The Haunting of Torre Abbey Read Free

was clear and yet cryptic:
     
    FEAR WE ARE ALL IN DANGER STOP
    PLEASE COME AT ONCE STOP
     
    It was signed “Charles Cary, Torre Abbey, Torquay, Devon.”
    “Good Lord,” I said as Holmes came back into the room. “It’s the Cary family again.”
    “Who are the Cary family?” Mrs. Hudson said.
    “A family that has the misfortune of owning a haunted house,” Holmes replied. “And now, Mrs. Hudson, might I impose upon you to pack us some sandwiches for our trip?”
    Our good landlady stood still for a moment, then she threw her hands straight up into the air.
    “I don’t know,” she muttered. “Sometimes I just don’t know how I stand it.”
    “Has the boy left yet?” said Holmes.
    “Well, no—he was soaking wet, and I brought him inside to give him a cup of—”
    Holmes interrupted her. “Send him back with a telegram to Lord Cary that we will arrive tonight if at all possible.”
    “We may just catch the last train out of Paddington tonight, Watson,” Holmes called after me as I hurried upstairs to pack.
     
    Torquay was just coming into its own as a resort town, and as it turned out, there was a six forty-five train leaving from Paddington, scooping up the last of the London businessmen hurrying out to join their families at the country houses dotting the coastline of Tor Bay.
    And so, less than half an hour later, I found myself seated beside Holmes in a railway carriage speeding through the darkened English countryside.
    “How long do you think this will take to sort out?” I said as I hungrily devoured the cold roast beef sandwiches Mrs. Hudson had provided us.
    Holmes stared out the window at the darkened landscape rushing by. “It’s difficult to say, Watson,” he replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Lord Cary provided so little information in his telegram.”
    He turned back to the window, his profile sharp in the flickering gaslight. We sat without speaking, surrounded by the sounds of the train: the low, rhythmic pulse of the engine, the chunk-a-chunk beating of pistons in their chambers, the clatter of metal wheels on the rails, and the squeaking and groaning of the wooden carriage as it swayed to and fro. Holmes sat looking out the window, his dark eyes narrowed, his brows furrowed, his long fingers fidgeting with an unlit pipe. Finally he spoke.
    “A curious thing, the human imagination, Watson. As far as I know, it is one of the things separating us from the rest of the animal kingdom.”
    “I suppose so,” I replied, staring out the window at the dim landscape. “I’ve never heard of a wildebeest imagining the presence of a lion when none was there. On the other hand, perhaps we just don’t know enough about animals.”
    “Perhaps,” Holmes answered, shrugging. “Speaking of animals, Watson, you could always give the cat to one of your patients.”
    I stared at him. “How did you know about the cat?”
    He dismissed my astonishment with a wave of his hand. “Oh, come, Watson. When you arrived at Baker Street tonight you were sneezing; rubbing your eyes and wheezing—and you are still wheezing slightly, I can hear it. What am I to deduce but that you have an animal singularly noted for producing allergic reactions even among fanciers of the breed?”
    I shook my head. “Really, Holmes, you might have come to the conclusion that I have a cold.”
    He shook his head. “You rarely get colds, Watson—you seem to be blessed with an iron constitution—and besides, the symptoms you display are of an allergic reaction, not a viral infection.”
    “Very well, Doctor,” I said somewhat brusquely. “Then I suppose you can give me a full description of the animal in question.”
    Holmes smiled. “Really, that would be asking too much. I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you on that score. I can only say that it is of a suspicious, violent disposition, is a rather small calico, oh—and that it is of course a female.”
    I threw up my hands. “Very well; I should