“Oo, fish, William—he loves watching fish, don’t you?” said Annie. “Why don’t we sit next to Dr. Watson and look for them?”
Again he nodded his consent, working his mouth as hard as he could, but all that came out was a kind of strangled yelping sound, rather like the bark of a small dog.
“Come on,” said I, “come sit right here and help me look.”
They were just about to sit down on the grass next to me when suddenly I heard a commotion back in the direction of Torre Abbey. I turned to see Lady Cary running from the building, crying hysterically.
“It’s the mistress!” Annie exclaimed. “What’s wrong, do you think?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I’m going to find out!”
I immediately jumped to my feet and ran as fast as I could to her aid, Annie and William following me not far behind. I was not the first to arrive—Holmes and Charles Cary were already there by the time I had covered the several hundred yards of ground. Lady Cary had collapsed in her son’s arms, crying uncontrollably.
“He’s dead!” she wailed.
“Who? Who’s dead?” said Holmes.
She raised her tear-streaked face. “Caliban! Someone’s killed Caliban!”
“Killed him?” said her son. “Who on earth would do that?”
“I don’t know,” she responded, “but I found him just now, poor little thing! He’s dead and I’m afraid he’s been poisoned!”
Annie shook her head sadly. “Why would anyone kill a poor little dog?”
I looked at Holmes and thought he suspected, as I did, the answer was related to Caliban’s sudden fit of barking the other night. I took a deep breath; it was clear that not even the animals at Torre Abbey were safe from the vengeance of a desperate and ruthless killer.
Chapter Nineteen
Lady Cary was inconsolable over the death of her beloved terrier, and I gave her some valerium drops to calm her down. Everyone in the household now was quite unnerved; even placid, stoic Annie trembled at the sight of the poor animal’s little corpse. The dog was lying just outside the butler’s pantry, not far from his food bowl, and Lady Cary’s conclusion of poison seemed reasonable to me.
Holmes instructed everyone to leave the kitchen immediately so that he could work undisturbed. Charles Cary escorted his mother and sister to their rooms and saw to it that Annie and William were out of the way. The boy evidenced curiosity, but was not allowed to see the poor dog, nor was Elizabeth, whose already delicate state of mind was becoming increasingly fragile.
Grayson alone seemed unmoved by the turn of events, expressing sympathy over the death of the dog, but his implacable manner remained intact throughout.
Holmes bent over the dog, sniffed at it, examined the floor all around it, then turned his attention to the partially eaten bowl of food.
“I think in this case Lady Cary is not far off,” he remarked, removing a sample of the food and placing it in a small saucer.
“I say, Lord Cary,” he said to our host as he entered the kitchen, having seen to it that the other members of the household were settled.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”
“I noticed when I was in your quarters that you have a small laboratory set up.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Is everything in good working order?”
“Yes; as you know, I’m a medical student. I use it occasionally in my studies.”
“May I use it?” Holmes inquired. “I have one or two tests I should like to perform.”
“Certainly. Everything is at your disposal.”
“Come, Watson, we have work to do,” he said, starting to leave the kitchen. “Oh, one more thing, Lord Cary, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Yes?”
“I suppose in your laboratory you have either sulphuric or hydrochloric acid?”
“Yes, I have a container of hydrochloric acid. It is clearly marked.”
“Good. And might you by any chance also have a sample of pure metallic zinc?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I just updated my supplies so that when I am not at school I might be able to—”
But Holmes was already gone, walking swiftly from the kitchen, head down, lost in thought, intent on his next move. I followed behind, curious as to what he had in mind.
Lord Cary’s laboratory was not bad—not as complete as the one Holmes had set up in our rooms at Baker Street, perhaps, but sufficient, apparently, for his purposes. I watched as he lighted a Bunsen burner and watched as he adjusted the bluish flame to the proper height.
“What do you intend to do, Holmes?”
“Watson, have you heard of the Marsh test?”
“Yes, I believe I have, but I couldn’t tell you what it is exactly.”
