At the other side of the wall Lord Cary was seated upon his palomino, watching me. “She jumps like a dream, doesn’t she?” he said, smiling.
“Yes, indeed,” I replied, feeling quite pleased with my mount and myself.
“Yards of daylight between her and that jump,” Cary went on, “not even a challenge. There’s a larger one up ahead which should make for some good fun,” he said, turning his horse to rejoin the group. He spurred the big palomino onward and called out over his shoulder to me. “See you in a bit.”
“Right,” I replied, and followed after him, albeit somewhat more cautiously. My mare seemed to know these woods, but I did not, and I wished to avoid a branch across the face if at all possible.
The woods rose to a low hillock, then the trees thinned out a bit along a shallow ravine, which was plastered with fallen leaves and other woodland debris. We walked our horses through the ravine, as the leaves were still wet from the night before and could be treacherous footing. The woody smell of dead leaves rose from the ground and mingled with the aroma of horse sweat as I approached the ravine, which looked to be a dried-up river bed. It occurred to me that all of Torquay was so close to the sea level that it was not far down to the groundwater level anywhere.
Up ahead I could see the fence Cary had mentioned to me. It was a cross-slatted wooden fence in a zigzag pattern, a good four feet high, and the sight of it was intimidating. But the other riders were already taking it in ones and twos, and I urged Ariel forward at a brisk canter.
Her take-off was strong and well-timed and we sailed over, but as we hit the ground something caused her to shy and lunge to one side. Still forward in a three-point jumping position, I was unprepared for this sudden change of direction—and before I knew it I found myself seated unceremoniously on the ground, the wind knocked out of me. Other than being surprised and winded, though, I was sound enough; nothing appeared to be broken. I picked myself up, hoping no one had seen me, and went to collect my mount, who stood a few yards away calmly munching on a clump of grass growing under a scrub oak tree. I was grateful at least that she was waiting for me; having divested themselves of their rider, many horses would rush off to join the rest of the pack without a thought to their stranded rider.
“What frightened you?” I said, walking up to her slowly so as not to scare her off. She raised her head, her mouth full of grass, and regarded me with the calm serenity which seemed to be her only expression. She chewed contentedly, lime-green grass juice seeping out of the sides of her mouth, as I checked the girth. I reached for the reins but as I did I heard a noise behind me, the sound of footsteps in the underbrush. I turned to see what it was. The rest of the hunt was not far in front of me, and though I could hear the thick baying of the hounds, I could not see any of my comrades.
When I turned toward the noise, it stopped. Ariel evidently heard it too, for she pricked her ears forward and stood still as a statue. Then she let out an enormous whinny, so loud that it hurt my ears. I assumed she was calling to Richmond, her stable-mate, who had gone on ahead. I took one more look around me but the trees were as still and silent as the great boulders which dotted the hillside.
I took up the reins and remounted, feeling a bit stiff but mostly just grateful that no one had been there to witness my ignominious fall. I gave Ariel her head, and she trotted through the woods, scattering dry leaves in every direction. Horses are social animals, and I could tell she was eager to join her companions. I put my head down almost level with her neck to avoid any pesky branches and let her have her head. We skirted the dry river bed for a while and then, coming upon a twisted, barren oak tree, I let her stand still for a few moments to catch her breath. The tree stood by itself at the top of a little hill, and with its bare, blackened branches, it looked as though it was the victim of a lightning strike. A solitary crow sat upon one of the higher branches, its harsh hoarse caw piercing the air, a mournful sound.
I shivered a little and sent Ariel on. Before long I saw the other riders up ahead of us, galloping across a broad plain. Without any urging from me, Ariel took off at a fast clip, almost leaving me behind. The hunting horn sounded as we raced along the moor—the fox had been spotted! The cry of the dogs mixed with the sound of pounding hooves, and my melancholy was soon replaced by exhilaration. Galloping a horse across a field is sure to send the heart racing and the blood pounding even in the most phlegmatic of men—and I was no exception. To my surprise, at a flat-out run, Ariel was a match for any of the larger horses in the hunt, and she soon caught up with the others, racing past the pack until she was almost at the front.
Up ahead I saw another stone wall surrounding the meadow. It looked like a formidable jump, but I was feeling my oats now, and headed for it.
“Mind you jump that wide—there’s a ditch on the other side!” Lord Cary called out as I prepared for take-off. Ariel sailed over it, though, as if she had wings, clearing the ditch with ease, and we galloped on ahead. Having trailed behind the others until now, I was exhilarated to be out in front. I hadn’t travelled far when I heard a cry from behind me, and then came the call:
“Rider down!”
Disappointed, I reined Ariel in and turned her around. As a doctor, I felt a responsibility to come to the aid of the fallen rider. My disappointment turned to cold fear when I saw the riderless horse trotting toward me: it was Richmond!
I spurred Ariel back to the jump, where, to my horror, I saw Holmes lying motionless on the ground. In an instant I dismounted and knelt beside him to feel for a pulse. To my great relief, he lifted his head and spoke.
“I’m all right, Watson,” he said, though he did not look it. His face was pale, and in addition to having the wind knocked out of him, he was holding his shoulder as he struggled to sit up.
