The Haunting of Torre Abbey (22 page)

Elizabeth Cary shifted her gaze to me. “But…I don’t understand. How…?”

“He took a fall from his horse earlier this morning and broke his neck,” Holmes interjected.

The girl blinked and looked at her brother. “So then . . . he didn’t drown?”

Holmes shook his head. “No. He faked his own death, and then arranged the series of hauntings and other bizarre events which have occurred recently—”

“But why would he do such a thing?” Charles Cary demanded.

“In order to make Torre Abbey a place no one would want to live in.”

Elizabeth Cary stared up at Holmes. “Then the apparitions . . .”

Holmes shrugged. “Cleverly staged events, done with the help of a professional magician, who is also unfortunately dead. Victor Cary planned to drive his wife out of her mind—or at least out of Torre Abbey. And somewhere along the line he planned to kill you, Lord Cary,” he said, turning to Charles, “in such a way as to make it look like an accident.”

Cary sat upright in his chair. “The loose horseshoe!”

Holmes nodded. “He also planned to do away with me, by cutting my stirrup leather.”

“He didn’t want to hurt me, did he?” Elizabeth asked softly.

“No,” Holmes replied. “In fact, once your mother and brother were out of the way, I believe he planned to make a miraculous appearance, claiming amnesia, and reclaim Torre Abbey for you and himself. Am I right, Grayson?” Holmes said, looking at the butler.

All eyes turned to the old man, who sat still as stone in the corner. “More or less,” he replied, his chin lifted proudly in defiance.

Charles Cary leaped to his feet. “Grayson? What is the meaning of this? Is this true? Did you . . . conspire against us?”

The old butler stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. “When he gave me my life I pledged it to serve him,” he said tonelessly, as if reciting by rote. “He never meant for the boy to get hurt, miss,” he said to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth Cary’s eyes grew even wider. “William?” she cried. “You killed William?”

The old man continued staring straight ahead. Elizabeth jumped from where she sat and threw herself at him, but Holmes intervened, catching her firmly by the shoulders before she could attack the butler.

“I’m afraid there’s another bit of disturbing information I must relay,” Holmes said. “William was Lord Cary’s bastard son.”

“Good Lord,” Charles Cary murmured, shaking his head. “So he arranged the murder of his own 
son?
”

“His bastard son,” Holmes corrected him. “William could never inherit Torre Abbey or the Cary name. But he was unfortunately present when his mother died, so Victor Cary was afraid he would spill the beans sooner or later.”

“But he couldn’t even talk,” Marion Cary protested. “Why kill a poor innocent—” but she stopped mid-sentence. “I knew Victor Cary; I of all people should know what he was capable of,” she added bitterly.

“Poor little bird,” Elizabeth whispered, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Poor little bird.”

“Yes, Sally’s death was an unfortunate accident,” Holmes continued, “but William’s was cold-blooded murder, and only served to draw the noose tighter around Victor Cary’s neck.”

He went on to explain how he had discovered one of the methods Victor Cary used to communicate with Grayson when out letterboxing with Father Norton; how he had tracked Victor—in disguise as the old man I had seen at the theatre—to the Hotel Lambeth in Torquay; his discovery of the cigar ash in the Spanish barn; and finally, he described our midnight pursuit across the moors.

When he finished, no one spoke for a few moments. Then Annie, whom we had quite forgotten about, broke the silence.

“God help us,” she murmured, expressing the thoughts of everyone in the room, I thought.

“One thing I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Cary remarked as we waited for the police to arrive. “If you were riding Richmond,” he said, “where did my fath—Victor Cary—get a black horse?”

“Perhaps you know the animal, Lord Cary,” said Holmes. “He’s just outside.”

We went out to where the horses stood tethered in front of the abbey.

“Good Lord—I’ll be damned if it isn’t Mystic Rider!” Cary exclaimed when he saw the animal. He ran a hand over the great horse’s flanks. The horse seemed to know him, for it nuzzled his shoulder.

