The Haunting of Torre Abbey (13 page)

“Hushaby, don’t you cry

Go to sleep, my little baby

When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses

Dapples and greys, pintos and bays

All the pretty little horses
 . . .”

 
My voice floated through the dusky chambers of Torre Abbey, down dim hallways, mixing with the echoes of voices long gone, adding to the ancient whispers that still twisted around the thick pillars and columns late at night, flickering like bats through the stone arches. The boy’s breathing became slow and regular, his eyelids heavier, until finally they closed. Still I sang, thinking as I did of lying in my own mother’s arms, late on a fall evening such as this, ill with scarlet fever, the sound of her voice like a soothing balm, lifting the ache from my limbs, chasing the fever from my tired brow.
 

“When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses

Dapples and greys, pintos and bays

All the pretty little horses
 . . .”

 
Out on the lawn, a lone mourning dove called to his mate. The sound, hollow and plaintive, floated across the courtyard, but she did not answer.

I was sunk deeply into sleep, in the middle of a dream in which I was walking through the abbey, turning down one corridor after another, unable to find my way. The more I turned the more lost I became, until it felt as if I was wandering deeper and deeper into the dark interior of the building, never to escape, like Theseus winding his way through the Labyrinth, except that I had no thread to guide me out. I wondered what Minotaur I would meet at the end of my journey, what horrible sight would greet me as I turned the next corner, but then I heard the sound of a dog barking. Relieved, I turned to retrace my steps, heading towards the source of the barking.

It continued steadily, and I felt if I could only focus on it I could escape this terrible twisting maze of corridors. To my disappointment, the sound stopped abruptly. Straining to hear it, I opened my eyes. I was surprised to find myself staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. Disoriented, it took me a few minutes to realize that it had all been a dream. Relief coursed through my body as I lay on my back, glad to find myself safe and sound in my bed.

The barking, however, started up again, and I realized that it was real enough, having worked its way as it did into the landscape of my dream. The sound came from within the building, and it was a hollow, lonely sound, not an aggressive angry bark. I surmised that it was most probably Lady Cary’s terrier Caliban, although I wondered what had disturbed the dog enough to set him off in the middle of the night.

I threw off the covers, pulled on my robe, and was halfway out the door when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to see young William standing beside his bed, his black hair shining bluish-silver in the moonlight. In my disoriented state I had quite forgotten about the boy, but now I saw that he appeared to be frightened, and was in need of comfort. I knew Holmes was probably already up and looking around the abbey, searching for whatever if was that had alarmed the dog. Still, I didn’t want to leave my friend in the lurch; after all, I had my service revolver, while Holmes had no firearm in his room.

“It’s all right, William,” I said, going over to the bedside table to fetch my gun. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Indeed, I hardly believed my own words until my fingers closed around the cool smooth wooden handle of the gun. I breathed a little more deeply as I slipped the gun into the pocket of my robe. I glanced back at William, who had lain down again on his bed, curled up in a tight little ball. I sighed; I didn’t want to leave the boy alone, but I was afraid Holmes might need me. A knock on my door rescued me from my dilemma; I recognized the quick, impatient rap of my friend even before he spoke.

“Watson! Are you all right?”

I opened the door. Holmes stood in the hall, a lantern in his hand. Though he was fully dressed, the creases in his cheeks and lines around his eyes told me that he had until very recently been asleep. He wore his brown ulster, unbuttoned, over his shirt and vest.

“I’m quite all right, Holmes.”

“Good,” he replied with a glance at young William.

“Did you find out why the dog was barking?”

He shook his head. “He usually sleeps in Lady Cary’s room, but somehow he got out and was roaming around downstairs.”

“Is she all right?”

Holmes nodded. “She was quite undisturbed—aside from awakening from a deep sleep by her dog barking. I’ve checked on everyone else, and no one has seen anything; some of them even slept through the barking, it seems. I’m going out to have a look around the grounds,” he continued, with another glance at the boy. “Will you look after everyone while I’m gone?”

“Certainly,” I replied, “but why don’t you take my revolver?”

Holmes considered it, and then nodded.

