Another fire. I understood what Holmes was trying to tell me. The death of her foster parents was no accident, just like all of those fires in the munitions factories.
“She needed to bury the secret of her origins,” said the detective. “Her Machiavellian scheming dates to 1891. She took advantage of her brother’s mental illness and over time she poisoned his mind even more!”
“Disgusting,” I shuddered. “But how shall we discover her hiding place when she thwarts any attempt to uncover her past?”
“We must once again travel,” he declared. “To the convent in Anges!”
Scotland, the homeland of my mother. A deep green valley, wedged into the majestic mountains reflected in peat-coloured lakes and wetlands covered with heather. A land of purple-tinted moors and pastures, lush grass and yellow-green cushions of moss, swamps, lilies and blooming flowers. To the east there are beaches and to the west and centre lies a region of uncultivated grassland with a sprinkling of oat fields.
I was glad that we had to go on this journey. Here peace and quiet reigned. We could wander through the countryside the entire day without encountering a soul.
In London one does not have the chance to enjoy nature. In our investigations Holmes and I rarely had the opportunity to venture into the very heart of the wilderness that our country hid. In Scotland one could see deer as big as in a fairytale, eagles soaring high overhead, and fresh wild streams full of salmon and trout. And of course the ubiquitous sheep.
We took the overnight train and the next morning found ourselves in the small town of Anges. Except for the barest necessities we had very little with us in the way of luggage. From the poor, simple train station we headed straight to the inn. It was a typical stone building with a dark thatched roof and an even more typical owner, preserved alive in a brine of thick rye whiskey.
To our query regarding vacancies he replied gruffly that today he had only one room and began rambling about the shabbiness and poverty of the local people. We did not want to become entangled in a long conversation with this bored Scotsman, whose thick Gaelic accent we could barely understand, and so went to our cosy attic room, ate some strong chicken broth, and immediately headed out.
“No matter what they tell us in the convent I can feel in my bones that we are on the right trail,” said Holmes, peering at the map.
“How do you know?”
“Anges is directly on the way to Glinney, which is one of our other possible castles.”
“Do you think that the lady returned to the place of her youth?”
“Criminals do have a tendency to return to the scene of the crime,” he said.
He pointed the way and we embarked on the long walk to the convent.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was pleasantly warm and the blooming meadows gave the normally rough-looking plains a softer aspect. We followed the map up a dirt trail over a hill and up through a pine forest, behind which lay the mysterious place of Alice’s origin.
Except instead of the convent we found a ruin.
XIII: Modus Operandi
The term scorched earth was completely apt to describe what we found in the large clearing where the convent should have stood. Extending before us were the weathered ruins of what once used to be a convent, overgrown with ivy and long ago abandoned.
“What happened here?” I stammered.
“They no doubt know at the inn, but I shall hazard a guess,” said Holmes, gazing at the ruins.
Upon closer inspection it was immediately clear to us what had destroyed the convent. As we stepped among the dilapidated walls we saw charred stones and blackened beams, now covered in lush vegetation. The floor was completely collapsed, leaving only the bare portion of the perimeter walls. In addition to the central building we made out the outline of side wings and seminaries, now completely overgrown. The farm buildings of the monastery and garden remained buried under the soil. Our voices must have been the first sound in ages to break the pervasive silence.
“I do not want to jump to conclusions, but I fear that I recognise the handiwork of our firebug,” said the detective, bending over the grass.
In the sunlight something was shining.
“It is all over now,” I said. “The secret of her origin is lost.”
“Do not give up hope just yet.”
In his hand Holmes held a small cross covered with mould and warped by fire. A forgotten artefact and silent witness to the tragic events. It was symbolic of our quest.
“To what church did the convent belong?” I asked.
“It is hard to determine from what can be seen here,” said the detective.
He put the cross in his pocket. As there was nothing else that could be of use to us here, we turned around and headed back to town. Along the way, Holmes discoursed about the local religions, which have had a greater influence here than in other parts of the country.
Talking thus we returned to Anges.
The innkeeper was still loitering around drunkenly and did not require much in the way of encouragement to tell us about the burned down convent.
“You should’ve asked me, I would’ve told you that it’s pointless to go poking about there,” he began, more willing to talk now that my friend had ordered a round of his preferred spirits.
It happened in the winter twenty years ago, when the innkeeper’s beloved father, the original owner and founder of the roadside establishment, died. The fire apparently started at night, spreading from the kitchen to the dining room and the adjacent library. By the time the smoke woke up the nuns and they had warned their wards of the danger, the fire had spread so far that nothing could be saved. The few men who lived in the farm buildings and helped run the monastery barely managed to save the girls´lives. There was no time to fight the fire. Despite the porter’s efforts, the fire was not without tragic losses. The flames took the lives of three nuns. It was never discovered who started the fire and how.
“You say that the fire originated in the library?” said Holmes.
“Aye,” said the man, nodding his round head and spitting tobacco on the floor.
“Are you quite certain?”
“As certain as a man can be after all these years,” he said, scratching his head. “I wasn’t up there you know. But that’s what people said, on my honour!”
“Do you know what this means, Watson?” said the detective, turning to me victoriously. “Once again I am not mistaken! Alice attempted to destroy the convent archive. And she succeeded!”
The talkative innkeeper, happy to have guests who were generous and obviously much more solvent than his usual rural clientele, and delighted to be of service, took no time in imparting some other important information.
“I can see this interests you, gentlemen,” he said, leaning over the counter jovially. “Well, if you really need to know the details, then you’ve got to talk to old lady Donovann who lives over the hill.”
“Excellent! We shall go see her right away,” said Holmes joyfully, throwing a couple of coins on the counter, indicating his desire to pay and leave.
“Problem is Donovann went to Fadden market and will only get back late at night,” said the man, quickly pocketing the coins. “Tomorrow morning I’ll show you how to get to her farm.”
We were thus condemned to spend the rest of the afternoon in the company of our jovial drunk. We had already had our share of walking, but we were nevertheless happy to learn about the local folklore.
In the evening a few villagers from out of the way settlements came to spend the night at the small inn. They corrected our preconceived notions about Scots, such as their oft-ridiculed greed. In my opinion the Scots are not especially miserly. They simply value money more, because it is so hard to come by.