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Chapter Text

Among the many cases I have allowed to go unrecorded, this was one of the most unusual. It went unrecorded not due to its sensitivity, nor due to its mundanity; nor indeed, due to Holmes himself, who in his retirement has become increasingly reluctant to have these tales of mine published, although I suspect if I were to write about his current beekeeping endeavours, he would not object so harshly. No, this case was withheld on the basis of its unbelievability; it would most likely undermine the credibility, and claims to sanity, of myself and my companion, and if not would bring unpleasant scrutiny upon the village in which it took place. Nevertheless, it deserves to be recorded, I believe, for the matter of historical record if nothing else. 

The story in question, then, began towards the end of summer, 1889. It had been a trying few months. Our most recent case had concluded in early July, and on its conclusion Holmes had fallen into his worst depression since his return, when we had found a new understanding and, I think, some more stability in his mind. 

This, still, was not unusual for him; the sudden lack of stimulation and enforced lethargy that the fulmination of a case brings often leads to such reaction. However, in this particular instance, it was not merely the forced mental innaction and a natural propensity towards bouts of melancholy that troubled my friend, but the nature of the case itself. It had concluded in tragedy both for our client, and, (albeit in a different manner), for his wife, and the severity of this weighed heavily upon him. Moreover, the Cleveland Street scandal was ongoing, and even in his state, such news was inescapable. As, indeed, was vehement condemnation from those who would never dream of his own situation in this regard.

Thus July and most of August had been consumed entirely with glass-eyed self-recrimination on his part, and a combination of regret, sympathy and irritation on mine. Outside our little flat, the air grew heavy with perfumed flowers, turned cloying as they decayed; vibrant green exploded into reds and purples and yellows, defiant shots of colour and life amidst the grey-green smog of London. And yet, for us there was only the homogeneity of pipe-smoke. Holmes was confined by his soul's own misery, and I- out of some sense of duty, I suppose, laced with my own pitiying melancholy- joined him.

By late August, however, the rare joys of summer were no longer so smugly exuberant, had begun wilting in the oppressive heat. The scandal died away; the memory of the case, never forgotten, nevertheless became easier to bare. And as the summer slipped gradually away, so too did Holmes gradually make his way back to me, through the isolation of his own treacherous mind. 

It was on one such evening that we were sitting in companionable silence, comfortably accompanied by the thrum of traffic outside. A window had been half-opened, and the noise poured through, not unwelcome; the light breeze it allowed made an inadequate effort against the summer heat, but was a relief nevertheless. Although the sun had set, there were enough vestiges of light that I could read our correspondence with relative ease. My personal correspondence numbered only three: the first two from some former colleagues of mine, on some trifling, albeit interesting, medical matter; the third, from a boyhood acquaintance of mine, with whom I had been attempting to slowly build a friendship through the medium of frequent correspondence. The letter itself was nothing special, full of the meandering trivialities of middle-age, but the rhythm of Scots was a comforting remembrance, and I re-read the letter four times.

I then moved on to Holmes' correspondence, of which there was significantly more. I read them aloud, as was my habit; he did not move from his position, which was to be half-sprawled across the floor, head resting comfortably upon my good leg. Nor did he open his eyes, or betray any hint of listening upon his countenance, although when I brought a hand to his head in idle comfort, he leant into my touch with a feline unselfconsciousness. 

One of the letters Holmes had received betrayed itself immediately as Scottish; unconsciously, I allowed my accent, so ruthlessly suppressed, to curve and shape my vowels as i related it as follows:

Dear Mr. S. Holmes and Dr. J. Watson,

Forgive me for writing to you in this manner, but I hope you will soon come to understand the need for it.

My name is the Reverend Andrews. I have been the Reverend of Lochdubh, Ross-shire, for some seven years now, and I have found it to be a pleasant, if rural, place. The village is small and consequently close-knit, the population numbering between twenty-five and forty depending on the season; geographically, it is isolated from the rest of the county by some woodland, and the loch from which it derives its name, to the east, and the sea elsewhere. This is all to say that is fairly self-contained, and that the chance of somebody or something going unnoticed is minimal.

In May of this year, it was brought to my attention that a member of my flock believed strongly that her young child was no longer her own, but an imposter. Naturally, we were all deeply concerned, but it is known that child-birth can distort the minds of women, and so we excused the issue as medical. In June, another young child in the village was claimed to be an imposter. Then, in July, a child disappeared completely.

As you can imagine, we were much disturbed, and the whole community has attempted to find answers, but none have been forthcoming. We cannot imagine it was one of us; but neither can we provide any real explanation, nor solution.

The last time I was in Edinburgh, I read in a paper Dr. Watson's extraordinary chronicles, and of Mr. Holmes' extraordinary abilities. I beg of you, please, put your skills in use of our little community. We are at a loss, and I see no other way through.

May the Lord guide your decision, whatever it may be,

Yours, the Rev'd. Andrews,

Siorrachd Rois

It was the custom of Holmes, once I had read such letters aloud, to offer his opinion on the case. However, at my conclusion, there was only silence, and I felt myself flush in embarrassment and shame. Had he never heard my natural accent before? No, of course not- I had been taught so firmly to repress it that it had become alien to my tongue. Suppose he thought I was unintelligent, or worse, foolish, to claim back an accent that was no longer mine! Suppose he thought that I was unintelligable, ridiculous. 

“Holmes-” I began, haltingly, and inadvertently shook him out of his stupor.

“My dear Watson!” he exclaimed, clutching one hand, and grinning delightedly. “You mean to tell me that all this time I have been missing out on hearing that ? I didn't even think that you may still have the accent!’

A little shyly, I asked,’ “So you don't mind it?”

“MInd it? My dear, dear Watson, this is revelation! Why on earth would I mind it?”

His enthusiasm was infectious, and I blushed again in affection rather than shame. 

“The case?” I prompted, after the intensity of Holmes' curiosity had overwhelmed me a little. “Will you take it?”

“Of course!” He grabbed the letter out of my hand and skimmed it for himself. “A mystery indeed. And besides, how could I refuse to help with such a case as this, with missing children and such little hope? But would you?”

“I would follow you anywhere,” I declared solemnly, for it was true; and he looked at me with such affection in that moment that I was forced to look away.

“And I, you, dear fellow,” he murmured softly, and squeezed my hand in acknowledgment. 

Once it had been decided on, the journey up to Inverness was relatively simple and largely peaceful. We arrived at the station in good time, and our carriage, whilst not empty, was thankfully far from crowded, and thus not unpleasant in the residual heat. We talked a little, of small, idle things; Holmes amused me with his sly deductions regarding our fellow passengers, and then commenced sketching a planned monograph (something about soil) on the sports pages of The Times,'. I contented myself with watching the scenery flow past, particularly as we approached the border, and the foliage began to awaken a half-nostalgic fondness for the area.

Gradually, the gnarled, rugged oaks of the Lowlands began to give way to delicate birches and aspen, whose leaves swayed in perpetual motion, shimmering silver as though only half-there. Deer darted between them, little flashes that wandered fairy-like, as though afraid to disturb the woods themselves. The beauty of it, and the foreign familiarity of it affected me more than I would have supposed, and it was in a slight daze that I stepped off of the train at Inverness. 

The rest of the journey did not run quite so smoothly, however. The Inverness and Ross-shire railway could only take us so far, and the journey was much too far to travel by foot. After much negotiating, I managed to secure a dog-cart that would take us to one edge of the loch, after which we would need to obtain a boat in order to cross it.

These negotiations were carried out solely by myself, for Holmes could speak no word of Gaelic. Nor could I do much better in truth; my speech was halting, childish, and strewn with errors, and my pronunciation bore the scars of an English boarding-school education, when my natural accent was warped in order to be ‘proper’. Until that moment, I had not realised how much I resented what was taken from me, even as I was acutely aware of the extent to which I had benefited from it. 

Neither my parents, nor my aunt, had been native Gaelic speakers, although my father, by virtue of his profession, was at least serviceable. What little I knew had come mostly from Sunday school at the Kirk, which taught services in both Scots and Gaelic, in deference to the languages of the local communities. My brother, being the eldest, had been spared such rigorous indoctrination into the Kirk, although I have often wondered whether more immersion in the teachings of the Rechabites would have saved him. 

Still, I could not wallow unduly in my own misfortune, when Holmes fixed upon me that look of his, so intently focused and curious! And impressed, too, although I was sure my poor skills did not deserve that commendation. Still, there was some pride to be had as I answered his barrage of questions, and gently mocked his inability to reproduce the same sounds as I. In this manner, we passed the journey through the cold beauty of the Highlands as we neared the village of Lochdubh. 

Chapter Text

By the time we had crossed the deep dark waters of the loch, dusk had descended fully, and our short walk uphill was completed hand-in-hand through fields of shadow. In the darkness, they were deafening: rustled by the wind, shivering amongst themselves; overrun with scurrying mice, like ghosts. A cold, persistent rain had begun, and we had turned our collars up as precaution; in my good humour I took it as bracing, but Holmes, whose tolerance for the countryside and all associated weather was low, had not been so generous. He muttered mild complaints to himself all the way, which grew in vehemence as the rain gradually grew in strength, so that by the time we arrived in the village, he was both ill-tempered and soaked to the bone.

The village was dimly lit by only the good fortune of candles placed in house-windows. By a stroke of luck, however, the moon to-night, though obscured, shone clearly enough that some details were observable. The houses were all stone-wall, with small windows, all untidily squatted against each other in deference to the wind. Rough track paths wound their way between them, and connected them to the larger, neater one on which we walked. A few goats turned to watch us blankly as we huffed pass, but otherwise we went unregarded.

The inn was unremarkable from the outside, being of the same squat stone houses we had seen before. It was not a true inn; the village, unsurprisingly, got very little custom, but the widow who lived there had a spare room that the good Reverend Andrews had negotiated for us to let. From the inside, however, it was a veritable haven, being both dry and home to an enthusiastic fire. We were given a simple meal of bread and some left-over meat by our landlady, which we received silently but gratefully; and then we were led, exhausted, into the small room which was to be ours.The landlady, a stern taciturn woman of around middle-age who had introduced herself only as a bhean tí, had been kind enough to keep the fire lit, and i manoevered Holmes in front of it, with the vague hope that it would lessen his inevitable illness. 

The room was sparse: the fireplace took up the most of it, but there was a small writing-desk and chair wedged untidily into one corner, and a narrow bed ran perpendicular along the wall. There was only one bed; and although the heap of blankets upon it could have surely made up another, if need be, I could not help but be glad for it. In the privacy of our Baker Street flat, myself and Holmes have long been accustomed to sharing a bed, and even the looming threat of Holmes' taking ill, I was glad that we could continue such intimacy here. There is not, I think, much more to say: we completed our absolutions, as one must, and then, exhausted, collapsed into the narrow bed, wound around one-another, content, by as much choice as necessity.

We woke late the next morning, the sturdy shutters on the window having been duly fastened shut; the gloom was as complete in the morning as though it were still midnight. Holmes, as I had feared, had taken ill: not only was he miserably unused to the fine Scottish weather, but his lifestyle and habit meant that his constitution was poor, and he was far more liable to catch a cold than the readers of The Strand know. He had pulled on some reserve of stubborness in order to haul himself out of bed, and to properly hang his rain-soaked clothes by the fireplace, before the force of illness caught up with him, and he paused, swaying slightly. I had managed to convince him to agree that he should continue to take refuge in the inn; but I could neither get him to rest nor persuade him that I could quite happily investigate the mystery myself. Eventually, I managed to talk him into conceding the latter, but at a cost: almost manic, he began to press upon me a thousand-and-one details and facts that I presumably would not think to collect without his guiding presence. This was not unusual; I am long-accustomed to this particular habit of Holmes’, which becomes exacerbated whenever he feels unable in himself to be in control: if doctors make the worst patients, I'm sure consulting detectives cannot be far behind. Still, as I said, I am accustomed to this foible of his, and am well versed in the art of managing it: I allowed him to continue on, uninterrupted save for his own sneezing, as I chivvied him out of his bed-clothes and into a pile of thick blankets. Only once I had done this did I gently interrupt him:

“My dear Holmes, I believe I have the idea.” I squeezed his hand once, and let it fall. “Get some rest. I'm sure the landlady will bring you up some stovocks for lunch.”

He blinked slowly, in mild astonishment. “My dear doctor,” he said, pausing twice to cough so hoarsely that I winced; “My dear doctor, I believe I have been quite outwitted!”

