The Haunting of Torre Abbey (6 page)

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Charles Cary said, rising from his chair.

She looked at her brother with a vacant gaze, and at that moment the truth was so blindingly evident to me that I wondered I had not seen it before: Elizabeth Cary was a dope addict.

It was not until the next day that I was able to share my observation with Holmes. When we were finally alone upstairs following breakfast, I ventured upon the topic. We had breakfasted early, before either Lady Cary or her daughter were up, though we were told Charles Cary was already up and out on his morning ride.

“Yes, I was thinking something along the same lines,” Holmes replied after I voiced my suspicions. He shook his head as he lit his cherrywood pipe. We were settled comfortably in his sitting room enjoying a smoke after breakfast. “What gave her away to you?”

“Well, I sensed there was something odd about her the first night—an overwrought quality, perhaps,” I replied as a thin swirl of smoke enveloped his head. “But it was only last night that I realized she . . . I’m not sure what it is, but she is undoubtedly under the influence of some drug or other. I’d say an opium derivative, if I had to guess.”

Holmes blew a smoke ring, a white circle which spun and curled briefly in the air, then dissipated slowly into a grey wisp. “I agree,” he replied. “I’d put my money on laudanum. Her behaviour has all the earmarks of the opium addicts I have observed.”

I frowned in spite of myself. I knew Holmes occasionally visited opium dens in London in his pursuit of the criminal element, but I didn’t like it all the same. I couldn’t help worrying that the seductive poppy derivative might some day wrap its claws around him. My concern was probably for naught, however; cocaine was much more to his liking, with its sharp corners and drug-induced energy spurts.

“Oh, don’t look so disapproving, Watson,” Holmes said. “It’s not as if I was ever seriously tempted by the substance myself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Seriously’ tempted, you say? Do you mean to imply—”

“My dear fellow,” he said, “really, you should try to worry less. I’ve lasted this long, and I expect I’ll muddle on for a good while yet.”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Very well, Holmes. I take your word for it that opium has never presented you with serious temptation.”

He nodded and leaned back in his chair. “I fear the same is not the case with our young friend, however—did you remark the blankness of her gaze last night? It was as if she were looking right through us without even seeing us.”

“Yes, it was rather disconcerting. I wonder if her family realizes it.”

Holmes flicked an ash from his sleeve. “Oh, I dare say they are quite aware of it—it is hardly the kind of thing one can easily hide. The wonder of it is that they thought they would be able to conceal it from us.”

“Perhaps they don’t think that.”

Holmes looked at me, his grey eyes narrowed. “Her mother certainly doesn’t seem to think much of her. She can barely conceal the disdain she feels for her daughter. I wonder . . .”

“If there’s a connection between her addiction and the ‘apparitions’?”

“That, and . . .”

“What?” I sat barely breathing, thinking Holmes was about to reveal one of his startling conclusions, but to my disappointment he just shook his head and sighed.

“I don’t know, Watson . . . there’s something at the centre of this that just doesn’t sit right.”

He rose and went to the window, his lean form outlined against the glare of daylight from the window frame. “I get the distinct feeling that everyone around here is hiding something.” He rubbed his brow wearily. “There are unseen forces at work here, Watson . . . human ones, no doubt, but unseen nonetheless.”

Our ruminations were interrupted by the entrance of Annie the chambermaid, who tiptoed shyly up to the open door.

“You sent for me, sir?” she said, her voice trembling, her head bowed.

“Please come in, Annie. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Holmes answered.

She raised her head and looked at us imploringly. “I does my best, truly,” she said, clenching her hands in front of her as she entered the room.

“It’s all right,” Holmes replied kindly, seeing the state she was in. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I just want to ask you a few questions.”

Her body relaxed a little, but there was still tension in her voice. “About what?”

“Oh, nothing much important,” Holmes replied carelessly. “I just wondered if you had to clean any boots last night.”

She cocked her head to one side and wrinkled her pert little Irish nose. “Funny you should ask, sir. My mistress gave me a pair of walking shoes—they was terrible dirty, and it took me quite a while to get all the mud off. I did a good job of it, though,” she added hastily, looking at me for support.

