The Haunting of Torre Abbey (19 page)

Up ahead I saw another stone wall surrounding the meadow. It looked like a formidable jump, but I was feeling my oats now, and headed for it.

“Mind you jump that wide—there’s a ditch on the other side!” Lord Cary called out as I prepared for take-off. Ariel sailed over it, though, as if she had wings, clearing the ditch with ease, and we galloped on ahead. Having trailed behind the others until now, I was exhilarated to be out in front. I hadn’t travelled far when I heard a cry from behind me, and then came the call:

“Rider down!”

Disappointed, I reined Ariel in and turned her around. As a doctor, I felt a responsibility to come to the aid of the fallen rider. My disappointment turned to cold fear when I saw the riderless horse trotting toward me: it was Richmond!

I spurred Ariel back to the jump, where, to my horror, I saw Holmes lying motionless on the ground. In an instant I dismounted and knelt beside him to feel for a pulse. To my great relief, he lifted his head and spoke.

“I’m all right, Watson,” he said, though he did not look it. His face was pale, and in addition to having the wind knocked out of him, he was holding his shoulder as he struggled to sit up.

“Easy, Holmes,” I said as he attempted to stand. “Why don’t you let me check for broken bones?”

He shook his head and struggled to his feet.

“There’s nothing broken, Watson, but it is as I suspected.” He pointed to an object lying in the grass just beyond the ditch, and I saw at once what had caused the fall: a broken stirrup lay on the ground.

“Look,” I said, holding up the stirrup. The leather had torn clean through—and as the leather was shiny and new, it was unlikely that it had broken on its own.

Holmes examined the stirrup leather, holding it up so that I could see. “You see where it has been cut clean through?”

I did indeed—the leather had clearly been sliced with a sharp instrument; except for the little bit which had been left uncut—and which had torn through on the jump—there was no doubt that this was a case of deliberate sabotage.

“It’s been very precisely cut,” I remarked, “and with great skill. It’s almost as though . . .”

“What, Watson?”

“Well, it’s almost as though it were done by a scalpel,” I said reluctantly.

To my surprise, Holmes nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Both of us knew that Charles Cary owned a scalpel, though neither of us said as much. Just then Cary trotted up to us on his palomino, Holmes’s horse in tow. He held Richmond’s reins in one hand, and with the other he pulled his horse to a stop.

“Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, quite,” Holmes replied, though he still clutched his shoulder and I could tell from his face that he was in pain.

“Will you be all right to carry on, or do you want to go back?”

“Oh, I’ll carry on.”

“Holmes,” I said, “why don’t you go back?”

“Because I don’t know what else may happen, Watson,” he replied, taking Richmond’s reins from Lord Cary. I helped him mount the big stallion, but I did not feel good about his decision. However, I knew better than to argue; once Holmes’s mind was made up, that was that. He attached his stirrup to the saddle with what was left of the leather and mounted.

To my relief, the hunt did not last too much longer. The three of us trotted to catch up with the rest of the hunt, but the dogs had stopped in front of a hay-strewn corner of the field where meadow met woods. Underneath a crumbling stone wall was what appeared to be the entrance to a burrow.

“Well, it seems the fox has gone into his den,” the Huntsman said as we all gathered around the yelping hounds. Some ran in frantic circles around the burrow, sniffing at the ground, driven wild by the scent of the fox, which was so enticingly present everywhere—but the little animal was safe in his underground hideaway now, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks as we turned our horses around and headed for home. I had no desire to see a fox ripped apart by hounds, and was glad that he had escaped.

Mud-spattered and matted with dried sweat, our horses were tired now, drained as we were of the adrenaline of the chase. It was over, and every horse and rider plainly felt it; even Holmes’s black stallion walked quietly, his proud head drooped forward like the head of an old cart-horse.

Dusk was gathering over the fields as we limped homeward. Every bone in my body was beginning to ache, and I thought fondly of a bath and a glass of brandy in front of the fire when we returned to the abbey. Holmes and I were in the rear, a fathom or so behind the others, and as we rounded the crest of a hillock I suddenly realized I no longer had my gloves. I had removed them when I stopped to assist Holmes, and I must have left them on the ground by the stone wall.

“I’ve left my gloves behind,” I said. “I’d better go back and get them.”

“Shall I accompany you?” said Holmes.

“No—go ahead and I’ll catch up,” I replied. The truth was I was concerned about my friend, and wanted him to get back to the abbey as soon as possible.

Holmes must have sensed what I was feeling, because he didn’t argue. “I’ll ride on ahead and tell them to slow down a bit,” he said.

