The Haunting of Torre Abbey (20 page)

“There is devilry afoot here, Watson,” Holmes observed grimly as we gazed out at the greyish-green water of Tor Bay. It was later that day, just before nightfall, and Holmes had gone for a walk along the seashore to clear his head. I accompanied him on his lonely hike, lowering my head against the strong offshore wind blowing in from the bay.

“Are you quite convinced, then, that neither of the deaths at Torre Abbey were accidental?”

Holmes looked out at the sea stretching before us, its surface dark and moody as a willful child. “No more than I believe that real bullets ended up in Merwyn’s gun by accident. No, Watson, I am convinced that our antagonist will stop at nothing to gain his or her ends.” He drew a hand over his brow, and in the dull light of day his face looked worn and haggard. “The trouble is, Watson, I don’t yet know what those ends are.” He sighed and shook his head. “There is evil at work here, Watson. Someone is playing a very dangerous game, and playing it in earnest, leaving bodies wherever they go. And now they are desperate enough to strike in broad daylight. These are deeper waters than I ever suspected—deeper and more treacherous.”

I looked out across the gently swelling waves, a blank surface of water as far as the eye could see. The sea was so opaque in the grey light that it looked almost as if you could walk upon it. I knew this was an optical illusion, however: like so many things at Torre Abbey, appearances were deceiving, and the placid surface of the sea hid the dangers swirling just beneath it.

As I feared, following the death of William, Holmes began driving himself even harder than usual. In spite of my remonstrations, he blamed himself for the boy’s death, and, determined to break the case as soon as possible, began ignoring his own health. I came down the next morning to find him sitting in front of a cold fire, staring moodily into the grate, his pipe and a bag of shag tobacco next to him, wearing the same clothes as the day before. It was obvious he had not been to bed all night.

“I don’t see how ruining your health will help solve this case, Holmes,” I said, perching upon the arm of the settee.

He looked up at me, great dark circles under his grey eyes. “Time is running out, Watson. My health is of no concern to me at the moment.”

“That may be,” I countered, “but if you drive yourself into the ground you will be of no use to anyone.”

He dismissed this with a weary wave of his hand. “I have trained my constitution, Watson; I have done without sleep before.”

That much was true. His willpower was remarkable; I had seen him endure privation that would have stopped a lesser man. “Still,” I grumbled, “you might have some breakfast.”

He appeared not to hear the last remark, for he sat sunk in his own thoughts until I left to go into the dining room, where Grayson had prepared a lavish breakfast. At the sight of eggs and sausages I turned heel and went back into the study, where Holmes was sitting where I had left him, about to light his pipe.

“I will not leave you alone until you eat something,” I said firmly. “Punishing yourself for William’s death does no good to anyone.”

He looked at me, his haggard face registering surprise. “My dear fellow, what on earth makes you think I am punishing myself?”

“This refusal to take care of yourself—I don’t know what you call it, but I call it punishment,” I replied coldly. “And I don’t see how it can possibly help you to solve this case.”

He rubbed his forehead and sighed wearily. “Very well, Watson, I shall do as you ask—or rather, as you command,” he added with a little smile. “I see you have quite made up your mind in the matter.”

“Quite,” I replied, trying not to show my surprise at the ease of my victory as he followed me into the dining room.

Holmes really was famished, as was I, and we both tucked into the plentiful platters of food which emerged from the kitchen. Annie was very upset over poor William’s death, as her red eyes attested, and she sniffled a little as she served us. It seemed as though everyone had been fond of the boy, and all of us were still in shock from his death.

It will all come to a head soon, Watson,” Holmes said later that day as I sat in the library cleaning my revolver. The thick salt air had done it no good; the action was sluggish, and I noticed the bullet chamber had a tendency to clog and stick. If we were soon to come face to face with our foe, I wanted to be prepared.

Holmes lifted the heavy brocade curtain and let a stream of sunlight into the room. I watched the dust particles swirling about, caught in the yellow beam, tiny travellers trapped in a whirlwind of sunlight.

