The Haunting of Torre Abbey (4 page)

“Elizabeth, would you take William back to bed while I show our guests to their rooms?” said Lord Cary, rising from his chair. She raised her head and nodded in reply, but did not move. “Come along, then,” he said, offering her a hand. “Time for bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

She obeyed meekly, and, taking a sleepy young William by the hand, shuffled off to bed.

“Right,” said our host, with a final poke at the fire. “Allow me to show you to your rooms, gentlemen.”

We followed him back to the front hall to fetch our bags, and then up the long dark staircase to the second floor.

“That is the Abbot’s Tower,” he said pointing to a set of narrow stone steps. I caught a glimpse of high, narrow vaulted windows with a cross-hatch design upon the upper third of the glass. Everything at Torre Abbey was reminiscent of the religious history of the place; even the windows in the second-floor hallways resembled miniature church windows, the top panes pointed like tiny chapel roofs.

“Some say this is where Abbot Norton had Symon Hastynges beheaded,” Cary remarked as we turned onto the second-floor landing. I couldn’t suppress a shudder as I thought of the blunt sound of an axe echoing through these dusky chambers.

Holmes’s room was at the southern end of the long hallway, overlooking the gatehouse, and I was to have the room closest to the staircase. We wasted little time saying good night, assuring Lord Cary that anything else we might require could wait until morning.

My room was elegantly but simply furnished, with an old-fashioned poster-bed with thick velvet drapes to keep out the night air, crimson to match the window curtains, which were a heavy brocade material. I lay awake for some time that night listening to the wind as it whistled and moaned in the eaves, restless as an unquiet spirit. On a night like this, it was hard not to think of ancient monks roaming these cold chambers, and try as I might, I could not erase the image of a headless Symon Hastynges from my mind.

I turned over in the bed and pulled the coverlet up to my chin, but it was no use: I fancied I could hear in the pining of the wind the sound of the axe as it whistled through the air on its way to strike the fatal blow. This was followed by the picture of the newly beheaded monk wandering through the drafty recesses of Torre Abbey, perhaps in search of his executioner, looking to even the score, the hood of his brown robe falling loose about his headless shoulders. This image was replaced by one of a smiling Hugo Cary, his grin sinister in the dim light.

I knew these imaginings were silly and useless, and that in the light of day I would have a good laugh at myself. However, in this dark and gloomy fortress, lying upon the Cary family’s canopied bed, surrounded by the groaning wind and rain, only a man who was made of stone would have been able to vanquish these thoughts from his mind by sheer power of will. Finally I rose from my bed and administered to myself the same liberal dose of valerian I had given Elizabeth Cary earlier. Slipping back into bed, I pulled the covers up and waited for the drug to take effect. I thought of Holmes in his room down the hall, and wondered whether he was asleep. I had half a mind to go knock on his door, but, foolish as I knew it was, I had no great desire to enter that bleak and deserted hallway.

I had said nothing to my friend of my experience in the deserted hallway, fearing that I might injure the good opinion he had of me. Now, however, given Miss Cary’s experience of the night before, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I felt had some meaning after all. Holmes always accused me of giving in too much to my imagination, and while on occasion I might agree with him, tonight I was not so sure. I resolved to speak to him about it the following day, and, drawing the covers up to my chin, I closed my eyes and waited for the drug to take effect. At length a heavy drowsiness settled upon my weary limbs, and I slid gratefully into sleep.

“Well, Holmes, what do you make of Charles Cary?”

We were in the dining room, lingering over a late breakfast. Lord Cary had risen early and gone into town on business, or so we were informed by his ancient manservant, Grayson, who attended to our needs with the efficient, practiced air of someone who has spent his life in service. Elizabeth Cary evidently had accompanied her brother into town, as there was no sign of her—nor of her mother, who, we were told, often rose late.

“I will not argue with your conclusions regarding his personality,” my friend replied, “except to add that he is more attached to his mother and sister than he was to his father.”

“Oh? How do you arrive at that conclusion?” I said, spearing another kipper with my fork.

“Oh, just little signs that he gives off, really; his tone of voice, the way he looks at his sister as opposed to the way he speaks of his father.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. I get the distinct impression that he avoids saying much at all about his father, perhaps to avoid saying anything bad?”

Holmes poured himself another cup of coffee and settled back in his chair. “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. Loyalty is important to our young host…unless, of course, he is playing a deeper game than we could ever guess.”

“Oh?” I said, surprised. “Such as what?”

Holmes shook his head. “I don’t know as yet. But I am beginning to believe that everything is not as it seems at Torre Abbey.”

“By the way, I saw something which I thought might be of some significance.”

“Oh?” Holmes said, and I proceeded to tell him about the scar I had seen on young Elizabeth’s wrist.

Holmes’s lean face grew even more grim as he contemplated this new information.

“Self-inflicted, do you think?” he said.

I shook my head. “It’s impossible to say for sure, but it is suspicious, to say the least.”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Holmes replied, his deep-set eyes narrow in the silky morning light which fell upon our table, shining on the brightly polished silver tea service on the sideboard. Old as he was, their manservant Grayson kept Torre Abbey in shipshape; there was not a spot of tarnish on the silverware or a fleck of dust upon the windowsills.

