The Haunting of Torre Abbey

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  To my relief, I was not alone. In the moonlight filtering in from the windows, I could see the tall spare form of Holmes coming towards me from the other end of the hall. The sound of footsteps from around the corner moments later announced the arrival of a very out-of-breath Charles Cary. He wore a dressing gown and carried a gas lantern in his left hand.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “What on earth was that?”

  “It sounded like a woman screaming,” I replied.

  Cary’s handsome face clouded over. “Have you seen my sister?” he said to Holmes as he joined Cary and me.

  Holmes shook his head. The same thought had crossed my mind: it seemed only logical that the scream came from a member of the household. At that moment, however, Elizabeth Cary appeared, her dark hair in disarray, clutching her robe to her breast.

  “What is it, Charles?” she cried, falling into her brother’s arms.

  “Have you seen Mother?” he said by way of answer.

  “No,” she replied, but just then Marion Cary came rushing down the hall.

  “What can it be, Mr. Holmes?” she said, shivering. “It was horrible—it sounded almost inhuman.”

  “I don’t know,” Holmes responded, “but I intend to find out. The servants’ quarters are in the north wing, I believe?”

  “Yes, yes,” she replied breathlessly.

  “Lord Cary, if you would be so good as to accompany me, I shall ask Watson to remain here to make sure the women come to no harm,” Holmes said.

  “Yes, of course,” Cary replied, following my friend down the hall towards the servants’ quarters.

  As I watched them disappear down the darkened hallway, I thought of my service revolver sitting in the drawer next to my bed. I looked at Marion Cary, whose face was flushed and glowing from exertion and emotion. In spite of my concerns for the safety of the household, I confess that the sight of her golden hair, loose about her shoulders, caused my heart to beat even more rapidly.

  Embarrassed, I averted my eyes. “Did either of you get a sense of where the scream was coming from?”

  Marion Cary shook her head. “It woke me from a sound sleep. It seemed to be everywhere at once.”

  “It—it seemed to me that it was coming from the cloisters,” Elizabeth Cary said haltingly.

  I was itching to join the search in finding the source of the scream, but Holmes had told me to watch over the women, and I resigned myself to fulfilling my duty.

  “We would probably all be more comfortable in the library,” said Marion Cary. “We could at least light a fire there.”

  The hallway was indeed draughty, and a sneeze caught in my throat as I replied. “I think we should wait here until Holmes returns. Then we can all go down to the library together.”

  Elizabeth Cary pulled her cloak around her shoulders. “I want to go find William. I’m worried about him.”

  “I think we’d best leave that to Mr. Holmes,” said her mother. “Dr. Watson is right—we need to stay here and wait for him.”

  It wasn’t long before I heard the quick, firm tread of my friend coming down the hall. He was followed by a very bewildered-looking Annie: nightcap askew, she stood shivering in her bare feet, with only a thin robe over her long white nightgown.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lady Cary said, and the little chambermaid nodded in reply, as if she didn’t trust herself to say anything. “You look cold. Why don’t you wear this?” Lady Cary said, taking off her own dressing gown and putting it on the girl’s shoulders.

  “Oh, no, mum, that’s quite all right, really,” the poor girl replied, but Lady Cary wrapped the robe snugly around the maid.

  “Nonsense. You’re shivering, and likely to catch cold.”

  “Where’s William?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Right here,” said Charles Cary, rounding the corner. Young William trailed after him, clutching a stuffed bear.

  “Come here, little bird,” Elizabeth said, folding the boy in her arms and stroking his shiny black curls.

  He made a sound which was indeed very much like the cooing of a pigeon or some other such bird as she caressed his hair.

  “The only person unaccounted for, then, is Grayson,” said Holmes, but as he spoke the butler appeared at the other end of the hall.

  “Where have you been, Grayson?” said Cary.

