Cary shrugged. “I can’t imagine why any of them would—after all, you’re here to help us.”
“Thank you. It won’t take long, but it would be good to begin as soon as possible.”
Cary nodded. “Certainly. Whatever you want—I assure you, Mr. Holmes, I shall do everything in my power to assist you.”
“Good,” replied Holmes. “I should like to start with Lady Cary’s quarters, if you don’t mind.”
A look of apprehension passed briefly over our host’s face, but he quickly mastered himself. “By all means, Mr. Holmes—as I said, whatever you wish. My mother’s apartments are located in the east wing,” he said, leading us to the back of the building. “They call this the night staircase—I’m not exactly sure why,” he remarked as we followed him up a narrow twisting staircase.
“Perhaps it’s the one the monks used to return to their quarters after vespers,” I offered.
“I know very little about medieval religious life, I’m afraid,” Holmes remarked.
“Nor do I,” Cary replied as we climbed the narrow stairs, single-file. “My father was really the historian in the family. My tastes run to other things—horses and medicine, mostly.”
He led us down a dimly lit hallway; a long thin carpet ran the length of the hall. It seemed to have been there for quite some time, as I noticed it was rather worn in several places.
“I’ll just see if Mother’s in,” Cary said, knocking on one of the doors lining the hall. Like the others we had passed, the door was highly polished, and appeared to be either maple or elm. As we stood there I thought I detected a faint scent of lilacs.
“Yes?” came the reply from within.
“It’s Charles,” Cary said. “Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are with me.”
There was the sound of light footsteps, then the door opened and Lady Cary appeared. She was wearing a light-green silk dressing gown, the colour of early spring grass. It suited her slim figure so well that I had to counter an impulse to stare. Her golden hair was piled somewhat haphazardly on top of her head. Though it was well past noon, she clearly had not yet completed her toilette.
“Yes?” she said, looking from her son to Holmes and myself.
“Mother, Mr. Holmes would like to . . .” Charles Cary began, but he faltered a bit, so Holmes intervened smoothly.
“I would like to have a look around your rooms, if you have no objections.”
Lady Cary looked a bit startled by the suggestion, and I hastened to add, “We can come by another time if this is inconvenient.”
To my surprise, she shook her head. “No, this is as good a time as any,” she replied, opening the door to admit us.
The apartment was large and airy, with a sitting room in the front leading through to a bedroom in the back. The sitting room overlooked the old abbey cloisters. A small brown terrier sat primly perched upon a crimson velvet settee. I assumed this was Lady Cary’s dog, Caliban. He didn’t bark as we entered, but cocked his head to one side when he saw us. I could hear the chirping of the birds in the ivy outside—such a peaceful sound, I thought, and I suddenly had trouble imagining anything could go wrong in a place like this. Lord Cary excused himself, saying he had business to attend to, and so we were left alone with the lady of the house.
“Please, make yourselves at home, gentlemen,” Lady Cary said, sitting on the end of the settee and running her hand over the silky head of the little terrier, who wagged its tail and licked her hand. Her voice was cordial enough, but I thought I detected an ironic edge to it. Holmes took a glance around the room and disappeared into the bedroom. Left alone with her, I busied myself examining a small, ornate gilt clock on the mantelpiece. The edges were inlaid with fat porcelain cherubs, their plump fingers wrapped around the face of the clock.
“A birthday present from my son,” Lady Cary said as I studied the clock.
“Very nice,” I murmured, fearing my face would betray my discomfort with the situation. My neck felt hot, and knowing I coloured easily, I turned away, hoping she would not notice. Just then Holmes called out from the other room.
“Lady Cary, would you be so kind as to come in here for a moment?”
“Excuse me, please,” she said, and went into the other room. I wandered over to where the little dog sat upon the settee, and sat down beside him to stroke his head. As I did so, my eye was caught by a single piece of paper protruding from behind a pillow. I slipped the paper out, and went to place it upon the writing desk, but my curiosity got the better of me and my eyes perused the page; it appeared to be a poem of some kind. I knew it was wrong, but I read the text.
