by Carole Bugge
I leaned forward. “What about a sanatorium? Surely you can afford that.”
He looked at me imploringly. “I swear to you, I have urged her to commit herself to a sanatorium to conquer her addiction—without success. I’ve even thought about committing her myself, but I could not bring myself to do it.” He stared down at his hands, which he wrung until the veins stood out. “I too have my limits, it seems. Perhaps it is the coward’s way out to cater to her addiction, but I cannot bear to see her suffer.”
Holmes rose from his chair, unfolding his lean body and stretching up to his full height before he spoke. “Lord Cary,” he said in an icy tone which I recognized, “the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to shake her from this deadly habit. And I trust Watson will agree with me—but one does not have to be a man of medicine to know that.”
I nodded. “Surely you recognize that what Holmes says is true, Lord Cary.”
Cary hung his head. “I know,” he replied softly. “Your words strike me to the quick—really they do. I know I have been neglectful in my duties as a brother—and as a son—but I mean to make good on that now. Even if it means taking a semester off from medical school, I am prepared to do what must be done. I only hope it is not too late.”
Holmes lifted his glass of cognac and swirled the golden liquid within so that it caught the glow of the firelight.
“I hope so too, Lord Cary.”
I looked at my friend, his face grim in the dim light, and his words sent a shiver of dread up my spine.
“Did you remark the ornament on the necklace Madame Olenskaya wore, Watson?” he said.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. It was a carved hand; the design looked familiar to me, but I can’t think where I’ve seen it.”
Holmes blew a puff of smoke into the air. “It is none other than the Hand of Fatima.”
My Arabic lore was a little rusty, but I recognized the name. “You mean Fatima, daughter of Mohammed?”
“The same. In the right hands, it is considered to be a symbol of good fortune; however, in the wrong hands… well, let us just say it is one of those symbols which can work either way.”
“I see. And Madame Olenskaya?”
Holmes smiled. “If that is really her name.”
Charles Cary gave a short laugh. “Her real name is probably Gladys Birnbaum or something like that. To tell you the truth, I only hired her to help put my sister’s fears at rest once and for all—and look what I accomplished,” he added bitterly.
“I’m not surprised your sister is full of morbid fancies,” I remarked. “I got quite caught up myself in a book of Devon legends yesterday while you were all at the funeral.”
“Oh?” said Holmes. “You didn’t mention anything about it to me.”
“I found it in the library. Grayson says your father was quite fond of that particular book. I was quite caught up by the poem about the Demon Hunter.”
Cary looked at me, but in the dimness of the room I couldn’t tell what his expression was. “What drew you to that one?”
“I’m not sure, really. It was quite chilling, though, I thought.”
“It’s supposedly about one of my ancestors, Hugo Cary—the one whose portrait hangs in my father’s study.”
“Ah, yes—the Cavalier. I remarked upon it when we first arrived,” said Holmes. “You said there were all sorts of stories surrounding this fellow.”
Charles Cary warmed his glass of cognac between his slender hands. “The poem Dr. Watson read is the verse version of the tale. My father used to read it to me when I was a boy.”
I told Holmes the story and he listened with interest, his long fingers pressed together. “I don’t remember seeing that book in the library yesterday,” he said when I had finished.
“Neither do I. Perhaps someone had taken it out and was reading it earlier.”
“Perhaps.”
I looked at Charles Cary. To my surprise, his face was crimson.
“Is there any truth to it, do you think?” I asked.
Charles Cary shrugged. “Who can say? They say that Hugo Cary went mad and was often seen riding about the moors on a black horse—and that when locals speak of seeing the Demon Hunter galloping over the moors, they are seeing the Cavalier—the ghost of Hugo Cary.”
He paused and took a sip of cognac, and I couldn’t help noticing the shiver which travelled through his thin frame.
* * *
That night I insisted on taking young William to sleep on the spare bed in my room. To my relief, Holmes agreed; I could see even his iron constitution was beginning to crack under the strain of too many sleepless nights.
“Mind you bolt your door from the inside, Watson,” he cautioned me as we trudged upstairs. He gave the same reminder to the Cary family as we adjourned to our separate rooms. Though they grumbled when Holmes suggested moving the sleeping arrangements, eventually they acquiesced. Lady Cary gave up her elegant quarters and moved into a bedroom next to Holmes, and Elizabeth Cary took a room next to her brother so that he could keep an eye on her. That left only the servants to worry about; Annie gratefully agreed to move into a spare guest room on the other side of my room, but Grayson demurred, saying he preferred to remain where he was.
To my surprise, Holmes did not insist, and let the butler have his way. In fact, when Grayson suggested that whoever was behind this was not interested in him, Holmes nodded.
“I’m rather inclined to agree with you, Grayson,” he remarked. “Still, you will be careful, won’t you?”
“Indeed I will, sir. Thank you, sir,” the butler replied smoothly as he turned down the gas lamps before padding quietly off down the hall.
“A singular character, Watson,” Holmes commented when Grayson withdrew.
I had to agree with him, but I was exhausted myself, and went to my room. I found Annie there waiting for me, holding William by the hand.
