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.”