by Ted Riccardi
“What do you think, Watson?
“Almost too bizarre, Holmes, the man may be a congenital liar or someone who suffers from terrible delusions.”
“He walked at a fair clip as I watched him and seems to have recovered from his ordeal fairly quickly.”
Holmes began his usual pacing. “Interesting, Watson, most interesting. Masked figures. Strange, absurd, and inconsequential, if what you say is true, but there may be more to it. One must first eliminate all impossibilities—and whatever remains must be the solution. In this case, we have a very high degree of improbability, to say the least. Let us think for a moment.”
“Surely, Holmes, the man is quite mad, or is telling tall stories. Frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time. The only question is why he is taking the bother to engage the world’s greatest detective.”
“A good question, Watson, to which I have as yet no satisfactory answer, but all in good time. And, by the by, did you notice how quickly he accepted as true my random statements about his life, relying on me to explain his grim circumstances rather than reveal the truth. His story is certainly most incomplete. If it is made up, why did he, for instance, not tell us that the same thing happened to him in Italy? Surely, the masked dancers would have found him there as well if they are located in his brain, and not outside it? Come, Watson, a walk in Hyde Park will do us some good. There are only a few places where McMillan’s encounter could have taken place. Let us see what we might find there. My ragged irregulars must have seen the man. Let us speak with them and have a look ourselves.”
“Why not?” said I in agreement.
“Keep your eyes open, Watson.”
“For what?”
“Anything of a material nature that might have been part of McMillan’s—what shall we call it—his meeting, let’s say for the moment.”
Holmes knew Hyde Park well. He often walked there when he thought through a case. This time, however, the park itself was part of the riddle. We walked away from Oxford Street toward the seediest section, an infamous jungle of urban despair. Here the drunks, the hungry beggars, the down and out and other malingerers tried to survive amidst the hundreds of rumbling pigeons that surrounded them. Holmes stopped for a moment and beckoned to someone at the edge the crowd.
“Hello, Harry,” said Holmes. One of the ragged denizens came forward.
“’ello, Mr. ’olmes. This be your sidekick, eh?”
“Indeed, Harry, this is the illustrious Watson, teller of tales and custodian of the Holmesian fables,” said Holmes. “Harry, we have a question for you and your friends. Have you seen a man wearing a green woollen hat during the last few days?”
Harry nodded. “Yeah, Mr. ’olmes, you mean McMillan. ’e aint ’ere right now, but we know ’im. Comes often and sleeps under a tree, thet tree in fact. I know ’im pretty well. Strange old toff. Does terrible things, Mr. ’olmes, like today ’e killed a big dog by stranglin’ it. Right be’ind thet bush over there. Never saw such a thing before in me ’ole life. We chased ’im out of ’ere after ’e did it. Why, ’e tied up the poor mutt and ’ung ’im from a tree, and then ’e ’elped the rope wid ’is ’ands. ’e’s not gonna be allowed ’ere again. ’e’s got the boys all riled up, all right.”
“Show us the place, Harry. Where is the dog?”
“Still there, Mr. ’olmes, as far as I know. Come along.”
We followed our guide to a most neglected part of the park, one where the gardeners had not been for many weeks. Piles of dead leaves, uncut grass, and the smell of rotting flowers produced in me a sickening foreboding. A large, tall oak shaded the place. Around one of its low branches I saw a rope. Below it the body of a dog stiff as death, its eyes staring at us as if still hoping for help. Holmes looked over the ground, sifting through the grass.
“Rather disturbing, wouldn’t you say, dear Watson?”
“A criminal act, Holmes; the perpetrator of this cruelty should be punished. But I know of no British law that protects animals in cases such as this.”
Holmes was silent for a moment. Then he turned towards us and asked, “Harry, my good fellow,you are sure that this is the work of McMillan?”
“Sure as anythin’, Mr. ’olmes. I was ’ere and tried to stop the bloke. The poor dog tore me clothes to shreds, and McMillan, why, ’e was wearin’ a fancy cloak, ’e was, and thet cloak is probably no more.”
