The Haunting of Torre Abbey (21 page)

We sat huddled in the darkness for some time, listening to the soft chortle of doves outside the window give way to the slow cascade of night noises. The sounds were so different from the ones I was used to in London that I found myself listening to them with intense interest. The movement and murmurings of the night creatures came together in a symphonic blend of cooing, clicking, rustling and cawing, a nocturnal concerto which was as mysterious as it was foreign to me. I peered out of the window at the sliver of pallid moon which hung in the starless sky.

I looked at Holmes, crouched besides me in the semi-darkness. Pale moonlight fell upon his aquiline face, his profile sharp as the crag of a wind-swept hill. A cloud passed over the moon, leaving us in its shadow. I could hear in Holmes’s steady breathing the tension of every coiled muscle in his body. Hours passed, and we sat, speaking in whispers, until I began to wonder if my friend was wrong, and that whatever we were waiting for would not happen after all. But I was wrong, and Holmes, as usual, was right.

The first sign that something was happening was the sudden silence of the nocturnal creatures. All at once, there was a pause in their clatter and chatter; the air itself seemed to pause and hold the stillness within the breath of a breeze. I glanced at Holmes as I felt his body stiffen beside me. My fingers closed around the cold metal handle of my revolver. In spite of the chill in the air, my palm was clammy with sweat. My index finger sought the reassuring feel of the trigger; I checked to see if the safety was on and removed my hand from my pocket. My forehead, too, had begun to sweat, and I wiped a few drops from my temples.

At that moment I felt Holmes’s hand upon my shoulder.

“What is it?” I whispered as a thin thread of fear wormed its way through my stomach.

“It is time!” he hissed, and crept soundlessly to the window.

I followed behind him, and looked down onto the lawn in front of the abbey, where, to my astonishment, I saw the shadowy figure of a man on horseback. A sudden parting of clouds from the moon revealed details of his elaborate seventeenth-century attire: it was the Cavalier! He looked up toward the Abbot’s Tower, and I was afraid he had seen us, but he continued to sit silently upon his horse, a huge gelding, black as pitch. I couldn’t make out the features of the man’s face, but I had the same queasy feeling I had experienced when I saw the horseman at the edge of the woods during the hunt.

However, I had no time to contemplate my response.

“Come, Watson, we have no time to lose!” Holmes cried, and sprang toward the stairs. I followed after him, stumbling down the dimly lit steps as I fumbled for the handrail. Within moments we were pushing open the heavy wooden door, emerging into the courtyard, only yards away from the man on horseback. Our sudden appearance frightened the animal, who shied and began to rear, but the rider immediately controlled his mount, shifting his weight forward and reining the animal in so that it could not easily rear. He then wheeled the horse around and took off at a dead run.

“Quickly, Watson!” Holmes cried, dashing to where Richmond and Ariel stood waiting. Though Holmes had not explained his plan to me in detail earlier, I now knew why we needed them.

Vaulting into the saddle, Holmes urged Richmond forward; the big horse needed little urging, so charged was the air with excitement. The little mare was equally excited, and my feet were barely into the stirrups when she took off after Richmond at a gallop.

The mystery horseman headed in the direction of the apple orchard, past the ruins of the old church, whose crumbling stones shone a dull grey in the pale moonlight. Holmes and I followed after him, our horses’ hooves kicking up clods of soft dirt as they raced across the lawn. Veering around the edge of the ruins, I saw a large fallen stone right in our path just as I rounded the corner, and was forced to jump it. Throwing my weight forward at the last moment, I nearly lost my balance, but Ariel gathered herself without stumbling and sailed over the rock. I landed heavily upon her neck on the recovery, almost losing the reins.