Holmes gave one of his rare chuckles. “I’m sure you did, Annie, I’m sure you did. Was there anything else you noticed about her?”

“There was something else, now that you mention it, sir,” she replied in a low voice. “It struck me as a bit queer at the time.”

“Yes?” Holmes was all attention.

“Well, when she come in from her walk, I noticed her dress was all dirty, as though she’d been kneeling in the dirt. ‘Now that’s odd,’ I says to myself; ‘what would a grand lady such as her want to be kneeling in the dirt for?’ ”

“Did you mention it to her?”

Annie stared at Holmes, her eyes wide. “Oh 
no
, sir; I would never presume . . . I mean, it isn’t my place now, is it?”

Holmes smiled. “No, I suppose not. You’re a good girl, then, are you?”

Her face flushed, Annie smiled broadly at Holmes, displaying a missing front tooth. “Well, now, sir, I’ll leave you to judge that for yourself. I make no claims to virtue, really I don’t. I just try to do my best and leave it at that.” She paused, then added, “I don’t have no truck with those what think they’re better than other folks.”

“Yes, quite right you are,” Holmes replied languidly. “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

Annie looked at us through wide blue eyes and shrugged. “All I’m saying is how those what think they’re very grand aren’t always so smart, is all, even if they is people of the Church . . . everyone’s equal in the sight of God, is all I’m saying.”

Holmes allowed himself a slight smile. “I see. Quite right you are, too, if I may say so. That’s good sensible reasoning.”

Annie beamed at him, showing the gap where her tooth had been. “You really think so, sir?”

“Oh, undoubtedly. I’m sure Watson would agree with me—wouldn’t you, Watson?”

“Oh, most certainly,” I replied automatically, my mind not fully engaged in what they were saying. I was still brooding about Lady Cary and her dead suitor, trying to imagine what sort of man he must have been to capture the heart of such a woman.

Annie stood for a moment waiting and then spoke. “Will that be all, then, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” Holmes replied, smiling kindly. “You have been very helpful.” He could be brusque and even rude at times, but when dealing with those subservient to, or weaker than, himself he was often kindness itself; he was far more likely to show courtesy to a chambermaid than to a baron.

Annie gave a quick curtsy and withdrew from the room. I listened as her quick light steps echoed down the hall.

“Well, Watson, what do you think of that?” Holmes said when she had gone.

“So Lady Cary was the lady in white?” I said.

Holmes spread his long fingers. “It would seem the inescapable conclusion, don’t you agree?”

I sighed. The idea of the beautiful Marion Cary mourning for a long-lost love was sad, but it also served as yet another reminder of her unobtainability—not only was she nobility, but she had given her heart to him who lay buried beneath the cold dank Devon soil.

“I suppose you’re right,” I replied moodily.

“The plot, as they say, thickens,” Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. He was beginning to enjoy himself; his eyes were bright, his step full of spring, and his lean body quivered with purpose—he was like a bird dog on a scent.

I, on the other hand, could not remember feeling so listless. Whether it was the lingering effects of the long days at my surgery, the depressing atmosphere of the abbey, or the damp Devon air, my body felt sluggish, as though I was moving underwater. I observed Holmes’s boundless energy as though from a foreign country, watching him move energetically from one action to another, as a sleepwalker might view the conscious. It was almost as though I was being sucked into the atmosphere of the abbey, becoming one of the languid troubled spirits who roamed these ancient hallways at night. I had no sound medical explanation for any of this, but I would be glad to quit Torre Abbey, when the time came, for the more familiar haunts of London.

When Charles Cary returned from his ride, Holmes discussed with him the details of his investigation.

“If you don’t mind, Lord Cary,” he said, “I’d like to look through each room in the abbey—that is, if you and your family have no objections.”

Cary shrugged. “I can’t imagine why any of them would—after all, you’re here to help us.”

“Thank you. It won’t take long, but it would be good to begin as soon as possible.”

Cary nodded. “Certainly. Whatever you want—I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I shall do everything in my power to assist you.”

“Good,” replied Holmes. “I should like to start with Lady Cary’s quarters, if you don’t mind.”

