“Love, my dear Watson. Love! I believe that you have observed that all emotions, and that one in particular, are abhorrent to my mind. This is true, and since I have become mature enough to understand, I have come to regard it as opposite to that true cold reason which I place above all things. I have never married lest I bias my judgment. Yet it was not always my intention, and this very fact is what led to my downfall, causing the tragedy which I am about to relate. Alas, Watson, if… but with an if we might place Paris in a bottle.
“As a youth I was deeply in love with Agnes Phillimore who was but a year older than I. When Jack Phillimore and I were in our first year at Trinity, I used to spend time at their town house by Stephen’s Green. I confess, it was not the company of Phillimore that I sought then but that of Agnes.
“In my maturity I could come to admire the woman, as you insist I call Irene Adler, but admiration is not akin to the deep, destructive emotional power that we call love.
“It was when Bram spotted someone across the foyer that he needed to speak to that Phillimore seized the opportunity to ask abruptly what I was doing for recreation. Hearing that I was at a loose end, he suggested that I accompany him to his father’s estate in Kerry for a few days. Colonel James Phillimore owned a large house and estate in that remote county. Phillimore said he was going down because it was his father’s fiftieth birthday. I thought at the time that he placed a singular emphasis on that fact.
“It was then that I managed to casually ask if his sister Agnes was in Dublin or in Kerry. Phillimore, of course, like most brothers, was ignorant that his sister held any attraction for the male sex, least of all one of his friends. He was nonchalant. ‘To be sure she is at Tullyfane, Holmes. Preparing for her marriage next month.’
“His glance was distracted by a man jostling through the foyer, and so he missed the effect that this intelligence had on me.
“ ‘Married?’ I gasped. ‘To whom?’
“ ‘Some professor, no less. A cove by the name of Moriarty.’
“’Moriarty?’ I asked, for the name meant little to me in that context. I knew it only as a common County Kerry name. It was an Anglicizing of the Irish name O Muircheartaigh, meaning ‘expert navigator.’
“ ‘He is our neighbor, he is quite besotted with my sister, and it seems that it is arranged that they will marry next month. A rum cove, is the professor. Good education and holds a chair of mathematics at Queens University in Belfast.’
“’Professor James Moriarty,’ I muttered savagely. Phillimore’s news of Agnes’s intentions had shattered all my illusions.
“ ‘Do you know him?’ Phillimore asked, observing my displeasure. ‘He’s all right, isn’t he? I mean… he’s not a bounder, eh?’
“ ‘I have seen him once only and that from a distance in the Kildare Street Club,’ I confessed. I had nothing against Moriarty at that time. ‘My brother Mycroft pointed him out to me. I did not meet him. Yet I have heard of his reputation. His Dynamics of an Asteroid ascended to such rarefied heights of pure mathematics that no man in the scientific press was capable of criticizing it.’
“Phillimore chuckled.
“ ‘That is beyond me. Thank God I am merely a student of theology. But it sounds as though you are an admirer.’
“ T admire intellect, Phillimore,’ I replied simply. Moriarty, as I recalled, must have been all of ten years older than Agnes. What is ten years at our age? But to me, a callow youth, I felt the age difference that existed between Agnes and James Moriarty was obscene. I explain this simply because my attitude has a bearing on my future disposition.
“’So come down with me to Tullyfane Abbey,’ pressed Phillimore, oblivious to the emotional turmoil that he had created in me.
“I was about to coldly decline the invitation when Phillimore, observing my negative expression, was suddenly very serious. He leaned closed to me and said softly: ‘You see, Holmes, old fellow, we are having increasing problems with the family ghost, and as I recall, you have a canny way of solving bizarre problems.’
“I knew enough of his character to realize that jesting was beyond his capacity.
“ ‘The family ghost?’
“ ‘A damned infernal specter that is driving my father quite out of his wits. Not to mention Agnes…
“ ‘Your father and sister are afraid of a specter?’
“ ‘Agnes is scared at the deterioration in my father’s demeanor. Seriously, Holmes, I really don’t know what to do. My sister’s letters speak of such a bizarre set of circumstances that I am inclined to think that she is hallucinating or that my father has been driven mad already’
“My inclination was to avoid opening old wounds now by meeting Agnes again. I could spend the rest of my vacation in Marsh’s Library, where they have an excellent collection of medieval cryptogram manuscripts. I hesitated-hesitated and was lost. I had to admit that I was intrigued to hear more of the matter in spite of my emotional distress, for any mystery sends the adrenaline coursing in my body.
“The very next morning I accompanied Jack Phillimore to Kingsbridge Railway Station and boarded the train to Killarney. En route he explained some of the problems.
“Tullyfane Abbey was supposed to be cursed. It was situated on the extremity of the Iveragh Peninsula in a wild and deserted spot. Tullyfane Abbey was, of course, never an abbey. It was a dignified Georgian country house. The AngloIrish gentry in the eighteenth century had a taste for the grandiose and called their houses abbeys or castles even when they were unassuming dwellings inhabited only by families of modest fortune.
“Phillimore told me that the firstborn of every generation of the lords of Tullyfane were to meet with terrible deaths on the attainment of their fiftieth birthdays even down to the seventh generation. It seems that first lord of Tullyfane had hanged a young boy for sheep stealing. The boy turned out to be innocent, and his mother, a widow who had doted on the lad as insurance for comfort in her old age, had duly uttered the curse. Whereupon, each lord of Tullyfane, for the last six generations, had met an untimely end.
“Phillimore assured me that the first lord of Tullyfane had not even been a direct ancestor of his, but that his greatgrandfather had purchased Tullyfane Abbey when the owner, concerned at the imminent prospect of departing this life on his fiftieth birthday, decided to sell and depart for healthier climes in England. This sleight of hand of ownership had not prevented Jack’s greatgrandfather, General Phillimore, from falling off his horse and breaking his neck on his fiftieth birthday. Jack’s grandfather, a redoubtable judge, was shot on his fiftieth birthday. The local inspector of the Royal Irish Constabulary had assumed that his untimely demise could be ascribed more to his profession than to the paranormal. Judges and policemen often experienced sudden terminations to their careers in a country where they were considered part of the colonial occupation by ordinary folk.
“ ‘I presume your father, Colonel James Phillimore, is now approaching his fiftieth birthday and hence his alarm?’ I asked Phillimore as the train rolled through the Tipperary countryside toward the Kerry border.
“Phillimore nodded slowly.
“’My sister has, in her letters, written that she has heard the specter crying at night. She reports that my father has even witnessed the apparition, the form of a young boy, crying on the turret of the abbey.’
“I raised my eyebrows unintentionally.
“ ‘Seen as well as heard?’ I demanded. ‘And by two witnesses? Well, I can assure you that there is nothing in this world that exists unless it is due to some scientifically explainable reason.’
“’Nothing in this world,’ muttered Phillimore. ‘But what of the next?’