The Haunting of Torre Abbey (7 page)

Her only lover Death
.

 
I heard the sound of approaching footsteps and hurriedly shoved the poem back behind the pillow where I had found it. Holmes and Lady Cary entered the sitting room at that moment. I could feel the blood creeping up my neck, and once again I feared my red face would give me away. Worse, the little dog suddenly found the pillow extremely interesting, and began sniffing around it. Mortified, I glanced at Lady Cary, but she was busy watching Holmes, who was examining an elaborately carved secretary which sat against the far wall.

“A family heirloom, Mr. Holmes,” the lady said, as he ran his fingers over the polished wood.

“Have there been any burglaries at Torre Abbey since you came to live here, Lady Cary?” Holmes said abruptly, fixing her with his keen stare.

“No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Then how is it that this lock has been recently forced?” he inquired, pointing to the side drawer of the desk. Sure enough, the lock showed signs of being tampered with—the wood was scratched and scarred, and the lock itself was bent and scoured by some sharp instrument.

“Oh, I lost my key and had to ask Charles to force it open for me,” she replied a little too quickly.

She was a very poor liar, and even I could see that she was hiding something. She fingered the belt of her dressing gown as her eyes darted nervously from side to side. To my surprise, however, Holmes merely nodded, as if she had given the most natural explanation in the world.

“Very well,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Lady Cary. I apologize if we disrupted your day.”

“Not at all,” she answered warmly, no doubt relieved not to be called on her lie. She scooped the little terrier up in her arms and went to the door to see us out.

As we walked down the hall toward the stairs, I couldn’t resist commenting. “She was lying about the lock, Holmes, I’m certain—”

“Not now, Watson,” he said in a low voice. “You never know who might be listening,” he added with a glance over his shoulder.

“I know she was lying, my dear fellow,” he chuckled as we made our way down the narrow stone steps. “The interesting question is why? What—or whom—is she protecting?”

Again my thoughts turned to the man lying alone in the cemetery beneath the cold Devon soil. I thought of Marion Cary’s poem, so sad and wistful, a tragic lament to lost love. I sighed deeply and considered the lucky man who had been the recipient of such devotion from such a woman.

That night we were visited by a terrific storm. It ripped and tore at the abbey, howling like a mad dog outside the window, hurtling rain so hard against the panes that I was afraid they might break. There was no question of sleeping during the height of the storm’s fury, so I crept from my bed and sat at the window gazing out onto the courtyard below. The rain fell relentlessly in steady sheets upon the already soggy ground. Puddles formed, soon becoming rivulets, which then turned into small lakes. A sudden loud clap of thunder rent the air, resonating through the halls of the abbey itself. It was followed by a white flash of lightning so bright that the entire room was illuminated for a few seconds by its pallid glow.

I was entranced by the storm, captivated by its unfettered energy, much as I was captivated by the charms of Lady Cary. I thought of her alone in her room, listening to the storm—I didn’t see how anyone could sleep in weather such as this. I wondered if she liked the spectacle of Nature’s fury, or if she was frightened by the thunder and lightning. My mind drifted and I imagined myself comforting her, holding her hand when she was startled by a particularly loud clap of thunder . . .

The storm abated and I had dozed off in the chair when suddenly I was awakened by a loud ringing which seemed to fill the building. It reverberated through the hallways, resounding against the stone walls with a deafening volume. I jumped out of bed, threw on my robe, and dashed into the hallway, where I saw Holmes coming from the other end of the hall.

“What on earth is it?” I cried over the din.

“It would seem to be coming from the Abbot’s Tower,” he replied, pointing to the clock tower which rose just above us. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped.

“Come, Watson!” Holmes cried, and took off in the direction of the stairs leading to the tower. I followed, my robe flapping behind me. We dashed up the two flights of stairs to the top of the tower, where the great bell hung from its pulley. The ringing had not yet completely died out; the air still vibrated with the hollow remnants of sound. But there was no one in sight—impossible as it seemed, it was as though the giant bell had somehow rung itself!

Holmes examined the heavy rope which hung down from the great bell, peering at it in the dim moonlight. Suddenly the air was rent by another sound—a woman’s scream. It was no ordinary scream, however; it was a blood-curdling yell of pure terror.

Holmes let go of the rope and sprang towards the stairs.

“Quickly, Watson!” he cried as he dashed down the narrow steps. I followed close behind, stumbling as my feet searched for footing upon the ancient crumbling stones.

