Treachery in Torquay

by Lawler, W. P. ;

  “Read on, Watson, aloud if you would,” he whispered over my shoulder, his pipe now fully ablaze. “There’s more.”

  I immediately went back to the article. It wasn’t until I had reached the final paragraph that I found the reason for his concern.

  I once more began to read, “The Torquay Town Council met last evening, December 16th, to discuss what might be done to better protect its citizenry. Local constables in attendance advised everyone to keep a sharp lookout for any strange goings on. The last order of business was to appoint local attorney, James Cary, another council member, and one of the town’s most accomplished civic leaders, to head a commission which would be in charge of investigating these crimes.”

  “Holmes,” I said, rising from the chair, “I now understand why you are so concerned. Cary is a member of the council and has just been appointed to head a commission. He’s now in even greater danger! Why, certainly I wish to accompany you. It will only take me a few minutes to pack my traveling bag and we’ll be ready to...”

  I was interrupted by my roommate, “Here, Watson,” he spoke. “Here’s your luggage. I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a bag for you. Time is our enemy. Oh, by the way, I do wish to thank you for joining me on this adventure.”

  “What?” said I, “You mean you have the nerve to assume that I will simply drop whatever plans I may have made and head off to Torquay... just like that?”

  “Of course, my friend,” Holmes casually remarked. “I could tell that you, too, have been somewhat lackadaisical these last few weeks. I felt that the proper prescription for you might be a change of scenery.”

  “Before we leave,” he suggested, “you had better contact Dr. Tulley to cover your patients until this problem is resolved”

  And with that remark, we were out the door, down the stairs, and on our way.

  As we traveled to the train station, I simply had to ask him how he had determined that Cary was a bit of a cheapskate. I had read the same letter and could not see how my friend was able to deduce such a fact.

  “Holmes, please, please explain how you have come to your theory on this matter,” I implored. “I understand the paper, the ink, and the location of his home giving us a clue to his wealth, but I saw nothing in that letter that suggested his thriftiness.”

  “Watson,” he issued, “don’t you recall that he referred to receiving ‘just compensation’. Surely that indicates that here is a man who would insist on getting his money’s worth. To me that comment implies that Mr. Cary is tight with his shillings.”

  “Yes, yes, I suppose that makes sense,” I agreed, and before long we found ourselves arriving at Paddington Station.

  After entering the busy lobby area we quickly purchased tickets and were able to find an available compartment on the fourth car.

  The 8:05 left the busy depot on time and began its long trip to Exeter. With several stops along the way, Holmes estimated that we would arrive there at 5 o’clock on the morrow. He further speculated that an uneventful carriage ride the rest of the way would have us arriving in the seaside city of Torquay by 7:30, just in time for an early breakfast.

  As the train rumbled through the night, Holmes was too keyed up to sleep. The same could not be said for yours truly, for the rhythmical click-clack-click of the locomotive riding the rails had placed me safely in the arms of Morpheus in relatively short order.

  The next thing I heard was the voice of Holmes calling me awake, “Up now, Watson. There’s a good lad. It’s time to find our carriage.”

  “Yes, yes, Holmes,” I mumbled, still quite groggy, my body aching from sleeping on a hard coach seat. “Oh, my word,” I uttered, “I say, my good fellow, where are we?”

  He ignored my inquiry, and hiking me up by my left arm, laughed, “All right, old boy. Don’t forget your luggage.”

  With that, I stretched rather impolitely, slowly rising to my feet. Then, bag in hand, I quietly followed him up the aisle and down the steps onto the Exeter train station platform.

  “Egad,” the expression floated before me in a misty fog emanating from my exhaled breath. “Brrr. . it’s rather cold this morning, Holmes. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, Watson,” my comrade spoke sarcastically, “it is December, after all!”

  We were soon bundled up in our carriage, trotting down the trail toward Torquay and eventually, to the Belgrave Road home of one James Cary. It was still dark here at this time of the year, but at least now, I was fully awake, as was Holmes. His mind was already working on the case. Even though nothing tangible had been posited in the letter, there had to have been something that caught his interest. We were about half way to Torquay, when he decided to strike up a conversation.

  “You know, Watson,” Holmes began, “this area, in addition to being extremely popular in the summer, is also famous for its place in early British history!”

  “Is that so?” I casually responded to his remark.

  “Yes, Watson,” he continued. “If my history is correct, this part of England had been invaded by the Romans as they continued exploring and conquering the known world. There was speculation that Vespasian himself had led his legions to this part of Devon around 43-44 AD. I believe there was a great deal of evidence to that fact unearthed in this area: Roman coins, artifacts, etc., all serving to substantiate these stories.”

  “My word, Holmes,” I offered, “you certainly are a fount of information this morning. Why might any of those facts be of interest to you in this case?”

  “Watson, dear Watson,” Holmes responded in a most teasing manner, “do you mean to imply that my stimulating conversation is not of interest to you? This is the history of our England I’m talking about, you know!”

  He began to laugh when I shrugged my shoulders. Sensing that his audience was not appreciative of his lesson, Holmes turned toward the window of our carriage and peeked out. The dawn was breaking in the East and we would soon be arriving to our destination. Until that time, Holmes decided to slide down into his seat, close his eyes and ride the rest of the way in silence.

