“Please, turn around. Go back to your homes and workplaces. Allow these fine men to do what they need to do. That is all that can be done, for now. And, we can pray to the Almighty for His help,” the minister advised.
Slowly, the crowd broke up and departed, many still mumbling as they slipped away.
The next day’s newspaper described in some detail what the investigating officials had found at the murder site. There was a brief statement which indicated that Tom Dennison had been strangled and his lifeless body left in bushes along Babbacombe Road.
With each passing day, the community continued to wallow in uncertainty and fear. Few were the smiling faces among the citizenry, for the crimes remained unsolved. Once more, area commerce and local craftsmen experienced lost revenue, for people were afraid to venture too far from their homes.
What had long been a peaceful, welcoming community had now become a suspicious, fearful one. People began to lock their doors and windows. They kept their children indoors, only allowing them to venture outside in the company of family members.
Yes, the days were dark, indeed, in the quiet little town of Torquay.
A Gathering Storm
Thursday, December 14th
The blustery weather that had recently pelted the southern coast of Devon was slowly making its way out across the Channel. It would probably be nearing Cherbourg within the hour, bringing with it the same cold, damp, wintery mix that it had only recently dumped on the quaint English seaside town of Torquay.
Witnessing the storm’s departure was a young local girl, who decided to take a break from her music practice. She had been compelled by the elements to remain inside her cozy home, and she was most anxious to put away her mandolin. For several hours, the girl had whiled away her time, practicing finger positions on the instrument’s frets.
Aggie was very impatient waiting for the sleety mix to cease. She knew her mother would never allow her to leave the house in such poor weather conditions. The skies would have to clear for her to have any chance of visiting Margaret Cary, her closest friend.
Aggie rose from her chair and hurriedly walked to the front window hoping to find that the sky had brightened. Smiling, she was pleased to discover that her luck had changed, watching the sun’s bright, warming rays racing across her lawn. Its light was up to the walkway; soon it reached the window pane and flashed into her joyous eyes. Quickly, she placed her mandolin back in its case, returned the sheet music to the corner desk, and made her way toward the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen.
Upon entering the cozy room, she found her mother humming one of her favorite songs while stirring a steaming pot of home-made soup. “Oh, that soup smells so wonderful,” Aggie imagined as she listened to her mother’s voice. It wasn’t because her mother was such a great singer. Nor was it because the tunes were so lovely. Rather, she knew her mother’s singing meant that Clara Miller was in a good mood. That was always a good thing, particularly whenever Aggie knew she might need her mother’s approval.
Clara Miller was a fine woman and a loving parent. She had been forced over the last several years to raise and school her youngest child without the benefit of a husband. Sadly, Frederick had passed away four years prior, and since that time life had become so much more complicated.
“Is that you, Aggie dear?” the girl’s mother spoke softly, returning the soup ladle to the steaming pot.
“Yes, mother,” her daughter replied.
Turning to meet the young child’s anxious glance, Clara offered, “Well, Aggie, I can see that the weather’s clearing. Why don’t you wrap up and take a nice walk down to Torquay Road and watch the storm heading out over the Channel?”
“Mum,” she replied, fastening her bonnet, “how are you able to read my mind so easily? Why sometimes I think you’re ‘Clara-voyant’, if I might be so bold as to suggest.”
Her mother sighed softly as she continued preparing the soup, for that witticism was now quite indicative of her clever daughter’s intelligence and love for language. Gazing at the young girl, she realized how much Aggie had matured over the past several months. In truth, Clara hadn’t expected much scholastically from this child.
When Aggie was much younger, Clara believed her to be a problem learner, perhaps the slowest of the Miller children. She had home-schooled all three of her brood and it was simply her honest appraisal of her last born. Clara sensed that Aggie would have much more difficulty adjusting to life than her older brother and sister. Aggie was so different from them. This worried Clara to such an extent that she made a point of keeping an extra close eye on her.
The young mother saw much of herself in Aggie, for she had experienced the same loss of her own father at an early age when he was killed in a riding accident. At the time Clara had only been nine years old. Naturally, such an event would have a traumatic effect on a youngster, and in Clara’s case, it had left her very much a loner.
During those early years she formed her own theories on many subjects, some of them quite unusual. For instance, Mrs. Miller did not want her children to learn how to read until they were at least eight years old! Perhaps it was something about having them hold on to their innocence or some effort to try to keep them from growing up too fast. At any rate, this was one of her heart-felt beliefs and she demanded her students obey those dictates.
Aggie, however, despite her mother’s wishes, had secretly taught herself to read, and quickly acquired a deep enjoyment and appreciation for literature. When Clara discovered that her daughter was able to read, she was initially very upset. Still, there wasn’t much that she could do about it, after the fact. Instead, she chose to praise her daughter’s cheekiness, hoping it might lead to continued development of Aggie’s self image.
“Why Aggie, you know I’ve always been able to read your mind!” she voiced, responding to her daughter’s clever comment. “And it’s no great mystery that you enjoy watching the clouds streaming across the Channel after a storm. You’ve always been infatuated by the elements!”