  “I was looking for the source of that scream, sir,” Grayson replied smoothly. In contrast to the rest of us, he gave the impression of being entirely calm and collected. His appearance lacked any sense of disarray: his dressing gown showed no sign of having been donned quickly. “It seemed to me the scream came from the east wing, sir.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “Miss Cary seemed to think it came from the area of the old cloisters.”

  “Did she?” said Holmes, peering at Elizabeth intently.

  “Well, I—I can’t be sure, of course,” she replied. “It’s just the impression I had.”

  “I see,” said Holmes.

  “Well, now that we’re all present and accounted for, I believe I shall have a look round the abbey,” Holmes declared.

  “We were just about to go down to the library and build a fire to warm ourselves,” said Lady Cary.

  “That sounds like a fine idea,” Holmes replied. “Lord Cary, if you will assist your mother, Watson and I will try to find the source of that mysterious scream.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” Cary replied.

  Though I said nothing, I was much relieved that my guard duty was ended; I much preferred to remain at my friend’s side while he ferreted out the cause of the nocturnal disturbance.

  “If you would be so good as to take that lantern from Lord Cary, Watson,” Holmes said, “and follow me, I would be grateful.”

  “If none of us screamed, it means there must be someone else in the building,” said Lady Cary as we all filed down the stone staircase to the first floor.

  “Not necessarily,” Holmes replied mysteriously.

  “But there are no other houses within a mile of here,” Charles Cary protested. “The scream must have come from within the abbey.”

  “I do not argue with you there,” said Holmes as we parted from the little group. As they made their way to the library, Holmes turned and headed down the hallway in the direction of the gatehouse.

  I followed, much puzzled. “I don’t understand, Holmes. If the sound did not come from within the abbey, then why was it so loud?”

  “Oh, I am convinced that it came from within the abbey,” he replied, leading me into the back courtyard, which was formerly the abbey’s cloisters. An oval flower bed at the centre of the courtyard was enclosed by the thick vine-covered walls of the abbey. A series of stone paths crisscrossed the grassy interior of the cloisters. “I think the erroneous conclusion is that it was of human origin,” Holmes continued as we picked our way over an ancient stone walkway toward the flower bed, which now contained only a few browning chrysanthemums.

  “What, then?” I said as a thin cold chill made its way up my spine. The memory of the terrible howl of the Hound of the Baskervilles was still fresh in my mind. Standing upon the dark ground in what was once an ancient medieval cloister did nothing to improve my mood. “What do you think it was, then, Holmes?” I whispered.

  “Well, suffice it to say for now that I have my theory,” he replied mysteriously.

  “Good Lord, Holmes, you’re not saying that . . . ?” I said, hardly believing my friend would credit the existence of supernatural forces.

  “No, no, Watson; have no fear. I merely suspect that it is not human. Would you be so good as to hold that gas lamp closer to the ground?”

  I complied, lowering the lantern so that it cast a halo of light upon the ground around our feet. A thin mist rose from the spot Holmes indicated, and I noticed there was a puddle of water upon the stones, seeping slowly into the already waterlogged soil. The glow of the lantern caught the flash of a shiny metal object on the ground, and Holmes bent down to pick it up.
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  “Well, well, well,” he chuckled, holding it up so that I could see. “Look what we have here, Watson.”

  It was a half-crown piece, dripping wet from where it lay in the middle of the slowly spreading puddle.

  “What does it mean?” I said, completely at sea.

  “Perhaps nothing,” he replied, “but if I am right, it confirms what I already suspected.”

  I was used to my friend’s cryptic ways, but I confess I was burning with curiosity as I followed him back into the abbey. I could not imagine what a half-crown piece could have to do with the horrible scream which had awakened us all so abruptly.

  We found the Cary family in the library. Charles had lit the fire, and everyone sat huddled around the flames. Charles and Lady Cary sat in the stuffed armchairs at either side of the fireplace, and Elizabeth had settled herself upon one end of the settee, William curled up in her lap.