She shares her secret fancies with the moon, her only confidant;
She smiles and hugs her deep dark secrets close to her breast.
She keeps them tightly locked away within her heart
Until under a cold white stone she finds her final rest.
At night she lies upon the bed and imagines it her grave,
But the moon is cold and dark
So she waits for daybreak and the singing of the lark.
She trembles at the sound of footsteps through the garden gate,
But when he arrives it is already too late.
Now from her lips there comes not a single breath,
Silence her only company,
Her only lover Death.
I heard the sound of approaching footsteps and hurriedly shoved the poem back behind the pillow where I had found it. Holmes and Lady Cary entered the sitting room at that moment. I could feel the blood creeping up my neck, and once again I feared my red face would give me away. Worse, the little dog suddenly found the pillow extremely interesting, and began sniffing around it. Mortified, I glanced at Lady Cary, but she was busy watching Holmes, who was examining an elaborately carved secretary which sat against the far wall.
“A family heirloom, Mr. Holmes,” the lady said, as he ran his fingers over the polished wood.
“Have there been any burglaries at Torre Abbey since you came to live here, Lady Cary?” Holmes said abruptly, fixing her with his keen stare.
“No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Then how is it that this lock has been recently forced?” he inquired, pointing to the side drawer of the desk. Sure enough, the lock showed signs of being tampered with—the wood was scratched and scarred, and the lock itself was bent and scoured by some sharp instrument.
“Oh, I lost my key and had to ask Charles to force it open for me,” she replied a little too quickly.
She was a very poor liar, and even I could see that she was hiding something. She fingered the belt of her dressing gown as her eyes darted nervously from side to side. To my surprise, however, Holmes merely nodded, as if she had given the most natural explanation in the world.
“Very well,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Lady Cary. I apologize if we disrupted your day.”
“Not at all,” she answered warmly, no doubt relieved not to be called on her lie. She scooped the little terrier up in her arms and went to the door to see us out.
As we walked down the hall toward the stairs, I couldn’t resist commenting. “She was lying about the lock, Holmes, I’m certain—”
“Not now, Watson,” he said in a low voice. “You never know who might be listening,” he added with a glance over his shoulder.
“I know she was lying, my dear fellow,” he chuckled as we made our way down the narrow stone steps. “The interesting question is why? What—or whom—is she protecting?”
Again my thoughts turned to the man lying alone in the cemetery beneath the cold Devon soil. I thought of Marion Cary’s poem, so sad and wistful, a tragic lament to lost love. I sighed deeply and considered the lucky man who had been the recipient of such devotion from such a woman.
Chapter Six
That night we were visited by a terrific storm. It ripped and tore at the abbey, howling like a mad dog outside the window, hurtling rain so hard against the panes that I was afraid they might break.
There was no question of sleeping during the height of the storm’s fury, so I crept from my bed and sat at the window gazing out onto the courtyard below. The rain fell relentlessly in steady sheets upon the already soggy ground. Puddles formed, soon becoming rivulets, which then turned into small lakes. A sudden loud clap of thunder rent the air, resonating through the halls of the abbey itself. It was followed by a white flash of lightning so bright that the entire room was illuminated for a few seconds by its pallid glow.
I was entranced by the storm, captivated by its unfettered energy, much as I was captivated by the charms of Lady Cary. I thought of her alone in her room, listening to the storm—I didn’t see how anyone could sleep in weather such as this. I wondered if she liked the spectacle of Nature’s fury, or if she was frightened by the thunder and lightning. My mind drifted and I imagined myself comforting her, holding her hand when she was startled by a particularly loud clap of thunder . . .
