Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [35]
“You are a student of such things, then?” enquired Holmes.
“In a very modest way. Being a gentleman of leisure, I have the time and opportunity to indulge myself in that way; and have a natural inclination towards such subjects, tinged with melancholy as they are. Parts of this house were built very shortly after the abbey was dissolved, and I suspect that many of the stones from the original monastic building found their way into the construction of it, hence the house’s name. Inigo Jones added to it in the seventeenth century, so we find ourselves in possession of a very interesting piece of our country’s history.”
“And in possession of something else, it appears,” said Low. “Your letters, however, provided little by way of information on that point.”
Mr. Fitzgerald’s face clouded, and there was a sharp clatter as his wife placed her teacup somewhat unsteadily in its saucer. “Yes,” our host replied after a moment’s pause, as if summoning up strength. “The truth is, gentlemen, that I — we — found it very difficult to convey the facts of the case in a letter.”
“What my husband means, I think,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “is that the recent … events here sound, on paper, so inconsequential that they would appear laughable to someone who has not experienced them.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Low earnestly, “that none of us are inclined to laugh. I know something of the man who lived here before you, and informed Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson of the facts surrounding him, and the manner of his death. It is not a laughing matter.”
Husband and wife glanced at each other. “We are agreed,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “that Julian Karswell — or rather something to do with him — is in some way responsible for the events which are taking place; but we do not agree as to how or why this should be. My own feeling is that there is a logical explanation behind everything, whereas my husband feels that—” Here she stopped, as if uncertain how to proceed, or unwilling to give voice to what her husband thought. Mr. Fitzgerald took up the thread.
“Elizabeth is trying to say that I feel Mr. Karswell, although dead, is still influencing the events in his former house.” He gave a somewhat hollow laugh. “My father was Irish and my mother Welsh, gentlemen, so I have inherited more than my fair share of willingness to believe in what others disdain.”
“Perhaps,” said Holmes, with a touch of asperity, “we might hear of these events, so that we may have some idea of why, precisely, we have been invited.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. “Shall I begin?”
“Please do, my dear,” replied her husband. “We are in no disagreement as to the facts, and you will tell the story so much better than I.”
Low and Holmes both leaned back in their chairs; Low with his hands clasped behind his head, Holmes with his fingers steepled in front of him and his eyes half-closed. I settled back into my own chair as Mrs. Fitzgerald began her tale.
“As you gentlemen know, we have not lived here very long. My family comes from Warwickshire, and I longed to return here, and when we heard that Lufford Abbey was available — well, we fairly jumped at the opportunity. It did not take us long to realize that there was considerable ill-feeling in the village towards the previous owner, about whom we knew little more than that he had died, suddenly, while on holiday in France, and that in the absence of next of kin his house and effects