The screams died out as we reached the first floor of the abbey, but it was clear the sound had come from the direction of the kitchen. Holmes and I reached the kitchen at the same moment as Charles Cary—he evidently had been as hurriedly roused from his bed as we had, because his dressing gown was unbelted and there were no slippers upon his bare feet. He carried a torch, though, and his face appeared even paler than usual in the dim light.

“What on earth was that?” he exclaimed as Holmes and I arrived. He appeared to be as breathless as I was, though whether from exertion or apprehension I could not tell.

“This way,” Holmes said, brushing past him and heading into the kitchen. Cary and I followed close behind, Cary holding the torch aloft so that we could see. It was strangely quiet now, and the only sound I could hear was a muffled rapping—like a door that had been left open banging against its frame, blown by the wind.

We crossed the kitchen to where Holmes was standing. The sound I heard was indeed the outside door to the kitchen, which was open. But I quite forgot about the door when I saw what Holmes was looking at.

There, in the narrow alcove leading to the outside door, was the outline of a prostrate form lying upon the ground. I took a few steps closer, and as Cary held his torch aloft, we saw that it was the cook, Sally Gubbins.

“Good Lord!” Cary said as Holmes knelt over her and turned her over gently.

One look at her face and it was clear to me that the poor woman was dead. Her eyes were wide open and staring straight up at the ceiling, and her mouth was open as if she had died in mid-scream. Her face, in fact, was a perfect mask of terror—as though whatever she saw in her last moments of life had frightened her so much that it was imprinted on her features.

I felt for a pulse even though I knew there would be none, then I closed the lifeless eyes out of respect for the dead. I examined the body for signs of injury but found none. Cary had lighted one of the wall sconces, and I looked around the room. There was no sign of struggle—no overturned chairs or scuff marks on the floor—no outward indication of violence of any kind. Holmes, meanwhile, was occupied with his own investigation. He disappeared through the back door out into the night, only to return a few minutes later shaking his head.

“We are too late,” he said in response to Cary’s inquiring look. “Whoever or whatever was here is gone now.”

He closed and latched the door behind him. “Do you keep this door locked at night, Lord Cary?”

“Well, yes—I mean, it’s Grayson’s job to lock up at night, and though we have sometimes been lax, ever since the events of the past few days I have asked him particularly to be certain to lock the house at night.”

Holmes nodded. “I see. And does anyone other than members of your household have keys?”

“No, not that I am aware.”

Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you make of it? Is there any sign of injury?”

“None that I can find.” There were indeed no bruises or cuts or other obvious signs of trauma, only the horrified expression on the cook’s face.

It wasn’t long before the other members of the household showed up. The first to arrive was Grayson, whose calm manner was only slightly ruffled by the gruesome sight in the kitchen. Marion Cary, though greatly affected by the news, insisted on seeing the body, even though her son tried to persuade her not to look. Charles would not allow his sister anywhere near the body; she dissolved into tears upon hearing the news. Annie, the chambermaid, took it upon herself to comfort her mistress, patting her hand and murmuring, “There, there, miss. Don’t worry now. It’ll be all right.”

“Where’s William?” Elizabeth said suddenly, looking around, and I realized at that moment we had not seen him. As if in response to her query, a shaggy dark head appeared around the corner of the butler’s pantry.

“William! Have you been in there all this time?” Elizabeth cried, catching the boy up in her arms and holding him to her breast. He laid his head on her shoulder, shoved his thumb in his mouth, and made a little gurgling sound. She took him quickly from the room, so that he could not see his mother’s body around the corner.

Everyone except Holmes retired to the west parlour, where Grayson, with his usual efficiency, had laid a fire in the grate. He even bustled about the kitchen and fixed tea for us, apparently not bothered by the presence of poor Sally, who, after covering her, we left where she was so the police could see her lying where we found her.

Holmes continued to prowl about the grounds of the abbey, and dawn was peering through the lace curtains by the time Grayson set out for town to fetch the police. I offered to accompany him, but he declined my assistance, preferring to go himself.

We all sat around the fire, hunched over within the circle of its welcome heat, teacups clutched in our stiffened fingers, as a weak October sun struggled up through the dissipating clouds.

The stout, sleepy-eyed police sergeant who turned up to supervise the removal of the body seemed unimpressed by Lord Cary’s recounting of the various apparitions, and I thought his examination of the area around the body was cursory at best. As Lord Cary had warned us earlier, the police were not particularly interested in the goings-on at Torre Abbey, and the fat sergeant’s attitude seemed to confirm this.

