Free The Haunting of Torre Abbey by Carole Elizabeth Buggé Page B

more familiar haunts of London.
     
    When Charles Cary returned from his ride, Holmes discussed with him the details of his investigation.
    “If you don’t mind, Lord Cary,” he said, “I’d like to look through each room in the abbey—that is, if you and your family have no objections.”
    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