The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes--The Haunting of Torre Abbey Page 15

  “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.

  Marion Cary sighed more deeply. “I suppose you’re right, Dr. Watson.”

  I felt a little light-headed; the lateness of the hour, being awakened from a deep sleep, and above all the presence of Lady Cary in my room—all combined to make me feel more than a little off balance.

  “Where is Lord Cary?” I said, attempting to cover my awkwardness.

  “He’s watching over Elizabeth. She’s easily upset, as you know,” she added. As usual, there was little warmth in her voice when she spoke of her daughter.

  To my relief, before long there was another knock on the door. It was Holmes; his search had turned up nothing.

  “Allow me to escort you back to your room, Lady Cary,” he said, taking her gently by the elbow.

  She looked at me as if she wanted to say something. But then she checked her impulse, and turned to follow Holmes out of the room. The little terrier trotted behind her, blithely unaware that he was the cause of all the uproar.

  William climbed obediently back into bed and was soon asleep. I too returned to my bed, but slept restlessly.

  * * *

  I was awakened from my uneasy sleep by a scream followed by the sound of gunfire in the hallway outside. I leaped from my bed, not bothering even to look for my robe, and staggered out into the hallway. To my surprise, I saw Elizabeth Cary standing there, a gun in her hand, screaming hysterically. I rushed to her, grasping her shoulders.

  “What? What happened?” I said, but she was hysterical. Carefully, I took the gun from her hand. The chamber was warm; there was no doubt it had just been fired. I heard the sound of footsteps, and turned to see Holmes coming from the direction of his room.

  “What has happened, Watson?” he inquired. “Is that the gun I heard being fired?”

  “Yes,” I said, handing it to him.

  “And what’s that?” he said, pointing to a thin stream of smoke at the far end of the hall.

  “He—he came to me in a ring of fire!” Elizabeth Cary cried.

  “Who? Who came to you?” said Holmes, taking her by the shoulders.

  “The Cavalier! He came to me surrounded by fire!”

  “And you shot at him?” I said.

  “Yes, yes—only the bullets went right through him!”

  Just then Charles Cary arrived. Holmes turned to meet him.

  “Lord Cary, is this your gun?”

  “Yes, it is. I gave it to Elizabeth for protection.”

  Holmes shook his head. “Under the circumstances, it strikes me as a very foolish thing to do. She has just discharged it, and might have hurt someone.”

  “But the bullets went right through him!” she cried again, collapsing into her brother’s arms.

  We were soon joined by Lady Cary and Annie, who also had heard the shots being fired. Holmes insisted everyone go downstairs while he examined the hallway, and they complied. Elizabeth had calmed down somewhat, but kept repeating the phrase “ring of fire” as they took her away.

  Holmes went over to where a thin wisp of smoke still trailed in the air. He knelt and examined the floor, sweeping up a powdery substance from the floorboards and smelling it. He then ran his fingers slowly over the wall opposite from where Elizabeth Cary had been standing.

  “Look at this, Watson!” he cried triumphantly.

  I stepped over to where he stood, and saw a small flattened chunk of what looked like wax upon the wall.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Wax!” he exclaimed. “Someone put wax bullets in that gun, Watson—that’s why she thought the bullets went right through him. She evidently missed him, but even had she hit him, it would do no harm. It’s an old magician’s trick,” he mused. “I wonder… And look at this,” he said, showing me some powder upon the floor. “This is your ‘ring of fire’!—”

  “What’s this?” I asked, smelling it. It had a curiously familiar odor, like burnt mushrooms.

  “Lycopodium powder,” he replied. “A highly flammable powder used by magicians in their stage acts. It comes from a common form of club moss, is easily obtainable, and quite safe when used correctly.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I am familiar with it—it is used sometimes in surgery as an absorbent.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, and then abruptly headed off toward Miss Cary’s bedroom. “Would you be so kind as to ask her to join me here, if she is up to it, Watson?”

