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.”
The station master directed us to Fulham Road. Number 41 was a cottage at the end of the cul de sac. There was a note tacked to the front door which was addressed to Holmes. It read:Dear Mr. Holmes,Do enter. I am not here of course, and shall not be again. I shall be elsewhere.
Holmes smiled, but I could see a certain anger in his eyes. The door was locked. Holmes broke the glass, put his hand in, and turned the knob.
What greeted us can only remain indescribable. Every sense, every sensitivity was assaulted by the horror that faced us: dead dogs were everywhere, some stuffed, some hanging on ropes from the ceiling. Overcome by the stench, we raced outside. Holmes broke several windows and the ensuing draft was enough to allow us to re-enter.
“Good Lord, Holmes. What is this?”
“The work of a madman, whatever else it is. Look, mixed with the dogs are some true exotica: a mongoose there, two bandicoots in the corner, a panda . . . and look over there, Watson, look.”
My eyes reluctantly followed Holmes outstretched arm to a corner of the room where there were three black masks shining, dancing in the wind. I entered the only other room, which contained a bed and chest of drawers. The walls, however, were covered with masks and wooden crosses hung alternately in neat rows.
“Come, Watson, back to London as fast as we can make it. I suspect that we shall be too late no matter what. McMillan unfortunately has the jump on us.”
We almost ran to the station. Holmes barely had time to ask the station master to call the police when our train arrived.
Holmes was silent, but wrought. When he finally spoke, it was with a rueful sigh.
“I should have seen through it all at the very beginning. But I didn’t. Perhaps it doesn’t matter at this point.”
It was about five p.m. when we reached London. Holmes hailed a cab and directed the driver to Hyde Park. There we walked to where Harry had initially taken us, to the dingy end of the park. From a tall pile of moist oak leaves there emerged, perpendicular to the earth, a human leg naked to the knee. The foot wore a white sock and a black chupple, attached to which was a green woollen hat that fluttered every so often like the flag of some faraway country, mysterious and unknown. Holmes gently removed the leaves to reveal the face of John McMillan and that of his sister, Gertrude. Brother and sister were still tied together with ropes, unable to free themselves except for McMillan’s one leg. Sister Gertrude clutched a wooden box to her breast. Holmes opened it. It was empty.