The Haunting of Torre Abbey (5 page)

“Well, you can see it’s occupied at present. There’s no shortage of rooms to clean, now, is there?” he said sternly.

“No, sir,” she replied, and scurried from the room as though a cannon had been fired behind her. Grayson made a little bow to us and withdrew from the room.

Lady Cary smiled. “Poor Annie. She’s the chambermaid, and is quite terrified of Grayson, though I can’t imagine why. He’s gentle as a kitten, really.”

Holmes regarded her languidly, one thin arm draped over the arm of his chair. “You employ a fairly small staff, then, Lady Cary?” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “With only Elizabeth and myself here these past few months, I see no need to have scads of servants marching about all day. In addition to Grayson and Sally, our cook, there’s only Annie the chambermaid—oh, and there’s a gardener who comes once a week to trim the hedges and look after the flower beds—but we won’t be needing him much until spring. How long do you expect to be with us, Mr. Holmes?”

Holmes rose from his chair and went over to the window. “Well, Lady Cary, that all depends.”

“Upon what?”

“Several things, actually—some of which I am only beginning to understand myself.”

“Yes, I have heard that you have an uncanny ability to deduce facts about people upon first meeting them.”

“Well, it’s hardly uncanny,” Holmes said modestly. “My ‘ability’ is merely based upon observation.”

“Very well, Mr. Holmes; tell me everything you have observed about me,” she said, leaning towards him.

Holmes considered this proposition for a moment. “Everything, Lady Cary?” he said carefully.

“Yes, indeed! It’s hardly any good if you keep something to yourself. I want to hear it all,” she laughed, but as she spoke a flush crept up her beautiful neck.

I had an impulse to tell Holmes not to go on, but I must admit I was curious to hear what he had surmised about our hostess.

“Very well,” Holmes replied smoothly. “Beyond the obvious facts that you are a practicing Catholic, left-handed, disciplined, and that you enjoy the company of a small brown terrier, I also observed that you are nearsighted, averse to fish, and have recently decided to give up smoking. Also, if you will pardon me for saying so, you are a bit on the vain side.”

“I say, Holmes!” I protested, thinking this last statement was a bit much, but Lady Cary laid a cool white hand upon my arm.

“It’s all right, Dr. Watson—I asked Mr. Holmes to tell me everything. He is quite correct in observing that I am vain,” she said with a smile. “I am not ashamed to admit it.”

“Well, I am certain you have a perfectly good reason to be,” I said huffily, still put out at Holmes for his remark.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” said the lady. “You are of course correct in every particular—except for the fish. It is only that I don’t like the smell of it first thing in the morning.”

Holmes smiled. “I see. When you reached for the platter of bacon, which Grayson placed near the kippers, and got the plate of herring instead, the look on your face was one of extreme distaste. In order to make such a mistake one would have to be quite nearsighted. When a woman does not wear her eyeglasses—even though they help her distinguish a plate of bacon from kippers—I am apt to conclude that she does so out of vanity rather than absentmindedness.”

Lady Cary laughed again, a deep chortling sound I found quite musical. “You are really too frightening, Mr. Holmes. Do you also have the ability to read minds?”

Holmes smiled drily. “Hardly. I think you will find all of my conclusions based upon fact rather than conjecture and intuition. For instance, when I saw the nicotine stains upon the fingers of your left hand, together with the greyish colour of your teeth, I concluded that you are a smoker, accustomed to holding a cigarette in your left hand. However, the way you fidget with your fork, together with the fact that the nails on both hands are bitten to the quick, lead me to the logical deduction that you are recently attempting to quit this unhealthy habit.”

Lady Cary sighed. “Yes, and it is one of the harder things I have ever attempted to do.”

Holmes nodded. “Very commendable, I’m sure. I for one do not have your discipline, for it takes discipline and willpower to quit the evil weed—as my colleague here, Dr. Watson, can tell you.”

I nodded. “It is indeed a most addictive substance, I’m afraid.”

Lady Cary absently ran a hand over a few scattered curls which had escaped her chignon. “And the Catholicism—and the terrier?”

