Free The Haunting of Torre Abbey by Carole Elizabeth Buggé

undoubtedly under the influence of some drug or other. I’d say an opium derivative, if I had to guess.”
    Holmes blew a smoke ring, a white circle which spun and curled briefly in the air, then dissipated slowly into a grey wisp. “I agree,” he replied. “I’d put my money on laudanum. Her behaviour has all the earmarks of the opium addicts I have observed.”
    I frowned in spite of myself. I knew Holmes occasionally visited opium dens in London in his pursuit of the criminal element, but I didn’t like it all the same. I couldn’t help worrying that the seductive poppy derivative might some day wrap its claws around him. My concern was probably for naught, however; cocaine was much more to his liking, with its sharp corners and drug-induced energy spurts.
    “Oh, don’t look so disapproving, Watson,” Holmes said. “It’s not as if I was ever seriously tempted by the substance myself.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “ ‘Seriously’ tempted, you say? Do you mean to imply—”
    “My dear fellow,” he said, “really, you should try to worry less. I’ve lasted this long, and I expect I’ll muddle on for a good while yet.”
    I couldn’t help smiling. “Very well, Holmes. I take your word for it that opium has never presented you with serious temptation.”
    He nodded and leaned back in his chair. “I fear the same is not the case with our young friend, however—did you remark the blankness of her gaze last night? It was as if she were looking right through us without even seeing us.”
    “Yes, it was rather disconcerting. I wonder if her family realizes it.”
    Holmes flicked an ash from his sleeve. “Oh, I dare say they are quite aware of it—it is hardly the kind of thing one can easily hide. The wonder of it is that they thought they would be able to conceal it from us.”
    “Perhaps they don’t think that.”
    Holmes looked at me, his grey eyes narrowed. “Her mother certainly doesn’t seem to think much of her. She can barely conceal the disdain she feels for her daughter. I wonder . . .”
    “If there’s a connection between her addiction and the ‘apparitions’?”
    “That, and . . .”
    “What?” I sat barely breathing, thinking Holmes was about to reveal one of his startling conclusions, but to my disappointment he just shook his head and sighed.
    “I don’t know, Watson . . . there’s something at the centre of this that just doesn’t sit right.”
    He rose and went to the window, his lean form outlined against the glare of daylight from the window frame. “I get the distinct feeling that everyone around here is hiding something.” He rubbed his brow wearily. “There are unseen forces at work here, Watson . . . human ones, no doubt, but unseen nonetheless.”
    Our ruminations were interrupted by the entrance of Annie the chambermaid, who tiptoed shyly up to the open door.
    “You sent for me, sir?” she said, her voice trembling, her head bowed.
    “Please come in, Annie. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Holmes answered.
    She raised her head and looked at us imploringly. “I does my best, truly,” she said, clenching her hands in front of her as she entered the room.
    “It’s all right,” Holmes replied kindly, seeing the state she was in. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
    Her body relaxed a little, but there was still tension in her voice. “About what?”
    “Oh, nothing much important,” Holmes replied carelessly. “I just wondered if you had to clean any boots last night.”
    She cocked her head to one side and wrinkled her pert little Irish nose. “Funny you should ask, sir. My mistress gave me a pair of walking shoes—they was terrible dirty, and it took me quite a while to get all the mud off. I did a good job of it, though,” she added hastily, looking at me for support.
    Holmes gave one of his rare chuckles. “I’m sure you did, Annie, I’m sure you did. Was there anything