“Oh, don’t worry—I’m sure Ariel knows the way home,” I replied as he rode off at a trot.

I turned Ariel around and headed back across the wide field. She gave me some resistance, unwilling to turn away from the direction of home when all her companions were up ahead; not only had I separated her from the pack but now I was heading in the wrong direction! Horses have a very keen sense of direction, and always know exactly where their barn is, even if they are travelling through unfamiliar countryside.

“Don’t worry, old girl,” I said softly as she pulled against the reins, “we’ll be on our way in a moment.”

I found the gloves just where I had left them. I dismounted, put them on, and swung myself back up in to the saddle. No sooner had I done this than Ariel gave a start, tossing her head to the side as if frightened by something.

“What is it, old girl?” I said, looking around. A thick mist was gathering over the field as the cool evening air settled over the land. Visibility was limited, and I could barely see the edge of the woods, which lay to the west. Straining my eyes, though, I could see a form standing among the trees where the woods and meadow met: a tall black horse and rider. Thinking that Holmes had doubled back and gone into the woods for some reason, I turned Ariel in the direction of the horse and rider. She went a few steps, but then suddenly stopped and would go no farther. I squeezed her hard, but she fought me, pulling at the bit and shaking her head, and I finally gave her the first kick I had given her all day. Shocked, she took a few more steps towards the woods, but then suddenly stopped and reared. It was clear that Ariel did not want to go any closer to that woods. I would not admit it to myself, but I had no great desire to go there either; perhaps Ariel was simply picking up on my reluctance. I did not have a good feeling about the spot where the horse and rider stood; I could not say why, but something about it made my flesh creep. I could not make out the rider’s face or figure very well, but I had the distinct impression he was looking at me.

“Hello!” I called out. “Who are you?”

Both horse and rider stood motionless for a moment, and then suddenly took off into the woods at a furious canter. I attempted to prod Ariel into following them, but once again she fought and reared; this time I very nearly came off, and had to grab on to her neck to steady myself. Finally I gave up and allowed her to follow after the rest of the hunt, which she did at a brisk trot. I looked behind me as we went on, but the mysterious stranger had disappeared into the woods.

I let Ariel have her head and we cantered across the field, accompanied only by the sound of her breathing and the muffled thud of her hooves upon the soft soil. I could see only dimly now, and hoped that Ariel would not step in a gopher hole or some other obstacle, but she proved as sure-footed in the twilight as she was during daytime. After a while I thought I could hear the others ahead of us, and as we came to the top of the crest of a hillock I could see them through the fog, the horses’ breath coming in thick white clouds of steam.

“Well, Watson, what kept you so long?” Holmes said as I trotted up beside him.

“I—I saw something,” I said.

“Oh? What?” Holmes inquired.

“A black horse and rider,” I replied.

Holmes stopped his horse. “Are you certain of that?”

“Fairly certain. It was somewhat dark, and at first I thought it might be you, since the horse was jet-black and Richmond was the only black horse in the hunt today. But when I called out they turned and went back into the woods. I tried to follow, but Ariel would have none of it. I finally gave up and rejoined the hunt.”

“ ‘And I saw, and behold, a black horse, and its rider had a balance in his hand.’ ”

I looked at Holmes. I recognized the quote as being from Revelations, but it sent a chill up my spine nonetheless. Holmes shook his head slowly.

“The scales of justice, perhaps, Watson . . . I think that whatever is going on here, revenge is not far away from the centre of things.”

“What makes you think that?”

Holmes shrugged. “A process of elimination. There are a limited number of drives which motivate human behaviour, and once you have eliminated the others . . . well, time will yet tell. Come along,” he said, turning Richmond in the direction of the abbey. “We must return or the others will wonder what happened to us.”

We walked along for a few minutes without speaking. I heard the gentle cooing of quail in the underbrush as we walked alongside the hedgerows leading up to the abbey. As we started up the long drive to the abbey, Holmes turned to me.

“Well, we have at least one corroborating piece of evidence now, Watson.”

“Oh?” I said. “What’s that?”

A chill crawled its way up my spine as I heard his reply.

“Why, the Demon Hunter, Watson—now you have seen him, too.”

Later that night, after the rest of the family had gone to bed, we sat with Charles Cary in front of the fire, sharing a glass of claret before retiring.

“Well, I think I’ll turn in,” our host said with a yawn, setting down his glass and stretching before rising from his chair.

“One moment, Lord Cary,” said Holmes. “I think there is something you should know.”

Holmes proceeded to tell Cary his theory about the loosened shoe—that it was done deliberately. He also told him about the broken stirrup leather. As he spoke, Cary’s blue eyes grew wider.