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Mere child’s play. That cross you wear around your neck—surely it is an unusual ornament for a Protestant, and more likely to be worn by a Catholic, do you not agree?”

Lady Cary nodded. “Perhaps.”

“An interesting religion, Catholicism,” Holmes remarked. “They are especially given to secrecy, which is not surprising, considering the history of the religion in this country.”

Lady Cary smiled. “The Cary family have always been Catholics, even when they were persecuted for it—but you could have found that out from anybody in town.”

Holmes smiled. “Ah, but I didn’t.”

“Very well. And the terrier?”

Holmes shrugged. “Again, child’s play. The short brown hairs which I observe are only on the lower part of your dress indicate a small dog. I’ll admit the actual breed was a guess, but an educated one. Terriers are not only a popular breed but also have short, stiff hairs such as those.”

Lady Cary laughed her musical laugh again. “Well done, Mr. Holmes!”

“One thing puzzles me,” I interjected. “Terriers are notoriously territorial. Why didn’t he bark when we came in last night, I wonder?”

Lady Cary smiled. “He’s not a young dog, and his hearing is not what it used to be, I’m afraid—though his sense of smell is as good as ever. He’s a Skye terrier, actually, and goes by the name of Callie—short for Caliban. My daughter named him after reading 
The Tempest
 at school.”

“Yes, and a terrible little monster he is!”

I turned just in time to see Charles Cary enter the room, his face flushed and healthy-looking—a marked contrast to the drawn and haggard visage we had seen on the previous night. He kissed his mother on the cheek and then settled himself at the table with the air of a man who has just concluded some satisfying business.

“It seems your errand in town was a successful one, Lord Cary,” Holmes remarked, as if reading my thoughts.

“What? Oh, yes, it was; nothing much, just a small matter,” he replied. He appeared to be distracted by something, but turning his attention to Holmes and myself, he smiled. “Please call me Charles,” he said. “I don’t like all this ‘Lord Cary’ business—it makes me feel terribly old and responsible.”

“Oh, but you are,” his mother replied warmly. “Charles has not gotten used to being the man of the house—have you, Charles?”

Charles looked at her from under his blond lashes and bit the nail of his right index finger. “Well, it was a damn bloody nuisance of Father to go off and drown like that—it upset poor Elizabeth terribly.”

“Elizabeth is a high-strung child,” his mother replied dismissively.

“Where is your sister, by the way?” Holmes inquired.

“She went up to her room when we returned . . . she wasn’t feeling well,” Cary replied, stretching out a hand towards the coffeepot. In the morning light I could see that several of his nails were also bitten to the quick. I glanced at Holmes to see if he too noticed this, but his attention was focused upon Lady Cary.

“I’ll ring for some hot coffee,” she said as her son lifted the empty coffeepot.

No sooner had she spoken, however, than the door to the kitchen swung open and Grayson emerged, a steaming pot of fresh coffee in one hand and a tray of cinnamon buns in the other.

“Good man, Grayson,” said Charles Cary, plucking a bun from the tray as the butler set it down upon the table. “Always one step ahead of us, aren’t you?”

“I do my best, sir,” the old man replied as he poured his young master a cup of coffee. “Will Miss Elizabeth be taking her coffee upstairs today?” he inquired in a voice that I thought contained the slightest hint of disdain.

“She’s resting just now, so I think perhaps not,” Cary responded, biting into the cinnamon bun. “She’s still rather upset today,” he said after Grayson had retired from the room.

“Understandable, I’m sure,” Holmes replied, leaning back in his chair. I wondered what he thought of the Cary family. There seemed to me to be undercurrents of unresolved tensions between everyone in the household. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I had the feeling that they were all watching each other—and watching us as well, waiting to see what we might do.

Lady Cary turned to her son. “Mr. Holmes has just been telling me the most ingenious things about myself. He really is wonderfully observant, Charles—it’s rather like being under a microscope.”

Charles Cary turned to look at my friend. “Oh? What have you gleaned in your short time here, Mr. Holmes?”

“Well, he knew that Grayson was not an Englishman, for example,” said Lady Cary.