A funny thing, Clara remembered being the very same way when she was a child, and now her youngest had inherited her own appreciation for all of the joys of nature.
“Now, Aggie, you may go, but mind, you get home before dark, young lady! That would be around 5 o’clock,” she softly suggested, pointing to the grandfather clock in the corner.
“Oh, and don’t forget to say ‘hello’ to Margaret for me,” she added as Aggie finished tightening her boots.
“Thanks, mum, I will,” the daughter called, as she bolted out through the back door.
As Aggie continued to fasten her outer coat, she began to laugh, realizing that she had not asked if she could visit Margaret. Yes, her mother had surmised that probability and led Aggie to mumble quietly, “That’s my mum. She’s always a few steps ahead of me. It’s no wonder that I love her so!”
Aggie sang happily as she made her way down Barton Road through the remnants of the light slush. Suddenly, for no apparent reason she stopped, turned and looked back at her home. How pretty it appeared, sitting back on a small hill, wearing a light coat of snow! That her home, Ashfield, was a lovely residence, there most certainly could be no doubt. In truth, with its appealing location, large greenhouse and lovely acreage, it had been described by many citizens as one of the town’s most beautiful homes. There, together with her mother, father, brother, and sister, they had once enjoyed such an idyllic life. Now, only Aggie, her mother and a maid remained in this stately home. Her older sister, Madge, had married and moved to nearby Cheadle Hall, while her brother, Monty, had decided to join the army.
Sadly, the passing of her father, Frederick, in 1901, had completely altered conditions and nothing would ever be the same. Aggie had truly loved her father and still missed him terribly. Frederick Miller, an American, had inherited quite a bit of money, and thanks to him, the family
was able to enjoy a most comfortable lifestyle. The young girl was only eleven at the time of her father’s death, and with his passing came new concerns and worries. Still, her mother was a strong figure. The family knew that their mother would be sure to provide for them, no matter what situations might arise.
A twenty minute walk was all that it took for the young girl to arrive at her favorite spot. From her very first visit to Torre Abbey, Aggie had been captivated. The expansive home sat back from a small cliff which overlooked a modest inlet on the southerly coast of Torquay. There were all kinds of trees, floral arrangements and bushes everywhere. Palm trees and other species were evident along with the branch-covered pathways that wound their way in and out of the wondrous property. Most importantly, however, Torre Abbey was the home of her best friend and confidant, Margaret Cary.
It was here, in this lovely, sylvan setting with the weather cooperating, that she loved to sit and read. It was here, overlooking the sea, where her active imagination could soar, filling her mind with so many wonderful stories and mysterious questions that needed answers!
Her friend, Margaret, was like her in so many ways, and together they would enjoy the magical beauty of the surrounding landscape. They would run, jump and play outdoor games for hours and hours at a time! It was only when the conditions were less than ideal that they would go indoors. But that was a treat, as well, for the building was much like a playground. There were so many rooms and passageways that the friends never tired of exploring the immense former abbey, once home to monks of the Premonstratensian order.
As Aggie approached the huge building, she observed several dark storm clouds moving out over the coast, blocking the warmth of the sun. Since the rain and sleet had turned to a gentle mist, she wasn’t too concerned about getting soaked. Skipping along the roadway, the young girl hastily approached the large front door, eager to see her friend.
In no time at all, she climbed the old steps and anxiously grabbed the large brass doorknocker. Aggie loved to lift it up as high as she could and allow it to freely swing back into place. It always produced a very, very loud, somewhat menacing “thump!” In fact, the noise was so voluminous that she seldom had to employ this strategy more than once
In less than a minute, Aggie heard someone approaching from inside the entryway. Slowly, the huge door swung open and a kindly face offered the frequent guest a most cordial greeting.
“Why, look who’s come for a visit.” the Cary family butler continued with his familiar smile. “Say, aren’t you the famous Miss Aggie Miller?”
Aggie would always return Malcolm’s smile with a polite and sincere, “Why, Mr. Malcolm, yes. Of course, it is I.”
Malcolm Randolph was a distinguished looking, gray-haired gentleman who had been in the employ of the Cary family for over 20 years. Always nattily attired in his freshly pressed butler-wear, he loved to fuss when Aggie came to visit.
Smiling broadly he offered, “Miss Aggie, am I to assume that you are looking for the lovely and talented Miss Margaret Cary?”
“Brilliant, Malcolm,” Aggie teased.
“Would you please announce my presence to Her Royal Highness?” she continued.
“Aggie,” Malcolm lowered his voice and returned to his more traditional role, “I’m afraid Miss Margaret is not home, and isn’t expected back until later this evening. Shall I tell her that you called?”
“Thank you, Mr. Malcolm,” the young girl replied, fastening her outerwear. “Please tell her that perhaps I’ll come by tomorrow.”
And after a polite “good-bye”, she was out the door, making her way toward the nearby sea cliffs.
Looking out over the vast watery expanse, Aggie moved closer to the edge of the slight drop-off, impatient to scan the churning waters below. Finding an ideal spot, she rested, studying the rhythm of the waves as they washed ashore. While the passing storm continued to move away, the sea still remained very active, as it spatter-dashed the rocky shoreline. Positioned some ten meters above the dark foamy waters, she looked up and down the alternating small coves and stark cliffs which comprised this piece of the 35 kilometer shoreline of her hometown.