“Very well—Lord Cary has his if you should need it. I think, however, that you will find nothing in the house. I have instructed everyone to remain in their rooms with the doors locked, and I suggest you do the same.”

“Very well, Holmes,” I said, taking the gun from my pocket and handing it to him. I was disappointed that I was not accompanying my friend on his search, but I wanted to be useful, and would have to content myself with following his instructions.

“Thank you, Watson,” he said. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his ulster and disappeared into the gloom. I watched the glow of his lantern become fainter and fainter, until at last it disappeared around the corner. I then returned to my room and bolted the door again.

William lay upon his bed, looking up at me with his large dark eyes. I sat next to him.

“Don’t worry, William. It’s only the dog barking.”

But the barking had stopped, and the abbey lay in still silence. It was that dead of night when no bird sings, and even the creatures of the night—crickets, katydids, owls—seem to be asleep, all the world poised on the cusp between night and day, waiting for the first signs of dawn to break over the landscape.

William made his little cooing sound and I bent over him.

“What is it, William? What do you want? Do you want a glass of water?”

He shook his head and buried his thumb in his mouth.

I suddenly remembered a packet of candies I had bought at the Paddington Station in London just before we boarded the train to Devon; I had shoved a few in my mouth to ward off my hunger pangs at the time.

“How about a caramel?” I said. “Would you like a caramel?”

This produced a positive response. He removed the thumb and nodded, making a gurgling sound. I fished a candy from the bag and gave it to him. He sucked on it appreciatively, smiling at me.

“There, now,” I said. “That’s much better than a thumb, isn’t it?”

There was another knock on my door, softer than the last. I went to the door.

“Holmes, is that you?”

“No, it’s me.”

I recognized the voice as belonging to Marion Cary. I opened the door, and once again the sight of her was startling. She stood, her hair loose about her shoulder, in a white nightgown under a deep-blue robe.

“May I come in?” she said. “I’m frightened.”

It was then I noticed the little terrier at her feet. He looked up at me and wagged his tail; whatever had so concerned him earlier seemed to have vanished. Either that, or he had lost interest in it.

I opened the door to admit her, the little brown dog trotting obediently at her heels. When William saw the dog he gave a little yelp and leaped from the bed, charging towards the terrier. The dog lowered his ears and braced himself, but the boy stopped just short of impact and sat abruptly on the floor next to the dog. He reached for the animal’s silky ears and stroked them gently, cooing and purring to himself.

Marion Cary stood by the door watching.

“Poor thing,” she sighed, drawing her robe closer around her slim shoulders. “It just isn’t fair, what he’s been through.”

“In my experience,” I observed, “life is seldom fair.” As soon as I said it, I realized the remark was something Holmes would have said.

Marion Cary sighed more deeply. “I suppose you’re right, Dr. Watson.”

I felt a little light-headed; the lateness of the hour, being awakened from a deep sleep, and above all the presence of Lady Cary in my room—all combined to make me feel more than a little off balance.

“Where is Lord Cary?” I said, attempting to cover my awkwardness.

“He’s watching over Elizabeth. She’s easily upset, as you know,” she added. As usual, there was little warmth in her voice when she spoke of her daughter.

To my relief, before long there was another knock on the door. It was Holmes; his search had turned up nothing.

“Allow me to escort you back to your room, Lady Cary,” he said, taking her gently by the elbow.

She looked at me as if she wanted to say something. But then she checked her impulse, and turned to follow Holmes out of the room. The little terrier trotted behind her, blithely unaware that he was the cause of all the uproar.

William climbed obediently back into bed and was soon asleep. I too returned to my bed, but slept restlessly.

I was awakened from my uneasy sleep by a scream followed by the sound of gunfire in the hallway outside. I leaped from my bed, not bothering even to look for my robe, and staggered out into the hallway. To my surprise, I saw Elizabeth Cary standing there, a gun in her hand, screaming hysterically. I rushed to her, grasping her shoulders.

“What? What happened?” I said, but she was hysterical. Carefully, I took the gun from her hand. The chamber was warm; there was no doubt it had just been fired. I heard the sound of footsteps, and turned to see Holmes coming from the direction of his room.