  As I watched them, I was struck by how the two of them resembled a medieval painting of the Madonna and Child. The orange glow of the firelight fell upon the boy’s face, which was nestled in the young girl’s arms, his round cheeks as smooth and white as the plump arms which held him. It was a pretty sight, his black curls against hers, so that one could hardly tell which was which. I looked at Holmes, wondering if the beauty of the scene was lost on him. He too appeared to be studying the pair, but the expression on his face was one of scientific curiosity rather than aesthetic appreciation.

  Annie the chambermaid sat at the other end of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, looking ill at ease; no doubt she was unused to relaxing in the presence of her employers. Grayson, efficient as usual, was passing round cups of tea. He alone looked utterly unmoved by the strange events.

  Charles Cary rose from his chair the moment we entered the room.

  “Well, did you find anything?” he said, coming towards us.

  “I believe we can account for the source of that terrifying sound,” Holmes replied calmly.

  “Oh? Who was it?” Marion Cary said anxiously.

  “Not who—but rather what,” Holmes answered, holding up the half-crown piece.

  Charles Cary’s face darkened. “Mr. Holmes, this is not a laughing matter. No doubt you find it very amusing, but I can assure you that we—”

  “You are mistaken, Lord Cary; I don’t find it amusing at all,” Holmes replied calmly.

  “Then why do you taunt us with such an outrageous suggestion?” Cary sputtered, his face red as a beet.

  “Oh, there is nothing outrageous about it, Lord Cary, and if I had some dry ice I could show you right now why it is a perfectly reasonable conclusion.”

  Marion Cary rose from her chair. “Dry ice? I don’t understand.”

  All eyes were on Holmes as he held up the half-crown piece. The little group on the couch—Annie, Elizabeth, and William, were silent, their eyes round as saucers as they watched him.

  “I have made some small study of magic, which is proving very useful in this case, involving as it does the use of certain illusions. One rather unusual but very simple trick involves dropping a coin into dry ice to produce a very effective and chilling sound that sounds very much like a human scream.”

  Cary turned pale. “Do you mean to say that—that noise wasn’t a person at all, but was made by—by a coin?”

  Holmes nodded. “Precisely.”

  Marion Cary shook her head in disbelief. “But how—I mean, how did you know it wasn’t a person?”

  Holmes shrugged in reply. “I didn’t—not at first, at any rate. But then, when all the members of the household were accounted for, and none confessed to being the source of the scream, I decided to look at other options. The first possibility was that one of you was lying, but for several reasons I didn’t think it particularly likely. Also, there was something odd about the sound—as you pointed out, Lady Cary, it was not quite human. That’s when it occurred to me that it might indeed be not human at all, and that was when the magician’s ploy occurred to me.”

  Charles Cary sat back down in his chair, amazement on his face. “By God, Mr. Holmes, you don’t miss a trick, do you?”

  Holmes smiled. “In this case, I was literally looking for a trick, you might say. Dry ice can be stored for short periods of time in an ordinary icebox, so the most logical spot for the commission of such a trick would be near the kitchen, where transport would be simple. The cloister courtyard was a perfect choice; because of its central location, the sound would travel equally throughout the abbey, and even be magnified somewhat because of the acoustics. There is, I observed, a pronounced echo effect when one stands in certain areas of the old cloisters.”

  He settled his lean form upon a low chair next to the settee, where William and Elizabeth sat curled up around one another like two squirrels in a nest. Annie sat at the other end of the sofa, not moving a muscle as Holmes continued.

  “Since I knew what I was looking for, it remained only then to locate the coin, which I accomplished with the help of Watson and a gas lantern.”

  Marion Cary shook her head. “You astonish me, Mr. Holmes, really you do. Everything Charles said about you is true—and more.”

  Charles Cary nodded in agreement. “I suppose there is no chance it was just a half crown someone accidentally dropped there?”