  I did as he requested, and though she protested she was all right, her brother insisted on accompanying her upstairs. When we returned to her chamber, we found Holmes on his knees examining the bottom of the window ledge. With his thumb and forefinger he carefully plucked something from the edge of the open window. I could not make out what it was.

  “You left your window open tonight, Miss Cary?” he said when she entered the room.

  “Y-yes,” she replied, looking at her brother, who stood behind her, frowning. “I like to sleep with an open window.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Do you by any chance own a black wool dress?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I have a black dress, the one I wore to my father’s funeral, but I am certain it is not wool.”

  “There may indeed be an otherworldly presence in the abbey,” Holmes remarked sardonically, “but whoever visited Miss Cary’s room tonight was real enough—that is, unless protoplasm can suddenly turn into black wool.”

  He held up a small piece of cloth. It was black, of a sturdy, thick weave, such as one might find on a man’s cloak. He peered down into the courtyard. “Whoever it was, they were fairly athletic—even with the vines clinging to the outside wall, that is a decent distance to climb in the dead of night, and going back down is even more hazardous.”

  “So the intruder came in through the window?” said Charles Cary.

  “Yes. You assured me earlier that you checked the locks yourself tonight, I believe?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Miss Cary did as I instructed you all to do and bolted her bedroom door as well. The only point of entry is the window… and if you look closely, Watson, you will observe here a faint set of fingerprints on the outside of the glass.”

  “Yes, yes, I see,” I said, peering at the smudges on the window panes. “What now?”

  Holmes put the thread in his pocket and brushed off his hands. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing, in order to produce an effect like this.”

  “But who put the wax bullets in the gun?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “That is precisely what I intend to find out, Watson.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Our questioning of the Cary family led us to no further clues; Elizabeth could tell us nothing more than when she fired at the Cavalier he disappeared in a puff of smoke, which Holmes said was undoubtedly the lycopodium powder. Charles insisted that the gun was loaded with real bullets when he gave it to her, and we could find no one else who admitted to handling the gun. At Holmes’s urging, Charles took the gun back from his sister.

  I was seated in the east parlour the next morning when Holmes entered the room brandishing a newspaper.

  “I am convinced that whoever is behind this has employed the help of a professional magician,” he announced, seating himself in front of the fire. “I took the liberty of procuring a recent issue of the local paper in Torquay this morning. It just so happens that a magician by the name of Merwyn the Magnificent was playing the old opera house in Torquay last week. Coincidence? I think not,” he concluded with satisfaction.

  “I think I’ve heard of him,” I said. “He plays regularly at various theatres in the East End, I believe.”

  Holmes looked at me in mock amazement. “I say, Watson, you surprise me, really you do. I had no idea—”

  “Very well, Holmes,” I answered brusquely. “I didn’t say I had ever gone to see him.”

  �
�Ah, well, I wouldn’t think less of you if you had,” he replied, his eyes twinkling. “In any event, I see that tomorrow night this Merwyn fellow has a performance scheduled in London.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It might be worth my while to pay him a visit.”

  “I need to go into town and check up on my practice,” I said. “Why don’t I go talk to him for you?”

  “My dear Watson,” Holmes replied, “you don’t look at all well. I doubt that a trip to London would be advisable for you just now.”

  “Oh, well—if you don’t trust me,” I answered huffily, “why don’t you just say so?”

  “My dear fellow, it isn’t a question of trusting you; I simply don’t want you risking your health by tramping all over London.”

  “Nonetheless, I feel I should go in and make an appearance at the surgery—not that McKinney isn’t doing a splendid job, I’m sure, but I just don’t want him feeling I’ve left him in the lurch all this time.”

  Holmes sighed. “Very well, Watson; it seems your mind’s made up about this. I would never think of standing in your way once you have settled on a course of action.”

  I looked at him in disbelief, but saw at once the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  “Really, Holmes,” I muttered, but he laughed, not his usual dry sardonic chuckle, but a deep, full-bodied laugh.