“Mystic Rider?” I was puzzled.

“Yes, he’s Richmond’s brother—”

“Oh, yes—the horse you sold to your neighbour, the one that used to belong to your father,” I said.

“It’s a fitting name for a ‘ghost horse,’ ” Holmes remarked. “I should imagine your neighbour will be glad to see his horse again. He probably thought this was the work of horse thieves.”

Cary’s face darkened. “It was the work of someone much worse than that.”

Detective Jonathan Samuels, the police detective from Torquay, arrived shortly afterwards, flanked by the fat sergeant and two equally well-fed constables, whose round faces registered surprise when they were introduced to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. After Holmes had explained the salient details, Detective Samuels shook his head. He was a short, blunt-faced fellow, with a tangle of salt-and-pepper hair and a rumpled overcoat. The constables continued to stare at Holmes while their superior officer spoke.

“That’s quite a story, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll have to hand it to you for sorting everything out—though I wish you’d come to us sooner, sir, as we could have offered you some protection,” he added, addressing Lord Cary.

“Your colleagues seemed uninterested, to say the least, in our family’s problems,” he replied sourly.

The detective looked stunned. “I’ve been on vacation, sir, and just returned yesterday. I had no idea—”

“Never mind,” said Holmes. “He never would have shown his hand if the place had been crawling with police.”

The detective looked at him with admiration in his blunt face. “Oh, no offense, Mr. Holmes—round here you’re something of a legend, you know, and I wouldn’t dream of—”

“I’m quite sure you wouldn’t, Detective,” Holmes intervened. “However, we do have someone for you to place under arrest, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Oh, no, not at all, sir—not at all,” the detective sputtered, his face growing red.

Grayson offered no resistance when Samuels placed him under arrest; now that his master was dead, he didn’t seem to care what happened to him.

“Before you take him away, Detective, there’s something I’d like to clear up,” Holmes said as the constables placed the handcuffs on the butler. We were standing in the front hall of the abbey.

“What’s that, sir?”

Holmes went over to where Grayson was standing and said something to him in a voice too low for us to hear. Grayson nodded his head, and said something back to Holmes. Holmes frowned and nodded, and then he came back over to us.

“Very well, Detective—thank you.” With that he turned and went back towards the parlour, where the Cary family were gathered.

Detective Samuels looked at me. “What’d he say?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

He sighed. “Pity.” Then his face brightened. “Well, I expect I can look forward to reading your account of it someday, Dr. Watson.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Mind you get my name right—it’s Samuels, with an 
s
.”

“Right you are—Samuels.”

“Right. Well, if that’s all, we’ll be getting along, I expect,” he said, obviously reluctant to leave. “I’ve heard about this place, you know,” he added, taking a last look around the abbey, “but I’d never been inside before. It’s grand, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I replied, “it is that.”

“What was it you asked Grayson?” I said to Holmes as we stood watching the policemen load the butler into their coach.

Holmes frowned. “It’s as I suspected, though I see no need to tell Lady Cary about it.”

“Tell her what?”

“I suspected Victor Cary’s involvement in Christopher Leganger’s death when Father Norton told us what a good rider Leganger was. Grayson just confirmed my suspicion.”

“So Victor Cary murdered him, too?”

Holmes nodded. “I’m afraid so, though it might be difficult to prove in a court of law. According to Grayson, he deliberately spooked Leganger’s horse as it was going over a jump.”

“Good Lord,” I said as we watched the police coach drive away.

* * *

Not long afterwards we all sat over a long-delayed breakfast, which the ever-stalwart Annie had prepared with the help of Elizabeth Cary. The atmosphere in the room was strained as Annie shuffled in and out of the room with plates of eggs and sausages, but finally Charles Cary broke the silence.

