by Carole Bugge
Evidently the arrival of Holmes and myself, though welcomed by our host, was not by his cook. Lord Cary seemed aware of her attitude, because he went out of his way to placate her, thanking her profusely for her efforts.
“It really is good of you to do this, Sally,” he commented as she plunked plates of bread and cheese down on the kitchen table. “Really, you didn’t have to bother.”
“Yes, I did,” she replied, a great sigh escaping her generous bosom. “They would have made an utter mess of my kitchen,” she added with a roll of her eyes, addressing me for some reason.
She trundled back to the stove on her heavy legs, thick and solid as mooring posts.
“It’s no good saying you can look after yourself, because you can’t,” she muttered, turning the gas down under the soup kettle before expertly ladling it into blue china bowls. “Now go along with you,” she said, handing each of us a bowl of steaming soup. “Go eat your soup so I can clean up my kitchen. Just pile the dishes in the sink when you’re done. Don’t leave them lying about in the house or you’ll attract vermin,” she added darkly. “I’m going back to bed—that is, unless there’s anything else I can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you, Sally, you’ve been most helpful,” Cary replied.
With a final sigh and rolling of her eyes, Sally withdrew into the butler’s pantry, where I could hear her clanging pans about as we carried our soup from the kitchen.
“You see who runs the household, Mr. Holmes,” Lord Cary remarked as we made our way through dim hallways to the parlour.
Holmes allowed himself one of his dry little laughs.
“I do indeed, Lord Cary, I do indeed.”
Cary shook his head. “It’s hard to believe sometimes a woman like that has a son.”
“Oh?” said Holmes. “Does he live with you, too?”
“Yes.”
“And the father?” I said. “Where is he?”
“Apparently she became pregnant by some local rogue, now long gone, moved on to greener pastures, no doubt.”
“So the boy never knew his father?”
Lord Cary shook his head. “No, none of us did. Taking her on in her—condition—was one of my father’s rare forays into charitable works. It’s just as well, perhaps, that we never met her… paramour. I gather that Sally never had much good to say about him. I say, we men can be appalling creatures, can’t we?” he sighed as he led us into a small, cozy parlour. The sight of the room made me feel better. It was cheery and comfortable; the floor was lined with rich Oriental rugs, and hunting prints hung upon the walls. A fire was blazing in the grate, evidently prepared in advance for our arrival.
Holmes opened his mouth to reply but I cut him off before he could launch into one of his invectives against women. I was not in the mood; I was tired and jumpy and altogether worn out.
“What’s the boy’s name?” I said.
“William,” Lord Cary answered as we settled in front of the fire. “He cleans the stables and does the odd job or errand for us, poor boy. He’s not quite right in the head,” Cary added gently, stroking his sister’s hair. She sat on a cushion at his feet, her soup on her lap, and it was evident to me that an unusually close bond existed between brother and sister.
“Poor little bird,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Elizabeth is very fond of William,” said Cary. I looked over at Miss Cary and saw that her hand was shaking as she ate her soup.
“I have some valerian drops I could give your sister as a sedative, if you like,” I said to Lord Cary.
“Elizabeth, would you like some medicine to make you feel calmer?” he asked gently. She turned to him and burst into tears.
“Oh, Charles,” she said, burying her head in his lap.
“Yes, I believe we will take you up on that offer, Dr. Watson,” Cary replied, with a glance at Holmes.
“A wise move, bringing your medical kit, Watson,” said Holmes.
Warmed by his words, I left the parlour and retraced our steps back to the front hall, where our luggage still sat. I walked through the dining room, back into the long hallway, my footsteps reverberating hollowly, the sound fading away as it was soaked up by the thick walls of the abbey. As I entered the wide front hall, I thought I detected a movement out of the corner of my eye. I spun around, heart pounding, but I saw nothing. The darkened corners of the room were still and quiet, and all I could hear was the slow drip of water from the eaves.
Although the rain had stopped, a steady drip of rain water fell from the eaves onto the ground below. Not wanting to remain in that room any longer, I quickly retrieved my medical bag and headed back to the parlour. This time I walked briskly, without looking behind me, my eyes fixed straight ahead, concentrating on reaching my destination.
But as I entered the long hallway, I felt a chill sweep over my body unlike any other I had ever experienced. It was not the kind of a breeze such as is found in a drafty old building; no, it was an icy, bone-deadening cold, as though all the air in the room had been sucked out and what remained was the kind of vacuum which I imagined existed only in the cold dark vastness of outer space. It quite took my breath away, and I stopped, frozen in my tracks; I had an impulse to run, and yet I felt unable to summon the will to move. I looked around me—at the wall hangings, with their hunting scenes and elaborate Eastern designs, shadowy in the dim light, at the moonlight streaming in through the long vaulted windows. All was motionless and silent around me, and yet I had the distinct impression I was not alone in the room. It was as though there were another presence—a consciousness which did not harbour good will toward me.
Finally I summoned my will and took a deep breath, and suddenly the spell was broken. I was able to move my limbs, and I walked quickly from that dark place toward the light coming from the parlour.