“Easy, Holmes,” I said as he attempted to stand. “Why don’t you let me check for broken bones?”
He shook his head and struggled to his feet.
“There’s nothing broken, Watson, but it is as I suspected.” He pointed to an object lying in the grass just beyond the ditch, and I saw at once what had caused the fall: a broken stirrup lay on the ground.
“Look,” I said, holding up the stirrup. The leather had torn clean through—and as the leather was shiny and new, it was unlikely that it had broken on its own.
Holmes examined the stirrup leather, holding it up so that I could see. “You see where it has been cut clean through?”
I did indeed—the leather had clearly been sliced with a sharp instrument; except for the little bit which had been left uncut—and which had torn through on the jump—there was no doubt that this was a case of deliberate sabotage.
“It’s been very precisely cut,” I remarked, “and with great skill. It’s almost as though . . .”
“What, Watson?”
“Well, it’s almost as though it were done by a scalpel,” I said reluctantly.
To my surprise, Holmes nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Both of us knew that Charles Cary owned a scalpel, though neither of us said as much. Just then Cary trotted up to us on his palomino, Holmes’s horse in tow. He held Richmond’s reins in one hand, and with the other he pulled his horse to a stop.
“Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?”
“Yes, quite,” Holmes replied, though he still clutched his shoulder and I could tell from his face that he was in pain.
“Will you be all right to carry on, or do you want to go back?”
“Oh, I’ll carry on.”
“Holmes,” I said, “why don’t you go back?”
“Because I don’t know what else may happen, Watson,” he replied, taking Richmond’s reins from Lord Cary. I helped him mount the big stallion, but I did not feel good about his decision. However, I knew better than to argue; once Holmes’s mind was made up, that was that. He attached his stirrup to the saddle with what was left of the leather and mounted.
To my relief, the hunt did not last too much longer. The three of
us trotted to catch up with the rest of the hunt, but the dogs had stopped in front of a hay-strewn corner of the field where meadow met woods. Underneath a crumbling stone wall was what appeared to be the entrance to a burrow.
“Well, it seems the fox has gone into his den,” the Huntsman said as we all gathered around the yelping hounds. Some ran in frantic circles around the burrow, sniffing at the ground, driven wild by the scent of the fox, which was so enticingly present everywhere—but the little animal was safe in his underground hideaway now, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks as we turned our horses around and headed for home. I had no desire to see a fox ripped apart by hounds, and was glad that he had escaped.
Mud-spattered and matted with dried sweat, our horses were tired now, drained as we were of the adrenaline of the chase. It was over, and every horse and rider plainly felt it; even Holmes’s black stallion walked quietly, his proud head drooped forward like the head of an old cart-horse.
Dusk was gathering over the fields as we limped homeward. Every bone in my body was beginning to ache, and I thought fondly of a bath and a glass of brandy in front of the fire when we returned to the abbey. Holmes and I were in the rear, a fathom or so behind the others, and as we rounded the crest of a hillock I suddenly realized I no longer had my gloves. I had removed them when I stopped to assist Holmes, and I must have left them on the ground by the stone wall.
“I’ve left my gloves behind,” I said. “I’d better go back and get them.”
“Shall I accompany you?” said Holmes.
“No—go ahead and I’ll catch up,” I replied. The truth was I was concerned about my friend, and wanted him to get back to the abbey as soon as possible.
Holmes must have sensed what I was feeling, because he didn’t argue. “I’ll ride on ahead and tell them to slow down a bit,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry—I’m sure Ariel knows the way home,” I replied as he rode off at a trot.
I turned Ariel around and headed back across the wide field. She gave me some resistance, unwilling to turn away from the direction of home when all her companions were up ahead; not only had I separated her from the pack but now I was heading in the wrong direction! Horses have a very keen sense of direction, and always know exactly where their barn is, even if they are travelling through unfamiliar countryside.
“Don’t worry, old girl,” I said softly as she pulled against the reins, “we’ll be on our way in a moment.”
I found the gloves just where I had left them. I dismounted, put them on, and swung myself back up in to the saddle. No sooner had I done this than Ariel gave a start, tossing her head to the side as if frightened by something.
“What is it, old girl?” I said, looking around. A thick mist was gathering over the field as the cool evening air settled over the land. Visibility was limited, and I could barely see the edge of the woods, which lay to the west. Straining my eyes, though, I could see a form standing among the trees where the woods and meadow met: a tall black horse and rider. Thinking that Holmes had doubled back and gone into the woods for some reason, I turned Ariel in the direction of the horse and rider. She went a few steps, but then suddenly stopped and would go no farther. I squeezed her hard, but she fought me, pulling at the bit and shaking her head, and I finally gave her the first kick I had given her all day. Shocked, she took a few more steps towards the woods, but then suddenly stopped and reared. It was clear that Ariel did not want to go any closer to that woods. I would not admit it to myself, but I had no great desire to go there either; perhaps Ariel was simply picking up on my reluctance. I did not have a good feeling about the spot where the horse and rider stood; I could not say why, but something about it made my flesh creep. I could not make out the rider’s face or figure very well, but I had the distinct impression he was looking at me.