He turned to his mother. “So you knew Father had discovered your secret before his ‘death.’ ”

She hung her lovely head and studied her hands. “One day I came upon him in my room. He claimed to be there because the chambermaid had seen a mouse under my bed, but I thought at the time it was odd he didn’t leave a job like that to Grayson.” She sighed and flicked a stray hair back from her face. “I keep a box containing all my letters from Christopher locked in my desk, and, well, that was the lock Mr. Holmes saw had been tampered with.”

Holmes nodded, his eyes narrow. “And did you know William was Elizabeth’s half-brother?”

Marion Cary heaved a great sigh and looked out at the barren trees in the orchard, their branches stripped of fruit and leaves. “I suspected, certainly. Sally had a fellow in town, or so she said—and while I was happy enough to welcome her child into our house, I was surprised at my husband’s willingness to overlook such an indiscretion on the part of a servant. He was not the most forgiving of men, as I suppose you know by now,” she added sadly.

Charles Cary went over to his mother and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, burying his head in her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured.

She looked up at him, her azure eyes full of pain. “I wanted to . . . I tried, but things were already difficult enough between you and your father, and I was afraid that if you knew, you’d—”

“Hate him even more?” Charles replied bitterly. “At least I’d have known I had a father I could be proud of.”

“Imagine Victor Cary’s rage when he found out that he had married a ‘tainted’ woman,” Holmes mused, “and that the fact had been kept from him.”

Marion Cary sighed again. “I know I’m to blame for so much of what has happened.” She turned to her daughter, who sat still and silent across from her. “Can you forgive me, Elizabeth?”

The girl regarded her mother coldly. “I don’t know . . . someday, perhaps. Right now it’s hard to imagine how I’ll feel about you . . . or about anything else.”

Charles Cary went around to his sister and took her hand. “Elizabeth, I know it’s difficult, but things will be better soon, I promise. I’m going to take the semester off and take care of you until you’re all better, and then I’ll go back to medical school.”

“Oh, Charles . . .” said Marion Cary, but Charles put his hand to his lips.

“It’s all settled, Mother—I’ve missed too many classes as it is. Elizabeth needs looking after, and I’m the one to do it.”

Marion Cary put her head down. “I suppose you’re right. After all that’s happened, it’s probably for the best.” She turned to her daughter. “Perhaps in time you’ll come to trust me, but . . . well, I can’t say I blame you for feeling the way you do.”

“It wasn’t her fault, after all, who her father was,” Charles added.

“No,” Lady Cary agreed. “It was my fault.”

Holmes and I stayed one last night at Torre Abbey, more to comfort the Cary family than because either of us wanted to stay. I for one was anxious to get back to my practice; after the events of the past few days, it seemed to me that even another flu epidemic would be a relief. We took the first train to London the following morning.

As we were preparing to leave for the train station, Father Norton rode up on his horse. I was in front of the abbey, loading our bags into the Carys’s carriage.

“I heard what happened,” he said, jumping down from the saddle. “It’s all over town—everyone’s talking.”

“Oh?” I replied, lifting a bag into the back of Lord Cary’s brougham. “Detective Samuels is evidently not the most discreet of policemen.”

“No,” Norton answered, giving me a hand with the luggage, “but gossip has always spread through Torquay like wildfire. Everyone always knows everyone else’s business. Is Lady Cary about?” he said as we finished loading the last of the luggage.

“I believe she’s inside.”

“Thank you,” he replied, and went into the abbey. Some moments later Holmes emerged from the building shaking his head.

“What is it about women, Watson, that makes perfectly sane men act like utter fools?”

I laughed. “I don’t know, Holmes, but you should be grateful that whatever it is, you’ve been spared.”

After we said our goodbyes, Charles Cary drove us to the train station. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done,” he said, holding his hat in his hands to avoid its being blown off his head by the strong gusting wind that whipped around the corner of the station building.

“Just take care of your family, Lord Cary,” Holmes replied.

“And as for Elizabeth,” I began, but Cary shook his head.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Watson—I have already spoken with her, and together we’ll solve her problem, I promise you.” He looked down the tracks which extended into the distance as far as the eye could see. “I almost wish I were going with you. I feel as though I’ve had enough of Devon for a while. But I have responsibilities here,” he sighed, “and I expect medical school will wait.”

