said, dismounting.

“I believe it’s the left hind leg,” I observed, and he bent to examine it.

“Can’t see any sign of injury . . . wait just a moment—hullo! Here’s the problem—a loose shoe!” He lifted the horse’s hoof up so I could see, and sure enough, the shoe hung loose upon it.

“I say, that’s irritating,” he grumbled. “I had the blacksmith in just last week. I’ll have to have a word with that fellow about this!”

“What’s the matter?” Holmes asked, drawing up alongside of us on Richmond. The big horse tossed his head and pawed the ground, as if eager to be on his way. He could smell the excitement of the upcoming hunt, and was no doubt impatient for a good gallop across the moors.

“Lord Charles has a loose shoe,” I remarked.

“Really? May I see?” said Holmes.

“Nothing much to see, just sloppy work, I’m afraid,” Charles replied, “but be my guest.”

Holmes dismounted and examined the offending shoe. When he had finished, Charles Cary took up the reins and led his horse back to the barn.

“Go ahead without me—I’ll catch up,” he called to us. “I just need to tighten this up and then I’ll be right along.”

As we trotted out towards where the rest of the riders were beginning to gather, Holmes slowed his horse to a walk and turned to me.

“That was not sloppy workmanship, Watson—someone deliberately loosened that shoe.”

“Really? Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes. The scrape marks on the loose bolts indicate a different kind of tool was used to loosen them—and most probably not by a professional blacksmith.”

“But who would . . . ? I mean, why would someone . . .”

“I can think of several reasons, Watson. Whoever it was may not have wanted Charles Cary to ride in the hunt today. Either that, or . . .” He paused and looked out over the gently sloping hills of Torre Abbey.

“They wanted his horse to have an accident.”

“Precisely.”

I shuddered. “Are you going to tell him?”

Holmes paused to consider the question. “Later, Watson, not now. But I will tell him. I think he has a right to know that someone may be out to do him harm.”

The atmosphere at the hunt was one of suppressed excitement as the horses and riders began to arrive. The sight was a festive one: the Master of the Hunt in his bright-red jacket and top hat, the horses all immaculately brushed and groomed, some with braided manes and tails, their polished hooves glistening with oil. The horses felt the excitement, too: many of them pranced and fretted at their bits, anxious to be off, their breath coming in cloudy little bursts in the crisp air.

Holmes’s black stallion was one of the more excitable animals, but Holmes kept him firmly in hand, his fingers wrapped tightly around the double reins of the pelham bit. My little chestnut mare stood quietly, though, as if she did this every day of the week and couldn’t be bothered to get worked up about it. Even the simple snaffle bit she wore seemed hardly necessary; I sat upon Ariel with a loose rein and she gazed about her placidly as if wondering what all the fuss was about.

There were about twenty-odd horses and riders; the usual assortment of chestnuts and bays, with one or two spotted Appaloosas, a couple of greys, and of course Charles Cary’s beautiful palomino. Though a couple of the bays were quite dark, Richmond was the only truly black horse. The other horses seemed afraid of Richmond, and gave him a wide berth as Holmes walked the big horse around the broad circular drive.

The braying of dogs announced the appearance of the Huntsman, the hounds swarming around the feet of his bay gelding, their moist noses to the ground, occasionally lifting their heads to bray with the peculiar hoarse voices of foxhounds. He was followed by the Whippers-in, also wearing scarlet jackets.

The horses ignored the dogs, but the tension in the air increased with their appearance. The horses seemed to know it was nearly time to depart; they fussed and fretted even more, prancing in place, tossing their heads and pulling at the reins. Ariel, however, remained calm as ever, regarding the dogs with the same disinterest and serene detachment as she viewed the other horses, as though she had only disdain for their foolish expenditure of wasted energy.

Finally, with one shrill blast of the Huntsman’s horn, we were off. The horses in front lurched forward, and the whole pack lunged after them at a brisk trot. I was pleased to see that Ariel trotted as steadily as she did everything else; she pricked her head up and followed her stable-mate, Richmond, as we trotted down a dirt lane leading away from Torre Abbey. Ariel was no match for Richmond’s long legs, however, and I soon found a place at the rear of the pack, while Holmes’s horse rode grandly off to the front. As we turned onto a broad meadow, Lord Cary cantered up from behind me on his handsome palomino.

“How do you like Ariel, Dr. Watson?” he said, drawing up beside me.

“I’ve never seen a steadier mount,” I replied. “Is she always this calm?”

“When she trusts her rider,” he answered. “She must think you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope she’s right,” I answered as Cary went off to the front of the hunt.

A white dew still lay heavily on the grass as we cantered across the first field; lit by the pale October sun, the meadow grass sparkled like crystal. I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs with fresh, clean Devon air. The ascending sun glinted off the back of the riders in front of me, the rhythmic beat of hooves pounding the ground, softened from rain the night before. The rocking motion of the horse under me as we cantered slowly across the field put me into a kind of trance state, and I felt lucky to be alive, to be in this field at this moment, with these people, joining them in an ancient and time-honoured sport.

