“Yes,” I replied, “it is that.”
“What was it you asked Grayson?” I said to Holmes as we stood watching the policemen load the butler into their coach.
Holmes frowned. “It’s as I suspected, though I see no need to tell Lady Cary about it.”
“Tell her what?”
“I suspected Victor Cary’s involvement in Christopher Leganger’s death when Father Norton told us what a good rider Leganger was. Grayson just confirmed my suspicion.”
“So Victor Cary murdered him, too?”
Holmes nodded. “I’m afraid so, though it might be difficult to prove in a court of law. According to Grayson, he deliberately spooked Leganger’s horse as it was going over a jump.”
“Good Lord,” I said as we watched the police coach drive away.
* * *
Not long afterwards we all sat over a long-delayed breakfast, which the ever-stalwart Annie had prepared with the help of Elizabeth Cary. The atmosphere in the room was strained as Annie shuffled in and out of the room with plates of eggs and sausages, but finally Charles Cary broke the silence.
He turned to his mother. “So you knew Father had discovered your secret before his ‘death.’ ”
She hung her lovely head and studied her hands. “One day I came upon him in my room. He claimed to be there because the chambermaid had seen a mouse under my bed, but I thought at the time it was odd he didn’t leave a job like that to Grayson.” She sighed and flicked a stray hair back from her face. “I keep a box containing all my letters from Christopher locked in my desk, and, well, that was the lock Mr. Holmes saw had been tampered with.”
Holmes nodded, his eyes narrow. “And did you know William was Elizabeth’s half-brother?”
Marion Cary heaved a great sigh and looked out at the barren trees in the orchard, their branches stripped of fruit and leaves. “I suspected, certainly. Sally had a fellow in town, or so she said—and while I was happy enough to welcome her child into our house, I was surprised at my husband’s willingness to overlook such an indiscretion on the part of a servant. He was not the most forgiving of men, as I suppose you know by now,” she added sadly.
Charles Cary went over to his mother and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, burying his head in her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured.
She looked up at him, her azure eyes full of pain. “I wanted to . . . I tried, but things were already difficult enough between you and your father, and I was afraid that if you knew, you’d—”
“Hate him even more?” Charles replied bitterly. “At least I’d have known I had a father I could be proud of.”
“Imagine Victor Cary’s rage when he found out that he had married a ‘tainted’ woman,” Holmes mused, “and that the fact had been kept from him.”
Marion Cary sighed again. “I know I’m to blame for so much of what has happened.” She turned to her daughter, who sat still and silent across from her. “Can you forgive me, Elizabeth?”
The girl regarded her mother coldly. “I don’t know . . . someday, perhaps. Right now it’s hard to imagine how I’ll feel about you . . . or about anything else.”
Charles Cary went around to his sister and took her hand. “Elizabeth, I know it’s difficult, but things will be better soon, I promise. I’m going to take the semester off and take care of you until you’re all better, and then I’ll go back to medical school.”
“Oh, Charles . . .” said Marion Cary, but Charles put his hand to his lips.
“It’s all settled, Mother—I’ve missed too many classes as it is. Elizabeth needs looking after, and I’m the one to do it.”
Marion Cary put her head down. “I suppose you’re right. After all that’s happened, it’s probably for the best.” She turned to her daughter. “Perhaps in time you’ll come to trust me, but . . . well, I can’t say I blame you for feeling the way you do.”
“It wasn’t her fault, after all, who her father was,” Charles added.
“No,” Lady Cary agreed. “It was my fault.”
Holmes and I stayed one last night at Torre Abbey, more to comfort the Cary family than because either of us wanted to stay. I for one was anxious to get back to my practice; after the events of the past few days, it seemed to me that even another flu epidemic would be a relief. We took the first train to London the following morning.
As we were preparing to leave for the train station, Father Norton rode up on his horse. I was in front of the abbey, loading our bags into the Carys’s carriage.
“I heard what happened,” he said, jumping down from the saddle. “It’s all over town—everyone’s talking.”
“Oh?” I replied, lifting a bag into the back of Lord Cary’s brougham. “Detective Samuels is evidently not the most discreet of policemen.”
