The Haunting of Torre Abbey

by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

  Grayson’s eyes narrowed. “What are you, a wizard?”

  Holmes smiled grimly. “No, merely a man who observes. You see, Mr. Grayson, most people see but they do not observe.”

  “Oh—the flute!” I said. “So Grayson was a snake charmer, then?”

  “Yes,” Holmes replied. “But now, we must go inside and tell the family what has happened.” As we walked across the grounds towards the main building, a murky dawn was just beginning to push its way through the clouds, the sky lightening ever so slightly in the east. Grayson walked meekly in front of us, and though I tightened my hand around the revolver in my pocket, I didn’t think I would need it.

  “So William was the bastard son of Victor Cary,” I remarked. “That explains why he was so willing to take Sally in—it was his child she was carrying!”

  “You yourself remarked upon the resemblance between William and Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, but . . . he had his own son killed?” I said, hardly able to believe it.

  “Yes, because he realized, as we did, that William had been present the night his mother died, and might give him away.”

  “Foolish woman!” Grayson muttered. “He never intended to harm her in any way. If she hadn’t been nosing around that night she never would have seen him.” He frowned and shook his head. “No one knew she had a weak heart.”

  “No, indeed,” Holmes replied. “But the sight of a man she thought was dead could make anyone’s heart skip a beat.”

  We were now standing under the Abbot’s Tower. At that moment a light went on in one of the rooms above us, and presently we heard footsteps upon the stairs. Moments later, the front door opened and Charles Cary appeared, his face ringed with sleep.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “I’ll be glad to explain everything,” Holmes replied, “but why don’t we go inside? It’s quite chilly out here, and Watson has been injured. I rather think we could all use a cup of something hot to drink,” he added, noticing I had begun to cough a bit. My lungs were still weak from my illness, and the damp air was making me cough.

  “Yes, certainly,” Cary said, looking confused. “Grayson, would you . . . ?”

  “I think we’d best see to it ourselves,” Holmes intervened.

  “I don’t see why—” Cary protested, but Holmes laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  “Please, Lord Cary, if you will only come inside, I’ll explain everything. In fact,” he added, “perhaps you should awaken the rest of your family. They also need to hear what I’m about to tell you.”

  And so shortly afterwards we were all seated around the fire in the west parlour. Annie, too, had joined us, and sat wrapped in a blanket on one end of the sofa, her white nightcap pulled down over her ears to keep out the chill. Lady Cary sat in the chair closest to the fire, her golden hair loose about her shoulders. She wore a pale-blue dressing gown; her daughter occupied the chair opposite her, her knees pulled up to her chest, a woollen scarf around her neck.

  Grayson sat a little apart from the rest of the group, perched upon a straight-backed chair, his spine as stiff and hard as the wooden chair. I had some concern that Grayson might still attempt to harm a member of the family, but Holmes assured me quietly that with his master dead, the old man was not likely to provide any further threat. Still, I kept a watchful eye on him as Holmes addressed the rest of the group.

  “Well, Mr. Holmes?” said Charles Cary when everyone was assembled, steaming cups of tea clutched in their hands. “What have you to tell us?”

  “Some of what I have to say will be a shock to some of you,” Holmes began slowly. “And some of you have secrets of your own which I will be forced to reveal.”

  At these words Marion Cary looked away, averting her eyes from the gaze of her son.

  “Whatever it is you have to tell us, Mr. Holmes,” he said, “I’ve no doubt these ‘secrets’ will seem harmless by the light of day.”

  I looked out the window, where the day was indeed dawning, pale shafts of sunlight spreading across the ground, still wet with dew, the blades of grass glistening like tiny jewels as the early morning light fell upon them. My shoulder was beginning to throb, but my mind was more at peace than it had been for days.

  “These secrets have done enough harm already,” Holmes replied seriously. “After Victor Cary discovered one of these secrets, he became bent upon destroying his family.”

  Charles Cary took a step forward. “But why would Father . . .”

