The Haunting of Torre Abbey by Carole Elizabeth Buggé Page A

his mother had gone, Lord Cary ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
    “I do not expect much help from the local police in this matter, you know, Mr. Holmes. However,” he said, looking at Holmes intently, his blue eyes blazing with emotion, “I hope that you will stand by us and get to the bottom of this affair.”
    Holmes nodded, his face serious. “Have no fear of that, Lord Cary—there are several points of interest about this case. More importantly, I am convinced that, whatever forces are behind these events, you and the other members of your family are in some peril.”
    Cary looked at Holmes. “Really, Mr. Holmes? What makes you say that?”
    Holmes waved off the question with a flick of his hand. “I make it a habit not to reveal all that I observe, Lord Cary—a trait that you may well imagine is taxing to the patience of my ever tolerant colleague, Dr. Watson. However, I have my reasons. There are some things that my clients have no need to know—facts and observations that would not only be useless but upsetting to them and to my investigation. And, of course, I do not like to proceed upon any information unless I am very certain of it. Being a man of science, I’m sure you can appreciate that.”
    As Holmes spoke, Cary’s face grew redder, until it nearly matched the rich hue of his copper-coloured hair.
    “I can well appreciate your need for some secrecy, Mr. Holmes, but I hope you will share with me anything which will help me to protect my family,” he replied, his voice tight. “After all, I feel it is my duty to see that no harm comes to them.”
    Holmes nodded. “I understand, Lord Cary, and rest assured that I will do everything in my power to ensure the safety of everyone at Torre Abbey . . . By the way, may I ask how your father died?”
    Cary looked down at his coffee cup, his jaw clenched. “He was drowned in the bay. He went swimming one day and never returned . . . his clothes were found upon the beach later that day.”
    “I see. So the death was ruled an accident?”
    “Yes.”
    “But no body was ever found?”
    Cary shifted restlessly in his chair. “No, Mr. Holmes—and now, if you will both excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”
    “Before you do, Lord Cary, I would like to ask you one or two things,” said Holmes.
    “By all means,” Cary replied, but I could see that he was anxious to leave. “What do you want to know?” he said, drumming his fingers on the table.
    “Have you considered asking for protection from the local police?”
    “I have spoken with the local authorities, but they are not anxious to become involved. They claim this is because nothing has been stolen, and no one has been injured—”
    “As yet,” Holmes interjected.
    “As yet . . .” Lord Cary shook his head. “I may as well tell you, Mr. Holmes, that I’m afraid my family’s relationship with the local constabulary is somewhat compromised. My father . . . how to put it delicately? He could be a harsh man, and once or twice he had occasion to clash with the forces of the law. In the process, I’m afraid, he made no friends.”
    “I see. Very well . . . and now, I don’t wish to detain you any further from your business.”
    “Thank you,” our host replied, and practically bounded from his chair. “I will see you at dinner, then, which is served at eight.”
    When he had gone, Holmes turned to me and smiled. “Well, Watson, have you ever seen a man more anxious to avoid a conversation?”
    “He was rather intent on leaving, wasn’t he?” I answered. “He clearly didn’t want to talk about his father’s death.”
    “No, indeed he didn’t,” Holmes said, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll tell you something else: that chambermaid knew perfectly well we were in the dining room but she came in anyway.”
    “So when Annie came barging into our breakfast carrying a broom—”
    “I suspect the broom was just a pretense. She came in to talk to someone, but whoever it