by Carole Bugge
“Your reticence does you credit,” Holmes replied. “However, rest assured that I am not entirely ignorant of the presence of this personage in the lady’s past. I will of course do everything in my power to treat whatever you may tell me with the utmost delicacy and discretion. Nonetheless,” he added, peering intently at the priest, “I will use any information you give me to aid my efforts to rid the Cary family of whoever—or whatever—is tormenting them.”
Norton pushed a lock of black hair from his forehead. The wind had picked up, sweeping briskly across the broad flat plain, cutting through my raincoat and sending a chill through my body.
“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I believe you and Dr. Watson to be men of honour, and I hope you take me for the same.” He paused and took a deep breath.
“There was a man before Victor Cary, a man who I believe truly captured Marion Cary’s heart. His name was Christopher Leganger, and he was a dashing fellow—even I could see that.” He paused and wiped a bit of mud from his cheek. “Christopher means ‘Beloved of God’… odd irony, isn’t it? And here I am, the one who entered the priesthood. Still, I suppose I’m the lucky one in a way, though it may not feel like it.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I’m the only one of Marion Cary’s suitors who is still alive.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “This Leganger fellow—we saw his grave. How did he die?”
“He was killed in a hunting accident,” the priest replied. “Fell off his horse. Odd, really—he was the best horseman I’ve ever seen, myself included. I don’t want to sound immodest, but I once knew my way around a jumping course… still, Leganger was fearless, and could tame any horse. In the end the Grim Reaper comes to all of us, I suppose, and it’s not a bad way to go.
“After he was gone, I thought I might have a chance with Marion, but… well, I suppose I can’t blame her for choosing Victor Cary. He could give her everything I couldn’t: money, security, even a title.” He looked down at his feet. “I could never believe that she loved, him, though—or maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.”
He sighed and poked at the ground with his walking stick. “Well, a man can stand being disappointed in love by the same woman once, but somehow twice was too much for me, and that’s when I entered the brotherhood of the Church. I know what you’re thinking,” he said, smiling ruefully. “Even at the time it felt a bit like a melodramatic gesture to me, but the Church seemed like the perfect place to hide from my feelings.
“I found out that there are some things you can’t really hide from, of course, but by then I had grown accustomed to the regularity of religious life, and there was something comforting in the rituals of the Church. There’s something to be said for routine, for having one’s choices narrowed down. I didn’t have to think about the subject which tormented me most.”
“So that’s what you meant when you said that the Church didn’t call you, but you called it,” I said.
“Something like that,” he replied with a wan smile. “Do you think it very wicked of me to enter the Church without being a man of fervent faith? I’ve tried to be a good priest, and I have taken the vow of chastity seriously—something which was not easy for me at first. I got used to it, though,” he said. “It makes for a certain peacefulness of spirit, believe it or not. And I’m not a hypocrite; I have faith, in my own way.”
“And for some years you have been Marion Cary’s priest and confessor?” said Holmes.
Father Norton looked at him, his black eyes solemn. “You know that to reveal anything Marion said to me would be a violation of my oath and a violation of the sanctity of the confessional.”
“Yes, indeed,” Holmes replied. “I wasn’t suggesting such a thing. This… hunting mishap in which Leganger died. You say it was an accident?”
Father Norton looked at Holmes, alarm in his eyes. “Why do you ask that?”
Holmes shrugged. “It just seems odd, as you say, that such an excellent horseman would fall from his horse.”
“Even the best riders fall sometimes, Mr. Holmes. Luck as well as skill plays a part in every endeavour in life—even your own profession is not without the element of luck.”
Holmes smiled. “Touché… and, as you say, even the best riders fall sometimes.”
Father Norton looked up at the sky. “I don’t mean to rush you, gentlemen, but I believe a storm is brewing.”
“Really?” I said. Even though clouds gathered in the west, the dying sun was still shining through them upon the gently rolling landscape with its sparse dotting of gnarled and stunted trees. The wind had picked up, though, I noticed.