  “There is something you must know, Lord Cary,” Holmes interrupted. “I’m afraid that Victor Cary was not your father.”

  There was a pause, and then Charles Cary snorted softly.

  “Oh, really?” he responded coldly. “Since you seem to know so much about our family, would you kindly tell me who is my father?”

  “Perhaps I should leave that to your mother,” Holmes replied with a glance at Marion Cary, who sat stiff as stone in her chair, her eyes straight ahead.

  There was a pause, during which I could hear the soft coo of the mourning doves in the eaves outside.

  Charles Cary stared at his mother. “What’s he talking about?” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice I had never heard before.

  She sighed heavily, a sound so deep within her chest that it seemed to come from the very centre of her being.

  “You have perhaps heard that there was another man in my life before Victor Cary,” she said, avoiding looking directly at her son.

  “Yes, but he died,” Charles replied, his voice tight. “And you married Father.”

  There was another uncomfortable pause, and I could hear the loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. I looked around the room at the rest of its occupants. Grayson sat immobile upon his chair, stiff and expressionless as a sphinx; Annie had curled herself into a ball at her end of the sofa, tightly bundled in her blanket, staring with wide eyes at her employers. At her end of the couch, Elizabeth Cary sat wrapped in her woollen scarf, her head cocked to one side, staring at her mother.

  Marion Cary sighed again. “I have not been entirely forthcoming with you, Charles, I’m afraid.”

  “In what way?”

  “It is true that Christopher Leganger died, as you say, but I loved him very much, and . . .” She paused to collect herself, but it was more than Charles could bear.

  “And . . . ? And what?”

  “I was already carrying you when I married Victor Cary.” She parcelled the words out tersely; it was less like a confession than a challenge.

  The effect upon her son was as if he had been shot. He slumped back in his chair and clutched his chest. He struggled to speak; his mouth moved but no words came out at first. Then he managed a strangled “What?” He looked at Holmes, his eyes blazing. “Is this—some kind of joke?”

  “I’m afraid not, Lord Cary,” the detective replied. “I imagine that your mother kept it a secret all these years in part so that your father would not attempt to disinherit you.”

  “I did it for you, Charles, can’t you see that?” Marion Cary cried, her voice full of anguish, but her son just stared at her as though she were a madwoman.

  “And what about me?” Elizabeth Cary suddenly spoke up from her end of the couch. “Who is my father?”

  “Oh, Victor Cary was your father, all right,” her mother replied coldly. “That should be plain enough.”

  “So that’s why you hated me all these years—because I wasn’t his child!” Elizabeth responded bitterly.

  Marion Cary stared at her daughter as if confused by this accusation, but Elizabeth continued angrily, spitting the words out in a torrent of fury. “Oh, yes, don’t think I don’t know you hate me—I’m not stupid, no matter what you think!”

  Marion Cary looked at her son for support, but he stared blankly at her. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her—in the short space of a few minutes she had alienated the affection of both her children.

  “How can you say that?” she said. �
��Charles, tell her she’s wrong!”

  Charles Cary shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe any more. How could you keep this from me all these years?”

  Holmes broke in, his voice like a splash of cool water over the heated emotions of the family. “In order to keep it from her husband, she had to keep it from everybody—except, of course, her confessor.”

  Lady Cary stared wildly at Holmes. “Father Norton told you?”

  Holmes shook his head. “Oh, no, madam; he is the very soul of integrity. No, you yourself told me.”

  “I . . . ?” Colour crept up her cheeks, her pale skin flushing crimson.

  “At first I wondered why your attitude towards your son was so very different from that towards your daughter. I also could not help noticing how different your children were physically, your daughter taking so much after her father, while Charles . . . well, these things happen in families, of course, but then that day Watson and I saw you visit the grave of your dead lover, my suspicions grew stronger. A woman may love a man very much, but when she has had a child by that man . . . well, the bond often grows that much stronger.”