  Torquay and Torre Abbey

  Monday, December 18th

  Imperial Hotel, Torquay

  We arrived in Torquay shortly after seven o’clock that morning, on the eighteenth of December. There were still icy remnants underfoot when we stepped out of our landau in front of the formidable Imperial Hotel on Park Hill Road. The sky over the Channel was slowly clearing, but harsh winds from the northwest still made for a chilly morning. Our stylish hotel’s close proximity to the coastal waters also made it seem even colder than the 6 degree Celsius reading listed on the chalk blackboard standing adjacent to the entryway of the historic building.

  Minutes later, we found ourselves in the lobby of one of Torquay’s most charming establishments. The dark mahogany wall panels gave testimony to the Imperial’s excellent reputation as one of England’s finest hotels. While registering at the front desk we were very surprised to learn that there was only one room available. I began to scratch my noggin, wondering how that could be, for it was not really the best time to be visiting the seashore.

  Holmes easily read my mind and offered, “Come now, Watson, that so many hotel rooms are taken should come as no surprise, particularly at this time of the year. Now think, Watson, it’s almost Christmas! Why this area, I’m very certain, enjoys a great number of shoppers as well as former residents returning to celebrate the holidays with their families!”

  Of course, he was spot on. Once more I was embarrassed by another one of his simple deductions. I had long since tired of missing the obvious and being the target of some of his frequent barbs. Wait a minute, I thought. Why was I so cross? Then it came to me. I was famished. There was nothing wrong with me that a good rasher of bacon and fried kippers wouldn’t fix.

  After finding our suite, sorting our luggage and fre
shening up, we headed down for some breakfast. I went directly to an available table near the tall windows which looked out upon the busy waterway. I could see several small vessels steaming about the quays, stopping to load and unload both passengers and packaged goods. While waiting for Holmes to return from his talk with the hotel concierge, I glanced hungrily at the morning’s breakfast offerings. Hmmm, scanning the menu I quickly came across my selection, bacon and kippers with freshly-baked corn scones. Ah, yes, that would certainly do just fine!

  Minutes later Holmes entered the room, glancing about the crowded tables. As he made his approach to our table, I noticed that he had secured a copy of the town paper, the Torquay Directory. He had a most forlorn, concerned look on his face.

  “What is it Holmes?” I inquired timidly. “Is something gone amiss?”

  “Yes, Watson,” he replied, handing me the issue, “do have a look at the headlines!”

  Fourth Body Discovered at Brandy Cove

  Looking up at my good friend, I ventured, “Holmes, my word, it isn’t our man, Mr. Cary, perchance?”

  “Thankfully not, Watson,” he remarked. “Still, it’s a most unfortunate event for a poor man by the name of Mister Eldridge Fenwick. The paper stated that he, too, was a member of the town council. According to witnesses, he was last seen leaving the meeting house after the evening’s committee gathering. Watson, I suggest that we pay a visit to our client as soon as we can. But first, I believe we need to come to terms with our appetites.”

  After ordering our morning fare, I began to carefully read the article. As of yet, no arrests had been made. Authorities indicated that they had gathered several suspects initially, but, according to detailed reports, all of them had legitimate alibis for their whereabouts at the estimated time of the recent murder. The remaining paragraphs delivered several graphic details of how the poor man had come to die. Officials speculated that Fenwick had been chained to some large boulders along the rugged cove in such a manner that he would drown with the arrival of the late evening’s tide.

  The remainder of the report dealt with Fenwick’s family and his community involvement, noting the man’s popularity and the many good works he had performed for the little town. By the time I had finished reading the article, my breakfast had arrived, and I must admit that in my famished condition, I hardly remember having had time to chew my food!

  “I say, Holmes, it looks like the local constabulary must have their hands full with these foul doings.” I commented, quickly realizing how obvious my remark must have seemed.

  Holmes, for his part, after giving me a strange look, merely shook his head in agreement while he continued to eat his porridge, savoring every morsel.

  Within the hour we had procured the use of one of the hotel landaus, and in less than fifteen minutes we found ourselves at the home of Mr. James Cary, Esquire. To describe the residence as anything less than palatial would have been wrong, very wrong, indeed! The large Georgian structure was set back from two main thoroughfares, Belgrave Road and Torquay Road. Large trees and gardens were meticulously maintained all throughout the sprawling estate. It was splendid to behold, even at this time of the year with few leaves on the branches.

  “My word, Holmes,” I spoke softly, “this property is among the most beautiful I’ve ever seen! The view alone is spectacular and the grounds themselves... so well kept!”

  Holmes seemed similarly affected. In fact, I had rarely seen the man so transfixed! He took his time looking over the wondrous scenery which lay before us. He was already at work, quickly turning his attention to the exterior of the stately building as we pulled up to the main entryway.

  A young stable boy quickly appeared, taking the reins, holding our team of horses while we stepped out of our landau. After watching him move the conveyance toward the stable grounds, Holmes tugged my sleeve, pointing to a path leading away from the house.

