The Haunting of Torre Abbey Read Free Page A

have known better than to challenge you. Of course you are right, and now do me the kindness of describing how you arrived at your conclusions.”
    “Well, the scratches on your left hand, which you have dressed with iodine, were the first clue as to the animal’s disposition. As to the coat, I can just make out three colours of hairs clinging to your overcoat—hence my conclusion the cat is a calico. And, as you may know, calicoes—and the closely related tortoiseshells—are always female. Females tend to be smaller than the males of the species, and since this was most probably a stray cat and therefore undernourished, I gambled that it was not a large cat.”
    “Very well, Holmes, once again you are correct.”
    “I only hope I am so fortunate with the Cary family,” he replied, turning again to look out the window.
    “Holmes, you don’t think . . .” I began. He turned to look at me, his eyes keen in the dim light. “Before, when you asked me if I believed in ghosts,” I continued, “you didn’t seriously think . . .”
    He smiled grimly. “What I think,” he said slowly, “is that the Cary family is in danger—and that I take very seriously indeed.”
    I nodded and turned away; I had nothing else to say. We sat for some time in silence as the train hurtled through the night toward its dark destination.

Chapter Two
    The city of Torquay lies tucked away in a wide pocket of the English Channel where the coastline is curved inward—the convex shape on a map is rather like the outer rim of a scallop shell. Protected from the treacherous currents for which the channel is famous, this part of Devon’s coast is distinguished by a series of bays—Start Bay, Babbacombe Bay, and of course Tor Bay, on the southern end of which stands the city of Torquay. Blessed with a deep natural harbour, Torquay is sheltered from the harsher climate of its neighbouring Cornish coast, and in the last few years has been gaining a reputation as a fashionable resort town.
    The streets of the town rise sharply from the harbour up into the bluffs surrounding the shoreline, offering many opportunities for grand views of the harbour. Taking advantage of these natural geological features, builders of recent years have begun to exploit the financial possibilities of a location deemed more fashionable than a middle-class resort such as Brighton. Situated more or less midway between Dartmouth and Exeter, Torquay has a history which dates back to Roman times and beyond—and by far the oldest and most distinguished building in this historic city was Torre Abbey.
    The abbey was a short drive from the train station, past an apple orchard and down a wide sweeping boulevard lined with majestic elm trees. The rain had stopped by now, and I inhaled the salt sea air as Holmes and I alighted from the cab in front of the main gatehouse of Torre Abbey. It was an imposing medieval tower of thick Normanesque architecture, and in the moonlight its massive limestone façade loomed three stories above us. As Holmes paid the driver, the heavy wooden door swung open and a tall man emerged whom I took to be Charles Cary. He held a gas lantern, and approached us with a vigorous stride, his right hand outstretched.
    “Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thank you for coming!” he cried, shaking first Holmes’s hand and then my own. His grip was as forceful as his handwriting, bespeaking a man of firm and decisive character. Over our protests, he insisted on helping us with our luggage, and, handing the lantern to me, seized both bags and led us into the interior of the gatehouse.
    “Our butler Grayson would normally have been here to greet you, but it’s late and he’s not as young as he once was,” our host said, closing the heavy door behind him. The sound echoed through the vaulted chamber of the gatehouse with a dull thud. He led us through the gatehouse and into an enclosed courtyard. Passing through the courtyard, we entered what appeared to be the