  I stared at Holmes with some surprise; I wouldn’t have thought he was so versed in matters of the heart. Nonetheless, there was truth in what he said.

  “Then I saw the broken lock on your desk drawer,” he continued. “Your lie to cover up the real reason was quite transparent; I eventually came up with the theory that your husband had broken the lock—and discovered your secret.”

  Marion Cary hung her head. “Yes,” she answered in a defeated voice, “that is where I kept the letters I exchanged with Christopher telling him I was with child.”

  “And it was shortly after you discovered the lock had been tampered with that your husband supposedly drowned.”

  Marion Cary lifted her head again. “Supposedly . . . ? What are you saying, Mr. Holmes?”

  He turned to Elizabeth Cary. “Miss Cary, I regret to inform you that your father is dead.”

  The girl’s lips trembled, and she looked up at Holmes, her large dark eyes wide. “But . . . but I knew that.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No. These past months you all thought he was dead, but he lived. He wanted you to believe he was dead, but he was very much alive.”

  Elizabeth Cary shifted her gaze to me. “But…I don’t understand. How…?”

  “He took a fall from his horse earlier this morning and broke his neck,” Holmes interjected.

  The girl blinked and looked at her brother. “So then . . . he didn’t drown?”

  Holmes shook his head. “No. He faked his own death, and then arranged the series of hauntings and other bizarre events which have occurred recently—”

  “But why would he do such a thing?” Charles Cary demanded.

  “In order to make Torre Abbey a place no one would want to live in.”

  Elizabeth Cary stared up at Holmes. “Then the apparitions . . .”

  Holmes shrugged. “Cleverly staged events, done with the help of a professional magician, who is also unfortunately dead. Victor Cary planned to drive his wife out of her mind—or at least out of Torre Abbey. And somewhere along the line he planned to kill you, Lord Cary,” he said, turning to Charles, “in such a way as to make it look like an accident.”

  Cary sat upright in his chair. “The loose horseshoe!”

  Holmes nodded. “He also planned to do away with me, by cutting my stirrup leather.”

  “He didn’t want to hurt me, did he?” Elizabeth asked softly.

  “No,” Holmes replied. “In fact, once your mother and brother were out of the way, I believe he planned to make a miraculous appearance, claiming amnesia, and reclaim Torre Abbey for you and himself. Am I right, Grayson?” Holmes said, looking at the butler.

  All eyes turned to the old man, who sat still as stone in the corner. “More or less,” he replied, his chin lifted proudly in defiance.

  Charles Cary leaped to his feet. “Grayson? What is the meaning of this? Is this true? Did you . . . conspire against us?”

  The old butler stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. “When he gave me my life I pledged it to serve him,” he said tonelessly, as if reciting by rote. “He never meant for the boy to get hurt, miss,” he said to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth Cary’s eyes grew even wider. “William?” she cried. “You killed William?”

  The old man continued staring straight ahead. Elizabeth jumped from where she sat and threw herself at him, but Holmes intervened, catching her firmly by the shoulders before she could attack the butler.

  “I’m afraid there’s another bit of disturbing information I must relay,” Holmes said. “William was Lord Cary’s bastard son.”

  “Good Lord,” Charles Cary murmured, shaking his head. “So he arranged the murder of his own son?”

  “His bastard son,” Holmes corrected him. “William could never inherit Torre Abbey or the Cary name. But he was unfortunately present when his mother died, so Victor Cary was afraid he would spill the beans sooner or later.”

  “But he couldn’t even talk,” Marion Cary protested. “Why kill a poor innocent—” but she stopped mid-sentence. “I knew Victor Cary; I of all people should know what he was capable of,” she added bitterly.

  “Poor little bird,” Elizabeth whispered, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “Poor little bird.”

  “Yes, Sally’s death was an unfortunate accident,” Holmes continued, “but William’s was cold-blooded murder, and only served to draw the noose tighter around Victor Cary’s neck.”