“Well, Sergeant?” said Cary as the body was loaded into the back of the police wagon.

“We’ll have the coroner’s report for you as soon as we can, sir,” the sergeant replied, then he shrugged. “Looks like natural causes to me, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

With that he climbed into the front of the wagon, signalled the driver, and the horse was off at a trot. And so poor Sally made her exit wrapped in a blue blanket with the letters 
Coroner
 emblazoned on it in yellow.

“They couldn’t even be bothered to send a proper detective inspector,” Cary muttered as the police van drove off. “Well, Dr. Watson?” he said as we watched the police wagon disappear around the corner of the long drive through the orchard. “What could have killed her, do you think?”

“Well, only an autopsy could reveal that with any degree of certainty,” I replied. The words sounded strange as I said them, but nonetheless I found myself uttering the phrase almost before I could stop myself.

“It sounds odd, I know, Lord Cary, but it looks to me very much as if she died of fright.”

Father John Norton had a face like a fallen soufflé. With its creases and swirls around the jaw, it was like the sagging remnants of a once proud egg dish left too long on the counter to cool. His heavy-lidded eyes with their downturned corners reminded me of a bloodhound. His face was all skin folds and flaps; even his ears were large, with heavy hanging lobes, fleshy as fresh fungi. For all that, it was a handsome face; his olive skin, though creased, was ruddy and healthy-looking, and with his jet black eyes and hair he made a striking impression. A faintly ironic smile played habitually about his lips, which were surprisingly full and red.

He sat in the west parlour at Torre Abbey, a cup of tea balanced on one knee, awaiting the attentions of the Cary family so he could discuss with them the matter of Sally’s funeral services. Sally had attended his church in the nearby village of Cockington, where Father Norton presided, if not regularly, then at least often enough that he considered her one of his flock.

Holmes was out prowling the grounds of Torre Abbey, Elizabeth Cary had not been seen all day, and Charles Cary had gone riding, so I had been selected to keep the priest company whilst he awaited the appearance of Lady Cary, who was upstairs dressing for dinner.

“I do apologize for keeping you waiting, Father,” she said as she swept breathlessly into the room, pinning up one last strand of her golden hair as she crossed the carpet to where we were seated in front of the fire, her little terrier trotting faithfully after her. The day, which had started out promisingly enough, had turned grey and blustery by mid-afternoon, with a chill in the air that cut through to the bone. I was cold no matter where I was in the drafty and dank rooms, and only a chair near the fire felt warm enough.

Father Norton rose from his chair immediately, and, grasping her hand, kissed it—perhaps a little too long for a man of the cloth, I thought, but if Lady Cary noticed she gave no indication of it.

“I see Grayson has seen to your tea,” she remarked, seating herself gracefully in a low-backed French provincial-style armchair, gold with vermilion trim. The furniture in Torre Abbey was a mix of so many styles and designs that it was difficult to sense an overlaying plan; Charles had told us that the Cary family was a very old one, and the collections of various generations over the centuries had ended up in Torre Abbey. Caliban the terrier, showing no respect for the venerable status of the furniture, jumped up alongside Lady Cary and put his silky head in her lap.

“It is a sad duty I am to perform for you now, Lady Cary,” Father Norton said with a sigh, laying his teacup aside. There was something of the actor about him, as I suppose there is with all good clergymen, but in his case it was difficult to tell if the sentiments he expressed were entirely genuine. Lady Cary did not seem to feel this way, however, as he pressed her hand between his own. “Please rest assured that I will do everything my power to make poor Sally’s final farewell a memorable one. She was a good girl, and I know you were fond of her.”

Lady Cary nodded sadly, absentmindedly stroking Caliban. “Yes, she has—had—been with us a long time.”

“Thirteen years, I believe your son said,” said Holmes from the doorway where he stood. Droplets of rain clung to his hair, and his face was flushed.

Lady Cary turned her haunting blue eyes upon him, and a shiver of excitement shot through my spine. Holmes, however, gazed back at her impassively as he removed his coat and walked over to stand in front of the fireplace.

“She was with us since before William was born, so that would be—let me see—thirteen years now,” she replied softly. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” she continued as Holmes moved to the fireplace. “Mr. Holmes, this is Father Norton.”

The priest rose from his chair. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Holmes replied as they shook hands. “Your name sounds familiar, though I can’t quite place it.”

“I believe I can help,” I offered. “Wasn’t there an Abbot Norton mentioned in Lord Cary’s letter to us?”