  “Unlikely,” said Holmes. “The coin was extremely cold to the touch—and though the ice had melted by the time I arrived, the ground all around the coin was conspicuously wet.”

  “I see,” said Carey. “But the real question is, who is responsible for this?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t yet have that answer. All I can say is that I am getting closer—and this is another piece of the puzzle. In the meantime, you are safe for tonight. You and the rest of your family should get back to your beds. I have some thinking to do.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes—whatever you say,” Cary replied meekly. “Come along, Elizabeth. It’s time to get you and William back to bed.”

  The boy had fallen asleep on her lap. His face in repose looked angelic, his dark eyes with their long lashes fluttering slightly in response to whatever he was dreaming about. Charles gathered William up gently and carried him from the room, Elizabeth following behind them. Marion Cary stopped briefly to press Holmes’s hand between hers.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” she said warmly. “I am glad you are here.”

  Holmes looked uncomfortable, but he managed a smile. “I only hope that I am able to be of some service, Lady Cary.”

  “You already have been,” she replied, giving his hand a squeeze, and I could not help wishing it were my hand she held instead of his.

  When they had all gone, Holmes sat staring moodily into the dying flames of the fire.

  “I did not want to reveal so much just now, Watson, but I could tell Cary was getting impatient, and I needed to gain his confidence.” He sighed. “And so I performed that little parlour trick involving the coin and dry ice.”

  I looked at him, astonished. “Do you mean that you—?”

  He laughed. “Good heavens, no, Watson; I don’t mean that I dropped the coin into the dry ice. No, no—someone else did that. I merely meant that, having discovered its source, I revealed it to everyone. I would rather not have tipped my hand so early, frankly—until I know whom I can trust. In the event that there is an accomplice within Torre Abbey, they now know to what extent we are on to their little game.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “That is not good—I prefer to operate as secretly as possible.”

  I knew that to be true, but had often suspected that it was his innate theatricality and love of showmanship that led Holmes so often to keep his conclusions to himself, only to reveal them at the last possible—and most dramatic—moment.

  “You think there may be a member of the Cary family involved, then?” I said.

  “Let me just say that I think it would be difficult to pull off these tricks without the help of someone within the house. I’m not ruling ou
t the servants, either,” he added, “dead or alive.”

  “You mean poor Sally?” I said. “How could she have been involved?”

  “I don’t know that she was. But there was a secret involving her no one is telling me—I am certain of it. It may have something to do with this case, and it may not. Only time will tell,” Holmes replied, slumping lower in his chair.

  His face in the firelight was drawn and haggard, and it suddenly occurred to me that he was the only one who had appeared in the hallway fully dressed. That could only mean one thing: while the rest of us were awakened from deep sleep by the scream, Holmes had not been to bed at all that night.

  “You look tired, Holmes,” I said gently. “Why don’t you try and get some rest?”

  He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “I must think upon this while it is fresh in my mind, Watson.” He fumbled about in his vest pocket and produced his pipe. “This is a two-pipe problem, I think.” He shook his head and sank lower into the chair. “There is something here that escapes me . . . something deep—and dark.”

  I said nothing, but stared into the dancing flames of the fire. The terrible scream—inhuman though it was—still echoed in my ears.

  Chapter Ten

  The next day the incident of the nocturnal scream was the subject at breakfast, but by afternoon all talk was of the upcoming séance. It had been arranged for the day after Sally’s funeral, which was to be held tomorrow afternoon in Cockington. Besides Holmes and myself and the Cary family, the only other guests in attendance at the séance were to be Father Norton and his sister Lydia, who was a teacher in the parish school run by her brother.

  After spending the morning tramping about the grounds of the abbey, Holmes and I sat over a late tea in the library that afternoon. Holmes wanted to research some of the Devon legends which floated about the abbey, and we sat pouring over any books we could find with information about Torquay. In addition to their extensive art treasures, the Cary family had an impressive collection of books, which they kept in the spacious library in the east wing of the abbey.