I laughed despite my concern, and bidding him farewell, descended. I had half a mind to find our good landlady, and catching her gratefully, just as I began to cross the threshold of the inn, asked if perhaps some nourishing food could be brought to my companion. She looked distinctly unimpressed, but acquiesced without comment, and I dared to try my luck further. Cobbling together my rudimentary Gaelic, I asked her: Càit a bheil an eaglais?

She paused for a moment. Ciamar a gheibh mi dhan eaglais?, she corrected; and then, presumably more to avoid hearing my butched gaelic than out of any kind feeling, she said in Scots: the Church is at the top of the hill, past the chàrn. 

“Tapadh leat,” replied I, and after nodding once, brusquely, she went on her way.

My adventures with Holmes do much to keep me in good health, requiring as they do levels of exertion and concentration a man of my age may otherwise be at a loss to find. However, I am neither a young man, nor a hale one, and my body's protests became louder and more vehement with each loping step of my endless journey up the hill. If nothing else, I was glad that I had with me my stick; but it was an exhausted, aching man who emerged through the low, damp clouds of drizzle, seeking sanctuary in the old Kirk.

As a boy, the local kirk in Linlithgow had been St. Michael's, one of those imposingly austere behemoths that carry the weight of history with them. There was a sense, looking at it, that it had survived for hundreds of years prior- had survived fire, attempted invasion, even the destruction of St. Michael himself by the Lairds o the Congregatioun- and that it would, in time, outlive us all. The Kirk in Lochdubh had no such austere majesty. It was a low stone-wall building, squatting on the summit of the hill as though in fear of toppling over. Around it, graves and thickets of birch rose unsteadily from the ground, leaning on one-another, bowed by the force of the wind. 

The door, having swollen in the damp, was a little stiff, but with some effort it opened smoothly, and I stumbled in, carried by my own momentum. I unsteadily fell towards the wooden pews, sitting heavily upon one in relief. The ache in my leg and shoulder was a dull, persistent presence; my breath kept half-catching in my throat, and I spent a few moments recovering. Below me were the flat expanse chipped flagstones; on the walls, woolen renditions of biblical scenes hung haphazardly, interspersed with steadily melting candles and carved wooden crosses. I wondered at the church, whose sense of comfort and homeliness was anathema to the sand-glass and gruelling four-hour services that I recalled- I have only been to Anglican churches since. It inspired some uneasy feeling in me, too unpleasant to be nostalgia, and too sharp to be mere homesickness, and I confess I was a little unnerved. 

Eventually, however, I gathered my strength, and with Holmes' phantom chiding, set out to investigate the Reverend Father. 

My steps echoed irregularly on the lilting flagstones as I made my way through the church. I found no sight of the Reverend, nor anyone, in the main body of the church, and nor was there anyone in the sanctuary. Perhaps he had gone out? I sent a quick prayer that I would not have to venture outside again so soon. 

As I circled again around the cramped little wooden pews, I noticed a few stone steps descending into the shadows that trailed away from the nave; and following them accordingly, found a door, unfastened and slightly ajar. I pushed it open gingerly.

It led to an alcove, a small, neat room, dimly lit by a reluctant, flickering fire, and the dull glow of a cigar. There were two men, comfortably seated, engaged in conversation; I could only make out the face of one, and as much as I am loath to say it, I took a dislike to it instantly. It was one of those gruff, weatherbeaten faces, framed by a thick mane of grey, and with some unpleasant hardness in the eye. I hoped vaguely that this was not the Reverend; certainly, such a face seemed anathema to the homely comfort of the Kirk.

I rapped sharply on the door to announce my precence, and was welcomed in by the second of the two men.

“Fàilte, mo clann!” said he, rising with enviable ease into the light. “Ciamar a tha thu?”

This must be the Reverend, I assumed. He was a younger man than I had expected, on the cusp of middle-age- beginning to grey, but with a brightness in his eyes and vigour in his movements that spoke to continued youthfulness. His Gaelic had the same hesitancy, same stilted cadence as my own attempts, and his accent betrayed him as English (Northumbrian?) at any rate.

“Latha brèagha,” said I, and then in English: “The Reverend Andrews?”

He nodded in acknowledgment, and then laughed, a low dry sound that echoed unsteadily in the church. “An English stranger in our little village? Either Dr. Watson or Mr. Holmes, I presume?”

“The former,” said I, and shook his hand warmly. “Pleased to meet you, Reverend. Apologies for interrupting you both.” 

“And I you, Dr. Watson. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your assistance. I trust the journey was not too difficult? Sit, sit, let me get you something to drink- brandy?- some food? No? Are you sure?-” 

And then, as though suddenly remembering his companion, he paused, straightened his back, and then apologetically added: “How rude of me! Dr. Watson, the Captain- he runs the lighthouse at Gruagach Peak- Caiftean, Dr. Watson. Tha e à Sasainn. Tha e na dotair."

“Is e dotair a tha ann,” his companion corrected, with an odd gentleness I should not have thought him capable of. My regret over my hasty judgement soon disappeared, however: he turned to me, face inscrutable, and asked sharply: “You are here about the children?”

“I am. My companion and I have come from London to investigate, at the bequest of the Reverend.”

“From London!” he replied, lip curled in disdain. “What could you know about a' Ghàidhealtachd! And you invited him here, did you?"

The Reverend looked awkwardly apologetic. “Mr. Holmes is a celebrated detective-” he began.

“What good is a detective against the ———,” he said; I did not recognise the final word of the sentence.

I bristled on Holmes' behalf. “Holmes has the finest mind in the world,” said I, indignantly. “If you want this mystery solved, I should think you ought to be grateful to him for coming all this way and helping. Of course, you may have another reason to protest…”

I let my accusation hang in the air; perhaps I should not have attempted to provoke the man, at least not so early on in our acquaintance, but in truth I could not help it. How dare he insult Holmes in such a manner! The man- the Captain- looked furious, eyes blazing, and was poised to reply, when the Reverend muttered something low under his breath to him, as though instructing a dog whose hackles had been raised. The Captain did not deflate, exactly, but said nothing. Instead, he contented himself only with a poisonous look in my direction, as he stalked off into the church.

“I apologise,” said I; “I fear I lost my temper somewhat.”

The Reverend smiled, wryly amused: “As did the Captain. The weather playing havoc with his leg does not help. But I do hope,” he added, anxiously; “that he has not put you off- that is to say, we would be very grateful if-”

I waved his concerns away with a hand. “I confess, I find myself similarly afflicted by the rain; but even if I was not, we would hardly give up such a grave case for so small a thing. Holmes has been threatened for less!” I was perhaps a little too proud of this last fact, for the Reverend began to look disconcerted again. I swiftly moved on. 

“If you would, Reverend, may I ask you a few questions?”

“Of course, of course,” he said, and gestured at me to sit down. I took out a notepad and pencil; he leant forward, elbows on knees, brow furrowed; and opening onto a blank new page, I began my questioning.

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By the time the Reverend had finished speaking, dusk was beginning to settle on the village, shadows hovering above in the gravestones in wait. He offered to walk me back to our lodgings, which I accepted gratefully; on the way, he took care to point to the corresponding houses and locations that we had earlier discussed.

As we walked, I attempted to marshall my disparate notes into logical form. Holmes, I knew, would be eager to hear them; I felt a pang of regret at the fact he had spent all afternoon sequestered in our room, but it was undoubtedly for the best. A chill had picked up, one that permeated the bone, and despite my healthy constitution (and thick overcoat), I shivered.

As we trailed downhill, towards the vast watery shadow of the loch, I arranged my thoughts, a little clumsily. The Reverend had been good enough to give me a list of names of the people directly involved in the case, and I sketched vaguely the logical order in which to see them. It went as follows:

Maidred Srath Carrann, mother of Seumas Maidred Strath Carrann, who had- most concerningly of all- disappeared in July, the main impetus for our presence. With them lived the boy's father Neil Srath Carrann, his paternal aunt Sìneag Srath Carran, and both sets of grandparents. 

Bean Domhall Mharie, mother of Neil Domhall Mharie, the young boy who she had believed to have been replaced in May; she had another child of but five months, and lived with her brother, her husband and his mother.

Bean Ailig, mother of Seònaid Ailig, who she believed had been replaced in June. She lived with her husband, Ailig Iasgair, the village fisherman, and one of the few men who still made their living in Lochdubh, as well as her mother, his parents, and two small children. 

As well as the affected families, there was also:

Ciorstag McLaren, the village schoolmistress, and her brother, Seumas;

The village doctor, Dr. Macleod, who lived with his adult daughter; between them, they tended to the health of the village, including the birth and wellbeing of the missing children;

Ùisdean Seanair, the unofficial elder of the village, and general arbiter of disputes; he lived with his wife, Ceit Seanmhair;

And the Captain, whom I considered of possible suspicion. He would logically be our last visit, for the Reverend had pointed out the lighthouse to me earlier, and it was as remote as it was possible to be. It stood a solemn and silent guardian some distance away from the Kirk and village, and the suspicious part of my mind noted that its perfect seclusion was a boon to any would-be criminal.

In addition to this, I had learnt a little about the Reverend himself: an Englishman by birth, Northumbrian as I had suspected, who had been placed here early on in his career, against both his own preference, and those of the village’s inhabitants. He had said, a little awkwardly: A Sassenach priest, speaking no Gaelic, come to tell them that their customs and worship are wrong? Of course they were hostile, I don't blame them. And of course, many had heard of the clearances starting up again- you've heard of them? No, not just rumours- terrible, isn't it, what man does to man in pursuit of profit. What changed? Well, I learnt quickly the error of my ways and assumptions, let me tell you that! But time and patience does many things, and the Captain- I know, I was surprised too at first, but he’s not unkind, truly- and Kirsty, the school-mistress, they were kind enough both to teach me passable Gaelic, although my accent remains rather poor! 

I recalled the Captain's dismissal earlier that evening, the fury with which he had reacted to our offer to help, and found the Reverend's account difficult to believe; but they had been keeping each-other in company before I had entered, and I suppose that sometimes there is such sudden kinship between two individuals that such intellectual grievances are forgotten. Still, I wondered upon it, and chanced assessing looks at the Reverend as we walked, as though if caught in the right light, I would suddenly be able to see what the Captain had seen in him. 

Eventually, we reached our temporary lodgings, where I bid the Reverend an amiable farewell, and unlatching the door, allowed myself in. A lone candle flickered unsteadily in the doorway; I took it with me to light my way, and found myself a little unnerved at the shadows it threw against the walls: myself made grotesque, elongated and looming, or shrunken suspiciously.

Holmes, it appeared, had been dozing peacefully, pleasantly crushed under the weight of wool-stuffed quilts. Carefully, I placed a palm upon his head to measure his temperature; upon which his eyes slowly opened, and blearily I was greeted with a look of such bewildered tenderness, such gentle, trusting confusion, that I could hardly continue to breathe.

“Holmes,” said I, “My dear Holmes,” and no more, for I could not hope to articulate how I felt. But there must have been something in my tone, or else Holmes must have desired to sleep, for he clasped my hand in his, and murmured: Come now, dear Watson, to sleep; or shall you sit there all night staring at me? I did not need asking twice; ablutions commenced and were completed in short succession, and soon I found myself ensconced in the heavy warmth of the woollen blankets, Holmes loosely wrapped around me in quiet intimacy. I shifted a little, for my leg was afflicted with its customary aches, and the cold and strain had not helped; but presently, the pain faded tolerably, and I slipped unnoticed into sleep.

The next morning, we rose early, and, procuring a hearty meal of good porridge, discussed the previous night's events. Holmes had recovered swiftly, the excitement of a case compensating for the relative weakness of his constitution, and was eager to begin his investigations. We decided, first, to map out the village and surrounding area: from the loch and woodlands to the east, up through the village itself, further past the church and the lighthouse at Gruagach Peak, until the land ended abruptly, and there was the sea. 

The loch was a short walk away, through the village, and in the daylight its vast size was even more striking. From the shoreline, it seemed to stretch into the horizon, endless shimmering bracken-water, from which it derived its name. The Highlands, and Scotland in general, has garnered a poor reputation in recent years as to the variety of its natural landscape, and never was such dismissal proven so wrong! Green tube-like flowers gathered among the shallows of the loch, among twisting, alien vines that spanned the water like veins. Among its edge, where the boundary between land and loch blurred, stately yellow irises and pure white crawfoots swayed gently, whispering in the wind.