“Ah—that’s it! Yes, according to Lord Cary, he was accused of murdering one of his monks. An ancestor of yours, perhaps?”

The priest frowned. “No, my family came here this century from Scotland.”

“Well, it’s just as well,” Holmes smiled. “By all accounts, this Abbot Norton was quite a villainous fellow—”

But the priest interrupted him. “I was going to say before, Mr. Holmes, that your fame has spread far and wide throughout England, even reaching sleepy backwaters like Torquay.”

“You flatter me, Father,” Holmes replied. “Torquay is hardly a sleepy backwater—it has become a thriving resort town.”

“Yes, it hardly seems possible . . . I can’t understand where time goes sometimes,” Lady Cary mused.

Father Norton nodded sympathetically. “Yes, that’s true for all of us, I’m afraid. Still, we must make the most of what’s given to us, you know.” He handed Lady Cary a couple of sheets of paper. “I’ve written down here the basic funeral service. Sometimes my parishioners like to add a few words of their own . . . please let me know if you would like to amend the proceedings in any way.”

Lady Cary took the papers and smiled sadly. “Thank you, Father—you’ve been such a comfort to me in these hard times, and I do appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it,” he replied, rising from his chair. “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

“Well, there is one small thing,” she said with a glance at Holmes and myself. “You may think me rather silly for asking this, but . . . do you know any mediums?”

Father Norton’s handsome face registered surprise, then amusement. “A medium? Do you mean as in . . . ?”

Lady Cary nodded. “You see, my daughter has gotten it into her head that we are being visited by spirits, and she is absolutely convinced that what we need is . . . well, a séance.”

“A séance, Lady Cary?” I said, unable to contain my astonishment. “Do you seriously mean to hold a séance at Torre Abbey?”

Lady Cary folded her hands in her lap and looked down at the glowing fire which danced in the grate. “You must understand that Elizabeth has been through some very difficult times lately. Her father’s death was very hard on her, you know—they were quite close.” Her tone of voice as well as her words suggested that this was not the case with Charles Cary and his father.

“You see, Charles and I thought that if we held a séance, as she wishes, then she would come to accept her father’s death in time. I know it sounds fanciful,” she added, “but Elizabeth is a fanciful child.”

Father Norton raised his thick dark eyebrows. His expressive face registered skepticism, but before he could speak, Holmes broke in.

“It sounds like a very good idea to me, Lady Cary.” More than a little surprised, I turned to look at him, but his face revealed nothing, leaving me to conclude that he was sincere.

Even Lady Cary looked surprised. “You think so, Mr. Holmes?” she said dubiously.

“I do indeed,” he replied, settling his long body in the depths of an overstuffed armchair across from me. “It seems to me that whoever—or whatever—is at the bottom of the strange events these past few days is likely to tip their hand at such a gathering. I believe your daughter has the right idea—though perhaps for the wrong reasons.”

Lady Cary glanced at me, her fingers absently pulling at a loose lock of hair at the back of her neck.

“You will attend, then, Mr. Holmes?” she said.

“By all means—Dr. Watson and I will be pleased to attend.”

“Now see here, Holmes,” I protested, but Holmes waved me into silence.

“Come, come, Watson—it will be of great interest to you in particular, as a man of science—think of what you can learn from a communication between our world and the next!”

Now I was certain he was putting us all on, and I was more than a little irritated.

“Look, Holmes,” I began, but he rose and laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s talk about it later, shall we, Watson?” he said, with a firm squeeze. I realized then that it was my job to go along with the scheme, and that he would explain his reasoning later.

“Very well,” I replied. “I will be happy to attend the séance.”

“Well, that’s all very well and good,” Father Norton said as he took his hat and coat from Grayson, who had appeared, noiselessly as usual, with our visitor’s things. “But I’m a pastor, not a witch doctor. If I agree to participate, it would be strictly as a friend to the family, and not in my official capacity as a man of the cloth.” He shook his head. “I have no doubt the Church would not look kindly upon such matters.”

“I don’t see why the Church need know anything about it,” Lady Cary replied. “I’m a good Catholic, as you know, Father,” she said, placing her white hands upon his arm. A sigh escaped me as I watched her escort him out into the hall.

“I do hope you and your sister will be able to attend,” she continued. “I would feel much better if you were here.”

“I cannot speak for Lydia,” the vicar replied. “However, I will certainly attend if you think it would help Elizabeth.”

