The Haunting of Torre Abbey by Carole Elizabeth Buggé Page B

was, she clearly couldn’t do it in front of Grayson.”
    “Yes that much is clear.”
    “I’m not a betting man, as you know, Watson, but I would be willing to wager a substantial amount that Lord Cary is not the only one at Torre Abbey hiding something.”
    I was thinking exactly the same thing.

Chapter Four
    Holmes spent the morning going from room to room of the abbey, examining each one. He began with the upstairs bedrooms, beginning with the one I was occupying. He explained that this was because it was closest to the stairs, and had been empty until our arrival. It was therefore a perfect hiding-place for an intruder, he claimed, and should therefore be thoroughly examined. Though he drew his magnifying glass from his pocket several times, peering through it closely, I gathered from his attitude that his search was not particularly fruitful.
    Next we went into Elizabeth Cary’s room. She had gone out for a walk with young William, and Holmes was especially interested in the foot of the bed and the area of the windowsill, which he looked at very carefully through his lens, plucking from the window seat what looked like a few threads of fabric and placing them carefully in a small pouch.
    “Did you find anything of value?” I asked as we left the room.
    “Possibly,” he replied enigmatically. “Time alone will tell.”
    Holmes and I found ourselves alone at luncheon that day. We were told that Elizabeth Cary was indisposed, and it seemed that Marion Cary rarely ate lunch. As Lord Cary was away attending to business for the remainder of the day, and Grayson was in town running errands for the family, Holmes and I had the dining room to ourselves.
    Our meal was being served by a somewhat trepidant Annie, with much loud verbal assistance from Sally in the kitchen. The chambermaid’s hand shook as she placed the platter of salmon in cream sauce on the sideboard, and she scurried back into the kitchen immediately when Sally summoned her.
    I could hear Sally in the kitchen muttering to herself. Though I couldn’t make out the words, the aroma of discontent was heavy in the air, and there was much banging of pans and rattling of cutlery.
    “I can’t for the life of me understand why Cary keeps on that cook,” I said as I sat down across from Holmes. “She’s a good enough cook, but—”
    My ruminations were interrupted by the sound of breaking china in the kitchen, followed by a loud curse. This time there was no mistaking the words: the oath was both colourful and specific.
    “I dare say Lord Cary has his reasons for keeping her on,” Holmes remarked drily, unfolding his napkin.
    A moment later Sally lumbered into the room, carrying a platter of beef medallions.
    “Stupid girl,” she muttered as she half-hurled the platter in the general direction of the table, much as one might throw a discus. Luckily for us, the meat and platter arrived more or less intact, and once the cook was safely out of the room, stomping loudly back to the kitchen, I helped myself to some beef medallions. I was almost afraid that Sally might reconsider her beneficence and take them away from us, just out of general spitefulness, so I took two just in case.
    They were delicious, as was the salmon—in fact, everything that emerged from Sally’s kitchen was superb. I had to agree with Holmes—Lord Cary 
did
 have his reasons, and miraculously, Sally’s disposition did not seem to affect the quality of her cooking. Fortunately for us, her sour moods did not seem to seep into her sauces. I had imagined radishes withering under her touch, turnips turning brown at her fingertips, but such was not the case. She was not a warm person—even her attitude towards her son was solicitous without being warm—but she was an inspired cook. I took another bite of salmon and sighed. Mrs. Hudson’s cuisine at Baker Street, while plentiful and hearty enough, lacked the subtlety of flavor that characterized Sally’s cooking.
    All day I