For a little while I forgot about the grim errand which had brought us here; all thoughts of mysterious spirits and hauntings vanished from my head as I rode across the field. Up ahead, the dogs had entered the woods, and I could hear them baying as they sniffed rocks and trees in search of the elusive fox.

I followed the others into the woods, ducking under tree branches as Ariel crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the other horses. The cries of the Whippers-in could be heard up ahead as they urged the dogs on.

“Get on it!”

“On-y, on-y, on-y!”

Ahead I saw a low stone wall, presumably a property marker. The other riders were jumping their horses over it with apparent ease, so I gave Ariel a squeeze and urged her over it. She cleared the jump easily and I gave her a pat for a job well done.

At the other side of the wall Lord Cary was seated upon his palomino, watching me. “She jumps like a dream, doesn’t she?” he said, smiling.

“Yes, indeed,” I replied, feeling quite pleased with my mount and myself.

“Yards of daylight between her and that jump,” Cary went on, “not even a challenge. There’s a larger one up ahead which should make for some good fun,” he said, turning his horse to rejoin the group. He spurred the big palomino onward and called out over his shoulder to me. “See you in a bit.”

“Right,” I replied, and followed after him, albeit somewhat more cautiously. My mare seemed to know these woods, but I did not, and I wished to avoid a branch across the face if at all possible.

The woods rose to a low hillock, then the trees thinned out a bit along a shallow ravine, which was plastered with fallen leaves and other woodland debris. We walked our horses through the ravine, as the leaves were still wet from the night before and could be treacherous footing. The woody smell of dead leaves rose from the ground and mingled with the aroma of horse sweat as I approached the ravine, which looked to be a dried-up river bed. It occurred to me that all of Torquay was so close to the sea level that it was not far down to the groundwater level anywhere.

Up ahead I could see the fence Cary had mentioned to me. It was a cross-slatted wooden fence in a zigzag pattern, a good four feet high, and the sight of it was intimidating. But the other riders were already taking it in ones and twos, and I urged Ariel forward at a brisk canter.

Her take-off was strong and well-timed and we sailed over, but as we hit the ground something caused her to shy and lunge to one side. Still forward in a three-point jumping position, I was unprepared for this sudden change of direction—and before I knew it I found myself seated unceremoniously on the ground, the wind knocked out of me. Other than being surprised and winded, though, I was sound enough; nothing appeared to be broken. I picked myself up, hoping no one had seen me, and went to collect my mount, who stood a few yards away calmly munching on a clump of grass growing under a scrub oak tree. I was grateful at least that she was waiting for me; having divested themselves of their rider, many horses would rush off to join the rest of the pack without a thought to their stranded rider.

“What frightened you?” I said, walking up to her slowly so as not to scare her off. She raised her head, her mouth full of grass, and regarded me with the calm serenity which seemed to be her only expression. She chewed contentedly, lime-green grass juice seeping out of the sides of her mouth, as I checked the girth. I reached for the reins but as I did I heard a noise behind me, the sound of footsteps in the underbrush. I turned to see what it was. The rest of the hunt was not far in front of me, and though I could hear the thick baying of the hounds, I could not see any of my comrades.

When I turned toward the noise, it stopped. Ariel evidently heard it too, for she pricked her ears forward and stood still as a statue. Then she let out an enormous whinny, so loud that it hurt my ears. I assumed she was calling to Richmond, her stable-mate, who had gone on ahead. I took one more look around me but the trees were as still and silent as the great boulders which dotted the hillside.

I took up the reins and remounted, feeling a bit stiff but mostly just grateful that no one had been there to witness my ignominious fall. I gave Ariel her head, and she trotted through the woods, scattering dry leaves in every direction. Horses are social animals, and I could tell she was eager to join her companions. I put my head down almost level with her neck to avoid any pesky branches and let her have her head. We skirted the dry river bed for a while and then, coming upon a twisted, barren oak tree, I let her stand still for a few moments to catch her breath. The tree stood by itself at the top of a little hill, and with its bare, blackened branches, it looked as though it was the victim of a lightning strike. A solitary crow sat upon one of the higher branches, its harsh hoarse caw piercing the air, a mournful sound.

I shivered a little and sent Ariel on. Before long I saw the other riders up ahead of us, galloping across a broad plain. Without any urging from me, Ariel took off at a fast clip, almost leaving me behind. The hunting horn sounded as we raced along the moor—the fox had been spotted! The cry of the dogs mixed with the sound of pounding hooves, and my melancholy was soon replaced by exhilaration. Galloping a horse across a field is sure to send the heart racing and the blood pounding even in the most phlegmatic of men—and I was no exception. To my surprise, at a flat-out run, Ariel was a match for any of the larger horses in the hunt, and she soon caught up with the others, racing past the pack until she was almost at the front.