We walked back to Harry’s crowd in silence. Holmes passed him a couple of pound notes and we left.
“Knowledge proceeds by contrasts, dear Watson,” said my friend as we entered our quarters, “a constant series of revelations between the old and the new. The differences that arise provide much that is fundamental to any criminological solution. But we know only a small portion of what has happened in any particular case, and thus the science of deduction enters the mystery to help make sense of what has transpired while we are elsewhere: a nun, a father, a man in a green cap, a dead dog . . .”
“And the devil dancers,” said I with a smile, “and more than one dead dog.”
“Yes, Watson old boy. Furthermore, my dear friend, we must look to the absent and the missing in any tale: a parent long deceased, another relation in prison for a long period, one sick in an institution. All of these bear silent witness to the activities of men. In this case, we might well ask: who is McMillan’s mother? Is the father the only parent? She is completely absent from the tale, and remains unknown to us. But why the loud presence of one parent and not both? Perhaps McMillan himself does not know why, or even perhaps who she is. Perhaps he is attempting the impossible: to hide his mixed Anglo-Indian blood, of which he is an undeniable example. Who else of importance is hidden, or, better still, hiding?”
Holmes donned his robe, lit his pipe, and continued his train of reasoning.
“Suppose, Watson, that McMillan has told us all he knows in good faith, and that he himself is ignorant of the rest of his own story. Let us suppose that he came to us first to enlist our protection from the ghostly but real devils that have accosted him, in the hope that we could unmask them and free him from their fearful threats. That would indeed mean that what you call the devil dancers are real actors in the story. Bah, so much for abstract principles. We now need some facts.”
He walked over to his bookshelves, pulled a large tome out of its place, and began to leaf through it.
“Hah, old boy, here we go. I am reading the entry under the name McMillan in Rupak’s Prominent Persons of South India. Rupak is generally reliable in cases such as this one. Here we are: “McMillan, Hugh. Editor of Madras Pioneer; minister of the Church of Christ Reborn; found dead in his home in Madras in 1878 under suspicious circumstances known only to police. McMillan stAbbéd to death. Mystery remains unsolved.”
“Surely, Holmes, this would indicate that there is a painful story different from what he has told us.”
“Let us read further, Watson, before we put the pieces of the puzzle together. Now let us look under Tranquebar. This may help. Here we are: ‘Tranquebar, a British colony in southern India. Rarely visited. Home to a small convent of nuns, most of whom are Indian by blood. Order of St. Gertrude, an Austrian order with small convents in England and Denmark; headquarters London. 6 Marlborough Rd.’ It is always gratifying to find what one is looking for within one’s own library. Chosen well, a few volumes organized according to one’s chief preoccupations yields wonders. Come, Watson, let us hie ourselves to a nunnery. We are on track.”
In a few minutes, Holmes and I were on our way to the convent of St. Gertrude. Hidden from the street by large tall bushes, it did not look imposing until we were well inside the gate. A long brick-lined path led up to an old massive stone mansion. I guessed that it may have been the city residence of the Marlborough clan at some time in its history. The dukes of Marlborough were no longer in evidence, for the place was dilapidated and repellent.
Holmes walked slowly, peering in every direction. I followed him silently. When we reached the entrance, I saw a
nun dressed in grey waiting for us. She was short, plump, pink, and pleasant, friendly even—as she greeted us. She appeared to be untouched by the pervasive gloom cast off by the convent itself.
“Forgive me; we have so few visitors here that I am almost speechless. You look as if you mean no harm. May I ask who are you?”
“My name is Holmes, and this my colleague Dr. John Watson. We would like to meet with the mother superior if she is not otherwise engaged.”
“May I know the nature of your business?”
“Yes. It concerns a gentleman of Madras by the name of Hugh McMillan.”
The nun curtseyed and directed us to a small foyer, where we waited.