The storm abated and I had dozed off in the chair when suddenly I was awakened by a loud ringing which seemed to fill the building. It reverberated through the hallways, resounding against the stone walls with a deafening volume. I jumped out of bed, threw on my robe, and dashed into the hallway, where I saw Holmes coming from the other end of the hall.
“What on earth is it?” I cried over the din.
“It would seem to be coming from the Abbot’s Tower,” he replied, pointing to the clock tower which rose just above us. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound stopped.
“Come, Watson!” Holmes cried, and took off in the direction of the stairs leading to the tower. I followed, my robe flapping behind me. We dashed up the two flights of stairs to the top of the tower, where the great bell hung from its pulley. The ringing had not yet completely died out; the air still vibrated with the hollow remnants of sound. But there was no one in sight—impossible as it seemed, it was as though the giant bell had somehow rung itself!
Holmes examined the heavy rope which hung down from the great bell, peering at it in the dim moonlight. Suddenly the air was rent by another sound—a woman’s scream. It was no ordinary scream, however; it was a blood-curdling yell of pure terror.
Holmes let go of the rope and sprang towards the stairs.
“Quickly, Watson!” he cried as he dashed down the narrow steps. I followed close behind, stumbling as my feet searched for footing upon the ancient crumbling stones.
The screams died out as we reached the first floor of the abbey, but it was clear the sound had come from the direction of the kitchen. Holmes and I reached the kitchen at the same moment as Charles Cary—he evidently had been as hurriedly roused from his bed as we had, because his dressing gown was unbelted and there were no slippers upon his bare feet. He carried a torch, though, and his face appeared even paler than usual in the dim light.
“What on earth was that?” he exclaimed as Holmes and I arrived. He appeared to be as breathless as I was, though whether from exertion or apprehension I could not tell.
“This way,” Holmes said, brushing past him and heading into the kitchen. Cary and I followed close behind, Cary holding the torch aloft so that we could see. It was strangely quiet now, and the only sound I could hear was a muffled rapping—like a door that had been left open banging against its frame, blown by the wind.
We crossed the kitchen to where Holmes was standing. The sound I heard was indeed the outside door to the kitchen, which was open. But I quite forgot about the door when I saw what Holmes was looking at.
There, in the narrow alcove leading to the outside door, was the outline of a prostrate form lying upon the ground. I took a few steps closer, and as Cary held his torch aloft, we saw that it was the cook, Sally Gubbins.
“Good Lord!” Cary said as Holmes knelt over her and turned her over gently.
One look at her face and it was clear to me that the poor woman was dead. Her eyes were wide open and staring straight up at the ceiling, and her mouth was open as if she had died in mid-scream. Her face, in fact, was a perfect mask of terror—as though whatever she saw in her last moments of life had frightened her so much that it was imprinted on her features.
I felt for a pulse even though I knew there would be none, then I closed the lifeless eyes out of respect for the dead. I examined the body for signs of injury but found none. Cary had lighted one of the wall sconces, and I looked around the room. There was no sign of struggle—no overturned chairs or scuff marks on the floor—no outward indication of violence of any kind. Holmes, meanwhile, was occupied with his own investigation. He disappeared through the back door out into the night, only to return a few minutes later shaking his head.
“We are too late,” he said in response to Cary’s inquiring look. “Whoever or whatever was here is gone now.”
He closed and latched the door behind him. “Do you keep this door locked at night, Lord Cary?”
“Well, yes—I mean, it’s Grayson’s job to lock up at night, and though we have sometimes been lax, ever since the events of the past few days I have asked him particularly to be certain to lock the house at night.”
Holmes nodded. “I see. And does anyone other than members of your household have keys?”
“No, not that I am aware.”
Holmes turned to me. “Well, Watson, what do you make of it? Is there any sign of injury?”
“None that I can find.” There were indeed no bruises or cuts or other obvious signs of trauma, only the horrified expression on the cook’s face.