“Hello!” I called out. “Who are you?”
Both horse and rider stood motionless for a moment, and then suddenly took off into the woods at a furious canter. I attempted to prod Ariel into following them, but once again she fought and reared; this time I very nearly came off, and had to grab on to her neck to steady myself. Finally I gave up and allowed her to follow after the rest of the hunt, which she did at a brisk trot. I looked behind me as we went on, but the mysterious stranger had disappeared into the woods.
I let Ariel have her head and we cantered across the field, accompanied only by the sound of her breathing and the muffled thud of her hooves upon the soft soil. I could see only dimly now, and hoped that Ariel would not step in a gopher hole or some other obstacle, but she proved as sure-footed in the twilight as she was during daytime. After a while I thought I could hear the others ahead of us, and as we came to the top of the crest of a hillock I could see them through the fog, the horses’ breath coming in thick white clouds of steam.
“Well, Watson, what kept you so long?” Holmes said as I trotted up beside him.
“I—I saw something,” I said.
“Oh? What?” Holmes inquired.
“A black horse and rider,” I replied.
Holmes stopped his horse. “Are you certain of that?”
“Fairly certain. It was somewhat dark, and at first I thought it might be you, since the horse was jet-black and Richmond was the only black horse in the hunt today. But when I called out they turned and went back into the woods. I tried to follow, but Ariel would have none of it. I finally gave up and rejoined the hunt.”
“ ‘And I saw, and behold, a black horse, and its rider had a balance in his hand.’ ”
I looked at Holmes. I recognized the quote as being from Revelations, but it sent a chill up my spine nonetheless. Holmes shook his head slowly.
“The scales of justice, perhaps, Watson . . . I think that whatever is going on here, revenge is not far away from the centre of things.”
“What makes you think that?”
Holmes shrugged. “A process of elimination. There are a limited number of drives which motivate human behaviour, and once you have eliminated the others . . . well, time will yet tell. Come along,” he said, turning Richmond in the direction of the abbey. “We must return or the others will wonder what happened to us.”
We walked along for a few minutes without speaking. I heard the gentle cooing of quail in the underbrush as we walked alongside the hedgerows leading up to the abbey. As we started up the long drive to the abbey, Holmes turned to me.
“Well, we have at least one corroborating piece of evidence now, Watson.”
“Oh?” I said. “What’s that?”
A chill crawled its way up my spine as I heard his reply.
“Why, the Demon Hunter, Watson—now you have seen him, too.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Later that night, after the rest of the family had gone to bed, we sat with Charles Cary in front of the fire, sharing a glass of claret before retiring.
“Well, I think I’ll turn in,” our host said with a yawn, setting down his glass and stretching before rising from his chair.
“One moment, Lord Cary,” said Holmes. “I think there is something you should know.”
Holmes proceeded to tell Cary his theory about the loosened shoe—that it was done deliberately. He also told him about the broken stirrup leather. As he spoke, Cary’s blue eyes grew wider.
“Are you sure, Mr. Holmes? I mean, could you be mistaken?”
The detective shrugged. “I think not. I believe it was meant as a warning.”
Cary sat down again, a look of bewilderment on his face. “But who would do such a thing—and why?”
Holmes explained his various theories and then added, “Of course, there may be another reason I’m overlooking . . . anything is possible.”
Cary stared into the fire for several moments without moving. Then, collecting himself, he took a breath and rose from his chair. “Well, that is a sobering thought, gentlemen—sobering indeed.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, Lord Cary,” Holmes responded.
“Oh? W
hat’s that?”
“Ghosts don’t go around loosening horseshoes and cutting stirrup leathers—at least none that I know of.”
Cary shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t suppose they do.”
I looked out the window at the black skeletons of the branches rattling on the window panes, blown about by the wind.
At the hour of the moon the Demon Hunter is abroad
On his black stallion o’er the fields he does ride . . .
The lovers now lie buried in the deep dark glen
But the Hunter on his great black steed will ride, and ride
—and ride again.
I was seated in the dining room over a late breakfast the next morning when Holmes came striding into the room.
“Good morning, Watson,” he said, seating himself.
“You’re up early, Holmes. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been to town,” he replied, plucking a napkin from the table and unfolding it onto his lap. I noticed he still favoured his right shoulder.
“Oh? What did you do there?”
“I was looking for a man who doesn’t exist.”
“And did you find him?” I asked, familiar with my friend’s cryptic ways.
“I did. Or at least I found people who had seen him, which was close enough for my purposes,” he said, helping himself to a thick slab of bacon with eggs.
“I see. And who is this nonexistent personage?”
“Do you remember the strange little man you saw at the theatre in London?”
“Yes.”
“And one of the stagehands also reported seeing someone who was very likely the same person?”
“Yes, I remember telling you about it.”
“Well, Watson, it seems that odd character has been a recent guest at the Lambeth Hotel in Torquay.”
“Really? You don’t say!”
“Yes, even in a place like Torquay such a colourful personage is bound to make an impression. The hotel clerk particularly remembered the curious cane handle you described so well.”
The Haunting of Torre Abbey Page 20