“When you have lived in the West Country as long as I have, you begin to know these things,” Norton answered, looking at his map. “If I have read my clues correctly, we are almost there.”
We followed him past a copse of slanted trees, bent over from fighting against the wind, which whipped so fiercely across the flattened landscape. At the bottom of a shallow gully he gave a little cry and bent down to pick up a metal object from the ground. I recognized it immediately from my days in India: it was an old ammunition tin, bent and battered, but still solid enough.
“We use all sorts of strange containers as letterboxes,” Father Norton remarked as he opened the tin. “Ammunition tins are common, actually, because they’re sturdy and durable. That’s odd,” he said. “There’s a message inside.”
“What’s so odd about that?” I inquired.
“Well, I’ve never seen one before—usually the letterboxers just leave their stamp.”
“May I see it?” said Holmes, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.
“I don’t see why not—since it doesn’t say who the intended reader is,” Norton replied, handing it to Holmes.
The note was written upon a simple piece of good quality bond paper torn in half. In large bold strokes someone had written simply: “Monday—4.”
“Most curious,” said Holmes, examining it carefully.
“But what can it mean?” said Father Norton.
“Perhaps it was left here on a Monday which fell on the fourth of the month,” I suggested.
Holmes shook his head. “It’s possible, but I rather think not. In that case you would have expected the message to include the month. And neither the fourth of this month nor the last fell upon a Monday.”
“What do you think it is, then?” said Father Norton.
“I have my theories,” Holmes replied, “but one thing I am certain of: we must replace it so that it can be read by its intended target, otherwise it will do us no good at all.”
“What good might it possibly do us?” said Father Norton, bewilderment stamped across his sensual face.
“Possibly none at all,” Holmes replied, carefully folding the paper and replacing it in the tin receptacle. “Now then, Father Norton, I don’t suppose I can persuade you not to stamp the registry just this once?”
“Why on earth not?” the priest replied. “We came all the way out here—”
“Yes, I know,” Holmes interrupted. “It does seem a pity, but what if I tell you that a life may depend upon it?”
“Mr. Holmes, I know they say you have strange methods, but I fail to understand how leaving my stamp in this letterbox could possibly cause harm to anyone?”
“Because that would be evidence we were here. If whoever left this message knows that we saw it, it greatly diminishes my capacity to help the Cary family.”
The priest shook his head. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. I don’t understand, but I’ll do what you say.”
“What makes you think the message was left by—” I began, but Holmes shook his head in reply.
“I’ll explain later,” he said, looking up at the sky, where the sheet of dark clouds was blowing in more swiftly now from the west. “In the meantime, it appears Father Norton is right: we’d better curtail our hike and make our way back as quickly as possible if we want to avoid getting thoroughly drenched.”
“We
’re closer to Torre Abbey now than to Cockington,” the priest said. “I suggest we head there.”
We turned back and made our way across the moors as rapidly as we could while the clouds, swollen with rain, gathered above us. Before long the rain began to fall, a fine spray at first, followed by big heavy droplets which fell from the sky like bullets, pelting our shoulders so hard it hurt. We pulled our coats tighter around us and ran for it.
“That’s the thing about the West Country,” Father Norton shouted as we dashed across the muddy ground. “You never have much warning in case of rain! But sometimes these showers end as abruptly as they start,” he added, leaping over a puddle.
Unfortunately, this was not one of those showers. A fierce wind whipped up, sending our coats flapping around our ankles, and the fury of the storm only increased as we ran. We covered a good mile or so in the rain, and by the time we were in sight of the abbey we were soaked. The clock tower was a welcome sight, standing stolid and gloomy in the downpour, and we hurried inside, stamping our feet on the stone floor.