“A very simple and effective way to determine the presence of arsenic,” he said as he poured out hydrochloric acid into a beaker containing a small amount of zinc. “There are other tests as well; the Reinsch test, for example, is more precise, and able to detect much smaller concentrations, but I suspect this will be quite sufficient for our purposes.” He then added the sample of the dog food to the solution and placed it over the flame. Once the acid had evaporated, he pointed to a white substance left at the bottom of the beaker.
“Arsenic oxide, Watson! Just as I thought—the poor animal was given arsenic in his food. Lady Cary was right—someone deliberately poisoned her dog!”
Unfortunately, the constabulary of Torquay were singularly unimpressed with the poisoning of a dog. Such crimes were apparently not uncommon in and around the town, so we were told; with the quickly expanding population of the region, people who had come to live in a quiet, remote seaside village now found themselves increasingly surrounded by newcomers. Given such conditions, a certain amount of resentment and hostility was inevitable. Though there was very little violent crime around Torquay, apparently pets were often considered fair game in the settling of local feuds. The fat sergeant told us that he had received several reports of suspected poisonings over the past few months. I suspected, however, that his obvious indifference to the fate of the Cary family owed more to the bad blood created by Victor Cary during his lifetime.
“Well, Watson, it seems we are on our own once again,” Holmes commented as we returned to the abbey in the Carys’s brougham.
“What next?” I replied. “Perhaps we should not go on tomorrow’s hunt.”
“Oh, no, by all means we should attend the hunt. First of all, I am most concerned about the safety of Charles Cary and want to keep an eye on him; and I am further convinced that the killer may very well reveal his or her hand tomorrow at the hunt.”
“Really? How so?”
Holmes shook his head. “I cannot say for sure; I wish that I could. All I can say is that we must be on our guard, Watson.”
That night I had trouble sleeping; even a cognac after dinner couldn’t calm my overwrought mind. I lay in my bed tossing and turning, listening to the creaking and groaning of the ancient building around me. In the middle of the night I heard a soft rain begin to fall, splashing on the eaves, pattering gently upon the window panes, and I finally fell into a fitful slumber.
I dreamt I was riding across an open field at twilight on the little strawberry mare. It was growing dark and I was anxious to get somewhere. The field seemed to stretch on and on, though, and there was no sign of a building anywhere. I called out at one point, but there was no reply, so I kept riding. I had the strange sense I was being followed and looked over my shoulder, and to my horror I saw a rider on a black horse wearing long flowing robes: the Demon Hunter! Panicked, I urged my horse into a gallop, but still my pursuer was gaining on me. Faster, faster we rode along the moors, until we reached the cliffs overhanging the sea, the waves crashing upon the rocks beneath. I dismounted and looked down into the abyss, at the swirling water which lapped at the jagged edges of the boulders beneath. Behind me, that sound of hoofbeats grew louder. I closed my eyes and jumped, and felt my
self falling, falling . . .
Chapter Twenty
The morning of the hunt the day dawned bright and clear, the air as crisp as the tiny green fall apples which lay scattered on the ground underneath the spreading branches of the Carys’s apple trees. I awoke early, excitement creeping up my spine as I pulled on the breeches and boots Cary had lent me the night before. The breeches fit well enough, but the boots were a bit tight around my calves. Nevertheless, I succeeded in pulling them on and crept downstairs to avoid waking the rest of the household. The rattling of pots and pans coming from the kitchen told me that I was not the only early riser that morning; I could make out the voices of Grayson and Annie over the clatter of cutlery.
I arrived in the dining room to find Holmes already seated at the breakfast table, a steaming pot of tea in front of him. The early morning sun shone shyly through the French windows upon the immaculate white linen tablecloth.
“Ah, Watson, join me in a cup of tea, won’t you?” Holmes said, pouring me a cup from the blue-flowered china teapot. “Nothing like a good Assam blend to fortify us for the day ahead,” he said, placing the cup in front of me as I took my place at the table across from him. He looked more comfortable in his riding boots than I was in mine. Lord Cary’s jacket was a little short in the sleeves, but other than that, the riding habit fitted him admirably.
