Holmes carefully sketched the positions of each piece of furniture in a schematic he had made for each room. I must note that he paid particular attention to Cary’s first floor library-office, and this time, we gave that stately room a most thorough going over, or so I thought.
We stopped to see Malcolm to inform him of our plans to examine the Spanish Barn. Holmes approached the butler and surprised him with a list of questions that he would like to have answered.
“Mr. Randolph,” he politely inquired, “if possible, could you try to get those questions answered as soon as possible?”
The butler quickly scanned the list and, shaking his head to the affirmative, responded, “Certainly, Mr. Holmes. I’ll get right to it!”
“Oh, Randolph,” Holmes added, “there’s one more thing that we need to ask.”
“Certainly,” the attentive butler replied. “What is it, Mr. Holmes?”
“Am I correct in assuming that Mr. Cary has sent the rest of the servants and housekeepers away until he and his family can return home?” Holmes whispered.
With some reluctance, the butler looked around to see if anyone was watching, then shook his head in the affirmative, adding, “Yes, sir, Mr. Holmes. Only Mrs. Bedlam and I have been retained to look after the property. Oh, I almost forgot, our stable boy will still report each day.”
Holmes thanked Randolph and we both left the building through the back door.
As we walked along the pathway leading to the large barn, Holmes treated me to a rather detailed historical account of that intriguing building. According to several reports, the barn had been constructed to collect and store the taxes, or tithes, that resident farmers owed to Torre Abbey’s religious order. Payment was usually in the form of crops and various other farm products and tools.
Holmes further informed me that in 1588, one of the ships in the Spanish Armada, the Nuestra Senora del Rosario, had been captured by Sir Francis Drake in one of the many sea skirmishes of that war. As a result, 397 members of the crew were captured and taken to Torre Abbey, where they were imprisoned by the English in this very barn. As we slowly entered the building, Holmes continued his lesson.
“Watson,” he instructed, “so now you see how the building got its present name. Rumors still abound as to whether the Spanish prisoners were beaten, starved or otherwise, shabbily treated over their brief fourteen-day incarceration. The facts remain that many perished in this very edifice.”
“Well, Holmes,” I countered, “I wasn’t expecting this kind of dissertation, but I admit that I’m impressed at your knowledge of this sad event!”
“There’s more, Watson. There remains a most interesting legend attached to this edifice, dear fellow,” he teased. “Shall I continue?”
“There is nothing that I would enjoy more, Holmes”, I replied. “Please continue to inform and entertain me!”
His deferential gaze at my teasing retort only momentarily delayed his tale-telling.
“Watson,” he started anew, “legend has it that aboard that ill-fated vessel was a young woman, who was a fiancée to one of the ship’s lieutenants. Upon realizing that the ship and its crew would soon be taken, this woman donned a disguise as one of the sailors in the hope that she would not be separated from her lover.”
Holmes paused dramatically, then continued. “Soon after capture, the crew was housed in this very barn, where overcrowding in horrendous conditions led to the deaths of many of the prisoners.
Sadly, this young lady was one of many who perished.”
“Oh, my, Holmes,” I remarked. “That is truly horrific!”
“Yes, indeed, Watson,” my friend slowed, almost displaying some emotion, which was highly unusual.
“Watson,” he stated, “there is even more to the story! Ever since that day, ‘the ghost of the Spanish Lady’ has been seen from time to time, wandering along the barn and all over the grounds of Torre Abbey, searching for her lost love.”
“A ghost?” I queried, feeling a slight shiver down my spine. Surely, you don’t believe in ghosts, Holmes?”
My companion smiled, but did not respond to my question, as we turned a corner and opened one of the main doors leading into the expansive open area inside the famous barn. There was very little light available to us and most of that quickly disappeared when the door swung closed behind us. Fortunately, we noticed a lantern sitting on a small stand and wasted no time in putting a match to the wick.
The dark interior gradually came to life. As our eyes became accustomed to the lamplight, it soon became clear that the barn had seen little use. My companion quickly glanced about the edges of the walls, sweeping away some of the straw that covered the dirt floor and the cobwebs which hung obtrusively from the damp mold on the walls and beams. I accompanied him, lantern in hand, busily swatting spiders that were virtually everywhere.
Next, Holmes carefully examined the massive entry doors that opened from the outside, moving from one to the other. While he continued scrutinizing their girth, I noticed that there were no actual windows, only slits along the walls allowing small shafts of daylight to enter.
“Holmes,” I ventured, “perhaps, it was your story, perhaps not, but suddenly, I’m beginning to feel very ill-at-ease!”
“Watson,” he firmly stated, “I’m very disappointed to hear you talk this way... Surely, the legend of the Spanish Lady hasn’t gotten to you... . or has it?”
He followed this commentary with an all-too-familiar guffaw that always served to irritate.
“Of course not,” I replied, having no option but to declare my bravado to his snide chide, although I do admit that I was extremely uneasy inside this old building.
