by Carole Bugge
A heavy aura of perfume hung about her, filling the air with its musky scent, thick as a London fog. There was a familiar odour of sandalwood to it, and I found myself thinking of my days in India and the smell of incense floating over the marketplace, the staccato cries of vegetable sellers at their stalls mixing with the buzz of flies in the torpid air. The medium’s fingers were festooned with colourful rings with gems of green, vermilion, and gold, and shiny silver bracelets hung from her arms. Around her neck she wore a single necklace of green and gold beads with a simple carved wooden hand at the end; the little finger and thumb were the same size and curved outward. I had seen that design somewhere before, but couldn’t remember where.
She seated herself in the most comfortable armchair and gazed around the room at the rest of us; we all expectantly awaited her cue. I wondered what Holmes thought of her. He sat at one end of the couch, one elbow on the armrest, his chin resting upon his hand. I was intrigued in spite of myself; there was something about her presence which both reassured and commanded, and I was content to sit passively while she spoke in a deep, husky voice with traces of what sounded like a Russian accent.
“There is a time in the final flat grey hour before dawn when the heart sinks, and the spirit is deadened as it is pulled closer to the other world—and the doorway between the two realms slides briefly open. Physicians will tell you that is the time when most deaths occur, and many births as well—that dark hour of the moon when it is not yet day but no longer quite night. It is during that hour you must be most vigilant, for the spirits that walk abroad will come to you then, seeking to pull you into their world. Resist them—resist their soft playing voices and seductive ways, for if they sense you weaken they will surely pursue you until you sink into their world, and are lost to this one forever.”
We all sat listening in silence, with only the ticking of the grandfather clock as punctuation to her words. There was something about the way she spoke which was both lulling and mesmerizing; I felt my limbs relax and my heart beat slower as she spoke. Thick waves of her perfume washed over us as she moved her heavily braceleted hands, the jewelry tinkling like so many silver bells.
Madame Olenskaya rose from her chair and pulled the curtains closed on each of the windows. Then she turned down the gaslights in the room one by one, until the only source of light was a single candelabrum in the center of the round oak table. She then approached the table.
“Come, enter the circle,” she said, her voice low and resonant. “We must all join the circle of spirits, inviting them back into our world so we can communicate with them. Come,” she said, extending a hand in my direction. I rose from my chair, pulled toward her by the power of her personality. I took a chair on the other side of Lady Cary, who sat directly to the right of Madame Olenskaya. On her left was Charles, and to his left sat Elizabeth. Father Norton took the chair to my right, and his sister Lydia sat on his other side.
“We must all join the circle in order to beckon them back into this world,” said Madame Olenskaya. “They need to feel welcomed and safe, and when we create the circle of hands we allow them to step out from the shadows and communicate with us.”
I glanced at Holmes, who stood calmly and joined the group at the table. He took the only chair left, between Elizabeth Cary and Lydia Norton.
“Now,” said the medium, her cheek jowls quivering, “we must all join hands. Once the séance begins, under no circumstances are you to let go of the person’s hand next to you. If you do, you shall break the spell prematurely, and injury could result.”
She paused and looked around the table to judge the effect of her words upon the assembled company. Elizabeth Cary looked back at her with burning intensity, while Charles appeared bored and impatient. He shifted in his chair and sighed as if he wished this were all over. Lydia Norton glanced at her brother, who smiled back reassuringly. Next to me, Lady Cary trembled a bit and ran a hand over her hair, a nervous habit I had noticed before.
Finally, I looked at Holmes, but the expression on his aquiline face was impenetrable. When he wanted to, Holmes could be close as a clam; his devotion to reason allowed him greater control over his emotions than most people had.
“Now,” said the medium, “let us all join hands and begin.”
Father Norton’s hand was steady and cool, but Lady Cary’s hand in mine felt icy. Impulsively, I squeezed it to reassure her, and she looked at me, apprehension in those beautiful blue eyes. Until that moment I had experienced no fear, but now I felt a thin little shiver of anticipation thread its way up my spine.