To the east of the loch, a thicket of silver birches and dry oaks helped secure the village's isolation from the rest of the country. We wandered along the edge of the woods, for it became so dense and tangled that we feared becoming lost; rugged grey oaks, branches gnarled by a thousand winter storms, towered among the willowy silver birches, leaves tinged with russet-red. It was, as Holmes grimly noted, all too easy a place to hide a body, or to go unnoticed, should you wish.

We returned to the village for a lunch of cold meat and bread, whilst I consulted a yellowing book of maps. Thus fortified, we then took a casual turn around the village, before heading towards the Kirk and thence the lighthouse.

Gruagach Peak, where the lighthouse was situated, turned out to be an unpleasant, jagged outcrop of rock, assaulted continuously by harsh sea-water breaking on the rocks, and by the full force of the bitter storms that crossed the ocean from the Americas. The walk from the village was steep, and uneven; from the Kirk onwards, the meagre path faded into less than a dirt track; and where the grass could not grow, and there were only rocks, they were oil-slick and black with water, and thus made walking both unenjoyable and perilous. Sheer exhaustion kept us both from speaking, as we wound our way up the hill, but as we neared the base of the lighthouse, we came to a stop, in order to recover and catch our breath. I sat down, for my leg and hips were tender with dull pain; Holmes, who for all his enthusiasm, had still the remnants of illness, did similarly. As we had been walking, the vague form of a thought had occurred to me, and thus seated it had begun to coalesce. 

Yesterday, I recalled, the Reverend had intimated that The Captain was similarly afflicted to me: the weather is playing havoc with his leg , he had said, and used it to excuse the man's poor attitude. But it seemed unlikely to me, having so labouriously completed the journey, that a man could have such an affliction and still make the journey so often. I voiced this to Holmes, who made a noise of acknowledgment, and after some thought added:

“Did you see evidence of this injury, and the extent of it, on your visit to the church?”, to which I answered in the negative; and then: “It occurs to me, too, that a lighthouse keeper must be vetted to be hale and well, if he is to be capable of manning it adequately.”

“Ordinarily yes,” said I, “But it is not unknown in these remote areas for there to be a shortage of willing and suitable candidates, and I suppose local knowledge must be valuable."

“Hm,” Holmes tapped his foot, and then abruptly sprang off to inspect the lighthouse and cliff face. I watched as he paced around, sometimes halting, sometimes drawing closer, as though following the steps to some alien dance. Eventually, he returned, and saying nothing led me back down to the village. Our descent was far slower, and by the time we reached the Kirk, dusk was again falling and we were obligated to stop and ask for directions. I had overdone it, somewhat, and the pain combined with my humiliation and my limitations to put me in an unpleasant and ungrateful mood; but I feigned exhaustion well enough to excuse myself to the Reverend, and if our landlady took offense at my short manner, she kept her own council. It was only Holmes, who, knowing me so well, was acutely aware of my limits. He said nothing, offered no platitudes or condolences, but occupied himself with lighting a fire, and called on a rare patience to help me undress and collapse into bed. Then, situating himself with care not jolt me unduly, he murmured lowly of idle things, of fleeting mundane thoughts, the rhythm of his voice keeping me company until he inevitably fell asleep. I could not so easily, and watched blankly at the still shadows. My leg tore a jagged wound through my conception of my body, and I lay in that twilight of consciousness, drifting fitfully in and out of sleep, until the morning. 

Chapter Text

The following day, I did not so much as wake as experience a minute reduction in pain, and thus enoungh respite that I felt able to open my eyes. I did not bother attempting to lever myself out of bed, knowing from experience that it would be impossible and unwise. The room was still dark, the shutters still shut and barred; but at the hint of movement, they were opened, and grey light flooded tentatively in. Holmes, eyes bright, leaned over towards me: “Ah, my dear Watson arises. I believe our good landlady was kind enough to offer to give us some,”; (here he frowned, and said carefully): “tobhtal, should you wish.”

I agreed shortly, and he sprung away to procure food from our landlady, with his earnest if lacking linguistic capabilities. Left alone to myself, it was as though the harsh daylight had highlighted not just the small room but my own disparate thoughts. Humiliation coursed through me: how foolish, to overdo myself so quickly, and thus to be rendered infirm in only four days! How humiliating, to be useless and infirm, and have Holmes playing nursemaid! And then too the usual fear, snapping at my heels like a shadow: how much more competent a companion Holmes deserved, rather than an old invalid slowing everything down! 

These thoughts were old ones, smooth and well-worn, but none the less potent because of it. I indulged myself with them until Holmes' return, triumphantly carrying hot bowls of tobhtal, when the practicalities of leveraging myself up enough to eat, and then the simple visceral pleasures of the food, crowded such thoughts from my mind. I am not so given to melancholy as Holmes, the usual dreams and nerves of a retired soldier aside; but pain has a way of infecting the mind, and allowing the harmless assumptions and comments of the everyday to grow in strength and fester.

I felt gradually the creeping sensation of eyes upon me, and looked up from my now-empty bowl to find Holmes, gazed fixed upon me, his bright eyes tracing my thoughts as though they were inked across my face. He raised an eyebrow, saying nothing; his inscrutable mouth bowed in a sort of soft sorrow, but he affected a light enough air as he asked me how I had enjoyed our breakfast. 

Through the remains of the day, he seemed content to occupy himself thus: with mundane conversation, idle gossip and observations, soft lectures in obscure branches of chemistry, and that rare thing in intelligent men, gentle, companionable silence. Had we been at home in Baker Street, he would have played some of the songs I favoured on his violin, and filled the hollowness of my pain with sweet music; it was no less sweet to me for coming from his lips, and being filled with the relative alkaline quality of soil instead. In my more lucid moments, I made some protestations that I must have been very poor company, and that surely there was the case to think of; but these were mostly habitual, for I was grateful beyond words for the comfort of his presence. And in truth, I had trust in him; we are, in one way or another, companions of old, and the rhythm of our ragged healing is familiar. I trusted, despite my raging thoughts to the contrary, that he wished to stay by my sick-bed, and relieve me; that he would not let the case suffer, and did not believe it would; that he loved me, as I did him, with the knowledge and not in spite of my old injuries and inadequacies as either a doctor or a man. 

I passed the day in a haze of pain, slipping in and out of awareness. To think coherently was a struggle; I was thrown within my mind like a ship on stormy seas, never stable long enough to obtain clarity. But whenever I emerged, however briefly, however confused, there was Holmes: steady, gentle, solid, his presence an anchor and a balm. 

Two more days passed like this, for the past few months had not been easy either, but on the fourth morning, I awoke pleasantly to find my mind blissfully clear, painless save for my arm, which ached slightly from the weight of Holmes, who had quite sweetly wrapped himself around it. I was loath to wake him, and indeed lingered over doing so; but confinement had made me restless, and eager to venture outwards, and so with a little regret I shook him awake. With all the regal indignity of a cat, he glared at me without heat; but soon we had dressed and breakfasted appropriately, with only a brief and deeply awkward interlude wherein I attempted to thank my landlady for her small kindness. Nevertheless, we were soon out of doors, and it was a relief of the simplest sort. The day was warm, with a cheerful wind, which carried on it ribbons of torn red leaves and the murmuring of innumerable bees. People moved around, purposefully but unhurried, watching us with careful curiousity but saying nothing. 

I might have quite happily spent all morning engaged in simply watching, but our visit here had purpose, and a grave one indeed. We had agreed between us that the starting point for our investigation ought to be the victim's families themselves; Holmes, perhaps due to his deficit of Gaelic, seemed unusually willing to follow my lead in deciding the order of our visit, and thus although we walked arm-in-arm, as though in London, it was I who directed our steps towards our first destination. 

The house, in many respects, was similar to all the others: squat, stone-and-timber, snaked with creeping plants and irregular patches of lichen. As we approached it, my pace slowed, for the responsibility of my task began to weigh upon me. Holmes, as though guessing the direction of my thoughts, gave my arm a gentle pat, and, unentangling himself, knocked firmly on the door before I had a chance to speak.

The door opened at once. A woman of middle-age, broad faced and sensibly dressed, regarded us with mild suspicion. 

“Latha brèagha,” she said shortly. “Cò thu?”

“Is mise Dr. Watson, tha Sherlock Holmes mar ainm dha," I said slowly, brutally aware of my weakness in the language. “Maidred Srath Carrann?” I hazarded. 

“Aye,” she said, and then in heavy English: “The Sassenach detective and his friend?” 

“We are,” said Holmes, after a moment of surprise. “You expected us, I take it?”

“Aye,” she said, opening her mouth as though to say more; she paused, and then, shaking herself a little, said: “You better come in then.”

We were settled in a sort of wide, round room, where despite the day's warmth, a fire blazed cheerfully in the hearth. Huddled in front of it were a frail, grey-haired couple, whose tone suggested fond argument; we were introduced to them, the parents of our hostess, and duly dismissed as being far less interesting than the argument at hand.

Tea was offered, and duly taken. Holmes said, fluid gestures masking his hesitancy:

“Maidred,” and then he paused, wincing, for the rhythms of propriety die hard. But he rallied himself and said again: “Maidred, if I may call you so? I see you know of us already, so I shall save you the usual introductions; but as you know, we come from London at the Reverend Andrews request to assist in solving the… tragedy of the missing children. If we may ask you a few questions? Dr. Watson is my friend and colleague; you may talk as freely before him as you would myself; and if you object to his note-taking, please say so now, and we shall, of course, desist. ”

She seemed unconvinced, but nevertheless agreed, as though humouring us in a dark sort of way.

Holmes began gently: could she tell us the current inhabitants of the house, and the inhabitants at the time of her son's disappearance? She could: herself; her parents (to whom we had been introduced); her husband's parents, of whom one, his mother, was bedbound, and the other of whom worked still as a carpenter, albeit much reduced. Additionally, there was her husband's sister, unmarried, a bit foolish, but not unkind ; and in July, her husband had returned for the harvest, from Inverness-shire, where he had found work building the railways.

A few more questions of the sort followed: her family’s relationship with the rest of the village, her relationship with her husband, and the rest. They were strangers to the village, hence the name Srath Carrann, a village some thirty miles to the south. Here she looked at me, voice steady, and requested that I translate the following from Gaelic, for there are some things for which English is insufficient. I agreed easily, as did Holmes, although I warned her that my Gaelic was much limited; I later supplemented my notes with assistance from a Gaelic dictionary. 

She spoke to her parents briefly, and doing so helped them leave the room, giving neither reason nor explanation to us. Folding her hands in her lap, as though in prayer, she began:

I was born in Srath Carran I know not when. I had three sisters, and two brothers, of whom only Mòrag na h-Aonar, Raibeart Bhan and Faolan lived to adulthood. We had a farm, and kept some cattle. Already, it was becoming difficult to manage with just that, so Faolan went to the army, and managed 7s a month for us. I married Neil, my husband, in the summer, and we had to marry Mòrag to the Laird's son, but she was unhappy and took with illness soon after. 

You have heard of the Fuadaichean nan Gàidheal? You know a little, then, distantly. We knew of it then, but we had been safe yet. Then three years the potatoes didn't come out, and we had little to eat. They sent Raibeart Bhan to the Americas, and we heard nothing from him again, and they would've sent Neill too, but that we stole away here under the night's darkness.

The people here have been good to us, and we are cut off from the mainland, so that no-one has tried to clear us yet, although we worry. The men have all had to go to find work, and I only see my husband when the harvest comes, but it brings us money for food and clothes and schooling for the child at least. 

Other than her hands, which were folded tightly together, she showed no outward signs of distress. Still, we turned away for a moment out of respect: I to my notes, Holmes to the distance, as though deep in thought. 

Then, finally, he gently broached the impetus for our investigations, the concern at hand: what could she tell us about her son's disappearance?

Her son, she said, was a child of two winters, curious, friendly, and stout as all winter-born children have to be. She had taken him down to the forest by the loch, to collect fruit from the brambles that crawled untamed out of the earth, and he had clapped in innocent delight at the sweetness and tartness of these fruits as he discovered them. She had turned away, just for a moment, when in the corner of her eye, she had seen a blurred shape, like a man seen moving through heavy rain-fall and fog, rising from the place where the loch meets the trees. And instinctively recognising it, before conscious thought, she had darted towards her son, placed only an arm's reach away, and had found nothing. 