“Are you sure, Mr. Holmes? I mean, could you be mistaken?”

The detective shrugged. “I think not. I believe it was meant as a warning.”

Cary sat down again, a look of bewilderment on his face. “But who would do such a thing—and why?”

Holmes explained his various theories and then added, “Of course, there may be another reason I’m overlooking . . . anything is possible.”

Cary stared into the fire for several moments without moving. Then, collecting himself, he took a breath and rose from his chair. “Well, that is a sobering thought, gentlemen—sobering indeed.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Lord Cary,” Holmes responded.

“Oh? What’s that?”

“Ghosts don’t go around loosening horseshoes and cutting stirrup leathers—at least none that I know of.”

Cary shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t suppose they do.”

I looked out the window at the black skeletons of the branches rattling on the window panes, blown about by the wind.

At the hour of the moon the Demon Hunter is abroad

On his black stallion o’er the fields he does ride . . .

The lovers now lie buried in the deep dark glen

But the Hunter on his great black steed will ride, and ride

—
and ride again
.

I was seated in the dining room over a late breakfast the next morning when Holmes came striding into the room.

“Good morning, Watson,” he said, seating himself.

“You’re up early, Holmes. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been to town,” he replied, plucking a napkin from the table and unfolding it onto his lap. I noticed he still favoured his right shoulder.

“Oh? What did you do there?”

“I was looking for a man who doesn’t exist.”

“And did you find him?” I asked, familiar with my friend’s cryptic ways.

“I did. Or at least I found people who had seen him, which was close enough for my purposes,” he said, helping himself to a thick slab of bacon with eggs.

“I see. And who is this nonexistent personage?”

“Do you remember the strange little man you saw at the theatre in London?”

“Yes.”

“And one of the stagehands also reported seeing someone who was very likely the same person?”

“Yes, I remember telling you about it.”

“Well, Watson, it seems that odd character has been a recent guest at the Lambeth Hotel in Torquay.”

“Really? You don’t say!”

“Yes, even in a place like Torquay such a colourful personage is bound to make an impression. The hotel clerk particularly remembered the curious cane handle you described so well.”

“The falcon head, or whatever it was—”

“Just so,” he replied, pouring a cup of steaming coffee from the pot.

“And what do you think his involvement in this affair is?”

“That remains to be seen, Watson, though I have my theories.”

But any further discussion of his theories was interrupted by the entrance of Marion Cary into the dining room. She had only just greeted us and sat down when her son Charles strode into the room.

“Has anyone seen William?”

“Not today,” Marion Cary replied. “But then,” she added, turning to me, “days can go by without my setting eyes upon him. And the abbey is so big that if you want to hide from others, it’s fairly easy.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Holmes remarked.

Charles Cary paced impatiently from one side of the room to the other, the heels of his boots clicking upon the hardwood floor. “Well, he hasn’t cleaned out the stable yet today, and no one seems to know where he is.”

Holmes rose from his chair. “Annie has been instructed to keep close watch on him during the day. I think we should search the abbey.”

Cary looked at Holmes, evidently surprised by his response. “Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, you don’t think . . . ?”

“I make it a practice never to predict without the proper facts, Lord Cary.”

Just then Annie came rushing into the room, panting. “I can’t find William—I just turned around and he was gone!”

Elizabeth insisted upon helping us, claiming that she knew of all the boy’s favourite hiding places. After searching all through the house, however, we came up empty-handed. As we stood huddled in the foyer comparing notes, Holmes suggested gravely that we might try searching the grounds next. Grayson entered the room with a tea tray, and we stood in the foyer hastily gulping down steaming cups of tea to fortify ourselves for the raw weather outside. A blustery offshore wind had begun to blow in from the sea, whipping the bare tree branches about with an increasing insistency.

We went outside, and as we all were about to set off in different directions, a cry came from Elizabeth Cary, who was standing a few yards away from the rest of us.

“What is it, Elizabeth?” said Charles Cary, hurrying over to where his sister stood staring at the ground.

“There—there!” she replied, pointing to the body of a blackbird upon the ground. The dead bird lay on its side, the wind ruffling its shiny black feathers, its lifeless orange eyes staring up at us from death. There was no visible mark upon the bird’s body; it appeared to have fallen out of the sky onto the ground where it lay.

Whatever the cause of death, the girl was transfixed by the sight, trembling and pointing to it as we joined her one by one.

“It’s only a bird, Elizabeth,” Cary said, putting his arms around her.

She buried her head in his shoulder. “Please—take it away!” she wailed piteously.

