The Haunting of Torre Abbey

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “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 fro
m 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.

  “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.

  Chapter Five

  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.”