She herself had searched long and hard; the entire village had come to her aid, had waded into the loch and trawled it with nets, had ventured as far into the forest as was possible, but to no avail. It was her belief, she said, that he had been taken by the each-uisge and killed. They had already held the funeral. Holmes looked at me curiously, and I explained lowly, whilst Maidred, stiffly begging our pardon, excused herself to fetch her husband's sister.

“The each-uisge is from folklore, a water-spirit from the sea and lochs. It is said to appear as a horse, or a man, and to entice children to their deaths.”

Holmes looked at me in disbelief, as though amazed that so sober and sensible a woman- a bereaved woman, but a sensible one nonetheless- might believe such a thing. 

“It seems to me clear enough. The mysterious man she saw either stole or drowned her son, although for her sake I dearly hope it's the former. To what end? Resentment, perhaps? Economic hardship can drive even the kindliest of people to cruelty.”

“But surely she wouldn't have come to this conclusion without reason?”, said I, more for its own sake out of any belief; privately, I agreed with Holmes that this part at least seemed simple enough.

Predictably, he shook his head. “She is in denial, presumably, that in this small village where everyone knows each other, and has been kinder to her than her life before, that someone could do such a thing. Although, of course, this is always the case in such small isolated places, where proper policing is impossible.”

I could not reply, for at that moment Maidred returned, husband's sister in tow. We were introduced to her: Sìneag, a cheerful, talkative woman, bright and quick to laugh where Maidred was stiff and sober. We agreed between us that I would take her story, whilst Maidred would take Holmes to her husband's father, the only other member of the family present who had the physical capabilities to venture as far as the loch. 

Sìneag, thankfully, had some English too, and wove between English and Gaelic with a pleasing musicality as she spoke. Her story largely matched Maidred's: the loch, the child's behaviour, the theory of who- or what- was responsible. It was, she said, shaking her head, a terrible thing to happen to the boy, and after all the family had survived as well. There was a heavy sorrow behind her cheerful facade that spoke to the cumulative weight of these tragedies, and at a loss, I asked lightly what she thought of the Captain? I cannot say why, floundering, I chose such idle gossip, nor why indeed I went straight to that unpleasant man; but she gratefully followed my lead and enthusiastically took up the trivial topic.

“Aye, you've met him then? What do you think?”

I responded, in a rather undignified manner, that I thought him odd, rather rude, quick to anger and suspicious of outsiders. 

“Aye,” she said, clearly amused by my response. “He's a queer one alright. Doesnae talk much and when he does, it's with a viper for a throat. Still,” she said, thoughtfully, “the Reverend likes him well enough, and lighthouse-keepers tend towards the strange.”

I made some vague noises of agreement, and encouraged, learnt that she considered the Reverend Andrews a good man, for an Englishman, mind , that her mother had known a lighthouse keeper who had gone mad and thrown himself onto the rocks and that her grandfather had had a childhood friend who had gone mad and joined the merchant Navy. I also learnt much of the unfounded, only half-beloved gossip that is the foundation of village social life: that it was rumoured that Kirsty McLaren's father had left her a secret fortune, that raised voices had been heard several months ago from the doctor's house, that Caitrìona na h-Aonar was walking out with Aonghas Calum, that Ìomhair Bell swore blind that Bean Calum Nèill still owed him two shillings for some grain, and much more. It was an enjoyable, light way to spend the time, and informative besides, if only to get some sort of measure on what the relationships in the village were like. 

Eventually Maidred returned with Holmes in tow, having also taken him down to see the place her son disappeared. She seemed to have warmed to him, in her reserved way, for despite his protestations, she began packing him some food for his dinner. Catching my eye, she chided Sìneag without heat: “I hope our Sìneag isn't talking you out of home, Doctair.”

The lady in question smiled back, unrepentant, even as she started moving to help prepare the food for dinner. “Bean bhaoth, they used to call me back home.”

I frowned. “Woman..”

She gestured with her hand. “Talking woman, she jumps from topic to topic?”

“Ah, of course,’’ I said laughing; ‘“How apt!”, and so it was, that despite the heaviness of our case, I left the house invigorated and with a measured fondness for these people.

As myself and Holmes made our way back down to our lodgings, we, by mutual agreement, did not discuss the case. Instead, I took great delight in relaying the gossip I had learnt, and seeing the twinkle in his eye as he gently teased me for whiling away my hours like a fisherwoman; and behind it still, I fancied I could see, as though made of cogs and gears, the machinations of his brain as he filed the idle information away, for further possible use.

Chapter Text

The next morning, we set off early, a strange restless energy animating our movements. Even I, not given to frantic turns like Holmes, felt all too eager to leave the warmth of our borrowed sanctum. The day bore little resemblance to those previous, which, although cold, had maintained the fading golden light of Summer; as Holmes impishly informed me, this was more the weather for which Scotland was famed. 

Grey light filtered dimly through the clouds, a thick fog rising up from the ground to meet it; from a distance, the Kirk looked like an island isolated in a rolling, hazy sea. We had wrapped up well, for all that the weather itself was not unduly cold, having learnt our lesson before; and soon enough, we were glad of it, for the low vapour clung on to the wool, unpleasantly wet and cool.

Our first port of call was to Ùisdean Seanair and Ceit Seanmhair, whose role in the village seemed to be something of communal grandparents, town mayors, Mrs. Grey and principal flutists, all at once. Due first to Holmes’ illness, followed then by my own bed-ridden period, we had yet to formally make their acquaintance, although the Reverend had passed our request and their acquiescence between us. Still, it was bad form, not least due to the suspicion some held over our presence; even Holmes had acknowledged the fact, albeit second to their potential as a source of information. 

Our journey necessitated crossing diagonal through the village, the land gradually reaching out of the thick fog. From a distance, the talla a' bhaile resembled little more than a large house, having been built by necessity in that same low, squat style. However, as we drew effortfully closer, weighed down as we were by our sodden clothes, certain details gently emerged. The wooden window-ledges had been carved to resemble twisted oaks; an oil lantern hung low outside, glowing brightly against the grey; and, emerging proudly from the ground, wreathed in unearthly fog, brilliant silver stone gleaming, was a strange mockery of a cross. We bent closer. Holmes traced a careful hand across it, etching out the patterns: strange, entangled runes and symbols that I did not recognise.

“Pictish, I believe,” he concluded; “6th or 7th century, given the clear Christian symbolism and lack of obvious Viking influence, but anything more than that is beyond my knowledge.”

“Holmes!” cried I, astounded. Quite charmingly, he preened, a little shy.

“Our landlady was good enough to source me a few books on the topic some days ago. It has been most fascinating; did you know, for example, that they most probably originated from Thrace north of the Aegean Sea, or Scythia in eastern Europe?”

I responded that I did not; unfortunately, however enthused he was, and however much I desired to listen to him, we could not spend all morning lingering damply outside the talla a' bhaile , and I was forced to request that he defer the explanation until we were home and dry. He made a show of grumbling, as if to cover for his previous enthusiasm, but nevertheless acquiesced easily and rapped sharply on the door. 

The door swung upon, and to our surprise, and evidently hers, a cheerful young girl rushed out, narrowly avoiding colliding with us. 

For a moment, we watched one-another blankly.

“Ah- Latha brèagha,” Holmes began, seemingly at a loss; I in turn opened my mouth to speak. As if startled back into motion by his words, the girl turned to shout something behind her; and then, flashing us a polite smile, bounded away, unconcerned, into the fog.

From inside, a voice cried: Come in, come in! A woman appeared, basket on her hip, grey hair thickly plaited behind her head. The Reverend’s friends? Come on in then, don’t stand around outside waiting to catch your death! Holmes may not have understood her words, but her tone was clear enough; we were ushered in, and there was a twinkle in his eye as he listened to her amused chastisement. 

We were bade to sit, and did so gratefully. A boy of around sixteen or so came silently to stoke a fire, seeming thoroughly uninterested in us; in turn, we easily ignored him in favour of peeling off our outer layers and hanging them up to dry. 

Whilst we sat, I quietly answered Holmes’ questions, for his insatiable curiousity was only matched by his lack of Gaelic. As I have mentioned, my own was poor, and my engagement with what one might term its culture minimal; but being among Gaelic speakers, and those still following the rhythms of its practises, had stirred vague recollections in my mind. The hall we were in, for example: it was nothing remarkable to look at. The fire blazed low in the heath; the floor had been covered in powder-dust and straw, and fibres and animal-hair, and most likely crumbs. A series of small windows covered the room and caught the light. Northwards, towards the sea, the stone shadows of abandoned dúns could be seen, traipsed over, unregarded, by a fold of shaggy brown cattle. 

But within me a distant memory arose, of boys I had played with whose fathers still held cèilidhean, and of their descriptions; and it animated the shadows and straw and dust, until phantom dancers twirled through the room, and the walls sung those old stories and songs, of faeries and the washing woman and old Cailleach Bheurra, the winter queen. I felt very keenly a sense of loss not owed to me; and Holmes, noticing I had fallen sombre, laid a light lithe hand by mine, as close a comfort as was allowed.   

Still, I could not indulge myself long, although slight melancholy plagued me for some time. The woman returned, her husband in tow, their lined, smiling faces and keen eyes reflecting one-another. We were introduced formally to Ùisdean Seanair, Ceit Seanmhair ; Holmes, bowing deeply, valiantly attempted the same. I myself felt some small persistent guilt, for it had taken us long to introduce ourselves and beg permission; but however deserved, it was unfounded. The pair were cheerfully dismissive of my mangled apologies; were pleased to answer Holmes’ translated questions, and pleased him by asking many intelligent ones in return. There was a teasing fondness between them, gentle mockery whose affection went beyond my limited language, and yet still rang clear; I thought again, melancholy, of my parents, whose marriage had been that of acquaintances: polite, but distant. They were kinder judges of character than Sìneag Strath Carran, but no less astute: the Captain was a dutiful man, solemn but not unkind ; the Reverend overly dependent on his books, but otherwise good, for an English-man. The doctor, who we had yet to meet, was judged as reliable and skilled ; a little strangely, Ceit Seanmhair added, under her breath as though to her husband only: he’s cunning, mind, the soul of a fox; and poor Fionngal! to which he gave her a look of understanding, and said no more. It was informative and enjoyable both, a rare stroke of luck in our profession; but we had many other commitments, more grave than this, and so once the conversation had circled around to the ancient Picts, I broke in to take our leave. It was with not a little regret: Holmes, clearly, had been enjoying himself, and the talla a' bhaile had stirred in me memories, shamefully contorted and forgotten.

As we left (I, still hazy in memory; Holmes, flushed with pleasure), Ceit Seanmhair placed a hand on my arm.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes, she said; we have a word of advice for you, if we may. It is your will to listen or to not. But be careful; there is a reason we still tell the old stories and sing the old songs, for there is value in them that our ancestors knew, and hoped us to receive. Perhaps you think us superstitious and backwards, and perhaps there are those among us that believe you to be ignorant and blind. And as is so often the case, perhaps neither of us are seeing the truth. Beannachd leibh. 

I thanked her- thanked them both- and Holmes did the same. And then, we were thrust once more from warmth and good company and into the cool grey midday. We descended again past the Pictish cross, still glowing an eerie silver in the faded light. Our over-coats, despite the fire, were still heavy with damp; we trailed through the fog, which had grown oppressively thicker, absorbing yet more vapour as we did so. Privately, I despaired of Holmes’ health, for his constitution has borne a great many trials and his spirit the same, and I had a constant fear of him one day taking ill quite permanently.

Inevitably perhaps, but no less embarrassing for it, we soon got lost in the fog. Tall hazy grey pillars caged us in and played tricks on our minds, so that a stout craggy rock became a house, became a person, became a tree, and hopelessly, we stumbled onwards, blindly feeling with our feet. After some time of this- I cannot begin to guess how long, for in the enveloping grey, time was frozen in perpetuity- but eventually, we developed enough sense of physicality to chase the ground’s incline, and it grew steeper and steeper until we reached the Kirk. From here, the fog seemed to drown the entire village, as though it had been swallowed completely by a rancourous sky. By this point we were exhausted, sodden, and thoroughly fed-up; and I tilted towards the Kirk door gratefully, hand poised to knock. 

