I walked to the other side of the barn, my boots scraping against the damp stones at my feet. I fancied I could hear the moans of the stricken prisoners as they lay on the damp floor, their faces swollen with fever. Finally I went over to where Holmes knelt underneath one of the windows, examining the ground. He carefully swept something up from the floor, putting it in a small leather pouch he often carried on such occasions.
I could stand it no longer; the feeling of loss and sorrow inside this place was almost unbearable.
“Holmes,” I said as casually as I could manage, “I’m going outside for a breath of air.”
“Very well,” he said without looking up, and began examining the windowsill. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I stumbled from the building and stood outside, breathing heavily, much relieved. Even though it was a foggy day, the air outside seemed sweeter than the close and stifling atmosphere inside the barn.
I gazed up at the gnarled oak tree and wondered if this same tree had stood in this spot three hundred years ago. I looked for the whippoorwill, but the bird was gone, flown away to more pleasant environs. After a few moments Holmes emerged from the barn. His trousers had patches of dirt from where he had knelt upon the ground, and his forehead glistened with sweat, but he looked relaxed and cheerful. I was glad Holmes had not noticed my condition—or so I thought.
As we approached the abbey, I thought I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye up in the Abbot’s Tower. However, when I turned to look, shielding my eyes from the glare of the shrouded sun, there was nothing there. The tower stood empty and dark, the heavy hands of the clock pointing to three o’clock.
I am not one given to swooning, but as I stood looking up at the tower, everything went black for a moment. I staggered and caught my balance. I passed a hand over my forehead; the momentary dizziness passed as quickly as it had come. I felt Holmes’s firm hand upon my elbow.
“Steady on, Watson. Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, quite,” I replied, touched by the concern in his voice.
“Perhaps we should go inside,” he said, frowning. “You’ve likely had enough for one day.”
“I’m all right,” I answered, but followed him back inside all the same.
That night, as we went up to bed, he surprised me by laying a hand upon my shoulder.
“Had a rough time of it, Watson?” he said gently, and I nodded.
No further word was spoken, for which I was grateful, but once again Holmes continued to surprise me by revealing the heart hidden beneath his aloof exterior. Once again, I could only shake my head and wonder if I yet knew the full measure of my friend.
Chapter Eight
“Well, it seems we’ve found our medium,” Charles Cary said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, as we entered the drawing room of the abbey late the next morning. Still dressed in his riding habit, he stood leaning against the mantelpiece as we came in, a black riding crop in his hand.
“Oh?” I said, taking a chair by the fire. I still felt chilled to the centre of my being, a chill which even the leaping flames of the fire did little to dispel.
“Yes—it seems there’s a thriving business for mediums in town,” Cary replied, “what with all the well-heeled Londoners who come down here to ‘take the waters,’ you know.” He shook his head and tapped his leg impatiently with the leather crop. “There’s several of them about who prey upon credulous wealthy dowagers. It wasn’t hard to locate them—they leave calling cards at all the tea-houses.”
Holmes leaned an arm upon the mantelpiece. “You don’t seem to have much faith in the practitioners of this particular profession, Lord Cary.”
Our host rolled his eyes. “Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, you don’t mean to tell me that you do?”
Holmes smiled enigmatically. “I neither believe nor disbelieve. Belief based upon faith is always suspect in my eyes—and anything which I cannot confirm for myself by observation is in that category as far as I am concerned.” He bent down and put another piece of wood on the fire. “However, one can be equally at the mercy of prejudice by rejecting an idea out of hand, so I attempt to maintain an open mind as much as possible when it comes to things of which I have no firsthand knowledge.”
“Commendable, I’m sure, Mr. Holmes,” Lord Cary remarked, but without an attempt to conceal the disdain which had crept into his voice. “I wish I shared your open-mindedness. And you, Dr. Watson,” he said, turning to me. “Have you ever attended a séance?”
“No, indeed I have not,” I replied, “but I must admit I am rather looking forward to it.”
Cary sighed and threw himself into one of the armchairs closest to the fire. “Well, I think it’s stuff and nonsense, and if it weren’t for my poor sister Elizabeth’s delicate condition, I would have none of it. I’m only going along with it to humour her.”
Holmes looked as if he were about to say something, then changed his mind and was silent.
“So if you don’t think the manifestations at Torre Abbey are of supernatural origin, Lord Cary, what do you think they are?” I said.
Cary looked at me as if the question surprised him. “That’s what I brought you down here for,” he replied, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“And we shall do our best to ferret out the answer,” Holmes said genially, “but in the meantime, I don’t believe you should reject the supernatural explanation out of hand.”
Lord Cary looked at Holmes as if he’d just taken leave of his senses. “Good Lord,” he said, “you don’t really think—”
Our conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Grayson, who announced solemnly that luncheon was being served in the dining room. As he turned to leave, Holmes spoke to him. “Grayson, who in this house smokes cigars?”
The butler’s creased face expressed surprise.
“No one that I am aware, sir.”
Holmes nodded. “I see.”