“I was just complimenting Lord Cary on his cook’s soup,” Holmes remarked as I entered the room.
“Leek and potato, one of Sally’s specialties,” Lord Cary said. I noticed that his soup sat untouched on the table in front of him. The day had evidently taken a toll on him, because in the firelight his face looked pale and tired. Holmes, however, seemed to be eating his soup; though a natural ascetic, he was capable of eating his food with gusto.
I took the little brown bottle of valerian drops from my bag. “It’s not a very pleasant taste, I’m afraid,” I said to Miss Cary, “and it’s a rather strong tincture, so if you would hand me your glass of water, I’ll add the medicine. That should be more palatable.”
She complied, and I measured out a dose and added it to the water, watching the brown liquid swirl slowly in the clear water. “There, drink up,” I said, handing the glass to Miss Cary. She raised it to her lips and as she did I saw a thick white scar on the underside of her left wrist. She must have seen that I noticed it, because she turned away immediately after drinking the medicine.
“That’s very bitter,” she said, setting the glass upon the table behind her.
“Yes, it is unpleasant,” I replied. “Still, it usually does the trick.” I liked to reassure my patients in this way, because I had noticed over the years that a physician’s confidence in his cures often seemed to increase their effectiveness. At first, I found this difficult to believe, and it took me a while to accept the role subjectivity seemed to play in medicine. I could only explain this effect as being a result of the power of suggestion—and, in my experience, some people are very suggestible indeed.
In any event, I could sense Miss Cary’s body begin to relax as I spoke—and I knew in this case it was the power of my words alone, because it was too early for the medicine to have any effect.
“Now please, Dr. Watson, why don’t you relax?” said our host, indicating a comfortable-looking leather armchair to one side of the fireplace.
“Thank you,” I said, settling into the chair gratefully. My feet hurt, my joints were stiff from the cold, and my head was beginning to ache from hunger. I broke off a piece of bread and
smeared it thickly with sweet yellow butter.
Just then I saw a movement at the other end of the room, by the entrance to the dining room. A shaggy dark head appeared at the doorway and then quickly withdrew.
Elizabeth sat up in her chair. “William, is that you?”
There was a pause and then a little sound came from the other side of the doorway. It was like the whimpering of a small animal, faint and high-pitched. Elizabeth rose and followed, withdrawing into the other room. I could hear her voice, soft and low, as she spoke with the person I presumed was William, but I could not make out the words.
A few minutes later she entered the room again, holding the hand of a boy whom I took to be about twelve years of age. He was possessed of an unusually delicate, pretty face for a boy, with pink cheeks and long dark eyelashes. His hair, though unkempt, was as thick and curly as Elizabeth’s, and so black it shone almost blue in the dim light. His mouth was a perfect Cupid’s bow, and it occurred to me that some day many girls would long to kiss that mouth, except for one thing: the light of intelligence did not shine from the boy’s eyes. Beautiful though they were, with their thick long lashes, there was a dull and haunted expression in them which bespoke the tragedy of a disturbed mind.
Elizabeth pulled the boy gently forward; he resisted, but was reluctant to let go of her hand, clutching at it with all his might.
“This is William,” she said, and, turning to him, spoke gently. “William, these are the men who have come to help us.”
“Hello, William,” I said. “I’m Dr. Watson and this is my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
William looked at me and then at Holmes, his lower lip trembling all the while. He opened his mouth but all that came out was a little gurgling sound. He looked back at Elizabeth, terror in his eyes. He shrank back against her side like a frightened animal.
“I’m afraid William is rather shy,” Cary said. “It’s difficult for him to meet people. He trusts Elizabeth and me because he knows us—isn’t that right, William?”
In reply William seized a strand of his rather long hair and twisted it between his fingers, rocking gently back and forth.
Holmes crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “Hello, William.”
William’s eyes followed the faces of each person as they spoke, but I couldn’t tell whether or not he understood what they were saying. I had seen cases like his in mental institutions when I was in medical school, and it always affected me deeply to see a soul so locked up within a body that communication with fellow human beings was difficult or impossible.
“Can he speak?” I said to Lord Cary.
Cary shook his head. “Well, Elizabeth says he talks to her.”
Elizabeth nodded vigorously. “He does—don’t you, poor little bird?” In response, William touched her cheek.
Lord Cary sighed. “He understands what we say, because he can follow simple orders. But I’ve never heard him use language in any sense that I understand it.”
“He’s just frightened, aren’t you?” she said, stroking his hair. William looked up at her and made the same little whimpering sound I had heard earlier.
“Poor little bird,” Elizabeth said again, stroking his shaggy head.
He looked up at her. “Po lel bur,” he said, forming the sounds with some considerable effort. He appeared to be trying to repeat her words.
Holmes nodded slowly. “I see.”
Lord Cary rose and stretched himself, and I noticed that his build was very slim—unlike his sister’s, who, I thought, was given to plumpness. Though quite slender now, I expected she would in a few years grow into the stockier frame Nature had provided her with.
“You mentioned Elizabeth takes after your father?” I remarked, but Lord Cary didn’t seem to hear me. He went over to the armchair near the fireplace where his sister was sitting with William and leaned one arm upon the mantel.