Why was I so uncomfortable? Hmm... this room suddenly felt very familiar, but why? Then, like a lightning bolt, it hit me. I remembered the dream I had experienced earlier when taking my afternoon nap. It was so vivid! I could almost imagine the cave, the fire, the young woman, the dimly-lit room... .
I was about to relate my nightmare to my companion, but as I approached him, he began to move slowly toward an inside stairway, leading to a loft. Holmes quickly stopped dead in his tracks, and placed his hand over my open mouth.
Suddenly, we heard a loud slamming sound coming from the main entryway.
“Quickly, Watson,” he shouted, “get to the other doors and try to open them! I fear we have been trapped!”
Placing the lamp on the ground in the center of the building, both Holmes and I bolted to each of the barn doors. We were too late, for all of them had apparently been locked from the outside!
“What can we do, Holmes?” I whispered to my friend.
“Watson,” he slowly responded, picking up the lantern. “Clearly, someone is not happy that we’re here. Still, this is of no major concern, my good fellow. Let us not forget that the butler, Malcolm, knows where we are and will soon be checking up on us.”
That statement calmed me to a certain degree. I was beginning to feel somewhat better about our situation until he continued to voice another possible theory aloud.
“Although,” Holmes speculated, “we still don’t know if we can trust either Malcolm Randolph or that maid, Lucretia Bedlam, can we?”
While offering this remark, Holmes continued his search for another means of egress. It soon became apparent, after examining the loft, that there was no other way out but through the sets of doors on the ground level. Judging from their design they were not about to be opened from the inside without a great deal of effort.
I began to feel claustrophobic and suggested, rather loudly, “Holmes, shouldn’t we holler, yell or, I don’t know, bang on the doors?”
Before he could answer, we heard a soft tapping, followed by a somewhat concerned whisper, “Mr. Holmes... Doctor Watson... Please tell me... are you in there?”
We rapidly moved
toward the voice beyond the sealed door and Holmes called out gently, “Miss Aggie, yes we are here. Are you able to lift the bar from the doorway?”
We could hear the youngster pushing and pulling at the heavy iron rod, but she was not able to move it.
“Oh, it’s too heavy, Mr. Holmes!” she sadly reported while we listened to her grunts and groans.
Again she called, “Please don’t worry, I’ll be back momentarily with Mr. Malcolm. He’ll surely help us!”
Several minutes passed with us waiting and listening intently for Aggie’s return. It seemed like hours, but we soon heard the concerned voice of the butler, “Oh, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson. We’ll get you free at once!”
After some effort, the bar was lifted and Holmes and I walked into the open air, greatly relieved.
“Mr. Randolph,” I spoke for both of us, “Holmes and I are most grateful, and we thank you for extricating us from this awkward, embarrassing situation.”
“You are entirely welcome, Doctor,” spoke the mildly embarrassed butler, “but your thanks should be directed to Miss Aggie Miller who brought your plight to my attention.”
“Of course, you are correct,” Holmes piped up, turning to the young girl.
Smiling broadly, he offered, “Miss Miller, we are most fortunate that you came upon us. If it hadn’t been for you, poor Watson and I might have never been seen again!”
At that remark, the butler chimed in, “Now, now Mr. Holmes, why certainly... “
Randolph’s reply was quickly dismissed by the wink that Holmes sent his way.
“What I meant to say,” continued the manservant, “is that you are certainly correct. I’ve been so busy lately, that I most assuredly would have forgotten that you two gentlemen were here. Thank heavens that Miss Miller found you.”
The young girl began to blush, issuing, “Oh, really, it was nothing. I just happened to be on my way to the shoreline when I sauntered through the Abbey grounds. My friend, Margaret, and I always take this path to the shore.”
The young girl was beaming from the attention but, when she saw Holmes staring at her, her smile vanished.
“Aggie, please take no offense by what I am about to ask,” issued the detective. “Were you, perhaps, following Doctor Watson and me, again?”
At once, the butler spoke up, “Mr. Holmes, I am shocked at such a suggestion. Why Aggie Miller ... “
Randolph was about to continue his defense of the young girl, when she spoke up, “Mr. Malcolm, there is no need to speak on my behalf, though it is most kind of you.”
Brushing her hair back from her forehead, the young girl offered, “Yes, Mr. Holmes, I was following you and Doctor Watson. Please forgive me if you can. I just can’t help myself. I’ve a natural disposition that makes me want to find answers to questions. When I discovered that one of the world’s greatest detectives and his bosom companion were visiting our little town, I couldn’t suppress my curiosity. I suppose many would say that I’m a nosy young thing who needs to mind her own business!”
There was silence for several seconds while Aggie demurely rocked back and forth, her eyes looking at the ground.
Holmes turned away, momentarily stifling a laugh, and with a most winsome grin suggested, “Miss Miller, I am glad that you chose to follow the good doctor and me, at least today, for you have rescued us. There is no way of knowing what might have happened to us without your intervention.”
“While we have you here, young lady,” he continued, “could you describe what you may have seen before coming to our aid?”
Relieved by what my friend had said to her, Aggie began to relate her story.