However, before I could announce my presence, and thus hopefully procure some warm food and a fire, Holmes grasped my hand and pulled me to the side. With a mischievous glint in his eye, he motioned at me to be silent, and then to follow him as he lay one ear on the door. Despite my extreme discomfort- despite my deserved annoyance- I could not bear to snap at him. Holmes the busybody indeed! I murmured affectionately, and he treated me in return to a sharp grin. 

At first it was only the voices that were distinguishable: the gruff, lilting tones of the Captain, fluidly moving between Gaelic and English, and the more impassioned, almost frantic English of the Reverend. As we listened, however, the hum of voices slowly coalesced into words, and then began to arrange themselves into sentences. 

Fortunately, there was nothing untoward in what they said; I felt warmly towards the Reverend, although I had my reservations about his friend, but it is an unfortunate truth that being a clergyman is often no obstacle for the determined criminal. Their debate appeared to be not on the kidnapping of children but instead on Luther and Erasmus, although I heard little of it; curiosity thus sated, Holmes knocked imperiously. The effect, I suppose, was rather diminished by the way he waddled in, weighed-down and soaked to the bone, and the Reverend caught my eye as he bit back a laugh. Holmes’ disgruntled expression put me in mind of a stray cat I had fed occasionally as a child (a tabby called, unoriginally, Baudron ), whose expression upon getting caught in the rain was uncannily similar.

Meanwhile, the Captain, in his usual brusque manner, had forgone the pleasantries; he had instead disappeared into the adjoining house, a small cottage which I took to be the Reverend’s, and we were led there through a small door to find him stoking a fire. We stripped gratefully to our under-clothes, and were placed in front of the fire with blankets; any misgivings about the man I had paled in comparison to my desire for warmth. He then hurried away, while the Reverend fluttered his hands ineffectually, and apologised for the mess; it occurred to me that the Captain seemed strangely familiar with his house, and strangely at ease in it too; but my thoughts were sluggish and mostly tied to my body, and its relative position to the heat of the fire. I could not find any significance in it, and although Holmes might well have done, even in this state, the well-meaning hovering of the Reverend forbade asking. Regardless, any embryonic suspicions I had were well and truly forgotten when the Captain returned, and placed in front of us hot sugared porridge, which we devoured, quite rudely, almost instantly. 

We spent perhaps an hour in total recovering in the care of the Reverend, who cheerfully accepted his friend's mastery of his house and seemed content to follow his instructions, at least as far as our care was concerned. Blood flooded back into Holmes' cheeks, and life into his eyes; it was only by the contrast that I realised how pale and drawn he had been before. My own hands tingled painfully, my situation similar. Sated and warm, we lazed in front of the fire under the pretence that our overcoats had yet to dry, the teasing soft conversation of our companions drifting from the kitchen in the background. I wondered again at the unusual nature of their friendship, the closeness- but I could not fix upon a thought for long, and inevitably, I drifted into sleep. 

We were shaken awoken an hour later, startled, shamefaced, and not a little embarrassed. Professionals indeed! thought I, but our lapse was taken in good humour by the Reverend, who walked us through to the door. We thanked him profusely, and passed our thanks on to his friend, who had returned to his lonely vigil in the lighthouse. And then, gently amusing ourselves at each-others expense ( falling asleep in the afternoon! An old man already, my dear doctor? Hardly, my dear, although what would be said if the Times heard of Sherlock Holmes’ tendency towards an afternoon nap…) , we made our journey back down the hill. 

Our destination was an unremarkable little house nestled inbetween others similar. We were to see Bean Domnhall Mhairi, who had lost her son Neil, and believed that another had taken his place. Holmes rapped the door sharply.

The door opened cautiously, and from behind it emerged a young woman with a pale, wan countenance that seemed to reflect the emerging sun.

“Bean Domnhall Mhairi?”

“Latha brèagha,” she replied, politeness winning out over unease. “Cò thu?”

“Is mise Dr. Watson, tha Sherlock Holmes mar ainm dha," I said slowly. “A bheil Beurla agaibh? na braid Scots?”

“A little,” she replied in English, explaining: “My children learn a little and my husband works in the mines in Aberdeenshire. You speak Gaelic?"

“Only a little. I was born in Linlithgow- near the border? My friend, however, speaks none.” 

Holmes smiled wryly: “English all the way, I'm afraid.”

“A Lowlander and an Englishman? The detectives, then.”

Nowhere does news travel faster than small villages, it is said; but then, nowhere are secrets more closely kept. I wondered how much she had already heard.

I replied: “Indeed, Holmes is a famed consulting detective in London and beyond- if we could come in?”

Seeing her reluctance, Holmes said: “We wish to ask you a few questions, and look around, that is all.” After a moment's thought, he added: “We have just come from the talla a' bhaile,” frowning a little at his own pronunciation.

Her hesitation was still evident, but she agreed, and beckoned us into her home. It was a tidy cottage, without being neat; all the usual signs of living were evident, cluttered on tables and by the door. Tea and biscuits were offered, and politely refused; her husband's mother, Mharie na h-Aonar, was sitting in the kitchen hulling barley, and acknowledged our presence only with a small huff of dismissal. 

Bean Domnhall Mharie - Ceit, as she was rightly called- was a quiet, nervous woman, wringing her calloused hands, as she answered Holmes’ questions: about her family ( Mharie , Ceit, her two children; her husband and brother worked elsewhere), their relationship with the general village (good; Mharie played fiddle in cèilidhean and they were well-known by all), and her parentage (born-and-bred Lochdubh, as was her husband). As she talked, the nervousness did not dissipate, and she darted glances to Mharie na h-Aonar; Holmes, with deliberate gentleness, asked her whether she would rather conduct the interview elsewhere.

“The town-hall, perhaps? Or the church?”

She shook her head, smiling weakly. “No, no, that is unneeded.” 

I asked quietly if it was her mother-in-law that she was afraid of, for these things are not unheard of, and the old woman looked as tough as any I have seen. But still, she shook her head: 

“Mharie helps look after the children and the house, she would not do me any ill. We get on well.”

And then, lowering her voice: “But- my husband did not have to leave until last year, and although all the men in the village must, or almost all, it was I who told him to go and made sure he went through with it. We need the money, you understand, it is not easy- but neither is it easy for a mother to have her son leave, still less at the bidding of his wife. She does not dislike me, you understand; but I think she blames me for that, and for-”

She ducked her head, looking suddenly like a shy child, but when she met our gaze, her face was steeled, and there was an old, maternal pain in her eyes.

“You wish to know what happened, do you not? Very well. “

Her son, she began, was a child of five or six; loud, excitable, a boy for whom scraped elbows and scabbed knees were a fact of life. He had been down by the Loch- it had been early May- amusing himself with childish play, when he had tripped and cut his finger, and run red-faced and teary-eyed home. She had thought nothing of it, had in fact paid little attention, for her youngest had been born but a week previous. However, (and here her face bore a spasm of guilt); however, it had not healed, but bled a sluggish rusty crimson for a week and then another, and his grandmother, Mharie, had tried all she had known to fix it, but to no avail. She had taken him to the doctor’s, where he had dismissed their concerns easily; and with an ill heart, Mharie had brought the boy back and tucked him into his bed. The next morning, it had been Ceit who discovered him, this son who was not her son.

Mharie had, unheard, crept in from the kitchen, and glared protectively at us over Ceit's shoulder. She said something curtly that I could not understand; apologetically, Ceit said:

“She wants me to tell you that it's clear as anything. He’s a changeling-child, though we’ve kept silver and given bread; but she says it's their response, to us sending away all the menfolk- almost all, at any rate. And that no good’ll come of Englishmen asking questions of us in our own homes.” And then, quietly: “She blames me, I think, for sending Domnhall away, and not taking Neil as seriously as I should've done.”

Holmes and I looked at each-other, lost, for there was little we could provide in terms of comfort. Mharie continued to glare at us, silently apportioning blame for Ceit's unhappiness.

“May I ask,” said I, eventually, “how exactly do you know that he is a changeling?” I winced a little as I said the word, feeling very foolish and unscientific. Nevertheless, she answered thus, slipping into Gaelic as she spoke:

“He doesnae talk much any more, nor laugh. Just watches, sits and watches, and copies us hulling the crops with his little hands. And he'll only really eat some things, milk and wheat and barley, simple food. He just sits for hours, or goes slowly in circles. Course, some folk'd treat him badly,” she confided, “but we know it's not the boy's fault they've stolen our Neil and replaced him, and they take kindly to folk who take care of their own. Still he gives me the —-.” 

I admitted that I did not understand the last word, and she said in English: “It makes me unhappy, uncomfortable, like there are ants running over me. You know? And his eyes, that's it.”

“His eyes?”

“His eyes are grey, like silver-metal,” she said, and her blue eyes shone with tears. 

I averted my eyes, giving her a minute to regain her composure; Holmes, beside me, had gone quiet and drawn and avoided all my subtle attempts to gain his attention. He seemed curiously disinclined to speak- perhaps the tale had disturbed him unusually?- and thus it fell to me to continue. 

“Do you think we may see your eldest son for ourselves, Ceit?”

“The tàcharan ?” She smiled wanly. “Aye, he's just in the kitchen.” 

The child indeed was as she had described: pale, with inscrutable grey eyes, watching closely; with clumsy, child hands he was attempting to copy his grandmother as she briskly hulled the barley, quietly humming discordant notes that jarred in the silence.

As we left, Holmes stiffly but politely bade farewell; and then, faux-casually, he turned at the doorway and said:

“Once last thing, if you will. What colour are your husband’s eyes?”

Bemused, she said: blue. 

“And your brothers?” 

Blue also .

And then, nodding sharply, he strode away, the shadows at his heels, and I was forced to limp along uncomfortably fast to keep up.

“Holmes!” I called, “Holmes!”

As I drew closer, my concern at his strange behaviour deepened: a peculiar shadow had fallen upon his face, turning the set of his mouth mournful and his eyes dark and angry. 

“Holmes,” I said, almost pleading, “Whatever is the matter?”

I brushed an arm close to his, intending comfort; but he drew away, as though burnt, and turning away sharply said: “I shall investigate the lighthouse, I think,” and with the full force of his tall frame headed rapidly in that direction. 

I could not hope to keep up, and felt not a little hurt; but it was with a great unease that I returned to our lodgings. My sense of foreboding was only worsened by the dull dusky sky, for the streamed grey clouds seemed to me, as they moved, to be the fluid silver of the changeling-boy’s eyes.

Chapter Text

That evening, I dined alone, ears half-cocked to the sound of invisible footsteps or knocking at the door. The wind had picked up, a sort of dull roar, but the sky remained streaked with grey clouds. Holmes did not return.

I completed my night-time absolutions with deliberate slowness, as though to put off the inevitable; and still, Holmes did not return. I wondered if I ought to stay awake, hold vigil, but experience told me otherwise; it would help neither of us, if, come morning, we were both tired and frustrated and miserable. I did have half a mind to fall asleep in the armchair, and leave the bed untouched to make a point; although what sort of point, I had only a vague idea, and in the end, I did not. Comfort won out, for exhaustion was weighing down upon every inch of me, transmutating my bones into lead, my blood into tepid, sluggish water. I collapsed into bed carefully, into the warmth where the bed-warmer had until recently lain; and even as I did so, it seemed to me that I was fading, carried away into sleep.

I was coaxed from my dreams into awareness so gently that I almost did not register it. The room was dark, a solid blackness that magnified and sanctified the slightest sensation, the smallest sound. Cool hands ghosted mine, rough in places, soft in others, and I reached for them even as my mind struggled to keep up.

“Holmes?” said I, into the darkness, and reaching out brushed against the softened angle of a cheekbone.

“Watson, dear Watson,” he murmured, taking my hands in his. I was acutely aware of concurrent sensations: the weight and grasp of his hands, the texture; the uneven shapes of faded scars, and knuckles swollen with encroaching arthritis; the sound of my own breathing, hideously loud to my own ears; the steady beat of my heart, which impossibly quickened, when, unseen, he brought my hands towards him and kissed them softly. 

I made a small noise of questioning; carefully, fondly, he kissed it from my lips, and again and again until it took great effort to pull far enough away to hear rather than feel his murmured apology. 

I reached blindly to my left, where a small table stood, and where I recalled leaving my match-box and cigar, and shuffled the box in the darkness to draw from it a match-stick. The match flared to life, and took it easily. Holmes, understanding my actions, had, unheard, fetched a candle from the mantlepiece, and held it towards me. I lit it; the candle threw shadows across the room and illuminated Holmes in front of me.

