The Haunting of Torre Abbey Read Free Page B

main living quarters of the abbey, a vine-encrusted three-story structure. It was a long building, lower than the gatehouse, with second-floor balconies opening up onto the courtyard.
    “He wanted to stay up, but I insisted he retire at his normal time. Grayson’s been with us since I was a child,” Cary continued as we entered the dimly lit foyer. He turned up the gaslights, and I was able to get a better look at our host. To my surprise, he was very fair, with blue eyes and delicate facial features; for some reason, I had expected a shorter, darker man. He spoke quickly, gesturing rapidly with his hands, the fingers of which were long and white—the hands of a surgeon or an artist, I thought. His skin was the kind that burns and freckles in the sun, and his eyelashes were so blond they looked almost powdery in the gaslight. His hair was darker, a coppery-red colour, thick and curly, and he wore it rather longer than the fashion of the day, so that it curled over his collar in the back.
    “It’s so good of you to come,” he said as Holmes and I stood in the foyer looking around. He rubbed his hands together briskly, and I noticed that the room was cold and damp. It occurred to me that the climate was ideal for bronchial infections, the humid seaside air combining with the natural moisture of the stone and brick buildings.
    “You must be hungry after your journey,” said our host. “If you like, we can leave your luggage here and get you something to eat.”
    Holmes deferred to me, and I nodded quickly. It had been some hours since our roast beef sandwiches, and I was quite famished.
    “I let the staff retire for the night, but I believe my sister is still up and about,” he said as we entered a long hallway lit by a few scattered wall sconces. Our steps reverberated hollowly down the chamber as we followed our host.
    “You did not explain in your telegram the urgent matter that caused you to summon us tonight, Lord Cary,” Holmes remarked as we followed our host.
    “It’s Elizabeth, Mr. Holmes,” he replied. “She’s seen it again.”
    “The ghost, you mean?” I inquired.
    “Yes, and she’s in quite a state about it. I am seriously concerned about her. When I told you she was excitable, Mr. Holmes, I was not exaggerating. Elizabeth is easily agitated, and this has all been terribly difficult for her.”
    “I see,” Holmes replied as we turned a corner.
    I held the lamp aloft, casting rather sinister shadows as we walked single file down the hallway. The abbey was elegantly appointed, with all the comforts of a grand country house—carpets upon burnished wooden floors, curtains of the finest lace, beautifully carved furniture and stuffed leather armchairs, but I could just imagine ancient monks in procession down the dusky passageways, chanting in low voices, their brown robes swinging from side to side.
    “You know,” remarked Lord Cary as he led us from room to room, “the locals will tell you that Torquay is as full of ghost stories as London is of hansom cabs.”
    “You are familiar with London?” Holmes inquired as we stood in an elegantly furnished room, which I took to be a study of some kind. On the wall was an impressive medieval tapestry, a hunting scene of a deer being chased by a pack of hounds.
    “Well, I’ve been there but I’m not sure I’d say that I know it,” Cary replied. “Oh, that’s one of my ancestral legacies,” he said when he saw me studying the tapestry.
    “I believe you said your family has owned the abbey for some two hundred years?” said Holmes.
    “Yes, since the seventeenth century.”
    “And the estate passed on to you following the death of your father?”
    Lord Cary nodded. “Yes. In addition to the abbey itself, the Cary family has amassed a rather extensive art collection over the years.”
    “So I see,” Holmes replied, examining an elaborate gilt framed portrait of a Cavalier on horseback. The man was very elegantly dressed all in black, in