“Actually, he’s half English—his mother was a high-caste Indian woman, and his father was a British cavalry officer,” Cary replied.

“I see,” said Holmes.

Lady Cary rose gracefully from her chair. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I will leave you to your coffee—I know you have many things to talk about.”

“By all means,” said Holmes, rising as Lord Cary and I did the same.

She turned to her son. “If you need me, I will be in my rooms.”

Charles Cary took his mother’s hand and pressed it to his lips—not an unusual gesture in some circumstances, perhaps, but it seemed a little out of keeping with his natural air of reticence and dignity. Holmes showed no expression. Either he did not think it odd, or, more likely, he was keeping his thoughts to himself.

After his mother had gone, Lord Cary ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“I do not expect much help from the local police in this matter, you know, Mr. Holmes. However,” he said, looking at Holmes intently, his blue eyes blazing with emotion, “I hope that you will stand by us and get to the bottom of this affair.”

Holmes nodded, his face serious. “Have no fear of that, Lord Cary—there are several points of interest about this case. More importantly, I am convinced that, whatever forces are behind these events, you and the other members of your family are in some peril.”

Cary looked at Holmes. “Really, Mr. Holmes? What makes you say that?”

Holmes waved off the question with a flick of his hand. “I make it a habit not to reveal all that I observe, Lord Cary—a trait that you may well imagine is taxing to the patience of my ever tolerant colleague, Dr. Watson. However, I have my reasons. There are some things that my clients have no need to know—facts and observations that would not only be useless but upsetting to them and to my investigation. And, of course, I do not like to proceed upon any information unless I am very certain of it. Being a man of science, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

As Holmes spoke, Cary’s face grew redder, until it nearly matched the rich hue of his copper-coloured hair.

“I can well appreciate your need for some secrecy, Mr. Holmes, but I hope you will share with me anything which will help me to protect my family,” he replied, his voice tight. “After all, I feel it is my duty to see that no harm comes to them.”

Holmes nodded. “I understand, Lord Cary, and rest assured that I will do everything in my power to ensure the safety of everyone at Torre Abbey . . . By the way, may I ask how your father died?”

Cary looked down at his coffee cup, his jaw clenched. “He was drowned in the bay. He went swimming one day and never returned . . . his clothes were found upon the beach later that day.”

“I see. So the death was ruled an accident?”

“Yes.”

“But no body was ever found?”

Cary shifted restlessly in his chair. “No, Mr. Holmes—and now, if you will both excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

“Before you do, Lord Cary, I would like to ask you one or two things,” said Holmes.

“By all means,” Cary replied, but I could see that he was anxious to leave. “What do you want to know?” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Have you considered asking for protection from the local police?”

“I have spoken with the local authorities, but they are not anxious to become involved. They claim this is because nothing has been stolen, and no one has been injured—”

“As yet,” Holmes interjected.

“As yet . . .” Lord Cary shook his head. “I may as well tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I’m afraid my family’s relationship with the local constabulary is somewhat compromised. My father . . . how to put it delicately? He could be a harsh man, and once or twice he had occasion to clash with the forces of the law. In the process, I’m afraid, he made no friends.”

“I see. Very well . . . and now, I don’t wish to detain you any further from your business.”

“Thank you,” our host replied, and practically bounded from his chair. “I will see you at dinner, then, which is served at eight.”

When he had gone, Holmes turned to me and smiled. “Well, Watson, have you ever seen a man more anxious to avoid a conversation?”

“He was rather intent on leaving, wasn’t he?” I answered. “He clearly didn’t want to talk about his father’s death.”

“No, indeed he didn’t,” Holmes said, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll tell you something else: that chambermaid knew perfectly well we were in the dining room but she came in anyway.”

“So when Annie came barging into our breakfast carrying a broom—”

“I suspect the broom was just a pretense. She came in to talk to someone, but whoever it was, she clearly couldn’t do it in front of Grayson.”

“Yes that much is clear.”

“I’m not a betting man, as you know, Watson, but I would be willing to wager a substantial amount that Lord Cary is not the only one at Torre Abbey hiding something.”