  “Come, come, Watson, I’m only tweaking you. You will let me have my fun, won’t you?”

  “I don’t see how I can prevent it,” I replied, feigning irritation, but the truth was I was pleased that Holmes would entrust me with such an errand. I only hoped that I would rise to the occasion; though I didn’t say it, I was still weak, and my illness, though greatly diminished, was not yet altogether gone.

  “There is another reason I would appreciate you doing this for me, Watson: I am loath to leave the Cary family alone just now.”

  “Oh? Do you think…?”

  Holmes shook his head. “I don’t know what to think, Watson; I only know that I fear for their safety.”

  “What exactly do you want me to do with this Merwyn fellow?”

  “Merely observe his reaction.”

  “His reaction?”

  “Yes. When you suggest to him that you suspect him of involvement in a crime.”

  “Oh? What sort of reaction am I looking for?”

  “You are a student of human behaviour, Watson. A flush to the face, stammering, vehement denial—anything that would indicate his guilt.”

  “I see. And then?”

  Holmes leaned back in his chair and laced his long fingers together behind his head. “You offer him a bribe, Watson.”

  “A bribe?”

  “Yes. That is, you pay him to reveal who he is doing business with.”

  “I see. And if he won’t tell me?”

  Holmes smiled. “Oh, he will—provided the price is right. And we shall see that the price is indeed not only right, but irresistible.”

  “I am very much flattered that you would entrust me with this responsibility,” I said. “I hope I will not fail you.”

  “No fear of that, Watson—I wouldn’t send you if I thought you were not up to it,” he said with unaccustomed warmth in his voice. I confess I felt a twinge of apprehension at his words, but was all the more determined that I would not disappoint his trust in me.

  * * *

  I took the early train to London the next day, and sat gazing out the window as the granite tors of Devon and Dorset flew by and were replaced by the soft grassy hillsides of Hampshire and Surrey. Lulled by the motion of the train, I let my head sink back onto the seat rest and dozed off. Dream images flitted through my head as I napped, the stately halls of Torre Abbey merging in my brain with thoughts of our flat in Baker Street. In my dreams I saw Lady Cary standing in a blue dress in front of the fireplace at Baker Street, the flames reflecting off her face as she lifted it to mine…

  When I awoke, the train was just pulling into Paddington Station, the heavy exhale of air from the steam engine like the sigh of a great leviathan. I climbed stiffly from the train and took my place among my fellow Londoners, amidst the scramble of commuters coming and going, the endless daily rush which is modern city life. A thick pulse of white steam poured from the locomotive as I strode up the ramp leading to the street. The one-legged newspaper seller was in his usual place on the sidewalk just outside the station, and I bought a Daily Telegraph from him.

  The hustle and bustle of London felt strange to me after the monastic quiet and solitude of life at Torre Abbey. I stood on the street corner for a moment and looked around: nowhere in the city was there more of a mixture of the upper and lower classes than in front of a rail station. Elegant gentlemen in top hats and stiff black frock-coats hurried past street vendors hawking their wares; rough-looking grooms in scuffed black boots leaned against the backs of their rigs smoking and trading jokes, their cloth caps pulled low over their eyes. Middle-class families hurried into the station, their picnic baskets packed for a day trip to Surrey or Kent. It was a brilliant October day, the air bright and clear, and even the many unsavoury smells of London seemed muted in the crisp air.

  I hailed a cab to my medical offices, where I paid a call on Dr. McKinney to see how things were going. His report that everything had been quiet the past few days was reassuring; it seems the flu epidemic had worn itself out, gone as quickly as it had arrived. I then headed for Baker Street, to check in on Mrs. Hudson, sort through the mail, and put my feet up for a short time before my evening excursion began.

  As I entered the front hallway of 221B I was greeted by the welcome aroma of roast beef, and no sooner had I closed the door behind me than Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the hallway, wiping her hands upon her apron. Holmes had sent her a telegram saying that I was on my way, and she was evidently well prepared for me.