“Clues present themselves in the strangest manner,” Holmes mused. “For instance, did you happen to remark the number of pork chops served at dinner last night, by any chance?”

“No, I can’t say that I did. How many were there?”

He let go of the curtain and turned to me. “There were eight, Watson.”

“And what is the significance of that?” I asked, confused. I had no idea where he was headed with this.

“I distinctly heard Grayson tell Lady Cary that eleven chops were purchased,” he continued, “and yet there were eight served to us.”

“So presumably the servants each had one.”

“That would be . . .”

“Grayson and Annie.”

“Yes—which leaves ten chops. What happened to the other chop, Watson?”

“Perhaps one of the staff ate two.”

Holmes shook his head. “An old man and a girl? They were extremely generous chops, Watson—you yourself remarked upon it.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Merely that there is one pork chop still unaccounted for.”

Holmes sat in a chair opposite me. His long fingers twitched and every muscle in his lean body seemed poised for action. He watched me for some moments, fidgeting and sighing, until finally he could remain seated no longer and began to pace back and forth in front of the stacks of books which lined the walls.

“It is just as well the weather is fair,” he remarked, almost to himself. “We will need the advantage of moonlight.”

“How do you know it will be tonight?” I inquired.

He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his black hair, which looked shaggy and in need of a combing. I knew this meant Holmes was preoccupied; usually meticulous in his personal grooming, this inattention to such details could only mean he was focusing every bit of his impressive intellect upon the problem at hand.

“If you will just bear with me a little longer, Watson, all will become clear,” he replied apologetically.

I sighed and returned to my task, but I couldn’t help smiling a little. Holmes liked to play his cards close to his chest, keeping details even from me until the last minute. I’ve no doubt he had his reasons at times, but sometimes I thought his innate sense of theatricality was to blame. There was more than a little bit of the magician in Holmes himself—given a wand and a red-lined cape, I could just see him enjoying the breathless gasps of a stunned audience as he revealed the tricks of his trade.

As if reading my mind, Holmes spoke. “No doubt you think me unduly parsimonious with my information, Watson, but I assure you it is for your own protection.”

“Oh?” I said, amused and irritated at the same time. “This information is so dangerous, then, that I would be in peril if you told me?”

“My dear fellow, I promise that soon—very soon—all will be revealed. Until then, if you can only bear up with patience, I would be most grateful.” He looked at me earnestly, his grey eyes pleading.

“Holmes, when have I ever failed you?” I said, my voice suddenly thick.

He turned away without speaking for a moment, and when he did, I thought I detected a catch in his voice as well. “Never, Watson, and you have my gratitude for that.” There was another pause, and he cleared his throat. “But now, if you will excuse me, I must see to a few things,” he said, and left the room without looking back. I watched his spare form recede, saw the determined set of his shoulders, the kinetic energy in his stride, and smiled. In a world which was beginning to change at a dizzying rate, Holmes would always be Holmes, and there was comfort in that.

I was not prepared for his pronouncement over tea later that day.

“Well, Watson, I think it’s time we left Devon and went back to London.”

I was flabbergasted. “What are you talking about, Holmes?”

He laid a hand on my arm. “Calm yourself, Watson. I am merely suggesting a ruse to lure out our opponent. We must find a way to make the predator the prey.”

“And you think the way to do that would be to 
leave?
”

Holmes smiled. “Or rather, to pretend to leave. Consider, Watson: what does this person behind all these threatening events want?”

“Well . . .”

“Precisely. You are not certain. These events, terrible as they are, have mainly been threats aimed at the Cary family. If he or she—”

“Oh, Holmes, surely a woman is not capable of such—”

Holmes shrugged. “You know my views on women, Watson.”

I frowned. “I do indeed, and I do not agree with them.”

He laughed softly. “Poor Watson, always the romantic.”