I was thinking exactly the same thing.

Holmes spent the morning going from room to room of the abbey, examining each one. He began with the upstairs bedrooms, beginning with the one I was occupying. He explained that this was because it was closest to the stairs, and had been empty until our arrival. It was therefore a perfect hiding-place for an intruder, he claimed, and should therefore be thoroughly examined. Though he drew his magnifying glass from his pocket several times, peering through it closely, I gathered from his attitude that his search was not particularly fruitful.

Next we went into Elizabeth Cary’s room. She had gone out for a walk with young William, and Holmes was especially interested in the foot of the bed and the area of the windowsill, which he looked at very carefully through his lens, plucking from the window seat what looked like a few threads of fabric and placing them carefully in a small pouch.

“Did you find anything of value?” I asked as we left the room.

“Possibly,” he replied enigmatically. “Time alone will tell.”

Holmes and I found ourselves alone at luncheon that day. We were told that Elizabeth Cary was indisposed, and it seemed that Marion Cary rarely ate lunch. As Lord Cary was away attending to business for the remainder of the day, and Grayson was in town running errands for the family, Holmes and I had the dining room to ourselves.

Our meal was being served by a somewhat trepidant Annie, with much loud verbal assistance from Sally in the kitchen. The chambermaid’s hand shook as she placed the platter of salmon in cream sauce on the sideboard, and she scurried back into the kitchen immediately when Sally summoned her.

I could hear Sally in the kitchen muttering to herself. Though I couldn’t make out the words, the aroma of discontent was heavy in the air, and there was much banging of pans and rattling of cutlery.

“I can’t for the life of me understand why Cary keeps on that cook,” I said as I sat down across from Holmes. “She’s a good enough cook, but—”

My ruminations were interrupted by the sound of breaking china in the kitchen, followed by a loud curse. This time there was no mistaking the words: the oath was both colourful and specific.

“I dare say Lord Cary has his reasons for keeping her on,” Holmes remarked drily, unfolding his napkin.

A moment later Sally lumbered into the room, carrying a platter of beef medallions.

“Stupid girl,” she muttered as she half-hurled the platter in the general direction of the table, much as one might throw a discus. Luckily for us, the meat and platter arrived more or less intact, and once the cook was safely out of the room, stomping loudly back to the kitchen, I helped myself to some beef medallions. I was almost afraid that Sally might reconsider her beneficence and take them away from us, just out of general spitefulness, so I took two just in case.

They were delicious, as was the salmon—in fact, everything that emerged from Sally’s kitchen was superb. I had to agree with Holmes—Lord Cary 
did
 have his reasons, and miraculously, Sally’s disposition did not seem to affect the quality of her cooking. Fortunately for us, her sour moods did not seem to seep into her sauces. I had imagined radishes withering under her touch, turnips turning brown at her fingertips, but such was not the case. She was not a warm person—even her attitude towards her son was solicitous without being warm—but she was an inspired cook. I took another bite of salmon and sighed. Mrs. Hudson’s cuisine at Baker Street, while plentiful and hearty enough, lacked the subtlety of flavor that characterized Sally’s cooking.

All day I had been wondering whether I should relate to Holmes my experience of the night before. Now seemed like a perfect opportunity, so I decided to take advantage of it.

“Holmes,” I said slowly, “I have struggled with myself whether or not to mention this to you, and I’ll admit that in the light of day I’m even more reluctant, and yet . . .”

Holmes set down his wine glass. Torre Abbey had a formidable wine cellar, it turned out, and before he left for town, Grayson had chosen a lovely light Chardonnay to accompany the salmon, and a Bordeaux to go with the medallions of beef.

“What is it, Watson?” Holmes said. “If it has any bearing on this case, I suggest you tell me.”

“Well, Holmes,” I replied, fingering my napkin, “as to whether it has any bearing on this case, I rather think that’s for you to say. However, I would be remiss not to tell you, even though you may think me somewhat—addled.”

Holmes put down his fork and looked at me.