Madame Olenskaya bent forward and blew out the candles on the candelabrum in the center of the table, and the room was pitched into blackness. It was a dark, overcast night; not even a glint of moonlight filtered through the heavy curtains. Some coals still glowed in the fireplace, however, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I found I could see the dim outlines of shapes. Without the use of sight, however, my ears suddenly seemed unusually keen. I was aware of every sound within the house: the mournful ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall outside, the faint creakings and shudderings of an old house; I could even hear the breathing of the people sitting around the table. To my right, Father Norton inhaled slowly with a raspy, hoarse sound, and Lady Cary’s breath came in soft little gasps. I was marvelling at this variety of sensory input when Madame Olenskaya spoke. Her voice was low and resonant, and while not loud, it filled the room.
“I call now upon the beings of the other world! Come, O ye spirits, reveal to us the secrets of your dark ways—we are listening!”
Her words died away, leaving only a faint ringing sound in the air which floated and dissipated like ripples on a pond. We sat in silence for a moment. Someone coughed. The metallic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seemed preternaturally loud.
Suddenly a pitiful groan emanated from the other side of the table. I had an impulse to leap from my chair to see who was in distress, but the sound of Madame Olenskaya’s voice pinned me to my chair.
“Nobody move!” she said in a commanding voice. “Someone is in the room with us. Who are you? Can you speak to us?”
The groan gathered in volume. In the semi-darkness I could just make out the form of Elizabeth Cary, who was seated directly across from me. She swayed from side to side as the groans grew louder, and there was no doubt in my mind that she was the source of the sounds. Lady Cary’s hand tightened around mine as Madame Olenskaya spoke again.
“Tell us—tell us why you have come. What knowledge do you bring from the next world?”
The groans stopped and I heard Elizabeth Cary making strange throaty sounds, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t quite get the words out.
“What? What is it?” asked Madame Olenskaya. “What have you come to say to us?”
“It—it is the hour…” She struggled to release the words.
“What? What hour is it?” Madame Olenskaya said in a husky whisper.
“The… hour… of… the… moon,” the girl replied, and at that moment it struck me that she was speaking in a voice other than her own! It was a full octave lower, with a throaty quality which was normally absent from Elizabeth Cary’s speech. There was also a hint of an accent—Spanish perhaps, or Portuguese.
“Please don’t take me there—anywhere but there,” the girl suddenly cried in a plaintive voice.
“Where are they taking you?” Madame Olenskaya asked gently.
“No,” the girl went on, as if she hadn’t heard the question.
And then she said something in a foreign language which I was fairly certain was Spanish.
“Elizabeth, are you all right?” I recognized the concerned voice of Charles Cary.
“She is no longer your sister,” Madame Olenskaya replied. “She will not respond to you as Elizabeth.”
“Not the barn,” the girl whimpered. “Not there!”
Suddenly the air was rent by a piercing scream. I felt as though all the blood in my ve
ins was instantly frozen. There was the sound of a chair hitting the floor, the sharp yellow flare of a match in the dark, and the gas lamp was lit. I looked up to see Charles Cary standing by the gaslight, a smouldering match in his hand. His overturned chair lay on the floor at his feet.
“That is quite enough!” he cried. He hurried over to his sister and put his arms around her. She sat limply in her chair, her head upon her breast, as though she had fallen into a faint.
I rose from my chair and went to Miss Cary’s aid. Her pulse was weak but steady, and her pale forehead was wet and clammy.
“I think you should take her up to her room to rest,” I said to Charles, who nodded and helped his sister to stand. The rest of the assembled company watched in silence as he helped her out of the room. Holmes remained seated until brother and sister had left, then he rose and examined the seat Miss Cary had been sitting in. He ran a long hand over the back of the chair, peering closely at the wooden arm rests, then he lifted the entire chair up a few inches from the floor. Evidently satisfied, he put it down again and lit a cigarette.