  He went on to explain how he had discovered one of the methods Victor Cary used to communicate with Grayson when out letterboxing with Father Norton; how he had tracked Victor—in disguise as the old man I had seen at the theatre—to the Hotel Lambeth in Torquay; his discovery of the cigar ash in the Spanish barn; and finally, he described our midnight pursuit across the moors.

  When he finished, no one spoke for a few moments. Then Annie, whom we had quite forgotten about, broke the silence.

  “God help us,” she murmured, expressing the thoughts of everyone in the room, I thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “One thing I don’t understand, Mr. Holmes,” Charles Cary remarked as we waited for the police to arrive. “If you were riding Richmond,” he said, “where did my fath—Victor Cary—get a black horse?”

  “Perhaps you know the animal, Lord Cary,” said Holmes. “He’s just outside.”

  We went out to where the horses stood tethered in front of the abbey.

  “Good Lord—I’ll be damned if it isn’t Mystic Rider!” Cary exclaimed when he saw the animal. He ran a hand over the great horse’s flanks. The horse seemed to know him, for it nuzzled his shoulder.

  “Mystic Rider?” I was puzzled.

  “Yes, he’s Richmond’s brother—”

  “Oh, yes—the horse you sold to your neighbour, the one that used to belong to your father,” I said.

  “It’s a fitting name for a ‘ghost horse,’ ” Holmes remarked. “I should imagine your neighbour will be glad to see his horse again. He probably thought this was the work of horse thieves.”

  Cary’s face darkened. “It was the work of someone much worse than that.”

  Detective Jonathan Samuels, the police detective from Torquay, arrived shortly afterwards, flanked by the fat sergeant and two equally well-fed constables, whose round faces registered surprise when they were introduced to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. After Holmes had explained the salient details, Detective Samuels shook his head. He was a short, blunt-faced fellow, with a tangle of salt-and-pepper hair and a rumpled overcoat. The constables continued to stare at Holmes while their superior officer spoke.

  “That’s quite a story, Mr. Holmes, and I’ll have to hand it to you for sorting everything out—though I wish you’d come to us sooner, sir, as we could have offered you some protection,” he added, addressing Lord Cary.

  “Your colleagues seemed uninterested, to
say the least, in our family’s problems,” he replied sourly.

  The detective looked stunned. “I’ve been on vacation, sir, and just returned yesterday. I had no idea—”

  “Never mind,” said Holmes. “He never would have shown his hand if the place had been crawling with police.”

  The detective looked at him with admiration in his blunt face. “Oh, no offense, Mr. Holmes—round here you’re something of a legend, you know, and I wouldn’t dream of—”

  “I’m quite sure you wouldn’t, Detective,” Holmes intervened. “However, we do have someone for you to place under arrest, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

  “Oh, no, not at all, sir—not at all,” the detective sputtered, his face growing red.

  Grayson offered no resistance when Samuels placed him under arrest; now that his master was dead, he didn’t seem to care what happened to him.

  “Before you take him away, Detective, there’s something I’d like to clear up,” Holmes said as the constables placed the handcuffs on the butler. We were standing in the front hall of the abbey.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  Holmes went over to where Grayson was standing and said something to him in a voice too low for us to hear. Grayson nodded his head, and said something back to Holmes. Holmes frowned and nodded, and then he came back over to us.

  “Very well, Detective—thank you.” With that he turned and went back towards the parlour, where the Cary family were gathered.

  Detective Samuels looked at me. “What’d he say?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

  He sighed. “Pity.” Then his face brightened. “Well, I expect I can look forward to reading your account of it someday, Dr. Watson.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Mind you get my name right—it’s Samuels, with an s.”

  “Right you are—Samuels.”

  “Right. Well, if that’s all, we’ll be getting along, I expect,” he said, obviously reluctant to leave. “I’ve heard about this place, you know,” he added, taking a last look around the abbey, “but I’d never been inside before. It’s grand, isn’t it?”