We were met by Lady Cary, who soon saw to it that we warmed ourselves before a blazing fire in the west parlour, plying us with brandy as we peeled off our wet outergarments. The raincoats had done a tolerable job of keeping us dry. We hadn’t been settled long in the parlour when Charles Cary strode into the room.
“I hear you had quite the afternoon,” he remarked upon seeing our wet clothing spread out upon the grate, steam rising from our sodden garments as the fire warmed them.
“Yes, indeed—it was quite exhilarating,” Holmes replied.
Cary joined us in a glass of cognac, and soon we were all sitting slumped in armchairs, staring into the fire.
“Torquay seems to be quite the place to be—it’s a pity it isn’t really the season just now,” my friend remarked.
“Right you are, Mr. Holmes—thanks in part to the Cary family,” the priest replied, staring at the honey-coloured liquid in his glass.
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes,” said Father Norton. “Victor Cary was instrumental in developing Torquay, in part by selling off abbey land to the town.”
“I see,” Holmes replied. “Well, progress can’t be halted, I suppose, though it is a pity he had to sell off family land,” he added with a glance at Charles Cary, who sighed and picked restlessly at his hair.
“The rain seems to have stopped,” he said, suddenly rising from his chair. “I don’t suppose you and Dr. Watson would like to take a look at the stables now, would you?”
“On the contrary; I can’t think of anything I’d rather do,” my friend replied. “That is, if Father Norton will excuse us.”
“Oh, certainly,” the priest replied with a wave of his hand. “I know how Charles likes his horses, and with good reason. It’s a fine lot he’s got out there—that black stallion is as good a horse as you’ll see in Devon or anywhere else, I’ll wager.”
“Thank you for the compliment,” Charles Cary said, but his voice was tight and his lean body shimmered with tension.
Father Norton smiled and poured himself some more cognac. “I suppose I should know. After all, I was a jockey for a while.”
Holmes looked at him with interest. “Really? You do continue to surprise, Father Norton—really you do.”
The priest laughed. “Well, if you’re looking for anything more exotic about me, I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you there. I’m really just a simple parish priest.”
Holmes smiled. “Oh, I shouldn’t underestimate yourself, Father. In my experience, there’s more to just about everyone if you look hard enough.”
Father Norton looked at Holmes as if he were not sure how to interpret this remark, but he was too shrewd to show any discomfort he might feel at being under the great detective’s scrutiny. Instead, he too rose from his chair.
“I’d best be getting on, I suppose—Lydia’s bound to be wondering where I am,” he said, pulling on his raincoat, which had more or less dried by now.
“Give my regards to your sister,” Charles Cary said as the four of us headed towards the front hallway.
“I will be sure to tell her you said so,” the priest replied, buttoning his coat. “And thank you for a most convivial afternoon. I’ve always believed in enjoying life’s little pleasures, and I’m glad that my vows do not include abstinence from a good French cognac.”
“Yes, indeed,” Holmes murmured as we followed Charles Cary out through the vaulted entryway of the abbey. The rain had abated, and a thin, pale rainbow was beginning to form in the rays of the setting sun as we trudged across the sodden lawn.
* * *
The stables were on the other side of the Spanish barn, and as we approached that structure I couldn’t help feeling a sense of dread. The stables were cheerful enough, however, with the sweet smell of hay filling the air as we approached. Lord Cary owned four horses: a big black stallion by the name of Richmond, a fat little white pony which had been Elizabeth’s as a child, a beautiful palomino, and an elegant little strawberry-chestnut mare. I noticed there was one empty stall at the end of the row.
“This will be your horse for the hunt, Dr. Watson,” Cary said as we stopped in front of the chestnut mare’s stall. Her arched neck, shapely little head and small, sharply pointed ears indicated the presence of Arab blood. She snorted gently as we approached, leaning her head out of her stall, her delicate nostrils flaring.
“This is Ariel,” Cary said as she nuzzled his hand with her soft, finely sculpted nose.