Father Norton turned to Madame Olenskaya. “What did she mean by the ‘barn,’ do you suppose?”
Madame Olenskaya shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps Lady Cary can enlighten us.” She looked at Lady Cary, who remained in her seat, trembling, her face white. “Do you know of this barn she referred to? Is it somewhere around here?”
Lady Cary looked around the room as if she were contemplating an escape route. When she spoke, her voice was unsteady. “The Spanish barn,” she said softly.
“The Spanish barn?” said Lydia Norton with a look at her brother.
“Isn’t that what they sometimes call the old tithe barn?” the vicar said. “It’s something to do with the invasion of the Spanish Armada, I believe.”
“What is the Spanish barn?” said Madame Olenskaya to Lady Cary.
Lady Cary looked at Holmes, but he stood in front of the cold fireplace calmly smoking, one arm resting on the mantel. Lady Cary sighed and shook her head.
“There is a legend concerning that structure. Like so many stories about Torre Abbey, it is bound up in the actual history of the place. In 1588, during the invasion of the Spanish Armada a galleon was captured off the coast of Devon. The crew were all taken prisoner and brought to the abbey, where they were housed in that building.”
She paused and looked down at her hands. “It is not a proud moment in English history. There were four hundred sailors, and they were terribly overcrowded—many died of disease and starvation.” She sighed deeply and continued. “The legend has it that among the crew was a young girl disguised as a sailor in order that she might follow her lover, whom she loved so much that she was willing to follow him into battle. The story goes on to say that she was among those who died. They say her spirit walks at night searching for her lover.”
There was a pause and then Holmes spoke.
“Very touching,” he remarked, and it was hard to tell whether there was an edge of irony in his voice or not. He looked at Lady Cary keenly. “Was your daughter aware of this legend?”
“The Cary family has lived in Torre Abbey for centuries, Mr. Holmes,” she replied quietly. “Stories have been passed down among family members for as long as that.”
Father Norton rose from his chair. “Well, there’s one way to find out—we can simply ask her.”
Madame Olenskaya smiled and leaned back in her chair. “I see. So then this event becomes nothing more than the overactive imagination of a romantic young girl?” She shook her head. “Believe that, if you want to; I cannot prevent you from thinking what you will. But surely I am not the only one who noticed that the voice we heard tonight was not the voice of Miss Elizabeth Cary. Does she speak Spanish?” she said to Lady Cary, who shook her head.
“No. A little French, but no Spanish.”
“Ah,” the medium replied, something like triumph in her voice.
She looked around the room at the others, who had no reply. Lydia Norton rose and stood next to her brother, as if drawing security from being near him. Her lean, aristocratic face was impassive but her jerky movements indicated that she was unnerved—as were we all, I think. Lady Cary wrung her hands and looked at me. I had nothing to say; Madame Olenskaya was right, of course. Unless Miss Cary was a gifted actress, it was all certainly very strange, to say the least. At length Holmes spoke.
“You know,” he said, “I have always maintained that whenever you have eliminated the possible, whatever remains—however improbable—is the truth.”
“And what do you think the truth is here, Mr. Holmes?” said Lydia Norton, taking her brother’s arm.
Holmes shrugged. “It is too early to tell. There are many things yet to be ruled out. However, I have not yet eliminated the possibility that Torre Abbey is indeed haunted.”
There was a little gasp of breath from the collected company. Their surprise at hearing these words from such a personage as Sherlock Holmes was no less than my own. Father Norton shook his head.
“Good Lord,” he said. “Good Lord.”
Only Madame Olenskaya seemed unmoved by Holmes’s statement. A smile played at the corners of her mouth, an expression of undeniable satisfaction. She fingered the sandalwood necklace around her neck. “There are many things under heaven and earth, Horatio,” she said in a sly voice.
I was a little surprised to hear her quoting Shakespeare, but Holmes nodded. “Indeed there are, madame, indeed there are.”