“My dear fellow, I assure you I would never think anything of the kind. I should hardly need to remind you that I consider you to be one of the most sensible and level-headed of men.”

Warmed by his words, I nevertheless shook my head. “I might in all immodesty have agreed with you—until last night, that is.”

I proceeded to tell him of my strange encounter (if that’s what it was) in the hallway upon the previous night. Though he listened attentively, I was nonetheless somewhat embarrassed by what I had experienced. I related the whole thing carefully, however, taking care to omit no detail—and being certain to mention my exhausted, perhaps overwrought state of mind at the time.

When I had finished, Holmes sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette.

“Well, Watson, it seems that it is not only the Cary family who is being plagued by visitations from the other world.”

“But I saw nothing,” I protested. “And surely you don’t believe—”

“Ah,” Holmes interrupted. “I will let you in on a little secret.”

“Very well,” I replied, curiosity getting the better of me.

Holmes leaned back in his chair and blew a smoke ring, which hovered above his head before dissipating into a grey mist. Everything about Torre Abbey seemed to suggest the presence of spirits, and even the cigarette smoke reminded me of a miniature will-o’-the-wisp as it rose and curled before disappearing into the air.

“What is it?” I said impatiently. “What is your secret?”

“Oh, it is merely this: though I do believe in the primacy of logic and deduction above all other qualities in an investigative detective—as I have on many occasions stated—I am by no means solely the cold reasoning machine you have described so often to your readers.”

I smiled in spite of myself. “You need hardly tell me that, Holmes. After all, there was the affair of the—”

Holmes interrupted me sharply. “This has nothing to do with Miss Adler, Watson; let me finish, if you would. What I mean to say is that there are occasions upon which so-called intuition has played a larger role in my conclusions than I admitted at the time, even to you. For example, in the case of ‘The Giant Rat of Sumatra,’ you may remember I set my sights early on upon Colonel Throckmorton?”

“Yes, but you always claimed—”

“Yes, yes; there was the evidence of the rare cigar ash, most assuredly. But it was by no means conclusive.”

“But the stain on his jacket—”

“I was about to say that even the curious stain upon his jacket could have been explained away a number of ways. What really led me to close in on him, finally, was a feeling all along that he was responsible for the smuggling operation, and the series of murders that followed it.”

“I see,” I replied slowly. “So you are saying—”

“What I am saying, Watson, is that there are aspects of the human brain we have not as yet fully explored. As much respect as I have for the primacy of observation, fact, and deduction—science, in other words—what I am suggesting is that even science has its limits—or rather, there are occurrences science has not yet been able to fully explain.”

I nodded slowly. “I see. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio?”

“Something like that,” he answered with an enigmatic smile. “Mind you, I am fully confident that science will no doubt someday provide the answer to these puzzling questions.”

“No doubt,” I replied, still a little taken aback by Holmes’s unaccustomed frankness. My friend was, if nothing else, unpredictable. Just when I thought I had the measure of him, he would surprise me. It made being around him stimulating, if occasionally trying.

“So what do you think I experienced last night, Holmes?” I said. “Are you saying that you believe—”

“Believe what, Watson?” Holmes smiled. “That what you experienced was the presence of an evil spirit?” He shrugged. “Who can say, Watson, who can say?”

Our conversation was interrupted by another entrance into the room by Sally. Her already sour disposition was evidently not improved by the absence of Grayson and the clumsiness of the chambermaid, forcing her (as she evidently saw it) not only to prepare lunch but serve it as well. She clumped even more loudly into the room, heaving a great sigh as she tossed a dish of watercress salad on the table.

“Can’t trust that stupid cow to do anything,” she muttered as she rearranged the platters to make room for the salad.

“The salmon is quite delicious, Sally,” I commented, “and so is the beef.”

She regarded me dolefully, then her face softened.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “It’s nice to know as how one is appreciated by someone around here.”

With that she turned and stomped back into the kitchen.

“I believe she rather likes you, Watson,” Holmes remarked after she had gone, helping himself to salad.

“Don’t be absurd,” I replied, feeling my face redden.