“You’ll be a good boy now, won’t you?” she said, attempting to smooth the boy’s unruly black curls. He nodded and shoved a thumb into his mouth, clinging tightly to her hand.
“Come along, William,” I said, reaching for him, but he shrank from me and pressed up against Annie’s plump body.
“Go along with Dr. Watson now, there’s a good boy,” she said, disentangling her hand from his. He made little whimpering noises and twirled a strand of hair around one finger.
“Perhaps I should help you put him to bed,” she said. “He’s been ever so lost since—well, since, you know.”
“What did you tell him?” I whispered as we entered the room. Grayson had lit a fire in the grate, and the room looked inviting in the warm orange glow of the fire.
“I told him his mum had gone up to heaven to sleep with the angels.”
“Did he understand you?”
She shrugged her plump shoulders. “Who can say, sir? It’s hard to know as what he understands. Mind you, there are times I think he understands more than the rest of us, and other times when I’m just not sure.”
William seemed pleased with my room—he let go of Annie’s hand to investigate the intricately carved mahogany chest at the foot of my bed, running his fingers over the animal figurines, lions and tigers, that graced the top of the chest.
“That’s ever so nice, isn’t it, William?” Annie said as his hand rested on the head of one of the lions.
He looked up at her and made one of his little grunting noises, his lips moving as though trying to form words. Watching him struggle to speak, I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this poor motherless wretch of a boy. It seemed cruel that Nature had robbed him of the usual means of communication with his fellow beings, so that he was stranded behind a wall of silence.
“I’ve got to go now, William,” Annie said gently, backing slowly out the door. “Dr. Watson here will look after you. He’s pretty good at communicating what he wants, sir,” she added. “Aren’t you, William? He likes it when you sing to him, sir. It seems to soothe him.”
“What shall I sing?”
“Anything, sir. He just likes to be sung to. Well, if you have any trouble with him, sir, you can come get me.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Annie, thank you.”
“Very good, sir,” she replied, and with a little curtsy closed the door behind her.
I looked over at William, who stood, hands in his pockets, staring at me with his great dark eyes.
“We’re going to be fine, aren’t we, William?” I said, but he just continued staring at me. “Here’s your bed over here,” I continued, pointing to the little single bed in the corner under the eaves. He must have understood, because he walked quietly over to the bed and sat on it, gazing at me expectantly.
Without his saying a word, I was aware that he was waiting for me to sing to him. I sat down on the edge of the bed. To my surprise, he immediately laid his head upon my shoulder, pressing his body against my side. Though I had no children of my own, there seemed something so natural—comforting, even—about the warmth of his body next to mine. A pang of regret pierced my heart. At that moment fatherhood seemed like the most natural, most desirable thing in the world. Some deep, ancient instinct within me awakened, and without thinking I placed a hand upon the unruly black curls. I felt the weight of my duty: to protect this innocent child against whoever or whatever lurked outside the thick, vine-covered walls of the abbey.
“What shall I sing to you, William?” I said, stroking the boy’s tousled hair.
He snuggled closer to me and murmured, a tiny soft sound which was indeed like the cooing of a baby bird. I looked out of the arched cathedral windows in my room, into the night sky, which lay like a starry blanket over the sleeping moors of Devon. The words of a song from my own childhood came to me, a song my mother used to sing to me. Softly, I began to sing.
“Hushaby, don’t you cry
Go to sleep, my little baby
When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses
Dapples and greys, pintos and bays
All the pretty little horses…”
My voice floated through the dusky chambers of Torre Abbey, down dim hallways, mixing with the echoes of voices long gone, adding to the ancient whispers that still twisted around the thick pillars and columns late at night, flickering like bats through the stone arches. The boy’s breathing became slow and regular, his eyelids heavier, until finally they closed. Still I sang, thinking as I did of lying in my own mother’s arms, late on a fall evening such as this, ill with scarlet fever, the sound of her voice like a soothing balm, lifting the ache from my limbs, chasing the fever from my tired brow.
“When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses
Dapples and greys, pintos and bays
All the pretty little horses…”
Out on the lawn, a lone mourning dove called to his mate. The sound, hollow and plaintive, floated across the courtyard, but she did not answer.
Chapter Fourteen
Iwas sunk deeply into sleep, in the middle of a dream in which I was walking through the abbey, turning down one corridor after another, unable to find my way. The more I turned the more lost I became, until it felt as if I was wandering deeper and deeper into the dark interior of the building, never to escape, like Theseus winding his way through the Labyrinth, except that I had no thread to guide me out. I wondered what Minotaur I would meet at the end of my journey, what horrible sight would greet me as I turned the next corner, but then I heard the sound of a dog barking. Relieved, I turned to retrace my steps, heading towards the source of the barking.
It continued steadily, and I felt if I could only focus on it I could escape this terrible twisting maze of corridors. To my disappointment, the sound stopped abruptly. Straining to hear it, I opened my eyes. I was surprised to find myself staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. Disoriented, it took me a few minutes to realize that it had all been a dream. Relief coursed through my body as I lay on my back, glad to find myself safe and sound in my bed.