“No,” Norton answered, giving me a hand with the luggage, “but gossip has always spread through Torquay like wildfire. Everyone always knows everyone else’s business. Is Lady Cary about?” he said as we finished loading the last of the luggage.
“I believe she’s inside.”
“Thank you,” he replied, and went into the abbey. Some moments later Holmes emerged from the building shaking his head.
“What is it about women, Watson, that makes perfectly sane men act like utter fools?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, Holmes, but you should be grateful that whatever it is, you’ve been spared.”
After we said our goodbyes, Charles Cary drove us to the train station. “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done,” he said, holding his hat in his hands to avoid its being blown off his head by the strong gusting wind that whipped around the corner of the station building.
“Just take care of your family, Lord Cary,” Holmes replied.
“And as for Elizabeth,” I began, but Cary shook his head.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Watson—I have already spoken with her, and together we’ll solve her problem, I promise you.” He looked down the tracks which extended into the distance as far as the eye could see. “I almost wish I were going with you. I feel as though I’ve had enough of Devon for a while. But I have responsibilities here,” he sighed, “and I expect medical school will wait.”
“It will,” I assured him, “and when you get there, believe me, you’ll have days when you want to leave.”
He smiled. “Yes. Well, thank you again,” he repeated, shaking hands with us. Then, placing his hat securely upon his head, he turned and went down the steps to his waiting carriage. We watched him go, and Holmes sighed.
“I hope he is up to the challenges ahead, Watson.”
I sighed, too, but for a different reason. I knew that in all likelihood I would never see Marion Cary again. “I’m sure he will be fine, Holmes.”
I looked down the track and could see the train, far away in the distance, chugging towards us. I inhaled my last breath of West Country air for what I now hoped was a good while. As beautiful as the Devon coast was, I was not sorry to bid it goodbye. I had had enough of ghosts who roamed drafty hallways at night, of ancient curses and family secrets. I longed for our sitting room at Baker Street, and wanted nothing more than to settle into my chair in front of the fire and while away the fall evening with a book and a glass of claret while Holmes scraped away at his violin or performed experiments at his chemistry table.
On the train, I sat staring out the window at the countryside rushing by, scenery which had once looked picturesque to me but which now seemed a mask to hide all human evil behind its façade of bucolic loveliness. Round stacks of hay lay upon freshly mowed fields, bulky and stolid as the fat grey sheep which grazed upon the farms all around us. I looked at Holmes, who was leaning back in his seat, his hat pulled low over his eyes. I thought he was asleep, and was surprised to hear him speak.
“Well, Watson,” came the familiar voice from under the hat. “What do you think of the behaviour of the Cary family?”
I shook my head. “Pretty shabby, if you ask me. What I don’t
understand, though, is how you figured Grayson was part of it.”
Holmes removed his hat from his face and propped it on top of his head at a rather crooked angle, so that it gave him a rakish, rascally look. “Grayson was the key all along, Watson, but it was essential that he not be aware that I was on to him. That is why I couldn’t risk telling you. Forgive me, dear fellow, but I can’t say that you number acting ability among your many talents,” he added gently. “If Grayson had even suspected I was watching him, he would have alerted his master and that would have been that.”
“So that extra pork chop was for Victor Cary?”
“Yes. He was no doubt hiding in the Spanish barn, waiting for his chance to strike, and Grayson brought him his dinner.
“The first clue I had to Grayson’s involvement was when he called Charles ‘Master Cary’ instead of ‘Lord Cary’. It was a subtle sign, but telling enough. It indicated to me that possibly he had not accepted Victor Cary’s death, but it also suggested another possibility.”
“That Victor Cary was not dead,” I suggested.
“Precisely. And there can, of course, be only one Lord Cary at a time. Besides, all signs pointed to someone who, if not an actual member of the family, was at least very close to them—someone who knew them well. Do you recall when I asked Grayson who in the household smoked cigars?”
“Yes—and Lord Cary was surprised you hadn’t asked him about it, instead.”