A look of apprehension passed briefly over our host’s face, but he quickly mastered himself. “By all means, Mr. Holmes—as I said, whatever you wish. My mother’s apartments are located in the east wing,” he said, leading us to the back of the building. “They call this the night staircase—I’m not exactly sure why,” he remarked as we followed him up a narrow twisting staircase.

“Perhaps it’s the one the monks used to return to their quarters after vespers,” I offered.

“I know very little about medieval religious life, I’m afraid,” Holmes remarked.

“Nor do I,” Cary replied as we climbed the narrow stairs, single-file. “My father was really the historian in the family. My tastes run to other things—horses and medicine, mostly.”

He led us down a dimly lit hallway; a long thin carpet ran the length of the hall. It seemed to have been there for quite some time, as I noticed it was rather worn in several places.

“I’ll just see if Mother’s in,” Cary said, knocking on one of the doors lining the hall. Like the others we had passed, the door was highly polished, and appeared to be either maple or elm. As we stood there I thought I detected a faint scent of lilacs.

“Yes?” came the reply from within.

“It’s Charles,” Cary said. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are with me.”

There was the sound of light footsteps, then the door opened and Lady Cary appeared. She was wearing a light-green silk dressing gown, the colour of early spring grass. It suited her slim figure so well that I had to counter an impulse to stare. Her golden hair was piled somewhat haphazardly on top of her head. Though it was well past noon, she clearly had not yet completed her toilette.

“Yes?” she said, looking from her son to Holmes and myself.

“Mother, Mr. Holmes would like to . . .” Charles Cary began, but he faltered a bit, so Holmes intervened smoothly.

“I would like to have a look around your rooms, if you have no objections.”

Lady Cary looked a bit startled by the suggestion, and I hastened to add, “We can come by another time if this is inconvenient.”

To my surprise, she shook her head. “No, this is as good a time as any,” she replied, opening the door to admit us.

The apartment was large and airy, with a sitting room in the front leading through to a bedroom in the back. The sitting room overlooked the old abbey cloisters. A small brown terrier sat primly perched upon a crimson velvet settee. I assumed this was Lady Cary’s dog, Caliban. He didn’t bark as we entered, but cocked his head to one side when he saw us. I could hear the chirping of the birds in the ivy outside—such a peaceful sound, I thought, and I suddenly had trouble imagining anything could go wrong in a place like this. Lord Cary excused himself, saying he had business to attend to, and so we were left alone with the lady of the house.

“Please, make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” Lady Cary said, sitting on the end of the settee and running her hand over the silky head of the little terrier, who wagged its tail and licked her hand. Her voice was cordial enough, but I thought I detected an ironic edge to it. Holmes took a glance around the room and disappeared into the bedroom. Left alone with her, I busied myself examining a small, ornate gilt clock on the mantelpiece. The edges were inlaid with fat porcelain cherubs, their plump fingers wrapped around the face of the clock.

“A birthday present from my son,” Lady Cary said as I studied the clock.

“Very nice,” I murmured, fearing my face would betray my discomfort with the situation. My neck felt hot, and knowing I coloured easily, I turned away, hoping she would not notice. Just then Holmes called out from the other room.

“Lady Cary, would you be so kind as to come in here for a moment?”

“Excuse me, please,” she said, and went into the other room. I wandered over to where the little dog sat upon the settee, and sat down beside him to stroke his head. As I did so, my eye was caught by a single piece of paper protruding from behind a pillow. I slipped the paper out, and went to place it upon the writing desk, but my curiosity got the better of me and my eyes perused the page; it appeared to be a poem of some kind. I knew it was wrong, but I read the text.
 

She shares her secret fancies with the moon, her only confidant;

She smiles and hugs her deep dark secrets close to her breast.

She keeps them tightly locked away within her heart

Until under a cold white stone she finds her final rest
.

At night she lies upon the bed and imagines it her grave
,

But the moon is cold and dark

So she waits for daybreak and the singing of the lark
.

She trembles at the sound of footsteps through the garden gate
,

But when he arrives it is already too late
.

Now from her lips there comes not a single breath
,

Silence her only company
,