Even like this- obviously exhausted, wearily guilty- there was something artistic in the way the light touched him, turning sharp features with stark chiaroscuro into something Romantic and baroque. His long, elegant hands cut neatly through the air; a healthy flush coloured his face like a young woman, a revealing tendency that I was amused by and fond of in equal turn. He allowed my scrutiny, only asking wryly: “And? Am I up to scratch, as they say?” Anxiety, hidden well, nevertheless coloured his voice, the question more in earnest than first appeared. 

“Holmes,” I said hoarsely, and faltered; and then, rallying myself: “You could start by explaining yourself, first.” I aimed for stern, but drifted inevitably towards gentle fondness, which at the least seems consistent in my relationship with Holmes. 

His eyes darkened, and again a shadow crossed his face. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and exhaled only air; his hands twisted into each-other, and wound themselves impatiently in his hair as he struggled for words. Eventually, he said:

“I must begin again, Watson, to tell you of my apologies. My behaviour towards you was most unpleasant, and to Mrs. Domhall Mharie also, and I can only apologise. But-”

He stopped again, frowning, irritated with his own limitations. 

“It- something to do with the changeling-child?” I hazarded, and his face cleared gratefully.

“Changeling-child!” He shook his head in disgust. “You recall, I hope, her descriptions of- her evidence for- this accusation?”

I thought. “She said he didn’t talk or laugh, that he ate plain food- copied them, seemed completely different from before, and had grey eyes.”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, eyes alight. “And that alone is enough to condemn him as alien. Excuse enough that she would be forgiven for treating him poorly. Nevermind that he has done nothing to deserve it- nevermind that such children do occur naturally.” 

Whatever expression he discerned upon my face, he must have taken it to be disbelief, for his mouth twisted unpleasantly and he said: “You would say that there is nothing wrong with me, correct? In the more general sense I mean, all vices aside. I am not an alien; I function in high society well enough (when I wish to, that is). But I did not naturally talk or laugh, and Mycroft still does not to this day; Mycroft was quiet and copied adults studiously, I spent hours pacing in neat circles. Such myths are only used to dismiss unusual children, to ill-treat them or pathologise them! But I confess, even I was surprised at the extent to which hearing it angered me.”

He sagged then, confession extracted, and my mind raced. Holmes has always been reticent about his past, and his brother Mycroft even more mysterious; but it was clear yesterday evening had stirred up old hurts. I opened my arms, and he collapsed into them gratefully, a sharp, pleasant weight against my chest. 

“I understand your objection to the idea now, I think. But the eyes?” said I, half absently, to his hair. I was remembering his final conversation with Ceit: two blue-eyed parents do not make a grey-eyed son.

He shrugged awkwardly, for his position was not conducive to such range of movement. “It is not uncommon for children’s eye colour to shift, as you are well aware.”

We sat like this for some time, half-dozing. Quietly, as though continuing an earlier conversation, he said:

“I went to the lighthouse, as I said.”

“Hm?”

“To the Captain?" I pulled a face, and his soft laughter echoed through me. “He thinks the same, I believe. Changeling-children. He doesn’t approve of us, you know. Englishmen. Although he seems to manage the Reverend well enough.”

And then, thoughtfully, he said: “He mentioned something though, about the doctor. Doctor Macleod, I believe his name is? Apparently, this February, he was near-dead with sickness, to the point where the last rites were done and it was only a matter of days. And then, suddenly- he was fine. More than that, he was healthier than before, and within the week was again seeing patients and going for walks. What do you make of that?”

I was not, it should be said, at my most awake; but even so, I was puzzled, for it seemed to me most unusual, even without taking into account the doctor’s advanced age.

“Who was tending to him in his illness?” I asked.

“His daughter, I believe, although if she has medical knowledge, she is not given a chance to use it outside of the bare minimum midwifery.”

I intimated that I would like to have a conversation with the doctor, and he agreed that would be wise; we drifted again into somnolent silence.

Quietly, into Holmes' hair, I felt without meaning to the words tripping out from my tongue. I heard myself whisper: “It was very unkind of you, to leave me like that.”

“I know.”

“I thought you might have- I thought something-”

He took my hands in his, and brought them to his mouth. “I know, dear Watson, I know and I can only apologise.”

“Don’t do it again.”

He sighed. Fiercely, I said: “Promise me,” but he said nothing, only sighed again. 

“I will not make promises I cannot keep,” he said, an echo of a worn argument in his tone. We had had it many times, knew our parts to play and lines by rote: his drug use, his throwing himself into danger at a moment’s notice, his faking his death, and all the rest. When we were young they had been blazing passionate rows, of which much crockery were unfortunate casualties; time and experience had made us gentler with one-another, more accommodating, but the bones of the argument, well-polished, were the same. 

I sighed, deeply, swallowing down my petty responses; I felt him deliberately relax back into my arms. By mutual, silent agreement, we left the ghost of the argument where it lay, half-summoned, and slept peacefully in one-another's arms until the morning sun rose well to extinguish such thoughts.

In an act of indulgence, we spent the morning lazing in bed, only venturing out into the village as the Kirk bells rang eleven. Holmes, despite my promise of forgiveness, was clearly reluctant to stride ahead and kept a-pace with me, talking cheerily all the while. He had taken the opportunity, yesterday night, to find out more about the changeling myth, and other adjacent myths besides, and entertained me with far-fetched theories about whom among our London acquaintances might be a Wirry-cow or the Nigheag Bheag A Bhroin. 

We visited first Bean Ailig, whose daughter, Seònaid Ailig, was believed to have been replaced in June. The tale was similar, and gravely told: a girl of six summers, intelligent, quiet, too curious for her own good, disappeared where the woodland met the loch. In her place, we were introduced to the so-called changeling-child: solemn countenance, queer grey eyes, serious and silent with strange behaviours. I recalled Holmes’ words, about himself and his brother; and noticed too the eyes of Bean Ailig and her husband, both brown, and struggled to come to any firm conclusion. I am a man of science first and foremost, a doctor; and long association with Holmes has only cemented my allegiance to the empirical and rational. And yet- some undefinable instinct, some childish recollection insisted otherwise. My father had been firmly against ‘superstitious nonsense', but the vague shape of folk stories were inescapable, in the air, and I knew the rhythm of them despite my learning. The Fair Folk didn’t take children without cause, I remembered that; there was a reason, always a reason. 

As we left, I remained silent, racking my mind for some sort of coherence; understanding of my own thoughts and feelings eluded me, slipping away like quicksilver. Holmes, beside me, remained equally lost in thought; about what, I cannot say, although the distress he had felt so acutely yesterday seemed much tempered today. 

We continued thus preoccupied as we circled our way back into the village centre, and to a house larger than the others, bearing the name of  leigheasach taigh, the healing-house. Holmes hissed: Watch the daughter. And the doctor’s health, the last syllables fading into the susurration of wood-on-stone as the door was opened.

A woman of around middle-aged, with a sensible countenance and neat dress, bowed her head to us in greeting; a loud voice from the adjacent room interrupted any introductions she might have made. Daughter or wife, or servant perhaps; I was not sure. We followed her in.

Dr. Macleod was a wiry old man, surprisingly spry for his age and in, as far as I could tell, excellent health; he leapt up to greet us, warmly shaking our hands and calling for a fire and some brandy. The woman- he had yet to introduce her, or exchange any words beyond a call for the above- disappeared obediently, reappearing in an instant. 

Myself and Holmes began our introductions, by now a familiar rhythm; but we were soon derailed by Dr. Macleod’s effusiveness, for it transpired he had heard much of us. He bombarded us with questions: everything from the obvious (What was London like?) to the professional (What did I think about the latest developments in a cure for Typhoid fever?) to the curious (How on earth did Holmes manage to solve the case of the Speckled Band?). He was intelligent enough to be engaging, flattering without being syncophantic, and his warm manner and good humour won me over quickly. I could not help but compare him unfavourably to that strange man, the Captain. 

The only unpleasant occurance- or, perhaps that is too strong a phrasing. We had drifted towards debating the appropriateness of chloroform use in childbirth, to which Dr. Macleod was vehemently opposed, although his manner remained pleasant. I, myself, had been convinced of its positives many years previous by a colleague, who had studied under the respected Dr. Snow- who had made use of chloroform to the Queen, no less, proving his faith in the method quite dramatically. Dr. Macleod’s his daughter Fionngal (for that’s who she was) was occupied with stoking the fire- and quietly, but firmly, said to the cold grate:

“That’s not true,” as her father asserted that chloroform ran the risk of drugging the unborn child at the same time. He made a dismissive noise.

“Is the fire lit yet, Fionngal? No? Well once that’s done, why don’t you prepare some lunch for the doctor and Mr. Holmes. No, no, I insist- it’s no trouble at all-”

“Ach,” he said, after she’d left, fire blazing in her wake. “Don’t mind her. She’s been very good to me, you know, looking after me and suchlike. Never got any offers for her hand, bless her. But she has these silly ideas, thinking she knows about these things, just because I let her learn how to read and do the odd call- women’s work, calming down children and the like.”

The conversation moved swiftly on to other things, and nothing more on the issue was said. Eventually, after a few attempts, swiftly diverted, Holmes managed to swerve the conversation on to the issue of the changeling-children.

“Mere superstition, of course,” the doctor chuckled; “A man of science like you, I’m sure you’ll agree. Female hysteria- not uncommon in mothers, as you’ll know, Dr. Watson- and what seems to me a terrible but not extraordinary accident.”

Holmes smiled tightly. “Forgive me, doctor, but this appears to be quite an unusual view among the people of this village?"

“Well, it's nothing like London, I’m sure. The people here tend to be far less… perceptive, far less scrutinising.”

“I see,” said Holmes, and gave me a look. 

“Doctor Macleod,” I began awkwardly, and then coughed. “I wonder if I could talk to you privately, for a moment.”

A brief hint of panic filmed over his eyes, but his response was easy enough: “Of course, dear boy! Mr. Holmes, just call on Fiona if you need anything- she understands English well enough, but feel free to point if she’s not quite understanding it.”

Not long after, we took our leave, the doctor’s summons for his daughter faintly echoing behind us. I relayed what I had learnt to Holmes when I had, privately, broached the subject of Dr. Macleod’s ill health and his miraculous recovery. I couldn’t bear the idea of leaving Fionngal all alone. It would’ve broken my heart. And to leave the village doctorless, too- you understand, Dr. Watson, what it is to have such a duty? I did; it has been many decades since, but I will not deny that at times, I feel still a lingering guilt over my discharge from war, see still endless rivers of helpless lax faces in my dreams. It is a curious thing, the duty of a doctor, so much more complex than the duty of a soldier.

The bent of my thoughts kept me quiet as we traversed the village, making our way to the outskirts; but by the time the path began to trail off, I had shaken myself out of it enough to remark lightly on a swooping bird, and its uncanny resemblance to Holmes, who cackled delightedly and declared me quite cruel! Our destination was small, neat house, closer to the Kirk than the loch; against the far wall, a tree had grown in that peculiar fashion of flatness; around it, crude chalk drawings betrayed the frequent presence of children.

We knocked; the door swung open, and a woman emerged: about forty, with dark hair curled neatly away from her face. 

Good morning, said Holmes, in clumsily Gaelic; Kirsty Maclaren? 

“Aye,” she said, levelling at us a stern look. “I was wondering when you’d be round. Better come on in, then, if you must.”

The school-mistress, the Reverend had said, and traces of it seemed evident: her hands, slightly ink-stained; her dress, oddly creased by the grasping of little hands; and her countenance, which betrayed her as kind but firm.

We were guided to sit in an unremarkable little room, wooden-beamed and stone-walled, notable only for the sheer number of books, which crept up against the wall onto an oak desk.

We explained, briefly, what we wished to know, in English. I did not see the need to ask if she would prefer Gaelic; I knew from the Reverend Andrews that she was one of the few native English speakers in the village; he had mentioned how helpful she had been on his arrival, an English priest sent unhappily to a strange land who were none too happy to have him either. 

“What can you tell us about the missing children, Miss Maclaren? You knew them, I assume.”

“Aye,” she said, “I knew them all, of course I did. It's hard not too, in a village this small. I taught Neil Domhall Mharie- he’s a wild one, he is, and with a sweetness to match. And I taught Seònaid Ailig too, poor girl, she’d just been learning her letters.”

“I see,” said Holmes, and then, carefully blank: “And these- changeling- these changeling children, your opinion on them? Do you think they are so?”