The barking, however, started up again, and I realized that it was real enough, having worked its way as it did into the landscape of my dream. The sound came from within the building, and it was a hollow, lonely sound, not an aggressive angry bark.
I surmised that it was most probably Lady Cary’s terrier Caliban, although I wondered what had disturbed the dog enough to set him off in the middle of the night.
I threw off the covers, pulled on my robe, and was halfway out the door when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to see young William standing beside his bed, his black hair shining bluish-silver in the moonlight. In my disoriented state I had quite forgotten about the boy, but now I saw that he appeared to be frightened, and was in need of comfort. I knew Holmes was probably already up and looking around the abbey, searching for whatever if was that had alarmed the dog. Still, I didn’t want to leave my friend in the lurch; after all, I had my service revolver, while Holmes had no firearm in his room.
“It’s all right, William,” I said, going over to the bedside table to fetch my gun. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Indeed, I hardly believed my own words until my fingers closed around the cool smooth wooden handle of the gun. I breathed a little more deeply as I slipped the gun into the pocket of my robe. I glanced back at William, who had lain down again on his bed, curled up in a tight little ball. I sighed; I didn’t want to leave the boy alone, but I was afraid Holmes might need me. A knock on my door rescued me from my dilemma; I recognized the quick, impatient rap of my friend even before he spoke.
“Watson! Are you all right?”
I opened the door. Holmes stood in the hall, a lantern in his hand. Though he was fully dressed, the creases in his cheeks and lines around his eyes told me that he had until very recently been asleep. He wore his brown ulster, unbuttoned, over his shirt and vest.
“I’m quite all right, Holmes.”
“Good,” he replied with a glance at young William.
“Did you find out why the dog was barking?”
He shook his head. “He usually sleeps in Lady Cary’s room, but somehow he got out and was roaming around downstairs.”
“Is she all right?”
Holmes nodded. “She was quite undisturbed—aside from awakening from a deep sleep by her dog barking. I’ve checked on everyone else, and no one has seen anything; some of them even slept through the barking, it seems. I’m going out to have a look around the grounds,” he continued, with another glance at the boy. “Will you look after everyone while I’m gone?”
“Certainly,” I replied, “but why don’t you take my revolver?”
Holmes considered it, and then nodded.
“Very well—Lord Cary has his if you should need it. I think, however, that you will find nothing in the house. I have instructed everyone to remain in their rooms with the doors locked, and I suggest you do the same.”
“Very well, Holmes,” I said, taking the gun from my pocket and handing it to him. I was disappointed that I was not accompanying my friend on his search, but I wanted to be useful, and would have to content myself with following his instructions.
“Thank you, Watson,” he said. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his ulster and disappeared into the gloom. I watched the glow of his lantern become fainter and fainter, until at last it disappeared around the corner. I then returned to my room and bolted the door again.
William lay upon his bed, looking up at me with his large dark eyes. I sat next to him.
“Don’t worry, William. It’s only the dog barking.”
But the barking had stopped, and the abbey lay in still silence. It was that dead of night when no bird sings, and even the creatures of the night—crickets, katydids, owls—seem to be asleep, all the world poised on the cusp between night and day, waiting for the first signs of dawn to break over the landscape.
William made his little cooing sound and I bent over him.
“What is it, William? What do you want? Do you want a glass o
f water?”
He shook his head and buried his thumb in his mouth.
I suddenly remembered a packet of candies I had bought at the Paddington Station in London just before we boarded the train to Devon; I had shoved a few in my mouth to ward off my hunger pangs at the time.
“How about a caramel?” I said. “Would you like a caramel?”
This produced a positive response. He removed the thumb and nodded, making a gurgling sound. I fished a candy from the bag and gave it to him. He sucked on it appreciatively, smiling at me.
“There, now,” I said. “That’s much better than a thumb, isn’t it?”
There was another knock on my door, softer than the last. I went to the door.
“Holmes, is that you?”
“No, it’s me.”
I recognized the voice as belonging to Marion Cary. I opened the door, and once again the sight of her was startling. She stood, her hair loose about her shoulder, in a white nightgown under a deep-blue robe.
“May I come in?” she said. “I’m frightened.”
It was then I noticed the little terrier at her feet. He looked up at me and wagged his tail; whatever had so concerned him earlier seemed to have vanished. Either that, or he had lost interest in it.
I opened the door to admit her, the little brown dog trotting obediently at her heels. When William saw the dog he gave a little yelp and leaped from the bed, charging towards the terrier. The dog lowered his ears and braced himself, but the boy stopped just short of impact and sat abruptly on the floor next to the dog. He reached for the animal’s silky ears and stroked them gently, cooing and purring to himself.
Marion Cary stood by the door watching.
“Poor thing,” she sighed, drawing her robe closer around her slim shoulders. “It just isn’t fair, what he’s been through.”
“In my experience,” I observed, “life is seldom fair.” As soon as I said it, I realized the remark was something Holmes would have said.