After Grayson had gone, Cary turned to Holmes. “Why did you ask him that, Mr. Holmes, if I may ask? After all, you could have just as easily asked me.”
But Holmes sidestepped the question with one of his own.
“There was someone out around the stables yesterday,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any idea who that might be? Whoever it was, they were careful to make sure we didn’t get a good look at them.”
“Oh, that must have been young William,” Cary replied. “He loves the horses, and he does a few odd jobs around the stables. He’s very shy, though, as you’ve seen.”
“Yes,” Holmes murmured almost to himself, “so I have observed.”
“He’s very good with the horses, though,” Cary continued as we seated ourselves around the long table in the dining hall. “You should see how they respond to him—he has a real way with them. And they seem to have a calming effect upon him as well.”
“Do you let him ride them?” I inquired.
“Oh, no—I shouldn’t think that was wise,” Cary replied, unfolding his napkin and laying it neatly upon his lap. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for something happening to him in case the horse panicked or bolted or something.”
“Yes, quite,” Holmes said as Grayson appeared with a steaming tureen of soup.
“By the way,” said our host, “there’s a hunt coming up next weekend, and if you’re still here by then, I’d love to have you join up, if you care to. We can put you on a couple of good mounts from our stable, if that suits you.”
“What do you say, Watson?” said Holmes. “Have you ever ridden to hounds?”
“I can’t say that I have,” I replied. “My background is a bit less aristocratic, I’m afraid. But I can ride, and I’m game to try.”
“Splendid!” Cary exclaimed. “The countryside around here is perfectly suited to a hunt—a few fences, some shallow streams, and plenty of meadows for a good gallop.”
As Grayson was serving the last of the soup, Lady Cary entered the room, flushed and out of breath. Caliban the terrier followed after her, his
sharp little nails clicking on the hardwood floor.
“Have you seen Elizabeth?” she said to her son.
“Perhaps she’s with William,” Cary replied.
Marion Cary shook her lovely head. “William’s in the kitchen with Annie, having his lunch.”
“Why don’t you—” Charles Cary began, but was interrupted by the appearance of his sister.
Elizabeth Cary looked even more wraithlike than she had the previous evening. Her hair was loose and dishevelled, and her eyes stared straight ahead, the pupils fixed and dilated. Charles Cary was evidently alarmed by her appearance, for he rose from his chair upon seeing her.
“Elizabeth,” he said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She gazed vacantly at her brother. When she spoke, her voice was muffled and flat.
“He came to me again last night.”
“Who? Who came to you?” Charles replied, but I had a strange sense that he knew the answer to the question.
“The Cavalier . . . Hugo Cary.”
Upon hearing this, Marion Cary stiffened. “That’s nonsense,” she said tersely. “Don’t be a foolish girl.”
Her daughter turned to her. “You’ve seen him, too,” she said in a flat, expressionless voice which was all the more eerie for its lack of emotion.
Lady Cary looked at her son for help, but Charles Cary was already at his sister’s side. “Come on,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “Let’s get you upstairs. You’re not well and you need some rest.”
She went along willingly enough, but I sensed in her docility a kind of awful hopelessness, as if she believed she was beyond help.
Lady Cary turned to me with a strained laugh. “I believe my daughter has more imagination than is entirely healthy. This . . . Cavalier she spoke of . . .”
“An ancestor of yours, I believe,” Holmes replied smoothly. “There’s a picture of him in the room your husband used as his study.”
Lady Cary fidgeted with her hair. “An ancestor of my husband’s, to be exact,” she corrected. “Remember, I am not a Cary by blood.”
“Just so,” Holmes answered. “This Hugo Cary—what was he like?”
“Oh, I don’t suppose any stories one hears can hold much evidence—you know how the people around here talk,” she said, twirling a golden strand of hair between her fingers.
“Tell them, Mother.”
We turned to see Charles Cary standing in the doorway, his face grim.
“Oh, Charles, don’t be absurd,” she replied, but without conviction.
“Very well; I’ll tell them,” he said firmly, seating himself once more at the table. “They say he was a murderer, a cruel man who was responsible for the Cary family curse.”
“Oh?” said Holmes. “What’s that?”
“That in every generation of Carys a family member will die a violent death.”
There was a silence, and then Holmes spoke.
“Do you believe that?”
Charles Cary snorted. “Of course not—it’s typical West Country superstition. But that’s not what concerns me. My sister seems to believe it, and given her fragile state of mind, that is worrisome. Who knows what she may do?” He ran a hand through his hair, his expressive face glum.
Marion Cary leaned forward in her chair. “Perhaps we should—” she began, but broke off when her son looked up at her. I wasn’t sure, but I think I sensed an admonition in that gaze.
“What were you going to say?” Holmes said when she did not complete her thought.
In response she shook her head, her eyes downcast. “Nothing,” she replied. “I really don’t know what to do. Perhaps the séance will calm her down, convince her that there are no spirits wandering around Torre Abbey.”
“Or perhaps it will convince her of just the opposite,” Charles Cary said tersely.