“That may be, but—”

He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “We are wasting time on trifles. The point is, Watson, that if our antagonist wanted the Cary family dead, he would have carried out that scheme long ago. He clearly has both the resources and required ruthlessness to do so. We must therefore ask ourselves, what 
does
 he want? And the answer, I believe, is that he wants them gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone from Torre Abbey, that is.”

“I see. So you think whoever is behind this is trying to scare them out of the abbey?”

“Precisely. And our intervention has only slowed down the process. Therefore, if we leave—or pretend to leave—he will finally play out his hand, therefore laying all his cards upon the table, to use a perhaps trite but useful analogy.”

I nodded slowly. “I see. So we’ll pretend to go back to London—”

“Yes; we’ll invent some excuse or other, pressing business at Baker Street or some such thing, and then we will go so far as to get on the train—but when the train leaves we will not be upon it.”

“Hmm. I only hope we will not be placing the Cary family in further danger.”

Holmes rubbed his forehead. “Who can say? I only know that I am tired of playing cat and mouse, and that it is time to confront our opponent.”

Holmes insisted that no one be in on our scheme; that even if the members of the family could be trusted, it was best we not reveal ourselves to them for their own safety.

“You remember, perhaps, Watson, that I allowed you to believe I died at Reichenbach Falls, partly for your own safety, and partly because I did not believe you could convincingly act the part—”

I cut him off. “Yes, I remember, Holmes; there’s no need to remind me.” Though my relief upon his unexpected “resurrection” had been great, his actions of those years still rankled; I was still hurt that he had let his brother Mycroft into his confidence instead of me. But I agreed to go along with him and pretend we were really leaving, even though it was difficult. I was not the natural actor Holmes was, and furthermore, I feared the family’s reaction when we told them the news.

As I expected, the Cary family did not receive the news of our imminent departure well. Charles Cary was angry, and Marion Cary just stared at us with those blue eyes, and I felt shame creeping up my neck to my face. Holmes had invented an excuse involving a telegram and “urgent business pertaining to the government”; I tried my best to lie low and not answer questions as we prepared to leave. It was all I could do to avoid blurting out the truth as we climbed into the brougham, with Grayson waiting to drive us into town that evening. We were to catch the last train to London, and though we had promised to return as soon as we could, I knew our departure was wreaking havoc upon the mental state of the family. Of course, as Holmes pointed out, we might just be witnessing some very good acting performances, though he still would not tell me which member of the family he suspected.

We boarded the train as Holmes had arranged, and watched through the window as Grayson drove away from the station; we even went so far as to buy one-way tickets to London to further the ruse. But shortly after the final boarding call we slipped out of the last car and secluded ourselves behind a copse of trees until the train left. After it had chugged away into the night, belching blue smoke from its smokestack, Holmes stepped out from behind the tree.

“Good, Watson,” he said, looking around. “I don’t think anyone saw us.” The platform was indeed empty, and the station house was closed and deserted. “We must now make our way back to the abbey on foot.”

We had packed light, and I slung my overnight bag over my shoulder and followed Holmes.

It was not far from town to Torre Abbey, and as I walked down the country lane alongside Holmes I could hear the crickets chirping and the woodland creatures scuttling about in the bushes all around us. The call of a hoot owl came from a grove of birch trees, their white bark shining silver in the moonlight. We soon reached the edge of the Cary property, and the abbey loomed in front of us, dark and heavy-set against the clear October night sky.

To my surprise, Holmes did not go directly to the abbey, but headed in the direction of the stables.

“We must be prepared to meet fire with fire, and in this case that means being ready with mounts of our own,” he said as he fetched a saddle and bridle from the tack-room. He saddled and bridled Richmond, and I did the same with the little chestnut mare, Ariel. My heart pounded as I tied up the girth under her; I did not know what Holmes expected to happen, but resolved to prepare myself for whatever might be required. To that end, I had placed my revolver in my coat pocket before leaving the abbey, and now I was glad to have it.

We led the horses around to the side of the abbey and tethered them to a small tree, then Holmes led me up the stairs to the Abbot’s Tower, where a shaft of moonlight shone in through the window.