“Oh, no, she definitely favours you, no question about it.” Holmes smiled and plucked a sprig of watercress from his plate.

That afternoon I accompanied Holmes on a tour of the abbey ruins. The remnants of once proud medieval buildings lay all around the grounds of the abbey, their sturdy stones crumbling under the weight of centuries and the damp Devon air. We stood for a moment by the tomb of William Brewer the Younger, son of the founder of Torre Abbey, and then headed out across the orchard, where we came upon a small graveyard nestled just the other side of the apple trees.

I looked across the cemetery, where a thin white mist hung over the gravestones like a shroud. The rain had lifted, leaving the white fog behind it. As dusk descended over the cemetery, not a breath of breeze stirred the air around us, and we stood among ancient crumbling tombstones, mist swirling around our feet, pale and damp as death, a worldly reminder of what lay deep in the ground underneath our feet. The musty smell of earth and dried leaves invaded my nostrils as I watched our breath come in little white puffs of air.

A movement at the far side of the cemetery caught my eye. As I turned to look, Holmes clamped a hand upon my shoulder.

“Look, Watson,” he whispered, “just there. We’re not alone.”

I could make out through the descending darkness the figure of a woman, dressed all in white, moving among the graves.

“Who is it, do you think?” I whispered back.

He shook his head in reply and stepped behind the weathered oak tree, its branches spread out over the ancient gravestones like the wings of a mother hen guarding her chicks.

“Perhaps we can watch unobserved,” he said as I joined him behind the thick trunk of the old tree. We watched as the lady knelt before one of the more recent graves, the headstone still relatively untouched by the harsh effects of the Devon seaside air. She sank down to her knees upon the soft ground, her head bent as if in prayer, and remained thus for some time. I could not make out her face, but I thought there was something familiar in the attitude of her shoulders.

After spending some time in this position, she rose and moved off through the graves. With the mist covering her feet, she appeared to be floating over the ground, smooth and effortless as a spirit, gliding with an unearthly grace.

“Well, Watson,” Holmes said when she had gone, “shall we see who is the fortunate recipient of this visit?”

I followed him across the damp ground, picking my way carefully so as not to do dishonour to the bones of those who lay buried here. At length we came to the grave; it was on the far side of the cemetery and the fresh shoe prints in the ground around it left no doubt that it was indeed the same grave visited by our mysterious lady in white. I looked at the headstone, which contained only a name and the dates of birth and death:

CHRISTOPHER LEGANGER

1832–1867

“Hmm,” said Holmes, kneeling to examine the imprints in the ground left by the lady.

I ran my hand over the top of the tombstone, which was grey and rough to the touch. “Who was he, I wonder?”

Holmes stood up and brushed the dirt from his trousers. “Whoever he was, he evidently inspired great devotion.”

I nodded, and thought of the lady in white gliding through the misty air, in search of the lost love who lay buried beneath the damp Devon ground.

At precisely eight o’clock we were called to dinner by the resonant rumbling tones of the large brass gong hanging in the small antechamber off the main dining room. Dinner at Torre Abbey was a formal affair, complete with cut-crystal goblets and gold-rimmed china. I was glad Holmes had suggested packing formal wear as we left Baker Street, and though my evening clothes felt stiff and uncomfortable as I took my place at the table, I was glad I had brought them.

Lady Cary was already at the table, and Charles arrived moments later, his rust-coloured hair wetted and neatly combed back from his forehead, his face shiny from a recent scrubbing.

“How was your meeting, dear?” his mother asked as he kissed her cheek.

“Fine, thank you,” he replied as he took his place at the other end of the table.

“Where’s Miss Cary?” said Holmes.

Mother and son exchanged a look, and although they tried to hide it, I could tell they were keeping something from us.

Just then Elizabeth Cary appeared at the doorway. Wearing a white dress, her dark hair loose about her shoulders, she reminded me of Ophelia. There was something ethereal and otherworldly about her, an untouchable quality perfectly suited to this drafty old building. In the pale, warm candlelight, she seemed to have stepped into the room from the deep, dark past of this place, after wandering the stone hallways with softly chanting brown-robed monks.