The Haunting of Torre Abbey

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “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.”
r />   “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.

  “Hmmm,” said he, “interesting.”

  Then, just as abruptly, he stood and began walking away again rapidly. I was going to ask him what he had found, but I was caught flat-footed and had to hurry to catch up to him.

  “So you think the good Father has things on his mind other than the ways of the Lord?” Holmes said.

  “Well, if I am any judge of character,” I replied. “He is clearly smitten with Lady Cary, and makes no attempt to hide it.”

  “Oh, come, Watson—after all, you are rather taken with the lady yourself,” Holmes remarked, a wicked twinkle in his eye.

  “Well, I—I mean, that may be,” I stuttered, taken off guard.

  My discomfort caused him to burst out laughing, and he clapped a friendly hand upon my shoulder. “Oh, I am sorry, Watson; it is indelicate of me to refer to it. Do forgive me, please—it’s just that it really is so obvious.”

  “As obvious as all that?” I replied sulkily.

  “I’m afraid so. It is to me, at any rate, but perhaps not to others who do not know you quite so well.”

  I took some comfort in this idea, for I had no wish to make a fool of myself mooning over a woman who was quite beyond me.

  “I cannot say I share your sentiment, but neither do I blame you,” Holmes said as we approached the tithe barn. About a hundred feet from the barn was the stable where the Carys kept their horses; Charles Cary had promised to show us the stables himself later that day. I could hear the horses pawing the ground in their stalls and whinnying softly; evidently they could smell us as we approached.

  As we neared the barn, I thought I saw a flash of movement just the other side of the stables. I turned to Holmes to see if he had noticed, but he was busy studying the ground under our feet.

  “Hmmm,” said he, “it’s a pity there’s been so much rain. These tracks are difficult to make out.”

  “Holmes, did you see that just then?”

  “See what?” he said, looking up.

  “I thought I saw something move over by the stables.”

  He peered in the direction I was pointing. “Could it have been one of the horses?”

  “Maybe—but I don’t think so.”

  From where we stood we couldn’t really see the horses; their stalls were facing the other direction, and we could only see the back of the stables. Whatever it was I saw, it was gone now, and we proceeded to the barn. We stepped up the couple of stone steps leading to the front door, which was locked with a large rust-encrusted padlock attached to a thick metal loop on the barn door. Holmes inserted the key, and with a turn and a creak of metal, the padlock fell away. He pushed open the door, which squeaked on its rusted hinges. We stepped inside the cool dark interior of the old barn, and were greeted with the close smell of dirt and ancient s
tones.

  I looked around at the interior of the barn and tried to imagine four hundred people crammed inside its mouldering walls. The building consisted of a single cavernous room with a high, wood-beamed ceiling, and was lit only by the pale light coming from half a dozen narrow slit windows. I noticed that it was eerily quiet, as though no sound from the outside could penetrate the thick stone walls. The atmosphere was suffused with a dampness that seemed to seep into my bones, a cutting chill that felt as though it were not so much a result of the temperature as the sheer weight of the air itself.

  Standing there, I experienced a feeling of oppression such as I had never felt before—as if the stones themselves had absorbed the suffering of the poor souls who perished here three hundred years ago. It was a horrifying thought. I had seen misery as a doctor in London, certainly, but the idea of man’s cruelty to his fellow man depressed me more than the worst disease epidemic ever could.

  I glanced at Holmes, who stood silently gazing out one of the tiny windows, the pallid light falling upon his ascetic face. I wondered if he was feeling the same thing I was, but didn’t want to interrupt his contemplations. He looked at me and shook his head.

  “It’s a bad business, Watson, and I don’t envy those caught up in it.”

  Caught up as I was in my contemplation of the past, I thought at first he was referring to the unfortunate Spanish prisoners, but then I realized he was talking about the Cary family. I nodded, too disturbed by the barn’s grim past to be much concerned about the Cary family. I wandered to the far end of the cavernous room, where a few pieces of old furniture sat gathering dust in the corner. The floor was stone, with occasional patches of packed dirt where the stones had sunk into the damp ground.

  I stopped in front of a window from which there was a full view of Torre Abbey. As I stood gazing at the Normanesque columns of the gatehouse, the call of a whippoorwill perched on the branch of an old gnarled oak tree outside floated in through the narrow window. The bright and cheerful sound, full of gay disregard for life’s suffering, took hold of my imagination. Suddenly I imagined myself as one of the unfortunate prisoners, standing inside this dark and comfortless place, listening to the chipper songbird sitting on its tree branch—cut by the cruel irony of this insouciant creature, utterly free, while he remained a prisoner. I wondered if he had stood there listening day after day, and if so, whether he had come to hate the bird for having the precious freedom he himself lacked—or if he welcomed the bird’s appearance, maybe even looked forward to it, representing as it did a connection, however tenuous, to the world outside.