“Thank you,” Lady Cary said warmly as she walked with him toward the front door, her little terrier trotting faithfully behind.

When they had gone, Holmes leaned back in his chair. “Well, Watson, what do you think about that? A séance, of all things!”

“I can’t understand why you would go along with such a plan, Holmes,” I whispered, afraid of being overheard by a member of the family.

“I’ll explain later,” Holmes answered as Lady Cary came back into the room.

“Father Norton is such a comfort,” she said, perching on the armrest of a mahogany sofa upholstered in a rich crimson velvet.

“So your cook was also a Catholic?” Holmes said, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Yes. She was Irish Catholic. The Cary family have been Catholics for centuries, of course. It’s only fitting they ended up at Torre Abbey.” She paused. “Did you know that during the persecution of Catholics under Henry the Eighth, a secret chapel was built underneath Torre Abbey?”

“How interesting,” I said. “Is it still there?”

Lady Cary nodded. “No one goes there anymore. It’s fallen into ruins.” She reached for a piece of cake, the skin of her delicate white hands almost translucent in the pale afternoon light. “Until the middle of this century, the abbey served as the Torquay parish church for local Catholics.”

“I see,” Holmes replied. “And you? You’re not a Cary by birth; were you always a Catholic?”

A cloud passed over her lovely face. “I am a Lawrence, and we are Scottish Presbyterian. My husband insisted I convert when we were married. Both of our children were raised Catholic, though Charles has never been exactly . . . fervent.”

“I see,” Holmes answered. “Where is your daughter, by the way? I don’t believe I’ve seen her all day long.”

Marion Cary flicked an imaginary strand of hair from her neck. “She’s not feeling very well today. I believe she’s upstairs lying down. Will you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen? I need to see to dinner. With poor Sally gone, Grayson is handling the kitchen duties with only the help of Annie, our chambermaid.”

Later, as we followed Lady Cary through the long front hallway, her little dog began sniffing at the floor along one wall. He looked up at his mistress, wagged his tail, and barked.

“What is it, Caliban?” she said. In reply he only wagged his tail harder. “That’s odd,” she mused. “I wonder what he’s on about?”

“Is there any significance to that particular spot?” Holmes inquired.

“Do you remember the secret chapel I told you about?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, that used to be the entrance. Behind the wood panelling was a secret door leading to an underground tunnel which comes out in the chapel. But the door was boarded over years ago—no one ever uses it.”

I realized at that moment this was the same spot where I had felt the awful chill three nights ago. After Lady Cary had gone up to her room, trailing a faint odour of lilies after her, Holmes turned to me.

“Would you like to take a look at the grounds of the abbey with me?” I shook off my mood and said that I would.

“There is something of the rogue about Father Norton, unless I miss my guess,” I said to Holmes as we walked across the broad expanse of lawn toward the old tithe barn, which the Carys referred to as the Spanish barn. The name dated back to 1588 and the unsuccessful invasion of the Spanish Armada, Charles told us, when a Spanish galleon was captured off the coast of Devon. The four hundred members of the crew were brought to the abbey and kept as prisoners in the tithe barn until they could be transferred. In the meantime, many had died of privation and disease.

As I contemplated this tragic chapter in English history, an offshore wind brought the smell of the sea, sharp and clear, rolling across the sloping hills surrounding the abbey. We could see the tithe barn, a low, long flagstone building a few hundred yards south of the abbey’s main buildings. Holmes had not yet explored the barn, and was intent on gleaning any clues he could from it.

“I don’t know what you think you’ll find there; we always keep it locked,” Charles Cary had said the night before as he handed over the key, a heavy, old-fashioned iron affair that looked to be straight out of the Middle Ages.

“So you think the rector is a rogue?” Holmes said as we walked over the soft lawn, still damp from the rain of the previous two days. “What makes you say that?” he said, his keen eyes fixed upon the ground.

“Well, the fervour with which he kissed Lady Cary’s hand seemed a little out of keeping with my image of a man of the cloth.”

“Ah, I see,” Holmes replied, the corners of his mouth twitching. “His presence evokes in you a need to protect Lady Cary’s honour.”

I felt my face redden. “No, that’s not what I said. It’s more than the way he treats her. There’s a—well, a sort of twinkle in his eye, a sardonic attitude that puts me in mind of rogues I have known.”

“Well, you will have your chance to observe him again at the funeral,” Holmes remarked as he paused to study some little bit of ground beneath our feet. He sank down onto his heels and leaned over, his long back bent in a convex curve, and peered at the grass.