Ted Riccardi - Between the Thames and the Tiber

“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.