“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
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:
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?”
