The Haunting of Torre Abbey

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  “The falcon head, or whatever it was—”

  “Just so,” he replied, pouring a cup of steaming coffee from the pot.

  “And what do you think his involvement in this affair is?”

  “That remains to be seen, Watson, though I have my theories.”

  But any further discussion of his theories was interrupted by the entrance of Marion Cary into the dining room. She had only just greeted us and sat down when her son Charles strode into the room.

  “Has anyone seen William?”

  “Not today,” Marion Cary replied. “But then,” she added, turning to me, “days can go by without my setting eyes upon him. And the abbey is so big that if you want to hide from others, it’s fairly easy.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Holmes remarked.

  Charles Cary paced impatiently from one side of the room to the other, the heels of his boots clicking upon the hardwood floor. “Well, he hasn’t cleaned out the stable yet today, and no one seems to know where he is.”

  Holmes rose from his chair. “Annie has been instructed to keep close watch on him during the day. I think we should search the abbey.”

  Cary looked at Holmes, evidently surprised by his response. “Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, you don’t think . . . ?”

  “I make it a practice never to predict without the proper facts, Lord Cary.”

  Just then Annie came rushing into the room, panting. “I can’t find William—I just turned around and he was gone!”

  Elizabeth insisted upon helping us, claiming that she knew of all the boy’s favourite hiding places. After searching all through the house, however, we came up empty-handed. As we stood huddled in the foyer comparing notes, Holmes suggested gravely that we might try searching the grounds next. Grayson entered the room with a tea tray, and we stood in the foyer hastily gulping down steaming cups of tea to fortify ourselves for the raw weather outside. A blustery offshore wind had begun to blow in from the sea, whipping the bare tree branches about with an increasing insistency.

  We went outside, and as we all were about to set off in different directions, a cry came from Elizabeth Cary, who was standing a few yards away from the rest of us.

  “What is it, Elizabeth?” said Charles Cary, hurrying over to where his sister stood staring at the ground.

  “There—there!” she replied, pointing to the body of a blackbird upon the ground. The dead bird lay on its side, the wind ruffling its shiny black feathers, its lifeless orange eyes staring up at us from death. There was no visible mark upon the bird’s body; it appeared to have fallen out of the sky onto the ground where it lay.

  Whatever the cause of death, the girl was transfixed by the sight, trembling and pointing to it as we joined her one by one.

  “It’s only a bird, Elizabeth,” Cary said, putting his arms around her.

  She buried her head in his shoulder. “Please—take it away!” she wailed piteously.

  “Very well; don’t worry,” he murmured, stroking her shiny dark curls, black as the feathers on the dead bird.

  Holmes and I watched as he led the disturbed girl away, back into the abbey.

  “What on earth was that all about?” I said when they had gone. “Why get so upset over a dead bird?”

  Holmes looked down at the dead bird, its body still except for the fluttering of its feathers ruffled by the wind.

  “Why, indeed, Watson; why indeed?”

  We continued the search, spreading out in all directions; Holmes headed towards the orchard, Cary and I southwest in the direction of the stables. Leaving Cary, I skirted the edge of the Spanish barn and headed toward the little pond just beyond the stables, set in among a grove of poplar trees. I entered the grove and walked towards the pond, clutching my coat around me as the wind gathered in strength and tried to tear it from my body. As I neared the pond, I saw what I thought at first was a dark log protruding from the water’s edge. I took a couple more steps, and my heart was suddenly caught in mid-beat.

  I had found William.

  The boy lay at the water’s edge, half submerged, the lower part of his body in the pond, the upper half lying facedown on the muddy bank. I knelt and felt for a pulse, but I knew at once from the icy-cold feel of his skin that he was dead.

  There was no injury immediately apparent upon his body, no sign of blood on his clothing, no rips or tears that I could see which might indicate stab wounds. I guessed the cause of death to be drowning, though, not being a pathologist, I was not equipped to determine it. His pale face was parched of all colour, white as birch, and his skin was already beginning to look swollen and bloated. My heart felt heavy and tears welled up in my eyes; I had grown fond of the boy these past few days, and it was almost more than I could bear to see his poor, lifeless body.

  I pulled him a little farther onto the shore so that he did not slip back into the pond, then ran to get the others. I soon found Holmes in the orchard, then the two of us went to get Cary, whom we found standing just outside the Spanish barn.

  “Whatever will we tell Elizabeth?” he murmured minutes later as we stood over the body watching as Holmes examined the ground around the pond. “She will be heartbroken, poor thing.”

  Holmes straightened up and wiped the mud from his trousers. “There are no tracks coming from the house other than ours and the boy’s,” he observed tersely. “Someone may have come from another direction—but you see here where the soil has been smoothed over? They took care to cover their tracks.”

  Cary rubbed his forehead. “This is bad, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know what I’m going to tell my family.”

  Holmes wiped the mud from his hands, his face set and grim. “Anything is possible, Lord Cary, but I think it was very likely the boy met his death through the infliction of violence.”

  “In other words, he was murdered.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He went on to explain to Cary William’s impromptu performance for us several days ago, and the conclusion it had led us to: that the boy had been present when his mother died.