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth Cary’s dramatic exit had broken the mood, and Father Norton and his sister went home shortly afterwards. After seeing Madame Olenskaya out, Marion Cary returned to the parlour.
“I hope your daughter will be all right, Lady Cary,” Holmes remarked as she joined us by the fire.
“Elizabeth is a very fanciful child,” Marion Cary replied dourly, and once again I was struck by the coldness in her attitude towards her daughter. It was so different from the way she treated her son; her azure eyes would light up when he entered the room, and her affection for him was evident in her every gesture. But with her daughter it was just the opposite; she treated her with an indifference bordering on disdain, as if she were dismissive of the girl’s very presence in the house. I couldn’t help but wonder if her mother’s coldness was a factor in Elizabeth’s nervous disorder.
“Well, if you will excuse me, I believe I will retire for the night. I have had quite enough excitement for one evening,” Lady Cary said.
After she had gone I mentioned to Holmes her coldness toward her daughter.
“Yes, I’ve noticed it myself,” he replied, emptying his pipe into the grate. “Curious, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t uncommon for a parent to favour one child over another,” I said, “but this seems above and beyond favouritism to me.”
“Yes, I quite agree,” he answered, carefully stuffing the bowl of his pipe with shag tobacco. “No, it’s something else, something buried in the family’s past, perhaps. There are many things about the Cary family which have not yet come to light.”
“Oh? What leads you to that conclusion?”
Holmes struck a match and lit his pipe before replying. “Unless I am very much mistaken, they are hiding all kinds of information from us, Watson.”
I put my legs up on the sofa where I sat and lay back to contemplate his statement. I stretched out my limbs, which felt heavy and sluggish from the damp air. Sitting here in front of a blazing fire, I was at last comfortable, and with a glass of cognac to warm me, I was losing the stiffness which had plagued my joints ever since we arrived at Torre Abbey.
“Family skeletons in the closets, do you think?” I said, leaning my head back on the armrest.
Holmes lifted his glass and peered at it as if it were a crystal ball in which he could read the future. “I don’t know about skeletons, but I would say secrets, most certainly.”
“Any of them pertinent to this case, do you think?”<
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Holmes smiled rather grimly. “Ah, well, that remains to be seen, Watson. But the past has a way of creeping up on the present just when you least expect it.”
At that moment Charles Cary returned to the parlour. He looked drawn and weary, and sank into the chair nearest the fire with scarcely a word to us. He sat staring into the flames until finally I spoke.
“How is your sister feeling?”
He looked at me as though my words surprised him; then, sitting up, he ran a hand through his thick hair, which shone like burnished copper in the firelight.
“She is resting. The events of the past few days have simply been too much for her to handle. She does not have the strongest constitution and is somewhat given to nervousness, as you know.” He sighed and stared moodily into the glowing flames of the fire. “I never should have given in to her desire for a séance; it was a foolish idea. It has only upset her.”
“Your concern for your sister is touching, Lord Cary, since you yourself supply her drug habit,” Holmes remarked drily.
Our young host reddened, the blood creeping up his neck to his fair-skinned face. He looked at Holmes with fury and I thought for a moment he might strike him, but then Cary turned away.
“You don’t know how she’s suffered—you can’t possibly understand,” he said quietly.
“Perhaps,” replied Holmes. “Although suffering is unfortunately not restricted to the privileged classes. Maybe I understand more than you might think.”
I supposed Holmes was referring to his own drug habit—or perhaps to some secret sorrow buried deep in his past. I knew little of his early life; outside of my acquaintance with his brother Mycroft, Holmes’s family was a mystery to me. He rarely spoke of such things, and I was not one to pry.
“Our life here at Torre Abbey has not always been a pleasant one, Mr. Holmes, despite what you call ‘privileges,’” Charles Cary said, a bitter edge to his voice. “Our father was not an easy man—far from it. I won’t bore you with the sordid details of our family life, but poor Elizabeth, being of a delicate disposition… well, I did my best to shield her from my father’s moods, but I fear I was not always successful.”