The room was unadornedly austere, as we were to find the rest of the building. The nun who had greeted us returned. We followed her down a long corridor at the end of which stood a tall gaunt woman of a deadly pallor, an unearthly white, who, judging from her attire, was the mother superior. We followed her to a large office, where she directed that we sit across from her.
“I am Sister Gertrude, director of the convent. May I know the nature of your visit?” she asked.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “The nature of our inquiry is rather complex. It may even lead us to a request for an exorcism.”
“We rarely have such requests. I suspect that your needs would be far better served by speaking with Father Alfred of the Church of the Epiphany, which is located about a mile from here, still on Marlborough Road.”
She appeared ready to leave and stood up, whereupon Holmes said, “Please. I have several questions of great importance to my client. Dear Sister, my inquiry concerns a gentleman by the name of Hugh McMillan. I wonder if you knew him in Madras.”
“He was my father, I am sorry to say,” she said with apparent insouciance.
She paused as if she would say nothing more.
“Who is your client?’’ she asked suddenly. My brother John, no doubt. Quickly, then, with your questions. I shall answer in the hope that you will go away as in the twinkling of an eye. You must forgive me if I have no interest in my father, my brother, or anyone else from your walk of life.”
“Who, then, was your mother? I know nothing of her,” said Holmes.
A sudden gush of words came forth.
“My mother was a fine woman of English origin. She married my father because he was handsome and successful. But he was corrupt and fanatical as well.
“Not long after my brother was born, my father took a mistress from the local community. My mother, when she learned of this, tried everything to save her marriage, including having me, her second child. Nothing worked. After my brother’s birth, my father became unavailable and they rarely saw each other except for occasional moments of tranquility. In the end, she became a member of this order. She died in the convent in Tranquebar. I was raised by her in the convent, and after her death, as I was old enough to determine my own future, I decided to stay on.
“My brother, John, lived with my father, but in a part of the house made separate by my father’s lady friend. It was a very difficult relationship. There were major disputes and there were suspicions later that my father was murdered by his mistress, or perhaps my brother, but no charges were brought. And the little I know of John would lead me to believe that he was incapable of such violent action.
“Mr. Holmes, I am dedicated to the religious life of this order and never knew either of my parents well. The news of my father’s demise reached me at the convent in Tranquebar several months after the funeral services, when I was in retreat. John came to visit me before he left Madras, and I have seen him only a few times during these last thirty years, although he has managed to keep nearby me all this time. I should tell you with some embarrassment that I have supported him financially by sending money to an account in Horsham.
“This is a small contemplative order, Mr. Holmes. I chose it because its doctrines gave me peace through meditation. You may be surprised to learn that this is by far the longest conversation I have had with anyone in more than six months. If I seem abrupt it is because I spend every moment possible in retreat. I am not at all interested in the world you live in. We are only seven nuns, all dedicated to a life like that of St. Gertrude.”
Holmes remained silent until Sister Gertrude had finished. When he finally spoke it was in a soft voice, all the more persuasive because of its gentleness.
“I trust that you will understand that those of us who are necessarily involved in the world outside this cloister may have undeniable obligations. I have, unfortunately, to pursue my inquiries with you for but a few more moments, however importunate you may find them. I shall endeavor to make them as brief as possible.”
“Very well, proceed. But do not be surprised if I leave before you finish.”
“Your father was difficult but religious,” said Holmes. “I gather that he was also a very cruel man.”
Holmes’s question seemed to unnerve her, and she remained silent for a time.
“He killed a dog once at his school,” she then said quietly. “This made him infamous, especially to those who took the story of the dog as an illustration of God’s retribution. And there were many in the congregation. He had found the poor creature rummaging for food, and before the assembled student body he hung the creature as an example of what happens to thieves if the sixth commandment is not kept. I of course was not there, but the poor dog was the subject of discussion for weeks after. My mother was disconsolate, my brother so enraged that he attacked our father with an iron pole, almost killing him as he was pulled away. They parted company and never met again as far as I know. My brother’s rebellion seemed to intensify my father’s cruelty. From that time onward, Father made it a point to kill a dog publically at the beginning of every school year. I must tell you that the group of English and other foreigners who sent their children to the school approved of his cruel message, some out of religious conviction, others out of pure terror.”