Just then Grayson entered the room again, and we fell silent. I took the opportunity to observe him more closely than I had earlier: he was thin and wizened, with papery skin, shrunken as a mummy. A few greying wisps of hair clung to a head which looked larger than normal, seated as it was on such a bony frame. His skin was a faded brown colour, like old parchment, darkened and brittle with age. His eyes were large and watery, so dark they were almost black. His eyebrows were bushy and thick, though dead-white, and sat over his eyes like overhanging snow drifts on a cliff. His shoulders were bent over from arthritis, but his knotty hands were steady as he poured fresh coffee into our pot.

Holmes got up from his chair, wandered over to the window and stretched himself. “This is excellent coffee, Grayson—is it Kenyan?”

“Is everything satisfactory, sir?” the butler said, turning around to look at Holmes.

“Yes, thank you, Grayson,” Holmes replied, eyeing the man through half-closed eyes. I knew, of course, that he was keenly observing the butler and that his sleepy look was deceiving.

“If you need for anything, Master Cary says you are to ring for me and you shall have it at once,” Grayson said, brushing a few crumbs from the table into his hand.

“We are much obliged, I’m sure,” Holmes replied.

Grayson bowed stiffly and withdrew from the room.

“Well, Watson,” Holmes said, looking after him, “there goes a rather unusual individual.”

“Oh? How do you mean?” I never ceased to be impressed by the inferences my friend made based upon the same observations of people as myself—his eye was always keener, and went beyond the obvious. Try as I might, I could not match his acuity and ability to transform an encounter into a series of astonishing conclusions.

“Well, I cannot tell you that much about him,” Holmes said, stirring milk into his coffee, “but it is certain that English is not his native language, that he has spent time in the East—probably India—and that in spite of a considerable hearing loss he continues to play the tin whistle—or some such instrument.”

I shook my head and laughed. “I give up, Holmes. I won’t even attempt to follow you this time, so you might as well tell me how you arrived at these conclusions.”

Holmes shrugged. “You perhaps remarked the musical cadence of his speech, and the way he pronounces his 
r
’s—not at the back of his throat, like an Englishman, but more to the front, with a very slight rolling sound?”

“Well, now that you mention it, yes, I did notice there was an unusual lilt to his speech . . . and there is something different about the way he pronounces his words.”

“Yes. Even though he has evidently lived here the better part of his life, he has not quite eradicated the music of his original language from his speech. Hence my conclusion that English is not his first language. And you probably failed to notice his ears?”

“His ears?”

“Yes,” Holmes replied. “There is an identical indentation in each of them. I would be willing to bet good money that he has had his ears pierced.”

“Really?” I said. “So you concluded that he is most likely of Indian origin?”

“Just so, Watson.”

“And the hearing loss?”

Holmes took a sip of coffee. “Did you notice that when he was not looking at me he was unable to understand what I was saying?”

“I did notice that he didn’t seem to hear your question about the coffee.”

Holmes nodded. “I noticed that when speaking to us he looked keenly at our faces, and guessed that he might be lip-reading, so when he came in just now I turned away from him and complimented him on the coffee, which you noticed he did not respond to. He immediately afterwards asked if everything was satisfactory.”

“I see,” I said, nodding slowly. “So you came to the natural conclusion that he was in fact reading lips to compensate for a hearing loss.”

“Precisely.”

“And the tin-whistle playing?”

“Well, you may have remarked the slight round indentations on the first three fingers of both his left and right hand . . . and when you realize that there are six holes on a tin whistle, and that it is played with the first three fingers of both hands, the conclusion becomes rather obvious.”

“Obvious to you, perhaps,” I said. “However, to the rest of us—”

I was interrupted at that moment by the appearance of Lady Cary. My mind was immediately drawn from what I was saying by the sight of her, and I am afraid I looked rather foolish, my mouth half open in mid-sentence, as she made her entrance. Indeed, I quite forgot what I was saying; I quite forgot everything except the presence of that extraordinary woman. Since the death of my wife, my feelings towards women had been blunted, but the appearance of Marion Cary seemed to awaken dormant emotions within me.

The resemblance between her and her son was evident at first glance: she had the same slim build, the same fair skin, the same striking blue eyes. But on her the effect was one of astonishing beauty: the subtle colouration of her skin, the delicacy of her facial features, the calm dignity with which she carried herself, all combined to produce a startling effect. Her hair was that shade between red and blonde which is described as “strawberry blonde” but does not convey its true beauty, the highlights which seem to shine from every strand, whether in the gaslight or in the mid-morning sun that shone now through the gauzy lace curtains, falling upon her white neck, long and curved as a swan’s. In the sunlight her hair looked exactly like what I had imagined spun gold would look like when I was a child and read about it in fairy-tales. I knew she must be at least forty-five, but to me at that moment she looked a good fifteen years younger, so lithe was her figure and so luminous her skin.

I could not help staring at her, and turned to Holmes to see what impression she was making on him. (He was not so much impervious to feminine charms as wary of them; I had gathered that much from his reaction to Irene Adler, whom he still referred to as 
“the
 woman.”) But Holmes was unreadable, and I could not gather from his expression what he thought of the lady.