“I did it to observe Grayson’s reaction. I was just fishing at that point, but if Grayson knew where the cigar ash came from, then he was very likely to be implicated in the plot.”
“And?”
“His reaction was very interesting. He did not ask me why I was asking the question, which means he knew—or guessed—why I was asking it. He responded, and then was hoping I would pursue the matter no further in front of his employer.”
“I see. So that day at the Spanish barn, while I was in the grips of imagining the fate of those poor sailors, you were calmly collecting facts, as usual,” I replied somewhat ruefully.
Holmes permitted himself one of his rare smiles. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Watson. After all, if it had not been for your somewhat over-active imagination, I likely would not have arrived at some of the conclusions I did—or at least not as quickly.”
I brightened. “Really?”
“Most certainly.” He sighed. “ ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive’ . . . it’s interesting, by the way, that the Carys named their animals after characters out of The Tempest. Victor Cary was rather like Prospero, trying to control his own little island, even using magic to attain his goals.”
“Like Prospero, he couldn’t keep his little kingdom intact,” I observed. “He failed to control his creatures, and there were always elements beyond his powers.”
“Indeed,” Holmes answered. “His magic wasn’t strong enough in the end to overcome the forces of justice.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Would that it were always thus, Watson—the forces of justice prevailing at last. It strikes me as a terrible thing, Watson, that a man would care so much for his bloodline that he would be willing to kill for the sake of it.”
I looked out at the golden farm fields flying by, at snug thatched cottages nestled against each other like the fat sheep huddling in the corners of the gently rolling hillsides.
“There are some things I don’t understand, though,” I said. “How is it that Elizabeth Cary was suddenly able to speak Spanish?”
Holmes looked at me and smiled enigmatically. “ ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio . . .’ You yourself experienced something, did you not, Watson?”
I shook my head. “Something, Holmes, though whether of heaven or earth, who can say?”
“Who, indeed, Watson, who indeed?”
“You’d think there was enough suffering in the world without the need for man to add to it with his foolishness,” I sighed. “Justice prevailed in the end, it’s true, but at what cost?”
“Yes, indeed, Watson, you would think so—but you would be sadly mistaken. However,” he said, sliding his hat down over his eyes once again, “I shall at least be able to report a successful outcome to Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard of what must have been for him a most vexing case. And, beyond that, there are at least some comforts in this evil world.”
“Oh? Such as what?”
He lifted his hat ever so slightly and peered at me through one eye. “I for one am looking forward to Mrs. Hudson’s excellent rack of lamb, a glass of burgundy by my own fire, and then perhaps a bit of Bach at the Royal Albert Hall, time permitting. What do you say—are you game? How is your shoulder?”
“It’s much better,” I replied earnestly. “I can’t think of anything I’d like better.”
“Capital! And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to catch a well-deserved nap.”
With that he replaced the hat and I was left alone with my own thoughts. I thought about the Devon coast, and Torre Abbey, so full of enchantments but also treachery, and of Marion Cary’s face and figure, also enchanting, but, like the mask of Nature’s beauty, not to be trusted. I looked at Holmes, asleep so peacefully across from me, hands folded in his lap, his long legs stretched out in front of him—the picture of contentment.
I looked out the window once again. A sluggish mist was descending over the farm fields of Devon as they disappeared rapidly behind us, falling away into the background, replaced by a smoky fog in the thickening air. I sighed, leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. I could not shake from my mind the feeling that there were more things in Torre Abbey, perhaps of neither heaven nor earth . . . I contemplated our return to the gaslit cobblestone streets of London, and its more familiar follies and pleasures, buried beneath back alleyways or exposed to the casual onlooker with the sudden flare of a street lamp. It was perhaps no better a place than the one we were leaving, but come what may, it was, after all, home.
Also by Carole Buggé
The Star of India
Who Killed Blanche Dubois?
Who Killed Dorian Gray?
Copyright
Copyright © Carole Buggé 2000
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form. For information, address Writers House LLC at 21 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10010.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN: 9780786753291
ebook ISBN: 9780786753284
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The Haunting of Torre Abbey Page 24