“Very well; don’t worry,” he murmured, stroking her shiny dark curls, black as the feathers on the dead bird.

Holmes and I watched as he led the disturbed girl away, back into the abbey.

“What on earth was that all about?” I said when they had gone. “Why get so upset over a dead bird?”

Holmes looked down at the dead bird, its body still except for the fluttering of its feathers ruffled by the wind.

“Why, indeed, Watson; why indeed?”

We continued the search, spreading out in all directions; Holmes headed towards the orchard, Cary and I southwest in the direction of the stables. Leaving Cary, I skirted the edge of the Spanish barn and headed toward the little pond just beyond the stables, set in among a grove of poplar trees. I entered the grove and walked towards the pond, clutching my coat around me as the wind gathered in strength and tried to tear it from my body. As I neared the pond, I saw what I thought at first was a dark log protruding from the water’s edge. I took a couple more steps, and my heart was suddenly caught in mid-beat.

I had found William.

The boy lay at the water’s edge, half submerged, the lower part of his body in the pond, the upper half lying facedown on the muddy bank. I knelt and felt for a pulse, but I knew at once from the icy-cold feel of his skin that he was dead.

There was no injury immediately apparent upon his body, no sign of blood on his clothing, no rips or tears that I could see which might indicate stab wounds. I guessed the cause of death to be drowning, though, not being a pathologist, I was not equipped to determine it. His pale face was parched of all colour, white as birch, and his skin was already beginning to look swollen and bloated. My heart felt heavy and tears welled up in my eyes; I had grown fond of the boy these past few days, and it was almost more than I could bear to see his poor, lifeless body.

I pulled him a little farther onto the shore so that he did not slip back into the pond, then ran to get the others. I soon found Holmes in the orchard, then the two of us went to get Cary, whom we found standing just outside the Spanish barn.

“Whatever will we tell Elizabeth?” he murmured minutes later as we stood over the body watching as Holmes examined the ground around the pond. “She will be heartbroken, poor thing.”

Holmes straightened up and wiped the mud from his trousers. “There are no tracks coming from the house other than ours and the boy’s,” he observed tersely. “Someone may have come from another direction—but you see here where the soil has been smoothed over? They took care to cover their tracks.”

Cary rubbed his forehead. “This is bad, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my family.”

Holmes wiped the mud from his hands, his face set and grim. “Anything is possible, Lord Cary, but I think it was very likely the boy met his death through the infliction of violence.”

“In other words, he was murdered.”

“I’m afraid so.”

He went on to explain to Cary William’s impromptu performance for us several days ago, and the conclusion it had led us to: that the boy had been present when his mother died.

Cary listened thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean—”

“No, it doesn’t,” Holmes replied in a tight voice, cutting him off. I could tell William’s death had hit him hard, too. His movements were stiff and more precise than ever, and there was a barely suppressed rage in his voice.

After Holmes had finished examining the scene, we carried William’s body gently to the house. Holmes asked Lord Cary if he wanted to leave the scene intact for the police, but Cary shook his head.

“I’d rather not involve the police just now, if you don’t mind. The whole town doesn’t need to know about this, and besides, there’s no certainty this was murder. As Dr. Watson pointed out, William’s brain disorder—”

But Holmes cut him off. “And there’s no conclusive evidence your cook was the victim of foul play, either. But if you want my opinion, Lord Cary, I must tell you that I believe neither of these deaths can be blamed on accidental causes.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes, but if it’s all the same with you, I’d still rather not involve the police.”

Holmes shrugged. “As you wish.”

Later, as we sat in the parlour waiting for Grayson to round up the rest of the household, Holmes stood in front of the window looking out at the wind which chased and whipped the tree branches to and fro. “By God, this has gone too far, Watson!” His jaw was set and his grey eyes burned with anger. I could not remember ever seeing him so furious. “Now he has drowned a child!”

I shook my head. “I’m not a pathologist, but I know that a diagnosis of death by drowning is really a matter of elimination, once other causes have been ruled out. It’s a tricky call.”

“Damn!” Holmes muttered, his jaw clenched. “He has covered his tracks once again, giving us precious little to go on. This murderer is very clever—and very evil. What kind of person is this, who could kill a poor helpless half-wit child?”

“William isn’t—wasn’t—a half-wit,” I corrected gently. “He just had a condition—”

“Yes, yes!” he barked impatiently. “He was still a 
child
, defenseless and harmless.” The rage in his voice gave way to fatigue. “He was harmless to everyone—to everyone, that is, except his killer. And that, Watson, is the closest thing we have to a clue in solving his murder.”