Here and there, she could spot a few brave individuals, moving from one rocky outcropping to another, challenging the breaking waves that so noisily splashed around them. Several residents were walking their dogs, enjoying their innocent canine playfulness as they waded in and out of the swirling tidal pools.
She next turned her attention toward the eastern horizon, in the direction of Cherbourg and the continent. The raging storm was still stirring up the Channel waters; an exciting sight, unless you happened to be aboard a vessel caught up in the fury.
While she sat there pondering such a situation, the young girl suddenly stood up. For out in the distance, much to her dismay, Aggie saw that there was a ship in the Channel, fighting those waves. What a sight it was! Aggie began to think about those aboard, and how horrible it must be for them in such hazardous conditions! She sent a prayer their way, just in case, for she believed that most sea captains who piloted ships from England to France knew the ways of Channel storms.
Turning away from the sight, she began to daydream. Aggie found much symbolism in storms. There were storms that mankind had to face, like it or not. Sometimes, she reckoned, the dangers must have seemed insurmountable, for indeed, many times, they were. Yet, with the passing of every storm, there came a calm time for healing, recovery, and repairs that might need to be made. Mankind, throughout its history, had to adjust to all kinds of storms that inevitably had to be faced. It was the way of the world, after all.
Suddenly, Aggie realized that she had, once more, completely lost track of time. It hadn’t been the first time that it had happened, nor would it be the last. She simply enjoyed walking along the Channel, and the time seemed to slip by so quickly. It had always been that way, for as long as she could remember.
“Time to go,” she whispered to no one in particular as she crossed Torbay Road, picking up her pace as she neared her home.
“It had to be near dinnertime,” she reasoned while turning up Belgrave Road and away from the coast. Her mother had told her that she was to be home by 5 o’clock. She knew it was going to be close! While racing up the street, Aggie peeked over her left shoulder only to find the sun slowly disappearing over the rooftops. As she rounded the corner at South Street, the church clock tower began to ring. Five reverberating chimes... Hmm... the young girl would be late again.
By the time she arrived at her house, the lights were already illuminating the classic Victorian structure. With great care, she made her way toward the sweet sounds of her mother’s voice and the wonderful aroma of freshly baked bread. She quietly slipped through the back door, hoping to get to the table without being noticed. Unfortunately, her plan came undone when her mother glared at her while continuing to stir the soup!
“Hmm, well if it isn’t Miss Aggie Come-lately,” Clara teased her nervous daughter, pointing her in the direction of the wash basin. “Don’t forget to wash up, now.”
When Aggie had finished drying her hands, she sheepishly made her way back to the table and took her seat.
“Dear girl, I’m wondering what kind of outlandish excuse you are going to devise this time for being late again,” spoke her mother in a most deliberate manner.
Clara knew her daughter could be a dreamer, much like she had been, way back in the day. By now, the mother was well-used to the foibles of her adolescent daughter, and occasionally enjoyed making her uncomfortable.
“Mum,” the young girl began, “I’m only a few minutes late after all. Why must you carry on so? You know that I can be trusted.”
“Yes, I know you can be trusted, and it had better remain that way, young lady,” her mother spoke freely. “After all, Aggie, you’re becoming a young woman. You need to act in a more mature manner. Part of growing up
is learning to act more responsibly. Can you promise that you’ll try?”
“Yes, Mum,” Aggie replied penitently as she unfolded her dinner napkin and placed it upon her lap.
While Clara was still stirring the soup, she casually inquired, “By the way, Aggie, how is Margaret? What’s new in her life?”
“Mother,” she replied, “Margaret was out for the day and apparently wouldn’t be home until later this evening. Malcolm was kind enough to explain.”
“Any idea where she and her family might have gone?” asked the curious cook.
Aggie looked at her mother, issued a slight scowl and voiced, “Mum, you know it’s really not any of our business, if you will excuse me for remarking.”
Suddenly Aggie stopped talking. Realizing that her mother wasn’t trying to be nosy but simply furthering the discussion, the young girl apologized. “Sorry, Mum, please forgive my rudeness. I meant to say, Malcolm didn’t offer any additional details, and I suppose I didn’t think it my place to ask. Please forgive my callous remark.”
“Why thank you, dear!” her mother responded, happily surprised by the sincerity of the apology. “I’m glad that you didn’t read more into my innocent statement than was intended.”
At that, Clara gave Aggie a warm hug and kiss, allowing, “You know how proud I always am of you, don’t you?”
Aggie acknowledged her mother’s kindness, “Yes, Mother, I know how you feel, and I know how fortunate I am to have a Mum like you!”
“I say, mother,” Aggie continued, “will we be spending New Year’s Day with Auntie in Ealing this year? You know how wonderful it is to see London at this time of the year! I miss her, as well.”
As she ladled out the soup, Clara seemed to pause before answering. “We’ll see, young lady. We’ll see.”
Treachery in Torquay Page 3