“Sorry, old girl,” I muttered, regaining my seat as we thundered after the others. The orchard was just ahead, and I had to duck as we entered the thicket of low branches, heavy with late-fall apples still clinging to the trees. Ariel slowed to a brisk trot, head erect, ears pricked forward, her breath coming in excited little puffs. I could barely make out Holmes ahead of us, threading his way through the trees in pursuit of our quarry. Branches scraped across my face, scratching my cheeks; finally I buried my head in Ariel’s mane and let her carry me through the dizzying maze of branches, which seemed to reach out to snag us at every turn. As we bounced along over the uneven ground, trotting jaggedly over exposed tree roots, I blessed the herding instinct of the horse; I knew Ariel would follow Richmond without my urging, and that all I had to do was hang on as best I could.

Finally we cleared the orchard, and took off once again at full speed across the farm fields surrounding the abbey. When she saw open land stretched out in front of her, Ariel put her head down, flattened her back and ran at a dead gallop, her sturdy legs churning up the soil beneath us. The little mare soon caught up to Richmond, following so close behind that I could feel my face being pelted by bits of dirt thrown up by his hooves. The land lay spread out in front of us, illuminated by moonlight. Even with the moonlight, I was afraid the horses would stumble on unseen obstacles, but they raced across the fields as if their hooves had eyes in them.

Ahead of us loomed the jagged cliffs just outside the town of Torquay, where meadows gave way to the rugged rocky landscape overlooking the harbour. To the left was the road leading into town; to the right woods, and straight ahead the sheer cliffs overlooking Tor Bay. I expected our mystery horseman to turn at any minute in the direction of town, but to my surprise he continued straight towards the cliffs. We followed doggedly after him; the only sound in my ears was the pounding of horses’ hooves upon the ground combined with the heavy breathing of my chestnut mare. I was beginning to worry about her, and hoped we would soon slow our pace. She was no racehorse, and I did not want her to injure herself in the chase. She showed no signs of slowing down, however, and galloped along after the others.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and I felt a thread of fire tear through my left shoulder. At first I didn’t know what had happened, but then I realized I had been shot. I grasped my shoulder with my right hand, somehow managing to hang on to the reins with my left. My shoulder was wet, and I knew it was blood; I could feel the ripped place in my jacket sleeve where the bullet had torn through it. At the same time, I did not think the bullet had hit bone. I felt dizzy and disoriented, though, as we galloped over the field, but it would take more strength than I had now in my hands to stop Ariel; the chase was hot in her blood, and she raced after the other two horses as if her life depended upon it. I resolved, therefore, to hang on as long as I could.

My left arm was beginning to go numb, so I grasped a piece of Ariel’s mane with my good hand and bent down low over her back, so that if I fell I could roll, lessening the impact. My gun was still in my pocket, but there was no question of using it now; I had only one good hand, and my aim would be poor even if we were not riding at such a clip and it were not dark. It was pure chance, I thought, that our quarry’s bullet had found its way to my shoulder, and I cursed his good luck as I held on to my galloping horse, trying not to faint.

The edge of the cliffs loomed closer and closer, and my heart began to race as I contemplated our quarry’s next move. Did he plan to charge off the edge of the cliff into the sea, some forty yards below? I couldn’t see how anyone could survive such a fall, and was about to call ahead to Holmes when suddenly the man on the big black horse pulled abruptly on the reins, attempting a sharp turn to the left, towards the road leading into Torquay. His horse tried to adjust and make the turn, but was going too fast, and, thrown off balance, stumbled and fell heavily onto his side.

I watched as the man fell along with his mount, landing under the entire weight of the enormous animal as rider and horse hit the ground with a loud thud. The horse seemed momentarily stunned, but soon clambered onto its feet; however, the man remained motionless on the ground where he had fallen. Holmes reined in his horse and leaped from the saddle, going over to where the fallen rider lay unmoving upon the ground. I followed suit, looping my reins together quickly so that my horse would not stumble over them.

We bent over the still figure. He lay on his back, his face drained of all colour in the pale light of the moon, eyes wide open, his head twisted at an odd angle from his body. I had seen those staring eyes before, both as a physician and as a soldier, and knew immediately that I was looking at the face of death.

“Broken neck, Watson?” Holmes said softly as I felt for the pulse that was gone forever from the inert body which only minutes ago was so full of life.