“I continued to live at the convent and accepted ordination after three years. One day, I learned of my father’s death and my brother’s disappearance. One of the nuns, herself a Tamilian from Madras, had overheard some talk about how my father’s killers had tortured him before he died. She said that they appeared to be hired men and had tied him the way he had tied up the dogs that he had killed.”
“Fortunately for me, we seven nuns moved to Italy in 1899, to a town called Isernia, where we housed ourselves in an old dilapidated monastery inhabited by an old priest and a servant boy from the hills of the Abruzzi. My brother followed me and came to live alone nearby in the village, but I rarely saw him, Two years ago, seven of us were asked by the head of the Propaganda Fide to move to London. My brother made his presence known shortly after our arrival here. He continues to follow me.”
Sister Gertrude rose, and it was clear to us that she would speak no more. The same pleasant nun who let us in the convent showed us out. As we left, Holmes turned and asked her: “Tell me, where does your gardener throw his rakings and pile up his leaves?”
“Near the greenhouse. Come, I can show you.”
She led us quickly to the composting area, where a gardener was at work. His presence reminded her that she was to leave us at the door of the convent, and so she turned quickly, her face even more pink, and entered the convent.
The gardener, a wiry man of middle age, nodded as we approached him.
“I wonder if you might help us,” said Holmes. “May I know your name?”
“Judson. ’enry Judson. We don’t usually talk to strangers. Fact is we’re told not to. But I’m about to leave ’ere anyways. What’s on your mind, Mr. . . . ?”
“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes. I am a detective, and this Dr. Watson, my colleague. Tell me, Mr. Judson, in a few weeks London will be in full flower. Will there be any June bugs in this garden?”
“Strange that you should ask thet question, Mr. ’olmes. Yes, there will be, but not so many now. For the last three years, the nuns �
��ave ordered me to capture them and to put the lightning jelly in glass jars. Seems they think it is a medicine, good for your aches and pains. Never tried it meself.”
“Has anyone ever spent the night in this garden?”
“Yessir, a strange man, friend or maybe a relation of the Sister Gertrude. ’e spent many a night ’ere, even in the cold weather. Sometimes she let ’im in—or one of the others would.”
“Did he bury anything here?”
“Yep, I remember one night not so long ago, maybe a month ago, ’e came in, drunk as a Welsh farmer, dug an ’ole over there, put a wooden box in it and buried it right there. Then wot made me think ’e was crazy was that ’e uncovered the box and took it out of the ’ole. Put the dirt back and left the box at the door. After ’e left, around midnight I guess it was, I ’eard the front door open and one of the sisters reached out and took the box inside. Weird goin’s on, I say, too much for a simple bloke like me.”
“You have been of great help to us, Mr. Judson, and I hope that you will allow me one last question. Do you know where the gentleman with the green hat lives?”
“Well, Mr. ’olmes, I can say where ’e says ’e lives and thet’s in ’orsham. Fulham Road, I think.”
We thanked the gardener for his time, and I found myself pondering what Holmes would do next. “It may be a waste of time,” he said, “but I want to visit our client in his abode in Horsham. If we leave now, we can be there in two hours.”
We took the first train and were in Horsham around one o’clock. Holmes was silent through our trip, keeping to what I could only call a meditative pose. He jumped up with great vigor as soon as we approached the station, and I found myself struggling to keep up with him.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Fulham Road, number forty-one. But let us first talk with the station master.”
“You mean the bloke in the green ’at, do ya? I know ’im to see ’im. Can’t say I like ’im much. Buys ’is tickets in the mornin’. ’e’s part East Indian, I think, dark complected. ’e works for Lord Fitzwilliam. There doin’ some plant experiments, but ’e aint ’ere right now. ’e’s gone to America, so the queer bloke is ’ere alone.”