Indeed the innkeeper and his comrades were most obliging. Holmes invented a heartrending tale about how he was searching for his niece, who he supposed was a ward of Anges convent, and everyone outdid each other with ideas about how to help him. But they all agreed that the best course of action was to see the woman to whom the innkeeper was to take us tomorrow morning.
On the whole it was a pleasant evening with amiable company. The detective contributed a few of his tales of adventure, though not in the first person, but rather as stories he had heard.
He sensed that as Englishmen we were only tolerated here and he did not want our hosts to think we represented the official authorities. We did not forget their national pride. They had never buckled under our rule and were still trying to gain independence. Hence their toughness, brought about by natural conditions and by the constant struggle for survival.
“The Scots are not historically very well represented in British art, music and literature, but their artlessness is so refreshing!” Holmes said to me that night as we nodded off in massive wooden beds under down blankets.
True, we had to accustom ourselves to a certain crudity, but on the other hand the Scots are well known for their technical ingenuity and inventiveness.
I slept peacefully for the first time in many nights, without dreaming of Lady Alice and murderous suffragettes. In the morning I hopped out of bed as lively as a fiddle. Holmes had also slept well and over breakfast he spoke enthusiastically about returning to his farmstead and his bees.
The innkeeper was true to his word and took us to the old woman’s farm. A white mist was forming above the green pastures and hillsides.
“Old Mrs Donovann was the superior of the convent,” he said to Holmes. “She still lives here. She’s almost seventy.”
“The church did not relocate her after the fire?”
“No, because she left the order. She stayed here and went into business for herself. She’s a resourceful old lady and sometimes girls from town come to help her.”
After walking a few miles through a field we were able to make out the retired abbess from a distance. A hunched figure bent over a spade was digging up soil and planting vegetables. Bluish smoke rose from the chimney and all the windows of the house were wide open. In the shed lay a big black dog with white chest and rust-coloured paws. As soon as he saw us he began barking and pulling on the chain.
The old woman straightened up, turned to face us and shielded her eyes. We could not see her face because a scarf was tied around her head.
We doffed our hats and waved. She scolded the dog and went back to work. We kept a good distance from the dog and walked up to her.
“Good morning,” said Holmes as we approached.
She continued planting tiny green seedlings without raising her head.
The detective repeated his greeting more loudly.
“It is almost noon,” grumbled the old nun.
Indeed the sun was already high in the sky. For peasants and farmers, who woke up long before dawn, it was nearing time for lunch.
“We have been sent from the city to see you,” said Holmes.
Still nothing.
He coughed with confusion and wanted to tap the woman on the shoulder, but the dog did not like that. He barked again and tried to pounce on us. Only the strong chain saved us from a mauling. But he pulled the heavy kennel several yards before his strength gave out.
“I say, Mrs Donovann, they have sent us from the city,” the detective shouted.
“I’m not deaf,” said the woman quietly.
“Excuse me, but I need to talk with you.”
“I don’t know what I ought to tell you.”
“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague Dr Watson. We need to ask you a few questions about the convent.”
“The convent burned down long ago and I’m no longer a member of the order.”
“Nevertheless you are the only one who can answer certain lingering questions.”
“Then they will remain unanswered.”
It all seemed pointless. The abbess would not deign to talk to us and I feared that if we bothered her a moment longer she would release the barking terror upon us, whose chops were no doubt already salivating. I respected dogs and felt a creeping sense of danger in their presence ever since Holmes and I encountered the terrible fangs of the hound of the Baskervilles. I never quite lost these fears, no matter how hard I tried.
I assumed that the detective would resign himself to defeat, but I was mistaken.
He searched his pocket until he found the cross that he had discovered in the ruins the day before. Just like yesterday it shone as he held it by the chain before the eyes of the stooped nun. She paused, stopped digging in the dirt and straightened.
Then I saw her face and understood why she wore a scarf even on a warm day.
The entire left side of her face was disfigured. From her neck to the border of her grey hair ran a row of tiny scars, almost certainly caused by fire. The purplish skin which once had suffered severe burns had never completely healed. The heat had also burned off the eyebrow over the left eye, which now gaped at us blindly.
She must have been accustomed to the expressions of horror that people had when they looked on her.
She looked at us carefully and took the cross. She gripped it tightly in her bony hand and then returned it to Holmes.
“It was a long time ago,” she whispered. “It belongs to another life.”
“Keep it,” said Holmes, pressing it back into her hand. “Perhaps you have forsaken God, but he has not forsaken you.”
The nun’s healthy eye flashed and she sank her spade into the ploughed field. She put the cross in the pocket of her long skirt and wiped her mud-caked hands on her apron.
Then she glared at me. “You are a doctor?” she said, coughing.
When I replied in the affirmative the woman motioned us to follow her to the house. But she did not take us inside. We walked past the stone doorway, around the building and into a dank earthen sty, where a goat was resting on a bed of straw. The animal was obviously sick. The goat was listless and judging by the feed that lay untouched in its trough had not been eating. From the corner of the barn the old woman brought a barrel, at the bottom of which was a bit of milk. It was reddish and smelled foul.
“This is what she gave yesterday,” said the woman. “Can you help her?”
The goat had a fever and based on the colour of the milk I concluded that there was inflammation of the udder, a relatively frequent disease among goats. Although I am not a specialist, I took some tablets from my medical bag and poured out a few.
“Give her these for a couple of days,” I said. “And milk her at least three times a day until the inflammation subsides. Make sure that your hands are clean. And replace her litter; it is important that it is clean and dry.”
She thanked me. Thus we earned an invitation to tea. The detective was satisfied. Before the kettle on the iron stove had begun to whistle, he gained the coveted answers to his questions.
“We are looking for a girl - indeed now a woman - who spent several years in the convent,” he said.
“I knew everyone who passed through those doors. What is her name?”
“Her given name is Alice. We do not know her surname.”
“Alice...” she said, running the name on her tongue as though she were examining its taste. Her wrinkled face became contemplative.
“She was born in 1870 or 1871 and in 1885 she left as a ward of the family of Lord Darringford, who later adopted her,” said Holmes.
The old abbess gasped.
“I know of whom you speak,” she said. “But I cannot tell you anything about her.”