“Well, Holmes, you look quite to the manor born,” I said, taking a sip of tea, which was hot and strong, with the stringent taste of Assam.
“I am sorry about your boots, Watson; I hope it doesn’t spoil the day for you.”
“Oh, is it that noticeable?”
Holmes smiled. “Perhaps they will be more comfortable once you are on horseback.”
Just then Grayson entered with a fresh pot of tea, and as he set the pot upon the table, Holmes addressed him.
“You are a man of many talents, it would seem, Grayson.”
“I don’t know about that, sir,” the butler replied as he removed the empty teapot.
“Oh, come, don’t be so modest. You spent time in the theatre in India, did you not?”
“A little,” Grayson replied without looking up from his task. “Will that be all, sir?” He was clearly not anxious to talk about his time in India.
“Yes, thank you,” Holmes said, and the butler withdrew to the kitchen.
“How on earth did you know that?” I said when he had gone.
“I didn’t, Watson. For once, I was just guessing—though I’ll admit it was an educated guess. The fact that he plays the flute so well, the pierced ears, a certain way he carries himself and uses his voice—all of this indicated he’s had training as an actor.”
“And what might that lead you to conclude?”
“Possibly nothing, Watson—or possibly a great deal.”
Soon the rest of the household was stirring, and before long Charles Cary appeared, looking every inch the lord of the manor in his smart white jodhpurs, shiny black boots and red hunting jacket.
“Ready for the big day?” he said as he seated himself at the breakfast table.
“Yes,” I replied, although I was more afraid than I would have willingly admitted; still, I was determined to make a good show of it and acquit myself with honour on the field.
The hunt was to gather at the bottom of the apple orchard, and, once mounted, Holmes and I followed Cary on his horse down the path to the orchard. Riding behind him, I noticed Charles’s horse was walking strangely, and seemed to be favouring one leg. I trotted up next to him and pointed it out.
“I thought something seemed odd,” he said, dismounting.
“I believe it’s the left hind leg,” I observed, and he bent to examine it.
“Can’t see any sign of injury . . . wait just a moment—hullo! Here’s the problem—a loose shoe!” He lifted the horse’s hoof up so I could see, and sure enough, the shoe hung loose upon it.
“I say, that’s irritating,” he grumbled. “I had the blacksmith in just last week. I’ll have to have a word with that fellow about this!”
“What’s the matter?” Holmes asked, drawing up alongside of us on Richmond. The big horse tossed his head and pawed the ground, as if eager to be on his way. He could smell the excitement of the upcoming hunt, and was no doubt impatient for a good gallop across the moors.
“Lord Charles has a loose shoe,” I remarked.
“Really? May I see?” said Holmes.
“Nothing much to see, just sloppy work, I’m afraid,” Charles replied, “but be my guest.”
Holmes dismounted and examined the offending shoe. When he had finished, Charles Cary took up the reins and led his horse back to the barn.
“Go ahead without me—I’ll catch up,” he called to us. “I just need to tighten this up and then I’ll be right along.”
As we trotted out towards where the rest of the riders were beginning to gather, Holmes slowed his horse to a walk and turned to me.
“That was not sloppy workmanship, Watson—someone deliberately loosened that shoe.”
“Really? Are you certain?”
“Oh, yes. The scrape marks on the loose bolts indicate a different kind of tool was used to loosen them—and most probably not by a professional blacksmith.”
“But who would . . . ? I mean, why would someone . . .”
“I can think of several reasons, Watson. Whoever it was may not have wanted Charles Cary to ride in the hunt today. Either that, or . . .” He paused and looked out over the gently sloping hills of Torre Abbey.
“They wanted his horse to have an accident.”
“Precisely.”
I shuddered. “Are you going to tell him?”
Holmes paused to consider the question. “Later, Watson, not now. But I will tell him. I think he has a right to know that someone may be out to do him harm.”