  Cary listened thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Holmes replied in a tight voice, cutting him off. I could tell William’s death had hit him hard, too. His movements were stiff and more precise than ever, and there was a barely suppressed rage in his voice.

  After Holmes had finished examining the scene, we carried William’s body gently to the house. Holmes asked Lord Cary if he wanted to leave the scene intact for the police, but Cary shook his head.

  “I’d rather not involve the police just now, if you don’t mind. The whole town doesn’t need to know about this, and besides, there’s no certainty this was murder. As Dr. Watson pointed out, William’s brain disorder—”

  But Holmes cut him off. “And there’s no conclusive evidence your cook was the victim of foul play, either. But if you want my opinion, Lord Cary, I must tell you that I believe neither of these deaths can be blamed on accidental causes.”

  “Very well, Mr. Holmes, but if it’s all the same with you, I’d still rather not involve the police.”

  Holmes shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Later, as we sat in the parlour waiting for Grayson to round up the rest of the household, Holmes stood in front of the window looking out at the wind which chased and whipped the tree branches to and fro. “By God, this has gone too far, Watson!” His jaw was set and his grey eyes burned with anger. I could not remember ever seeing him so furious. “Now he has drowned a child!”

  I shook my head. “I’m not a pathologist, but I know that a diagnosis of death by drowning is really a matter of elimination, once other causes have been ruled out. It’s a tricky call.”

  “Damn!” Holmes muttered, his jaw clenched. “He has covered his tracks once again, giving us precious little to go on. This murderer is very clever—and very evil. What kind of person is this, who could kill a poor helpless half-wit child?”

  “William isn’t—wasn’t—a half-
wit,” I corrected gently. “He just had a condition—”

  “Yes, yes!” he barked impatiently. “He was still a child, defenseless and harmless.” The rage in his voice gave way to fatigue. “He was harmless to everyone—to everyone, that is, except his killer. And that, Watson, is the closest thing we have to a clue in solving his murder.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “There is devilry afoot here, Watson,” Holmes observed grimly as we gazed out at the greyish-green water of Tor Bay. It was later that day, just before nightfall, and Holmes had gone for a walk along the seashore to clear his head. I accompanied him on his lonely hike, lowering my head against the strong offshore wind blowing in from the bay.

  “Are you quite convinced, then, that neither of the deaths at Torre Abbey were accidental?”

  Holmes looked out at the sea stretching before us, its surface dark and moody as a willful child. “No more than I believe that real bullets ended up in Merwyn’s gun by accident. No, Watson, I am convinced that our antagonist will stop at nothing to gain his or her ends.” He drew a hand over his brow, and in the dull light of day his face looked worn and haggard. “The trouble is, Watson, I don’t yet know what those ends are.” He sighed and shook his head. “There is evil at work here, Watson. Someone is playing a very dangerous game, and playing it in earnest, leaving bodies wherever they go. And now they are desperate enough to strike in broad daylight. These are deeper waters than I ever suspected—deeper and more treacherous.”

  I looked out across the gently swelling waves, a blank surface of water as far as the eye could see. The sea was so opaque in the grey light that it looked almost as if you could walk upon it. I knew this was an optical illusion, however: like so many things at Torre Abbey, appearances were deceiving, and the placid surface of the sea hid the dangers swirling just beneath it.

  As I feared, following the death of William, Holmes began driving himself even harder than usual. In spite of my remonstrations, he blamed himself for the boy’s death, and, determined to break the case as soon as possible, began ignoring his own health. I came down the next morning to find him sitting in front of a cold fire, staring moodily into the grate, his pipe and a bag of shag tobacco next to him, wearing the same clothes as the day before. It was obvious he had not been to bed all night.

  “I don’t see how ruining your health will help solve this case, Holmes,” I said, perching upon the arm of the settee.

  He looked up at me, great dark circles under his grey eyes. “Time is running out, Watson. My health is of no concern to me at the moment.”

  “That may be,” I countered, “but if you drive yourself into the ground you will be of no use to anyone.”

  He dismissed this with a weary wave of his hand. “I have trained my constitution, Watson; I have done without sleep before.”

  That much was true. His willpower was remarkable; I had seen him endure privation that would have stopped a lesser man. “Still,” I grumbled, “you might have some breakfast.”

  He appeared not to hear the last remark, for he sat sunk in his own thoughts until I left to go into the dining room, where Grayson had prepared a lavish breakfast. At the sight of eggs and sausages I turned heel and went back into the study, where Holmes was sitting where I had left him, about to light his pipe.

  “I will not leave you alone until you eat something,” I said firmly. “Punishing yourself for William’s death does no good to anyone.”

  He looked at me, his haggard face registering surprise. “My dear fellow, what on earth makes you think I am punishing myself?”

  “This refusal to take care of yourself—I don’t know what you call it, but I call it punishment,” I replied coldly. “And I don’t see how it can possibly help you to solve this case.”

  He rubbed his forehead and sighed wearily. “Very well, Watson, I shall do as you ask—or rather, as you command,” he added with a little smile. “I see you have quite made up your mind in the matter.”