“When you and Doctor Watson entered the barn, I was standing behind that oak tree by the stand of hemlock. I intended on waiting for you to emerge when I heard a loud slam. The next thing I knew, I noticed someone running from the doorway of that same Spanish Barn. At that point, I decided to have a look and found that you and Doctor Watson were trapped inside.”
“Again, it was most fortunate for us that you came along when you did, young lady,” Holmes spoke. “Tell me, Miss Miller, did you recognize that person?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes,” the young girl responded. “The person was wrapped in what appeared to be the trappings of a monk, I believe... I really didn’t get a good look...”
Holmes walked over to the young girl to try to sooth the apparent discomfort that she was now exhibiting. As he did so, he waved off the butler, “We’ll see you inside, Mr. Randolph. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Watson,” my friend motioned to me, “please have a look at our young lady friend and see if her condition might warrant any additional attention.”
“Oh, Mr. Holmes,” the young girl replied, “I’m fine, really. I’m only embarrassed at my actions. I know that I shouldn’t have been following you. I’m truly sorry.”
“Ah, yes,” Holmes softly cajoled, “that is what you are saying my young girl, but is it the whole truth?”
Holmes did not allow the young lady to reply and continued remarking, “You see, Aggie, I am sensing that you planned to follow Doctor Watson and me from the very moment you first recognized us. And, if you will allow me to say so, you desperately felt compelled to become involved in our investigation. Is it not so?”
Aggie Miller seemed shocked at his words, but only for an instant. Bravely, she acknowledged what had been said and, looking up at the great detective, young Aggie shook her head slowly to the affirmative.
Softly, the young girl issued a most subdued, “Yes, Mr. Holmes. What you have said is true. I am guilty, as charged. There can be no excuse for what I have done, and can only beg that you will forgive me for my intrusion. I’ll not bother you again... but I only wished to help you and...”
“That is well and good, Aggie,” my friend stopped her mid-sentence, patting the young girl on the shoulder.
Holmes looked over at me and rolling his eyes, continued, “Miss Miller, perhaps I was too quick to dismiss your involvement.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” Aggie queried. “What do you mean?”
My companion cocked his head to one side, stroking his chin and offered, “Well, Doctor, if this young lady is really that interested in our investigation, her knowledge of this city might save us a great deal of time.”
Holmes continued, “Aggie, mind, now, you would have to agree to follow our instructions to the very letter. Of course, you would certainly have to get permission from your mother, as well.”
Aggie Miller’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets when she realized that she had just been invited to participate in this investigation.
Before she could respond, Holmes suggested, “Now, run along home and seek your mother’s counsel on this matter. If she agrees, Doctor Watson and I would like you both to meet us for dinner tonight at the Imperial Hotel at 6:30 P.M. Good day, young lady!”
As we watched her skipping up the road, I turned to Holmes, fuming, and stammered, “Holmes, how could you? Do you really think that this is such a good idea? This is a dangerous case in which we are involved. Is it wise to involve this young child?”
“Watson, dear fellow, think about it. This young lady is the kind of individual that would never take no for an answer. She oozes curiosity! What better way to keep her safe than to send her on missions that, while possibly proving valuable to us, most certainly will pose little risk to her person.”
I must have been wearing a particularly strange expression after listening to my companion’s explanation, for he continued to elaborate on his plan for Aggie.
“Watson,” he spoke with some mild agitation, “you of all people should understand. Surely you must see the wisdom of my idea? This type of youngster could never be dissuaded from following us. That is where the real peril will, in truth, be felt. Surely, you must conc
ur?”
I wanted to disagree, but I could see the wisdom of his plan. Holmes was correct, yet again. She most certainly would be much safer away from us.
“Now, good friend, let’s try to pick up the trail of this monk if we can,” Holmes directed, quickly heading to where Aggie had last seen the shadowy figure.
We made our way to the far side of the barn to try and locate some footprints. As we rounded the corner, Holmes quickly knelt to the ground and, pulling out his magnifying lens, began to examine what appeared to be several sets of fresh imprints alongside the exterior wall.
“Watson,” he whispered, “do as I say and stoop down here... now... not a word, mind you!”
His tone was so ominous that I immediately pretended to examine his findings.
“Hmmm...” my friend spoke louder than normal, “Watson, what do you make of these prints?”
Then, in a barely audible voice he mumbled, “Watson, we’re being watched! No...don’t look. When I tell you, make a run for the far wall as fast as your legs will carry you...”
I took notice of what he said and remained alongside him running my fingers through the sandy leaves.
“Now, Watson, go,” he yelled, and immediately I heard the sound of a bullet rip past my ear.
I quickly ran to the barnyard wall and dove over the top, expecting to see Holmes right behind me. Strangely, he had not followed. I tried to peek around the corner of the wall when three more shots rang out, two of them ricocheting off the stonewall that protected me.
I called out, “Holmes, are you there?”
Again, I shouted, “Holmes, where are you?”
I waited, but there came no response. I readied my service revolver, peeked over the wall, and scanned the area for the shooter. I saw and heard no one.
Treachery in Torquay Page 11