Luncheon was a strained affair that day. Marion Cary made an attempt at polite conversation, but it was clear that her daughter’s condition was deeply disturbing to her. Caliban sat at her feet throughout the meal, very well behaved, and she occasionally slipped him a tidbit, but her manner was distracted. Charles Cary went back upstairs to see to his sister, then reappeared after a while, but he was no more relaxed than his mother, and barely touched his food. To my surprise, Holmes made no reference to Elizabeth Cary’s condition or to the mysterious Cavalier throughout the meal, but made small talk about events in and around Torquay. This was so unlike him that I wondered what he was up to.
Later, as we sat alone in the parlour watching the pale October sun slip behind the trees outside, I asked him why he had avoided the obvious questions about Miss Cary.
He smiled in reply. “Sometimes a loose rein is necessary, Watson—you have to give a horse its head occasionally to learn more about it.”
“What exactly do you hope to learn in this case?” I said, moving my chair closer to the fire. Ever since our visit to the barn I could not seem to get warm, and wondered if I was perhaps coming down with a chill or something.
Holmes gazed into the glowing flames of the fire.
“Well, one curious thing strikes me. Torre Abbey has an impressive array of apparitions, doesn’t it?” he said thoughtfully.
“I was just thinking that myself,” I replied.
He rose from his chair and stood before the fire, one sinewy arm resting upon the mantelpiece. His eyes were dark in the yellow firelight.
“Yes—curious, isn’t it? It’s as though the hauntings were tailor-made, as one might make a suit to fit a customer.”
“What does it mean, do you think?”
Holmes shook his head and stared into the grate. “Whoever is behind this knows the family—and knows them well.”
I too looked into the flames, which leaped and danced before my eyes. Mesmerized by the golden glow of firelight, I couldn’t help wondering if I too would find my deepest fears reflected in the spirits—real or otherwise—that walked the dusky chambers of Torre Abbey.
Just then Charles Cary entered the room. “You wished to see me, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes,” Holmes replied as our host took a chair by the fire. “Do you own firearms, Lord Cary?”
“Yes—yes, I do. I have a revolver.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Oh, yes. My father believed every country gentleman should know how to ride and shoot.”
“You’d best sleep with it loaded next to your bed,” Holmes remarked. “And after tonight I would like everyone to move into a bedroom close to the centre of the house, so that I can more easily keep an eye on things.”
“I wonder if it would help to move your family somewhere where they might be safer—a hotel in town, perhaps?” I suggested.
Lord Cary looked at my friend, his pale eyebrows knit. “Do you think that would be wise, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Not necessarily. If this were London, I would have the Baker Street Irregulars at my disposal, but here . . . of course, Watson and I will do what we can, but . . .”
“What about the servants? After all, it was Sally who died,” Lord Cary pointed out. “It would hardly do to move my family out of danger and not the servants, too.”
“True—and I’m not at all certain that moving them into town would remove them from danger—in fact, it might encourage whoever is behind this to engage in even bolder behaviour,” said Holmes. “As for Sally, it is true that she was most probably a casualty in this case, but I feel confident that your family is the real target.”
Lord Cary’s face turned a shade paler and he swallowed hard. “Really? What makes you say that, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes passed a hand over his face and sighed. “A number of factors. If you don’t mind, though, it is late and I think I’d like to retire.”
I knew Holmes well enough to know that the lateness of the hour had nothing to do with it. When he was on a case, fatigue was unknown to him—he was capable of feats of endurance beyond other men. For wha
tever reason, he clearly did not want to reveal all that he knew to Charles Cary—either because he did not entirely trust him, or because he feared it would compromise Cary’s safety.
After Cary had gone, I turned to Holmes.
“What exactly did you find in the Spanish barn, Holmes?”
“Cigar ash, Watson. A rather rare blend of tobacco, in fact, found most often in Turkey, though I have heard tell of it being sold on the streets of Kashmir as well. In my monograph on cigar ash I devote a paragraph to this particular blend.”
“I see. So that is why you asked if anyone in the house smoked cigars.”
“Indeed. Someone stood in that spot rather recently and smoked a cigar, Watson. In fact, judging by the amount of ash, they were there for rather a long time. An expensive cigar like that takes a long while to smoke.”
“Do you think . . . ?”
“That is all I can safely conclude, though I have my theories. In any event, I intend to keep a close eye on the Spanish barn, Watson, and I would appreciate it if you did the same.”
I shivered. Though I did not say so, I had no desire ever to go near the Spanish barn again.
Chapter Nine
In the middle of the night I was catapulted out of sleep by a blood-curdling scream. It was the most hideous, utterly terrifying sound I had ever heard. It slashed through the night like a sword, cutting the air and piercing my ears with its horrible, shrill cry. My heart beating rapidly my chest, I tore off the covers and launched myself from the bed. But the second my feet hit the ground, the sound stopped, leaving in its wake only a faint dying reverberation in the air. I threw on my robe, and, flinging the door open, plunged out into the hallway.
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