I held out my hand and felt the velvet softness of her muzzle as she sniffed my palm, hoping no doubt to find an apple or a sugar cube.
“I hope she doesn’t live up to her name,” I said, thinking of the mercurial, troublesome character in The Tempest.
Cary laughed. “Not in the least. She is the most compliant, good-natured of animals—aren’t you, Ariel?” he said, stroking her thick red mane. In response she nickered—a low, barely audible rumbling from deep within her chest—and nuzzled his shoulder.
“All right,” he said, extracting a carrot from his jacket pocket. “Here you go—there’s no fooling you.”
She took the proffered carrot, holding the thick end between her lips as she chewed on the other half.
“Ariel can eat a whole carrot without dropping any of it—can’t you?” Lord Cary said with a pat on her neck. “She’s a very clever girl, very clever.”
“Is it a family tradition to name your animals after characters from Shakespeare’s plays?” Holmes inquired.
Cary smiled. “Not at all. She was born here, and my mother named her when she was just a young filly. Perhaps she was reading The Tempest at the time; I don’t really know. But as with all horses of good blood, as you probably know, the name of the horse should include something from the names of both the sire and the dam. Her mother was Airy Morning, and her father was an Arab named El Dorado.”
“I see,” I said, stroking the mare’s muscular neck. “Your mother rides, then?”
Cary looked away. “She used to.”
“Oh? She gave it up, then?” said Holmes.
“Yes.”
“Did she have an accident or something?” I said.
“No,” Cary replied, and I could sense the subject was a delicate one. I glanced at Holmes, but Cary was already walking towards the next stall.
“What about you, Mr. Holmes—do you think you can handle Richmond?” said Cary, standing in front of the huge black horse. The animal stood looking at us, his enormous head draped over the door of his stall, ears forward.
“I don’t see why not,” Holmes replied. “He looks to be a capable enough animal.”
“Actually, he had a brother, Mystic Rider, who belonged to my father, but after his… well, we sold him to a neighbouring estate.”
“That explains the empty stall,” I remarked.
“Yes.” Cary patted the big horse. “Richmond is a stallion, and they can be a bit harder to handle.”
Holmes
shrugged. “I’ve always believed it’s more a question of your will over theirs, Lord Cary, if you don’t mind my saying so. The smartest horse is no match for a really strong-willed rider.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said Cary slowly, “so long as they know you’re not afraid of them.”
“Holmes isn’t afraid of many things,” I hastened to interject.
“Very well, Dr. Watson,” Lord Cary replied, smiling. “Then it’s settled: you shall have Ariel and Mr. Holmes will take on Richmond. Mind you let him run out ahead of the pack, Mr. Holmes—Richmond likes to be in the lead at all times.”
Holmes nodded. “Very well. With those long legs I don’t foresee that being a problem.”
Just beyond the stables was a fish pond, where a few mottled orange carp swam lazily about just below the murky green surface of the water. I stood watching them while Cary fed and watered the horses.
I thought I heard a bird nearby, and turned to see young William and Annie standing behind me. She held his hand, and in his other hand he carried a small bouquet of wild flowers—Queen Anne’s lace, fall daisies, goldenrod.
“He picked them for you, sir,” said the chambermaid as William handed me the flowers, a shy smile on his face. William was under Annie’s close supervision during the day; Holmes had arranged that the girl would keep an eye on him, not letting him out of her sight, though he did not tell her why he was especially concerned about the boy’s safety. I was glad to see she took her duties most seriously. I had grown fond of the boy since we had become roommates; he had a sweet, innocent nature, and far from finding his lack of language a barrier, I found him better company than many adults I knew. Holmes had made several attempts to get the boy to communicate further what he had seen the night his mother died, but without success; he had revealed what he knew, it seemed, and could only repeat the same mimed actions we were already familiar with.
“Why, thank you, William,” I said as he handed me the flowers. “That’s very thoughtful of you. They’re lovely—where did you find them?”