I stood up and wiped the dirt and sweat from my hand. “I think so—it certainly looks like it.”

It was only then that I took a closer look at the face, a face I had never seen but whose features were somehow familiar even in death. I knew Holmes was right the instant he said it.

“So, Watson, at last we meet Victor Cary.”

I believe it was then that I fainted.

I awoke to see Holmes bending over me, a look of concern on his face.

“Watson, you’re hurt. Why didn’t you say something?”

I sat up slowly. “I meant to, but somehow . . . is it really Victor Cary, Holmes?” I said, staring at our dead antagonist.

“Do you recognize him as the man you saw at the theatre in London?” said Holmes, tearing off his own sleeve to make a tourniquet for my arm. It was, as I had surmised, not a deep wound, but it continued to bleed.

“Well, he’s a much younger man,” I remarked. “Was that really him I saw?”

“I believe it was. With the aid of his confederate, who was something of a virtuoso at theatrical makeup, he was able to move about freely in the alias of an old man,” he replied, tying the tourniquet.

“Well,” I said slowly, “I supposed it could be the same man. I can’t really say.”

We did not stay long over the body of Victor Cary. I expressed misgivings about leaving him lying there upon the ground, but Holmes observed that the Torquay police would conduct an investigation into his death, and it was perhaps best not to move the evidence. We turned our horses around and headed back towards the abbey.

“It’s about time they were brought in,” he remarked as we trotted back across the fields. Cary’s horse followed us; stripped of its rider, the big black wanted nothing more than to join its companions.

“Are you sure you are all right, Watson?”

“Yes, quite,” I replied. “So how did you know he would come tonight?”

“Do you remember the message in the letterbox Father Norton found?” he answered.

“Yes . . . it was Monday—4. I see—Monday 4 
A.M.
!”

“Yes. Communicating with his confederate was tricky, and rather than take the chance he might be seen, Victor Cary fell upon using the back-up plan of letterboxes.”

“I see,” I said as the stone walls of the abbey loomed in front of us. I was dying to ask him who Victor Cary’s confederate was, but I was to find out soon enough.

When we rode up to the gatehouse, Grayson was waiting for us with a lantern in his hand. If Holmes was surprised to see him there, he showed no sign of it. “Your master’s dead, Grayson,” he said solemnly.

“I thought as much when I saw the two of you returning alone,” the old butler replied. “So your trip to London was a ruse after all.”

“Loyalty is a commendable virtue, is it not, Grayson?” Holmes said. “However, in this case you were willing to do things in the name of loyalty which no virtuous man would contemplate. Isn’t that so?”

I looked at Holmes, surprised. “Holmes, do you mean that Grayson . . . ?” I stared at the old butler, his furrowed face grim and haggard in the dim light. A cloud had passed in front of the moon, and the single lantern provided the only illumination.

The old man stared Holmes straight in the eye. “What I did I did for a man who was much wronged,” he replied, his voice dry as the brown leaves swirling at our feet. “I had a debt to him that could never be repaid.”

“Ah, yes,” Holmes murmured. “It isn’t often a man saves your life, is it?”

Grayson drew himself up to the full extent of his height. “When he gave me my life, I pledged it to serve him always. I could do no less,” he replied proudly.

“Even when it meant taking the lives of innocent women and children?” Holmes said sternly.

“Innocent!” Grayson scoffed. “Sally was hardly innocent. She seduced my master, and then, when she was with child, he took her in and cared for them both.”

“But then he killed them,” Holmes replied. “And still you stood by him.”

“I could do no less—I was bound by my oath!”

I looked at Holmes. “Sally—and William? Victor Cary killed them both?”

He nodded, his face grim.

“I killed the boy,” Grayson said, no remorse in his voice. “It was regrettable, but necessary.” I looked at him in disbelief. “You weren’t there in Calcutta!” he cried suddenly. “That mob would have torn me apart had it not been for him.”

“Ah, yes—your days as a snake charmer were over, I expect,” Holmes remarked. “What happened—did the snake bite a bystander?”

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.”