  “Watson,” he suggested, “what do you say to a brisk walk around the grounds, prior to our interview with Mr. Cary?”

  I nodded in agreement, knowing his ways. Holmes had long ago seen the value of examining the lay of the land as it were, whenever he accepted a case. Torre Abbey’s grounds were quite extensive, strewn with many pathways that crossed and criss-crossed the wide expanse. As we started down a wonderfully scenic lane toward the coastal cliffs, we could see a tall, slender woman pushing a baby carriage in our direction. Holmes took the opportunity to tip his hat as they passed us.

  “Hello, Madam,” he voiced in a most friendly manner. “It certainly is a lovely day for a brisk walk with your fine-looking charge.”

  The woman politely bowed, acknowledging his kind greeting, but seemed uninterested in continuing any type of conversation. As she pushed the carriage out of our way, I couldn’t help sneaking a peek at the child within. I’ve always been smitten by infants.

  “Awk-k-k,” I stuttered thoughtlessly, for I had never seen such a child.

  “Oh, forgive me, Madam,” I tried to excuse my surprise, “I seem to have gotten something caught in my throat.”

  At that, the woman stuck up her nose and promptly continued along her way.

  “Watson,” Holmes queried, smiling, “what the devil was that all about?”

  Blushing in embarrassment, I whispered, “Holmes, I feel terrible about what I have to say, but I have never seen such an ugly child! My word, why it took the wind out of me!”

  “Don’t be absurd, Watson,” Holmes issued, “all babies are beautiful. I’m very much surprised at you.”

  I thought I saw him smiling as he turned away, continuing our examination of the grounds. When we had reached the end of the property line, we began our trip back toward the Abbey’s main house. Holmes, I sensed, was deeply engrossed, seemingly taking mental notes about the design of the large garden.

  As we neared the huge edifice, I noticed that the exterior of the historical structure exhibited many signs of wear and tear. After all, I remember having heard that Torre Abbey had been constructed by a religious order several hundred years ago. That, in addition to its close proximity to the Channel, all combined to explain its somewhat worn and haggard outward appearance. I could only wonder at the interior, but we would soon find out, once inside.

  Seconds later, we were at the base of the grand entryway and started to ascend the stairs toward the huge front doors.

  As we prepared to engage the huge door knocker, suddenly there came a loud, grating screech as the large, ornate door slowly opened. There, standing ready to greet us, was an immaculately dressed tall, stately gentleman.

  “Ah, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson, I presume,” he offered.

  “Yes,” replied Holmes, continuing, “and we are pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cary. I sincerely hope that you’ll forgive us for dropping in on you, unannounced as it were.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Holmes,” he stated with a refined confident smile. “I’m so very pleased to see you and the famous Doctor Watson. I pray that you may be able to help us to put an end to these dreadful goings on.”

  “Where are my manners?” Cary quickly apologized as he showed us into the large foyer. “Please, do come in. I believe that the library will be a most comfortable spot for us to conduct our conversation. There is much to tell you, and before beginning, let me assure you that I’ll do everything I can to help with your investigation.”

  We turned through the first door to the left and found ourselves in a large room with two armchairs positioned near a magnificent oaken desk. The spacious room was bordered on all sides by bookcases containing writings on many, many topics. The storage units ran from the floor to the ceiling, requiring a library ladder for access to the higher shelves. A series of rails allowed the ladder to easily slide from one wall to another. The Cary book collection, I decided, could easily have served as a main library for most of the towns and hamlets in the
United Kingdom.

  After we had taken our seats, my friend began, “Mr. Cary, Doctor Watson and I have already begun to examine your situation. Please know that we will do all in our power to see this matter to a satisfactory conclusion. I take it that your concerns are related to the spate of curious deaths that have occurred lately in this part of Devon?”

  “Well,” Cary remarked, “I should have known that you’ve read about these deplorable events in this, our normally quiet corner of the world. You are correct, Mr. Holmes. To date, the deaths have remained unsolved, but my immediate interests have to do with some personal concerns, those that I hinted at in my letter.”

  “That would be most logical,” Holmes replied, as he reached into his pocket and unfolded Cary’s letter. Holmes quickly scanned the document and carefully replaced it in his front coat. My friend was about to say something, when Cary suddenly turned toward the open doorway.

  “A moment, Mr. Holmes,” Cary offered, waving to a member of his household staff.

  “Malcolm,” the lawyer called to the family butler, “I would like you to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his good friend and associate, Doctor Watson. Gentlemen, this is Mr. Malcolm Randolph. This fine man does an outstanding job handling the many needs of the family Cary.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,” the stylish manservant replied, bowing cordially after he had shaken our hands.

  “These men are visiting Torquay and they are to be accorded full run of our property. Is that clearly understood, Malcolm?” Cary remarked in a rather off-putting manner.

  He continued, “And Mr. Randolph, would you be so kind as to bring tea?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Cary,” the butler replied with another courteous bow, disappearing around the corner.

  “Please, gentlemen,” the lawyer suggested, “I invite you to have a look around while we’re waiting. I have some wonderful cigars from the colonies that you might enjoy. Please, please, be my guest.”