“Well, Elizabeth,” he said, “now that our guests have come all this way to help us, why don’t you tell them what you saw?”
The girl’s lower lip trembled a bit, but her brother put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, don’t be afraid. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are here to help us.”
“Yes,” Holmes repeated. “Don’t be afraid—you can tell us what happened.”
“Well,” she said, stroking the boy’s hair as he lay in her lap, “I was asleep and then I felt a gust of wind or something against my cheek.” She shuddered and wrung her hands. “I woke up feeling cold, as if there was a draft in the room. And then… he was there.”
“Where?” said Holmes, his grey eyes keen as razors. “Where was he?”
“At the foot of my bed,” she replied, trembling. “I felt cold all over, so cold.”
As she spoke, I felt a corresponding chill run through my own body. My mind was hurtling back to the deadly cold I had experienced in the hallway, and the accompanying sense of dread. It was enough to shake my nerve—and in my experience as a soldier and a doctor I had seen some pretty disturbing things. I had no doubt that such an experience as this could shatter the delicate sensibilities of a young girl such as Elizabeth.
“What did you do?” I said.
She looked at me blankly. “I’m not sure. I think I screamed… and then I must have fainted, because when I came to again, he was gone.”
“She screamed, all right,” Cary remarked, lighting a cigarette. “Everyone in that part of the house heard her.”
“What exactly did you see, Miss Cary?” said Holmes, leaning forward. His eyes were keen as a crow’s, and shone out of his aquiline face with an intensity I have yet to see in another man.
She rubbed her eyes as if to rid them of the awful spectre. As she did, young William reached up a hand to stroke her cheek. He had been lying quietly in her lap, curled up almost as if he were an infant and she his mother. The touch of his hand appeared to comfort her, for she took a deep breath and answered my friend’s question.
“It was the Cavalier,” she said firmly, though her chin trembled as she spoke.
“The Cavalier?” said Holmes, with a look at her brother.
Instead of replying, Charles turned away and flicked his cigarette into the fire. He watched it flare up briefly and disappear into the flames, then he turned back to us.
“Do you remember the picture you saw when you came in, of my ancestor, Hugo Cary?” he said.
“Ah, yes—the seventeenth-century Cavalier,” I replied.
“Is that whom you saw, Elizabeth?” said Holmes. “Hugo Cary?”
She nodded, one hand to her lips while the other stroked William’s hair.
Charles Cary sighed, a deep heavy sound which seemed to resonate through his whole body. He sat down again and regarded Holmes and myself with a serious face.
“There is an old legend that whenever a member of the Cary family sees the Cavalier, it means that someone in the family is about to die.”
There was a silence, and then Holmes spoke.
“Do you believe that?”
Charles Cary snorted. “Of course not—it’s typical West Country superstition. But that’s not what concerns me. My sister seems to believe it, and given her fragile state of mind, that is worrisome.”
“I saw him, I tell you!” Elizabeth said quietly but with such fervour that we all looked at her. “I saw the Cavalier,” she repeated slowly. “One of us is going to die.”
“Don’t be foolish, Elizabeth—no one is going to die!” her brother snapped.
“Miss Cary, I assure you I will do everything within my power to make certain no harm comes to you or your family,” Holmes said quietly. “You have my word upon that.”
“You’re exhausted, Elizabeth—why don’t you go up to bed now?” said her brother, his voice softer now.
I looked at her—her eyelids were indeed beginning to droop, and she sat slumped in her chair, one hand on William’s shoulder. He appeared to have fallen asleep; his eyes were closed and his breathing was steady
and regular.
“Perhaps we should all retire,” our host continued, addressing Holmes and myself. “You have had a long journey, and must be tired yourselves.”
I glanced at Holmes, who rarely showed signs of fatigue except when he was bored, which he certainly was not now. However, at Cary’s words he rose immediately from his chair.
“I think that would be a good idea,” he replied. “We can get a fresh start on things tomorrow. Everything always looks less frightening in the light of day,” he added with a look at Elizabeth, who sat staring into the fire.
“Elizabeth, would you take William back to bed while I show our guests to their rooms?” said Lord Cary, rising from his chair. She raised her head and nodded in reply, but did not move. “Come along, then,” he said, offering her a hand. “Time for bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
She obeyed meekly, and, taking a sleepy young William by the hand, shuffled off to bed.
“Right,” said our host, with a final poke at the fire. “Allow me to show you to your rooms, gentlemen.”
We followed him back to the front hall to fetch our bags, and then up the long dark staircase to the second floor.
“That is the Abbot’s Tower,” he said pointing to a set of narrow stone steps. I caught a glimpse of high, narrow vaulted windows with a cross-hatch design upon the upper third of the glass. Everything at Torre Abbey was reminiscent of the religious history of the place; even the windows in the second-floor hallways resembled miniature church windows, the top panes pointed like tiny chapel roofs.
“Some say this is where Abbot Norton had Symon Hastynges beheaded,” Cary remarked as we turned onto the second-floor landing. I couldn’t suppress a shudder as I thought of the blunt sound of an axe echoing through these dusky chambers.