“Good morning, madam,” he said cordially, rising from his chair. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is—”

“Dr. Watson,” she replied, smiling, and all the world was not large enough to contain the radiance of that smile. “My son said he had summoned you; I cannot thank you enough for coming on such short notice. Poor Elizabeth,” she said softly, the smile fading from her face, and it was like the sudden appearance of a cloud cover on a sunny day. “Your reputation has reached as far as Torquay, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “Even out here people have heard of you.”

Holmes brushed a crumb from his sleeve. “I thank you for the compliment, Lady Cary, but notoriety can be a hindrance in my line of work.”

“I see,” Lady Cary replied, seating herself at the end of the table. She reached for the silver coffeepot, and I sprang from my chair to pour her a cup.

“Shall I ring for some hot coffee?” said Holmes, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you; this will do nicely,” she said, stirring in some sugar with a delicate white hand. “Grayson is old,” she sighed, “and I sometimes think I should relieve him of his duties and just let him live here at his ease, but then I think that would send him to an early grave. He is so used to looking after us…” She lifted a laced handkerchief to her face and dabbed at her forehead. As she did so, I noticed that the nails on her hands were bitten to the quick, the cuticles red and irritated. I glanced over at Holmes to see if he was taking this in, but once again it was hard to tell from his expression what he was thinking. He saw everything, however, so I had no doubt that he had observed the condition of her hands.

“These past few days have been very hard on all of us,” Lady Cary sighed as she poured cream into her coffee.

“Yes, I’ve no doubt,” Holmes replied sympathetically. He could, when he wanted to, project the utmost compassion—a stark contrast from the cold reasoning machine which he had on many occasions described himself as being.

Just then Grayson entered the room with a plate of bacon and eggs, which he set down on the table.

“Thank you, Grayson,” she said warmly. “How did you know I was here?”

“I heard your voice, mum. I hope everything is to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” she answered with a warm smile, and again I felt as though the sunlight which already suffused the room had suddenly become brighter. “You’re a wonder, Grayson,” she said with a little sigh, plucking a kipper from the plate and putting it onto her own. Peering at it closely, she made a face, and Grayson stepped forward.

“Is everything to your liking, madam?”

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

Giving a little bow, the butler withdrew back to the kitchen.

“He really is a wonder, you know,” she said to Holmes, who sat drumming his fingers on the table, a sure sign that his brain was working even more rapidly than usual.

“Has he been with you since he came over from the East—India, is it?” Holmes inquired with a little smile.

“Oh, my son has been telling you the family history, then, Mr. Holmes?” she said. It seemed to me that his question had taken her a little off guard, for the spoon slid out of her hand as she helped herself to some eggs.

“As a matter of fact,” I began, “he didn’t tell us—”

“Watson is quite correct,” Holmes said. “Several factors suggested to me that Mr. Grayson was not only not a native of this country, but that his origins were somewhere in the East.”

“Well, you are correct,” the lady replied. “He has been with my late husband ever since Victor was stationed in India. In fact, it seems my husband saved his life, and to show his gratitude he insisted on staying on as Victor’s manservant—it was a point of honour for him, apparently, to repay such a debt. But you interest me, Mr. Holmes—how did you know Grayson was not an Englishman? Certainly he looks like the perfect English butler, or so I have always thought.”

Holmes smiled and leaned back in his chair. “The first thing that alerted me was the slight cadence of his native language which still informs his speech, as I explained to my friend Watson—but there were one or two other little points as well.”

“Oh?” she said, leaning closer to him, and I could smell a faint breath of perfume coming from her creamy neck—something floral, like lilies in the spring.

My friend settled back in his chair, his long fingers around his coffee cup. “Well, for one thing, it is very unlikely that an Englishman would have his ears pierced.”

“Oh?” said Lady Cary with some surprise. “I was not aware that—” She stopped and looked at Holmes. “Grayson, Mr. Holmes? Are you certain?”

Holmes smiled. He enjoyed the suspense in which he kept his listeners. “They have healed over, of course, but if you look closely you will observe on either ear the small but unmistakable holes in the lower lobes.”

Lady Cary sat back in her chair. “Good heavens, Mr. Holmes, I never noticed! Well, I don’t know what to make of this information.”

Holmes shrugged. “Only perhaps that there is more to most people than one would at first suspect.”

At that moment a young servant girl appeared at the door holding a broom and dustpan. When she saw us, a blush bloomed in her already red cheeks; she evidently had not realized the room was occupied. She was short and plump, with a little button nose set in a round rosy face. It was a face so like the ones I had seen on the streets of London’s East End, where grime and poverty turned even those rosy cheeks sallow, but here in the country, I thought, a young girl was allowed to bloom, round and rosy, fresh as a spray of daffodils in April.

I was interrupted in my poetic musings by the entrance of Grayson, who saw the girl and frowned.

“Annie, what are you standing there for? Go on about your duties.”

“Begging pardon, sir, I only come in to sweep the dining room,” she said meekly, a hint of Dublin in her speech.