She opened her mouth to speak, and then stopped, giving Holmes an inscrutable look. Carefully, she said: “Mr. Holmes, if you’ll forgive me, I think I know how you feel. You think that changeling children are just stories, backwards stories, to explain what people don't want to understand. ”

Holmes’ gaze turned guarded, coolly assessing, but there was no trace of surprise in his tone. “And you disagree, I take it?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, to be sure, there are children born old and quiet and there's nothing more to it than that. But when children turn suddenly, that's something else. I see them all the time, these children. You can tell. I won’t have anyone treat them poorly on my watch, I won’t; but no child goes so suddenly quiet and queer, so suddenly- lost. And the eyes, too.”

“You’ve noticed?” said I, surprised, and saw a flash of exasperation across her face before she schooled it into neutral politeness. 

“Its difficult not to,” she said wryly.

Holmes said: “Lost?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Lost, you said they went lost. What did you mean by that?”

“I just- like they don’t belong here, and they’re learning how to behave and talk all over again. Like they’ve forgotten.”

For some moments after she finished speaking, Holmes continued to watch her in silence, keen eyes scrutinising her, hawk-like. She remained admirably still, gaze even, unimpressed; from experience, I know that the full intensity of Holmes’ judgment can be rather unnerving, and I have seen stronger men crack under the strain. 

Holmes watched her, inscrutable; she returned his gaze calmly. And then, suddenly, a quick sliver of a smile crossed his face. The very picture of courtesy, he said: 

“Most illuminating, thank you. I wonder- it's a remarkably balanced perspective that you have, on the topic of folklore compared to science. There is much to commend it.”

If she was affected by this flattery, her manner changed little. Unfolding her hands from her lap, she replied:

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you aren't giving everyone enough credit. You seemed surprised at my views; my mother was Gàidhealtachd- long dead, Lord rest her soul- but my father was a folklorist, he wrote about this sort of thing. Robert Alexander McLaren- you may have heard of him?”

“I'm afraid not,” said I, but Holmes, tapping distractedly upon his leg, said: “McLaren, McLaren. Aha! There was an obituary, was there not, in the Sunday Times some time ago, for an Englishman bearing that name? From Kent, or some such southern county, if memory serves. Scottish, once, the name suggests.”

“Aye,” she said, smiling a little.  “I'm surprised you remember. His sister put it in the papers, though she'd had nothing to do with him once he married.”

And then, well-worn grief colouring her words: “He disappeared four summers ago where the woodland meets the Loch. They all said he drowned.”

Holmes, eyes flaring like a greyhound, pounced upon her language: “You disagree?”

She shrugged. “I see why they thought it, make no mistake. He wasnae happy after mamaidh died, and there's many a tale of people slipping into the loch, especially in the dark.”

Holmes looked at her curiously, and she continued:

“They didnae find a body, for one thing, although Ailig Isegar says that's usual. But- oh, it's easier if I show you,” and saying so, she left the room, coming back with a folded piece of paper.

“He left me this. Seumas- Jamie, that's my brother, he doesn’t know about this. I thought it better he make his peace with it and move on.”

Carefully, Holmes unfolded the paper, which bore clearly the wear of repeated reading. It was written in an elegant, if untidy hand, and read:

Mo eudail, Ciorstag,

If you are reading this, all I can say is that I'm sorry, and I hope that one day you can forgive me. I have been allowed a kindness through my years of careful study, but only on certain conditions, my silence being one of them. Please, do not try to follow me, no matter how tempted you may be. I hardly need to tell you to take care of your brother, but let him do the same for you.

There is a book by the hearth that I was working on with your mothers help, before she died. I leave it for you, my life's work, and all I have left of my wife. Even my memories seem to fade.

I love you, and I hope you find the same peace that I have.

Dadaidh.

“The book is by the hearth still; I can show you it if you want?”

Her question was directed at Holmes, who gave no indication of hearing it, still preoccupied with the strange letter; I nodded and she went again to fetch it.

It was a manuscript made up of string-bound pages, entitled The Truth Behind Highland Myths and Legends Vol.2: Concerning the Fair Folk, Elves, and Other Associated Spirits. As I flicked through it, I noticed unrelated passages- transcripts taken of conversations and the like, interviews including with names that I recognised: the Captain, Ùisdean Seanair, Ceit Seanmhair, Maidred na h-Aonar, among others. 

Kirsty, who had been watching us both closely, said: “He must be dead, I know. I know what I said about science and folk-tales, but there's no mystery to be balanced here. I cannae see what else could've happened, it's just…”

Holmes murmured, directionless, yes, I see, I see. 

I said, to Kirsty: “May we borrow the book? It may be valuable in our investigation."

Her brow furrowed, clearly reluctant to grant this last possession of her fathers to strangers; but then she cocked her head, as though hearing a far-off voice, and conceded. 

Holmes, meanwhile, had finished reading, and handing her back the note, said very seriously:

“Kirsty, do you- that is, is it possible- I do not want to give you false hope.”

“I’m no child, Mr. Holmes. Out with it.”

“Very well. Do you think perhaps your father’s disappearance might have been linked to that of the children?”

Gravely, he explained himself: the mysterious disappearance of both, by the woodland at the loch, the strange wording of his letter, the matter of his profession.

“Perhaps,” she said; and then confessed: “I have wondered the very same. But I don’t see what he could’ve done though, to be taken- by man or creature or anything.”

“Did your father have any enemies?” I asked. “Perhaps someone disagreed with his theories- or his Englishness?”

She shook her head, no, he was a quiet man and liked well enough, and they trusted his wisdom enough to want it. 

Taken in isolation, the case of her father seemed simple enough. But it was a strange coincidence, the location and the disappearances, and the letter did not help. I have been allowed a kindness through my years of careful study, but only on certain conditions, my silence being one of them. If self-destruction was the aim, it was a queer way of admitting to it. Blackmail? only on certain conditions, my silence being one of them seemed to suggest it; but I could find nothing else to support the theory, which betrayed holes at even the barest scrutiny.

“Your father,” Holmes said abruptly, cutting off my thoughts; “was he a flutist, by any chance?”

“What?” She frowned, following his gaze. A carved oak desk had been pushed against the far wall; on it, among a pile of books, lay a silver flute- battered, rusting, dull with dust. “Oh, that. We found it in his desk after he…I assumed it was some sort of token or something, because it doesnae seem too work.”

“May I?” Holmes said; confused, she nodded, and he leapt up, and, grabbing the flute, attempted to play a few notes. Nothing came out. He peered at it, running his fingers along it and shaking it vigorously, but it remained stubbornly silent. Kirsty, with reluctant amusement, said: “We never saw him play it either, nor mention anything about it. Just a paperweight or something, I reckon.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, thoughtfully; and then, equally abruptly: “I wondered, before we leave, if you could tell me a little about some people in the village?"

She agreed cautiously, but readily enough. The Captain she judged to be a clever one, aye; he knows all the stories and how to read the sky, and he can mind his way around the loch and the woods better than most. And him and the Reverend have their little discussions, you know, dull as it seems to me. 

Her tone when she discussed the doctor Macleod was suddenly guarded, as though she didn't wish to reveal too much. “He’s good enough, aye, though I have not much cause to see him. Doesnae have a lot of respect for the old medicine, with plants and the like, that all our — still do, but he must be good, considering how quick he recovered last winter.”

“Ah yes,” said Holmes, “May I ask what it was that he had?”

“Fionngal said pneumonia, I think. The cold got into his chest.”

“Fionngal. That's Fiona, his daughter? We met her just earlier, I believe.”

“Aye, she’s a quiet one. Clever. Looks after him, you know, since Bean Dotair died.”

She hesitated, and then, in a rush, as though trying to get the words out before she thought better of it: “Dr. Watson, you might- if you have any medical books, or the like, you might- Fionngal- I know women can’t be doctors but they can be nurses, and Dr. Macleod doesnae like it, but when he goes we’ll need a doctor, and there’s no other option, not really- I think- you might, if you can- if you would- I thought maybe, what with yourself and Mr. Holmes you wouldn’t disapprove so- she’d appreciate it, is all.”

It took me a moment to parse the words; she looked at me fiercely, a flush rising to her cheeks. Somewhat bemused, I agreed mildly that I had some journals that I wouldn’t miss, and I could send them to her this evening. I was suprised: nothing about the woman's manner suggested the fierce, undoubtably rebellious passion for medicine Kirsty seemsd to imply; the opposite if anything. Still, I could not see the harm in educating an interested woman; the doctors words from earlier came to me. To leave the village doctorless, too- you understand, Dr. Watson, what it is to have such a duty? A woman, no matter how limited, would be better than no doctor at all.

She nodded, quietly pleased; and I was reminded again, with some amusement, that she was the village school-mistress, for I felt for all the world as though I had narrowly scraped passing some sort of test. Holmes, meanwhile, had recommenced studying the broken flute, and it took a none-too-subtle elbow to the ribs to break him out of his thoughts.

“Thank you,” he said to Kirsty, standing to leave; “You’ve been most informative.”

And then he paused, as though battling with himself, and said with clumsy gentleness: “Kirsty, if you’ll forgive me, but I must ask. Has it occurred to you that your father may have chosen to be taken by whatever, or whoever took the children?”

Grief, fierce grief, sharpened her tongue. It came suddenly, as though it had been waiting, all this time, behind her face; I recognised the feeling with an old, dull pain.  “He would never, Mr. Holmes, he wouldn’t leave me like that. And don't ask me again if they would take him either, because every child knows they won’t take you just-because, and he didnae do nothing to provoke them either.”

And Holmes neither pressed the issue, nor challenged her on it; only said, sadly, “Very well, Miss Maclaren, and thank you greatly for your help,” and turned sharply towards the setting sun.

Chapter Text

After dinner- a simple but delicious meal of venison and potatoes- Holmes and I retired back to our room. Holmes, by virtue of that strange charm that sometimes possessed him, and endeared him especially to older women of all people, had sourced some more books from our still taciturn landlady, and set about consulting them, occasionally making notes or reading a sentence aloud. I, for my part, took to the former Mr. Maclaren’s manuscript, with its collection of half-written pages. With no means of organisation- at least, none I could discern- I settled for flicking through the book, pausing every so often when something caught my eye: an illustration of  a kelpie; a transcript of an interview with Dr. Macleod, on the medical explanations for consumption; and eventually, the page I had been seeking, on changeling-children.

It read:

The tàcharan, or the Changeling-child, are children who are believed to have been replaced by the Fair Folk¹² with one of their own. A range of unusual behaviours are associated with them, and my interviews¹⁵, ¹⁷, ²³ suggest these remain unusually consistent throughout the north and western Highlands. These behaviours include: an abnormal lack of crying or laughter; a lack of verbal communication; [.....]. Many interviewees¹⁷, ²⁴ suggested that any other physical abnormalities such as unusual colouring, unusual formation, etc. would be taken as evidence of changeling-children without necessarily being routine characteristics of them. 

And then, in a different hand:

REACTIONS/SOLUTIONS TO CH. 

intv.: 17/18/20

07/09/80

N.B. LINK 02/06/67

I flicked through another page of handwritten comments and notes before the main body of the text resumed:

As discussed in the previous chapter, the distinction between the ‘good’ Fair Folk of the Seelie Court and the ‘bad’ of the Unseelie Court is far more fluid and less defined than previous publications have suggested³, ⁴,³¹ with many native Highlanders expressing confusion at the distinction¹⁷, ²³. Following from this, it appears that changeling children are not considered the sole responsibility of one or the other, and that the ‘reason’ for their replacement varies. These include generic explanations such as illness, the fault of the mother or [....], as well as more context-specific explanations such as actions taken to displease the Fair Folk or 

Here, the chapter again faded into scrawled notes, several pages long; mostly illegible, and interesting only, I suspect, for the mythological scholar beside; save for a curious note towards the end which read:

Interviews suggest F. F. will take and heal those as a kindness/payment, see: 17, 22, 26; incl. in chapter? Talk to Dr. M.- medical expl.. Worth investigating at a later date? 22/03/81

Neither Holmes nor I could make sense of it; although Holmes had a curious look on his face, as though he was coming to suspect something unpleasant. But I did not ask what, and he did not say; only declared that we had done enough, and reaching for my hand, guided me gently to the safety of our shared bed.