  “Now you just come right in and have a nice glass of something, Dr. Watson, while I get some dinner on for you,” she said by way of greeting.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Mrs. Hudson,” I replied with a smile. In her own way, our landlady was as eccentric as her most famous tenant.

  I took her advice and had a glass of claret in front of the fire. I dozed off for quite some time, because when I awoke the October sun was beginning to sink reluctantly behind the buildings, reflecting red and gold upon the window panes before sliding slowly behind the town houses across the street. Outside, the clop of horses’ hooves along the cobblestones increased as people made their way home at the end of their workday.

  At Holmes’s request, Mrs. Hudson had gone over to the theatre earlier in the day to procure a program of the evening’s events, and I studied it as I sipped my claret. The language of the flyer was rather amusing: “Merwyn the Marvelous Performs Astonishing Feats of Magic and Other Death-Defying Acts!” A picture of the magician swallowing a sword accompanied the assurance that spectators would be “amazed and astonished” by his “skill and courage,” and promised the added attraction of Merwyn’s “lovely assistant Miss Caroline Cocoran,” the “Belle of Atlanta.” A picture of Miss Cocoran showed her to be a fleshy blond wearing an outfit that looked as if it were from a Parisian dance hall: corset, garters, and tights, all under a filmy skirt which left little to the imagination. I settled back in my chair and permitted myself a smile—this was a far cry from my usual trips with Holmes to violin concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. I couldn’t help looking forward to seeing Merwyn the Magnificent and his lovely assistant Miss Caroline Cocoran.

  Mrs. Hudson’s excellent roast beef complete with Yorkshire pudding put me in an even more receptive mood, and I went off to the theatre in a cheerful mood, ready for an entertaining evening. The night was cool but clear as I settled into the back of a hansom cab, the horses’ hooves clipping smartly along the cobblestones. I felt a curious sense of contentment settle over me as I gazed out the window at the cozily lit windows all around me. On the streets people headed homeward, brown paper packages tucked under their arms—a j
oint of beef, perhaps, or a rack of lamb. After the oppressive atmosphere of Torre Abbey, there was something comforting in the thought of my fellow Londoners all around me, inside their houses fixing dinner or getting ready to go out for the evening. I hadn’t realized until just then how claustrophobic I felt at Torre Abbey, hemmed in somehow—by what or whom I did not know, but now that I was back in London I felt a sense of liberation and escape, as though I were a prisoner newly released from a long jail term.

  The mood outside the theatre was festive. Orange sellers and jugglers vied with purveyors of roasted chestnuts, sweetmeats and various other savouries for the attention of the crowd gathering in front of the theatre. I was greeted by their cries as I alighted from the cab and paid the driver.

  “Oy—get your meat pies here—fresh and hot!”

  “Oranges, ripe and sweet—heyo!”

  “Pickled eel, pickled eel—best in London!”

  The street swarmed with seekers of merriment: office clerks and their sweethearts, young families out for the evening, sailors with their fancy girls—and I found such liveliness refreshing after Torre Abbey, where the dead seemed to hold more sway than the living.

  The large poster in front of the theatre showed a picture of Merwyn the Marvelous inside an elaborately decorated rectangular cabinet with half a dozen swords protruding from the box, their handles pointing in every direction. He had a broad smile on his face, and the lovely Caroline Cocoran stood just above him, a sword in her hand, ready to plunge it into the box. Underneath the picture, garish lettering proclaimed “See the Sword-Box and Other Death-Defying Acts!”

  I smiled to myself as I climbed up the stairs to the ticket-booth. All the cheap tickets were taken, but there were still quite a few left in the orchestra section, and I purchased a seat in the third row centre. As I gave my ticket to the ticket-taker I was jostled by someone to my left, and, turning to look, I saw an elderly gentleman, wizened and bent over from age. His heavily creased face was like a ploughed field; the hand of time had clawed deep furrows into his skin, etching the passage of years into the canvas of his cheeks. He tipped his hat to me.