It wasn’t long before the other members of the household showed up. The first to arrive was Grayson, whose calm manner was only slightly ruffled by the gruesome sight in the kitchen. Marion Cary, though greatly affected by the news, insisted on seeing the body, even though her son tried to persuade her not to look. Charles would not allow his sister anywhere near the body; she dissolved into tears upon hearing the news. Annie, the chambermaid, took it upon herself to comfort her mistress, patting her hand and murmuring, “There, there, miss. Don’t worry now. It’ll be all right.”
“Where’s William?” Elizabeth said suddenly, looking around, and I realized at that moment we had not seen him. As if in response to her query, a shaggy dark head appeared around the corner of the butler’s pantry.
“William! Have you been in there all this time?” Elizabeth cried, catching the boy up in her arms and holding him to her breast. He laid his head on her shoulder, shoved his thumb in his mouth, and made a little gurgling sound. She took him quickly from the room, so that he could not see his mother’s body around the corner.
Everyone except Holmes retired to the west parlour, where Grayson, with his usual efficiency, had laid a fire in the grate. He even bustled about the kitchen and fixed tea for us, apparently not bothered by the presence of poor Sally, who, after covering her, we left where she was so the police could see her lying where we found her.
Holmes continued to prowl about the grounds of the abbey, and dawn was peering through the lace curtains by the time Grayson set out for town to fetch the police. I offered to accompany him, but he declined my assistance, preferring to go himself.
We all sat around the fire, hunched over within the circle of its welcome heat, teacups clutched in our stiffened fingers, as a weak October sun struggled up through the dissipating clouds.
The stout, sleepy-eyed police sergeant who turned up to supervise the removal of the body seemed unimpressed by Lord Cary’s recounting of the various apparitions, and I thought his examination of the area around the body was cursory at best. As Lord Cary had warned us earlier, the police were not particularly interested in the goings-on at Torre Abbey, and the fat sergeant’s attitude seemed to confirm this.
“Well, Sergeant?” said Cary as the body was loaded into the back of the police wagon.
“We’ll have the coroner’s report for you as soon as we can, sir,” the sergeant replied, then he shrugged. “Looks like natural causes to me, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
With that he clim
bed into the front of the wagon, signalled the driver, and the horse was off at a trot. And so poor Sally made her exit wrapped in a blue blanket with the letters Coroner emblazoned on it in yellow.
“They couldn’t even be bothered to send a proper detective inspector,” Cary muttered as the police van drove off. “Well, Dr. Watson?” he said as we watched the police wagon disappear around the corner of the long drive through the orchard. “What could have killed her, do you think?”
“Well, only an autopsy could reveal that with any degree of certainty,” I replied. The words sounded strange as I said them, but nonetheless I found myself uttering the phrase almost before I could stop myself.
“It sounds odd, I know, Lord Cary, but it looks to me very much as if she died of fright.”
Chapter Seven
Father John Norton had a face like a fallen soufflé. With its creases and swirls around the jaw, it was like the sagging remnants of a once proud egg dish left too long on the counter to cool. His heavy-lidded eyes with their downturned corners reminded me of a bloodhound. His face was all skin folds and flaps; even his ears were large, with heavy hanging lobes, fleshy as fresh fungi. For all that, it was a handsome face; his olive skin, though creased, was ruddy and healthy-looking, and with his jet black eyes and hair he made a striking impression. A faintly ironic smile played habitually about his lips, which were surprisingly full and red.
He sat in the west parlour at Torre Abbey, a cup of tea balanced on one knee, awaiting the attentions of the Cary family so he could discuss with them the matter of Sally’s funeral services. Sally had attended his church in the nearby village of Cockington, where Father Norton presided, if not regularly, then at least often enough that he considered her one of his flock.
Holmes was out prowling the grounds of Torre Abbey, Elizabeth Cary had not been seen all day, and Charles Cary had gone riding, so I had been selected to keep the priest company whilst he awaited the appearance of Lady Cary, who was upstairs dressing for dinner.
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