“It will,” I assured him, “and when you get there, believe me, you’ll have days when you want to leave.”

He smiled. “Yes. Well, thank you again,” he repeated, shaking hands with us. Then, placing his hat securely upon his head, he turned and went down the steps to his waiting carriage. We watched him go, and Holmes sighed.

“I hope he is up to the challenges ahead, Watson.”

I sighed, too, but for a different reason. I knew that in all likelihood I would never see Marion Cary again. “I’m sure he will be fine, Holmes.”

I looked down the track and could see the train, far away in the distance, chugging towards us. I inhaled my last breath of West Country air for what I now hoped was a good while. As beautiful as the Devon coast was, I was not sorry to bid it goodbye. I had had enough of ghosts who roamed drafty hallways at night, of ancient curses and family secrets. I longed for our sitting room at Baker Street, and wanted nothing more than to settle into my chair in front of the fire and while away the fall evening with a book and a glass of claret while Holmes scraped away at his violin or performed experiments at his chemistry table.

On the train, I sat staring out the window at the countryside rushing by, scenery which had once looked picturesque to me but which now seemed a mask to hide all human evil behind its façade of bucolic loveliness. Round stacks of hay lay upon freshly mowed fields, bulky and stolid as the fat grey sheep which grazed upon the farms all around us. I looked at Holmes, who was leaning back in his seat, his hat pulled low over his eyes. I thought he was asleep, and was surprised to hear him speak.

“Well, Watson,” came the familiar voice from under the hat. “What do you think of the behaviour of the Cary family?”

I shook my head. “Pretty shabby, if you ask me. What I don’t understand, though, is how you figured Grayson was part of it.”

Holmes removed his hat from his face and propped it on top of his head at a rather crooked angle, so that it gave him a rakish, rascally look. “Grayson was the key all along, Watson, but it was essential that he not be aware that I was on to him. That is why I couldn’t risk telling you. Forgive me, dear fellow, but I can’t say that you number acting ability among your many talents,” he added gently. “If Grayson had even suspected I was watching him, he would have alerted his master and that would have been that.”

“So that extra pork chop was for Victor Cary?”

“Yes. He was no doubt hiding in the Spanish barn, waiting for his chance to strike, and Grayson brought him his dinner.

“The first clue I had to Grayson’s involvement was when he called Charles ‘Master Cary’ instead of ‘Lord Cary’. It was a subtle sign, but telling enough. It indicated to me that possibly he had not accepted Victor Cary’s death, but it also suggested another possibility.”

“That Victor Cary was not dead,” I suggested.

“Precisely. And there can, of course, be only one Lord Cary at a time. Besides, all signs pointed to someone who, if not an actual member of the family, was at least very close to them—someone who knew them well. Do you recall when I asked Grayson who in the household smoked cigars?”

“Yes—and Lord Cary was surprised you hadn’t asked him about it, instead.”

“I did it to observe Grayson’s reaction. I was just fishing at that point, but if Grayson knew where the cigar ash came from, then he was very likely to be implicated in the plot.”

“And?”

“His reaction was very interesting. He did not ask me why I was asking the question, which means he knew—or guessed—why I was asking it. He responded, and then was hoping I would pursue the matter no further in front of his employer.”

“I see. So that day at the Spanish barn, while I was in the grips of imagining the fate of those poor sailors, you were calmly collecting facts, as usual,” I replied somewhat ruefully.

Holmes permitted himself one of his rare smiles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Watson. After all, if it had not been for your somewhat over-active imagination, I likely would not have arrived at some of the conclusions I did—or at least not as quickly.”

I brightened. “Really?”

“Most certainly.” He sighed. “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive’ . . . it’s interesting, by the way, that the Carys named their animals after characters out of 
The Tempest
. Victor Cary 
was
 rather like Prospero, trying to control his own little island, even using magic to attain his goals.”