The Haunting of Torre Abbey (23 page)

“Like Prospero, he couldn’t keep his little kingdom intact,” I observed. “He failed to control his creatures, and there were always elements beyond his powers.”

“Indeed,” Holmes answered. “His magic wasn’t strong enough in the end to overcome the forces of justice.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Would that it were always thus, Watson—the forces of justice prevailing at last. It strikes me as a terrible thing, Watson, that a man would care so much for his bloodline that he would be willing to kill for the sake of it.”

I looked out at the golden farm fields flying by, at snug thatched cottages nestled against each other like the fat sheep huddling in the corners of the gently rolling hillsides.

“There are some things I don’t understand, though,” I said. “How is it that Elizabeth Cary was suddenly able to speak Spanish?”

Holmes looked at me and smiled enigmatically. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .’ You yourself experienced something, did you not, Watson?”

I shook my head. “Something, Holmes, though whether of heaven or earth, who can say?”

“Who, indeed, Watson, who indeed?”

“You’d think there was enough suffering in the world without the need for man to add to it with his foolishness,” I sighed. “Justice prevailed in the end, it’s true, but at what cost?”

“Yes, indeed, Watson, you would think so—but you would be sadly mistaken. However,” he said, sliding his hat down over his eyes once again, “I shall at least be able to report a successful outcome to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard of what must have been for him a most vexing case. And, beyond that, there are at least some comforts in this evil world.”

“Oh? Such as what?”

He lifted his hat ever so slightly and peered at me through one eye. “I for one am looking forward to Mrs. Hudson’s excellent rack of lamb, a glass of burgundy by my own fire, and then perhaps a bit of Bach at the Royal Albert Hall, time permitting. What do you say—are you game? How is your shoulder?”

“It’s much better,” I replied earnestly. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”

“Capital! And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to catch a well-deserved nap.”

With that he replaced the hat and I was left alone with my own thoughts. I thought about the Devon coast, and Torre Abbey, so full of enchantments but also treachery, and of Marion Cary’s face and figure, also enchanting, but, like the mask of Nature’s beauty, not to be trusted. I looked at Holmes, asleep so peacefully across from me, hands folded in his lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him—the picture of contentment.

I looked out the window once again. A sluggish mist was descending over the farm fields of Devon as they disappeared rapidly behind us, falling away into the background, replaced by a smoky fog in the thickening air. I sighed, leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I could not shake from my mind the feeling that there 
were
 more things in Torre Abbey, perhaps of neither heaven 
nor
 earth . . . I contemplated our return to the gaslit cobblestone streets of London, and its more familiar follies and pleasures, buried beneath back alleyways or exposed to the casual onlooker with the sudden flare of a street lamp. It was perhaps no better a place than the one we were leaving, but come what may, it was, after all, home.

 

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Copyright © Carole Buggé 2000

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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ebook ISBN: 9780786753284

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