The atmosphere at the hunt was one of suppressed excitement as the horses and riders began to arrive. The sight was a festive one: the Master of the Hunt in his bright-red jacket and top hat, the horses all immaculately brushed and groomed, some with braided manes and tails, their polished hooves glistening with oil. The horses felt the excitement, too: many of them pranced and fretted at their bits, anxious to be off, their breath coming in cloudy little bursts in the crisp air.
Holmes’s black stallion was one of the more excitable animals, but Holmes kept him firmly in hand, his fingers wrapped tightly around the double reins of the pelham bit. My little chestnut mare stood quietly, though, as if she did this every day of the week and couldn’t be bothered to get worked up about it. Even the simple snaffle bit she wore seemed hardly necessary; I sat upon Ariel with a loose rein and she gazed about her placidly as if wondering what all the fuss was about.
There were about twenty-odd horses and riders; the usual assortment of chestnuts and bays, with one or two spotted Appaloosas, a couple of greys, and of course Charles Cary’s beautiful palomino. Though a couple of the bays were quite dark, Richmond was the only truly black horse. The other horses seemed afraid of Richmond, and gave him a wide berth as Holmes walked the big horse around the broad circular drive.
The braying of dogs announced the appearance of the Huntsman, the hounds swarming around the feet of his bay gelding, their moist noses to the ground, occasionally lifting their heads to bray with the peculiar hoarse voices of foxhounds. He was followed by the Whippers-in, also wearing scarlet jackets.
The horses ignored the dogs, but the tension in the air increased with their appearance. The horses seemed to know it was nearly time to depart; they fussed and fretted even more, prancing in place, tossing their heads and pulling at the reins. Ariel, however, remained calm as ever, regarding the dogs with the same disinterest and serene detachment as she viewed the other horses, as though she had only disdain for their foolish expenditure of wasted energy.
Finally, with one shrill blast of the Huntsman’s horn, we were off. The horses in front lurched forward, and the whole pack lunged after them at a brisk trot. I was pleas
ed to see that Ariel trotted as steadily as she did everything else; she pricked her head up and followed her stable-mate, Richmond, as we trotted down a dirt lane leading away from Torre Abbey. Ariel was no match for Richmond’s long legs, however, and I soon found a place at the rear of the pack, while Holmes’s horse rode grandly off to the front. As we turned onto a broad meadow, Lord Cary cantered up from behind me on his handsome palomino.
“How do you like Ariel, Dr. Watson?” he said, drawing up beside me.
“I’ve never seen a steadier mount,” I replied. “Is she always this calm?”
“When she trusts her rider,” he answered. “She must think you know what you’re doing.”
“I hope she’s right,” I answered as Cary went off to the front of the hunt.
A white dew still lay heavily on the grass as we cantered across the first field; lit by the pale October sun, the meadow grass sparkled like crystal. I breathed in deeply, filling my lungs with fresh, clean Devon air. The ascending sun glinted off the back of the riders in front of me, the rhythmic beat of hooves pounding the ground, softened from rain the night before. The rocking motion of the horse under me as we cantered slowly across the field put me into a kind of trance state, and I felt lucky to be alive, to be in this field at this moment, with these people, joining them in an ancient and time-honoured sport.
For a little while I forgot about the grim errand which had brought us here; all thoughts of mysterious spirits and hauntings vanished from my head as I rode across the field. Up ahead, the dogs had entered the woods, and I could hear them baying as they sniffed rocks and trees in search of the elusive fox.
I followed the others into the woods, ducking under tree branches as Ariel crashed through the undergrowth in pursuit of the other horses. The cries of the Whippers-in could be heard up ahead as they urged the dogs on.
“Get on it!”
“On-y, on-y, on-y!”
Ahead I saw a low stone wall, presumably a property marker. The other riders were jumping their horses over it with apparent ease, so I gave Ariel a squeeze and urged her over it. She cleared the jump easily and I gave her a pat for a job well done.
The Haunting of Torre Abbey Page 19