“What has happened, Watson?” he inquired. “Is that the gun I heard being fired?”

“Yes,” I said, handing it to him.

“And what’s that?” he said, pointing to a thin stream of smoke at the far end of the hall.

“He—he came to me in a ring of fire!” Elizabeth Cary cried.

“Who? Who came to you?” said Holmes, taking her by the shoulders.

“The Cavalier! He came to me surrounded by fire!”

“And you shot at him?” I said.

“Yes, yes—only the bullets went right through him!”

Just then Charles Cary arrived. Holmes turned to meet him.

“Lord Cary, is this your gun?”

“Yes, it is. I gave it to Elizabeth for protection.”

Holmes shook his head. “Under the circumstances, it strikes me as a very foolish thing to do. She has just discharged it, and might have hurt someone.”

“But the bullets went right through him!” she cried again, collapsing into her brother’s arms.

We were soon joined by Lady Cary and Annie, who also had heard the shots being fired. Holmes insisted everyone go downstairs while he examined the hallway, and they complied. Elizabeth had calmed down somewhat, but kept repeating the phrase “ring of fire” as they took her away.

Holmes went over to where a thin wisp of smoke still trailed in the air. He knelt and examined the floor, sweeping up a powdery substance from the floorboards and smelling it. He then ran his fingers slowly over the wall opposite from where Elizabeth Cary had been standing.

“Look at this, Watson!” he cried triumphantly.

I stepped over to where he stood, and saw a small flattened chunk of what looked like wax upon the wall.

“What is it?” I said.

“Wax!” he exclaimed. “Someone put wax bullets in that gun, Watson—that’s why she thought the bullets went right through him. She evidently missed him, but even had she hit him, it would do no harm. It’s an old magician’s trick,” he mused. “I wonder . . . And look at this,” he said, showing me some powder upon the floor. “This is your ‘ring of fire’!—”

“What’s this?” I asked, smelling it. It had a curiously familiar odor, like burnt mushrooms.

“Lycopodium powder,” he replied. “A highly flammable powder used by magicians in their stage acts. It comes from a common form of club moss, is easily obtainable, and quite safe when used correctly.”

“Yes,” I said. “I am familiar with it—it is used sometimes in surgery as an absorbent.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, and then abruptly headed off toward Miss Cary’s bedroom. “Would you be so kind as to ask her to join me here, if she is up to it, Watson?”

I did as he requested, and though she protested she was all right, her brother insisted on accompanying her upstairs. When we returned to her chamber, we found Holmes on his knees examining the bottom of the window ledge. With his thumb and forefinger he carefully plucked something from the edge of the open window. I could not make out what it was.

“You left your window open tonight, Miss Cary?” he said when she entered the room.

“Y-yes,” she replied, looking at her brother, who stood behind her, frowning. “I like to sleep with an open window.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “Do you by any chance own a black wool dress?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I have a black dress, the one I wore to my father’s funeral, but I am certain it is not wool.”

“There may indeed be an otherworldly presence in the abbey,” Holmes remarked sardonically, “but whoever visited Miss Cary’s room tonight was real enough—that is, unless protoplasm can suddenly turn into black wool.”

He held up a small piece of cloth. It was black, of a sturdy, thick weave, such as one might find on a man’s cloak. He peered down into the courtyard. “Whoever it was, they were fairly athletic—even with the vines clinging to the outside wall, that is a decent distance to climb in the dead of night, and going back down is even more hazardous.”

“So the intruder came in through the window?” said Charles Cary.

“Yes. You assured me earlier that you checked the locks yourself tonight, I believe?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Miss Cary did as I instructed you all to do and bolted her bedroom door as well. The only point of entry is the window . . . and if you look closely, Watson, you will observe here a faint set of fingerprints on the outside of the glass.”

“Yes, yes, I see,” I said, peering at the smudges on the window panes. “What now?”

Holmes put the thread in his pocket and brushed off his hands. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing, in order to produce an effect like this.”

“But who put the wax bullets in the gun?” I asked.

His eyes narrowed. “That is precisely what I intend to find out, Watson.”