  “Quite,” I replied, trying not to show my surprise at the ease of my victory as he followed me into the dining room.

  Holmes really was famished, as was I, and we both tucked into the plentiful platters of food which emerged from the kitchen. Annie was very upset over poor William’s death, as her red eyes attested, and she sniffled a little as she served us. It seemed as though everyone had been fond of the boy, and all of us were still in shock from his death.

  It will all come to a head soon, Watson,” Holmes said later that day as I sat in the library cleaning my revolver. The thick salt air had done it no good; the action was sluggish, and I noticed the bullet chamber had a tendency to clog and stick. If we were soon to come face to face with our foe, I wanted to be prepared.

  Holmes lifted the heavy brocade curtain and let a stream of sunlight into the room. I watched the dust particles swirling about, caught in the yellow beam, tiny travellers trapped in a whirlwind of sunlight.

  “Clues present themselves in the strangest manner,” Holmes mused. “For instance, did you happen to remark the number of pork chops served at dinner last night, by any chance?”

  “No, I can’t say that I did. How many were there?”

  He let go of the curtain and turned to me. “There were eight, Watson.”

  “And what is the significance of that?” I asked, confused. I had no idea where he was headed with this.

  “I distinctly heard Grayson tell Lady Cary that eleven chops were purchased,” he continued, “and yet there were eight served to us.”

  “So presumably the servants each had one.”

  “That would be . . .”

  “Grayson and Annie.”

  “Yes—which leaves ten chops. What happened to the other chop, Watson?”

  “Perhaps one of the staff ate two.”

  Holmes shook his head. “An old man and a girl? They were extremely generous chops, Watson—you yourself remarked upon it.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Merely that there is one pork chop still unaccounted for.”

  Holmes sat in a chair opposite me. His long fingers twitched and every muscle in his lean body seemed poised for action. He watched me for some moments, fidgeting and sighing, until finally he could remain seated no longer and began to pace back and forth in front of the stacks of books which lined the walls.

  “It is just as well the weather is fair,” he remarked, almost to himself. “We will need the advantage of moonlight.”

  “How do you know it will be tonight?” I inquired.

  He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his black hair, which looked shaggy and in need of a combing. I knew this meant Holmes was preoccupied; usually meticulous in his personal grooming, this inattention to such details could only mean he was focusing every bit of his impressive intellect upon the problem at hand.

  “If you will just bear with me a little longer, Watson, all will become clear,” he replied apologetically.

  I sighed and returned to my task, but I couldn’t help smiling a little. Holmes liked to play his cards close to his chest, keeping details even from me until the last minute. I’ve no doubt he had his reasons at times, but sometimes I thought his innate sense of theatricality was to blame. There was more than a little bit of the magician in Holmes himself—given a wand and a red-lined cape, I could just see him enjoying the breathless gasps of a stunned audience as he revealed the tricks of his trade.

  As if reading my mind, Holmes spoke. “No doubt you think me unduly parsimonious with my information, Watson, but I assure you it is for your own protection.”

  “Oh?” I said, amused and irritated at the same time. “This information is so dangerous, then, that I would be in peril if you told me?”

  “My dear fellow, I promise that soon—very soon—all will be revealed. Until then, if you can only bear up with patience, I would be most grateful.” He looked at me earnestly, his grey eyes pleading.

  “Holmes, when have I ever failed you?” I said, my voice suddenly thic
k.

  He turned away without speaking for a moment, and when he did, I thought I detected a catch in his voice as well. “Never, Watson, and you have my gratitude for that.” There was another pause, and he cleared his throat. “But now, if you will excuse me, I must see to a few things,” he said, and left the room without looking back. I watched his spare form recede, saw the determined set of his shoulders, the kinetic energy in his stride, and smiled. In a world which was beginning to change at a dizzying rate, Holmes would always be Holmes, and there was comfort in that.

  I was not prepared for his pronouncement over tea later that day.

  “Well, Watson, I think it’s time we left Devon and went back to London.”

  I was flabbergasted. “What are you talking about, Holmes?”

  He laid a hand on my arm. “Calm yourself, Watson. I am merely suggesting a ruse to lure out our opponent. We must find a way to make the predator the prey.”

  “And you think the way to do that would be to leave?”

  Holmes smiled. “Or rather, to pretend to leave. Consider, Watson: what does this person behind all these threatening events want?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Precisely. You are not certain. These events, terrible as they are, have mainly been threats aimed at the Cary family. If he or she—”

  “Oh, Holmes, surely a woman is not capable of such—”

  Holmes shrugged. “You know my views on women, Watson.”

  I frowned. “I do indeed, and I do not agree with them.”

  He laughed softly. “Poor Watson, always the romantic.”

  “That may be, but—”

  He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “We are wasting time on trifles. The point is, Watson, that if our antagonist wanted the Cary family dead, he would have carried out that scheme long ago. He clearly has both the resources and required ruthlessness to do so. We must therefore ask ourselves, what does he want? And the answer, I believe, is that he wants them gone.”