We set out the next morning revived despite the weather, which had taken a sharp turn towards the cold. It was thankfully dry, and not too windy, but the fog from the previous days had returned with a vengeance, grey clouds creeping up trees and cottage walls like ivy, sticking like burdock root to the ground. Faint dark shapes like shades moved before us, although they could only have been a few feet away; by the Kirk, by the dúns, by the lonely taigh-solais at Gruagach Peak, where the land rose out of the fog untouched; even there, it clung like wisps of smoke to the people and the animals as they moved. 

Concealed, I took Holmes’ hand in my own, pointing out, very reasonably, that I did not wish to get lost; it was a pity, I felt, that my vision was obscured, when I knew him well enough to know how he flushes pink, and to be immensely fond of it. I clasped his hand in mine perhaps a little tighter than I ought, as though the heat from my own could soothe the ache of his joints, but I heard no complaints as he solemnly led me through. 

We went first to the talla a' bhaile, armed with a list of questions from our research the night before: clarifications of myths, questions that had occurred to us quite suddenly, all and any trivial details that just might prove invaluable. Ùisdean Seanair entertained our barrage of questions gamely, a twinkle in his eye, although he had undoubtedly many other duties with which his time was occupied. As we made to leave, however, he stopped us with a gentle hand on Holmes’ arm- a young girl of perhaps ten had run in, intent on talking to him. He listened intently and then turned to us; his wife, apparently, had sent the girl; the weather was about to turn badly, and he was not to let us out until it had calmed. 

Well, he said, amused, I suppose there is nothing else to be done. You’ll have to stay. 

We protested, of course, that it was unnecessary and out of his way; to which nodded solemnly along, and ignored us both anyway. We were settled in a small annex on the north side of the building, with cheerful insistence, as he bade a young boy to stoke the fire, and the young girl to inform his wife. 

Despite ourselves, we conceded with good cheer, and were grateful for it moments later; outside, the wind had begun to howl, rattling glass against wood and wood against stone, and stirring up the sea into a frenzy. Within minutes, it had drowned the murmur of cows, the plaintive bleats of sheep, and crow of birds, and bright talk of people, and all the other various noises that softly embedded themselves in the background. 

I had settled myself into an armchair; torn, a little moth-eaten, but tall enough that there was almost no pressure on my knees. Holmes, after some thought, had flung himself in front of the fire, shuffling and writhing until he had made himself quite comfortable by my feet.

“Well,” said he, over the roar of the wind; “If nothing else, this gives us an opportunity, wouldn’t you say? We have nothing else to do- well,”; (he amended, face ever so slightly flushed); “nothing else we can reasonably, without a locked door, do, and at this point in our investigation the case merits discussion anyhow. We have four outstanding questions, to my mind.”

He counted them off on his fingers. “One, what exactly has happened to the children? Two, who or what has done this to them, and why? Three, whether or not this is related to Miss Maclaren's father? Four, what explains the sudden onset of irregular behaviour in the children?” He peered at me, hawk-like. “Am I missing anything, do you think?”

I shook my head; satisfied, he leant back against my leg, head tipped towards the wooden beams that crossed the ceiling. His eyes were shut.

Now,” he said, gesturing blindly with his hands, “what do we know so far? We know that in May, Bean Domhall Mharie believed that her son Neil had been replaced, after- sustaining a wound, was it? That wouldn’t heal. By the loch on the side bordering the woodlands. Evidence in favour: a sudden behavioural shift: the child is now quiet, has a simple diet, behaves strangely and out of character, and has grey eyes where before he had blue. His parents are both blue eyed.” Gesturing to me, he said: “Evidence against?”

“She had just given birth,” I recalled, “which is known to induce in some women delusional thinking. Also, strange behaviours come to some children naturally. A bleeding wound could be a symptom of a genetic condition, such as hemophilia, although it's unlikely this would have escaped anyone's notice in six years. Equally, it might well have been infection- some infections are known to induce constant bleeding.” 

“Thank you, my dear. What next? June- and note, these three all came a month apart. Bean Ailig’s daughter, Seònaid; similarly aged, similar behavioural change including the curiosity with the eyes. Same sight of disappearance. Evidence against?”

“The same,” I supplied; “Although it occurs to me now there may be something in the fact that the toddler disappeared whereas the two older children were replaced?”

“Perhaps,” said Holmes, inscrutable; and then, gravely, “In July, then, what do we have? Seumas Maidred Strath Carrann, aged two, who disappeared in the presence of his mother, in the same location as before. The closest thing we had to any eye-witnesses- she said she saw a- each-uisage? A river-horse?”

I flicked to my notes, and read aloud:

a blurred shape, like a man seen moving through heavy rain-fall and fog, rising from the place where the loch meets the trees.

“Which,” Holmes said thoughtfully, “suggests human involvement."

I blinked. “Surely you didn’t think it was something supernatural?”

He shrugged, sheepish. “I do not… It has been repeatedly made clear to me that discounting the possibility is both foolish and blind. Whether there has been involvement of the supernatural, or whether someone is merely relying on such belief remains to be seen.”

I gaped, astounded; Holmes, cat-like, grinned. 

“Now,” he said, “our suspects. Who do we have?”

“What is the likelihood of it being the work of a stranger?”

“Almost none; the village is too small, and too prone to gossip,”; (here, he gave me an amused look that I pretended not to see); “for any strangers to go unremarked. Additionally, the geographic isolation and inhospital conditions, particularly in the woodlands and by the coast, foreclose the possibility of anyone surviving for long in secret. The suspect would have to be trusted, to an extent, by the children- not that that is unusual, within such a small village- have a knowledge of folklore, and, most importantly, have something to gain. We still do not know why these crimes were committed.”

“Blackmail?”

He contemplated the prospect. “Possible, but I think not- these are not people who could afford to pay off a blackmailer without the rest of the village noticing; and it seems unlikely that no-one would have mentioned anything at all about it, not even the Reverend, who presumably acts as a confessional, and has been more than willing to talk to us thus far.”

“What else, then?”

He shrugged, annoyed. “I haven’t the faintest. If you’ll do me the honour of entertaining the supernatural explanation a while- I know, but needs must, my dear- it is possible a bargain was struck with the Fair Folk- or someone claiming to act on behalf of the Fair Folk- in order to gain something.”

I thought. “Kirsty Maclaren- she wanted to find out about her father. Dr. Macleod- his miraculous recovery, although I can’t personally see it.” The old man had been a little unfair to his daughter, but hardly cruel; and he had proved himself intelligent and genial besides, generous and good company. “His daughter, perhaps- hoping for his recovery?”

“Do you think? I dare say she has enough resentment in her, given her thirst for medical knowledge and her father’s rather more traditional approach.”

Holmes often- incorrectly, I should add- has teased me for my knowledge of the fairer sex, as he calls it, but here, at least, I felt somewhat justified in saying:

“Oh, quite probably, but she’s still his daughter after all. She wouldn’t have nursed him so if she didn’t And women don’t always allow themselves be resentful- often, they don’t even know-”

I thought suddenly- abruptly- illogically- of Mary. Holmes had once, eyes artificially bright, quite dispassionately asked me: Would you know, my dear Watson? Could you honestly say you would know, if your wife knows? Knows- that is, knows about this complicated thing between us, this strained, limping, exhausted thing of faked joviality and bitter, loving arguments, this pale mimicry of what had been, and what I, even then, had wished it was. Does she know? How would you tell? How would you know if she resents you for it? Would she tell you? Would you listen?

Of course, I had blustered; a mistake, for it was as good as admitting the opposite. A wife is entitled to the whole of her husband's self, and he her’s- how could you say such a thing, Holmes? And I had, disgusted, left Holmes to his syringe; and dismissed his words as that of a bitter, poisonous addict. 

But I had thought of it, often, as my wife had faded quietly away; and thought of it now again, so suddenly, a world away: Had she known, about myself and Holmes? What we had been to each other, before my marriage; what would go on to be, weathered, made gentle, long after? I had cherished her, cherished the predictability of her love; did it seem to her a cruelty compared to the attention- however resentful- that I lavished upon Holmes?

I was shaken out of my thoughts, as ever, by Holmes, who, as though noticing the worrying trend of my thoughts, had increased both his volume and the intensity of gestures until I was forced to pay attention again, if only to avoid being accidentally hit in the face with the back of his hand.

“You,” I said, interrupting a tangent on the possibility of Moriarty himself somehow coming back from the dead to cause havoc in a small Scottish village; “You, my dear Holmes, are incorrigible in your demands for attention. You ought to have been made a cat.”

He blinked, bemused, and the gesture was so feline as to startle a laugh out of me. 

“My dear Watson- oh, do stop laughing, I fail to see what’s so amusing- anyway, what else am I to do when you were clearly not listening?” 

There was concern in his tone, even as he played at being put-upon; but I simply shook my head. I could neither explain my thoughts; nor did I think that trying to would do anything other than raise old ghosts. They were mine to bear alone.

With deliberate lightness, I said: “I was listening perfectly well.”

“Were you?”

“Oh yes. It occurs to me that the readers of the Strand would be delighted to hear about Professor Moriarty's miraculous recovery from drowning. Perhaps I should include it in my next write-up of a case?”

His mouth quirked in amusement; and, if not reassured then at least accepting, he relaxed against me yet again, a solid weight against my leg. I dropped a hand to his shoulder.  

“Who else?” he said, eventually. 

“The Captain? He’s certainly unpleasant enough. Geographically isolated, knowledgeable about folklore. Perhaps he was seeking a cure for his injured leg?”

“Your personal dislike of the man aside- and really, Watson, I’ve met the man, he’s hardly that much more rude than I- it's possible, but, I think, unlikely. I can hardly see how even the Reverend could fail to notice something, particularly because they seem to be fairly close. Unless, of course, he is also involved-”

Seeing my face, he laughed. “It is unlikely, to be true, but not impossible. Anyone else?”

I could not think of anyone else, and I said so.

“Nor me,” said Holmes; and seemed about to continue when a knock sounded at the door. With, frankly, an unfair elegance, he rose fluidly to open it to a young girl.

“Co-Ghàidheal?” she said, eyes wide, flitting between us as though we would disappear at any second.

“Tha, a-nis.” 

“Esan?”

I shook my head; Holmes, ruefully said, “Sasannach.”

She frowned, disbelieving, but seemed to decide that now wasn’t the time to challenge Holmes on his claim.

Seanmhair says the weather is quiet now, you can leave. 

I relayed this to Holmes; we gave both her and Ùisdean Seanair our thanks; and then, we left for the leigheasach taigh. 

I had remembered suddenly, over breakfast, my previous conversation with Kirsty, and not wanting to renege on my promise had delayed Holmes by quite some time while I ransacked our collective luggage. By good fortune, I had brought with me from London some old copies of the Lancet, and a brief skim of them over breakfast had revealed nothing too unsuitable for a lady; certainly nothing that might cause hysteria or fainting, although Fiona seemed to me a woman relatively immune to such frivolities.  

We crossed the village. The wind had left in its wake curious wreckage; splintered wood, tossed bricks, but no significant structural damage. The queer squat style of the houses, I assumed. 

 The wind had done much also to dispel the thick fog, which has before drowned the entire village in its midst. What fog there was that lingered still hung low, gathered like bushes under window-ledges and bowed trees. As we reached the leigheasach taigh, two large oil lamps could be seen, obscured and blurred from behind window-panes, as though the building was burning from within.

As we drew close, the sound of raised voices became apparent; Holmes, shooting me a significant look, crouched cat-like under the window and pressed his ear close. I, although my knees protested, did the same. 

It was in Gaelic, fast-paced and bitter, and I struggled to make out the words; two male voices could be discerned, and the sound of pacing feet. I mouthed the words I recognised to Holmes as I heard them:

Child… children… death… deal…life…duty…loch…

A confrontation, clearly, and one almost certainly relevant to our case! A familiar excitement rushed through me despite my better judgement, for the promise of a lead was as unexpected as it was welcome.

The tone of one speaker took on a grave, threatening character, grimly regretful;

death, again… children… duty… deal, a fair deal? and a word I did not know, but came up again and again: na-dee-uh-nuh-she, always said with a certain wariness. 

Suddenly, the door burst open, flung hard enough to be thrown against the stone outer walls. Holmes pulled at me sharply, and we concealed ourselves in the low fog. It was a poor hiding place, that would bear no scrutiny; but we were fortunate, for the Captain stormed out and, incensed, focused his gaze upon the imagined source of his fury, instead of the dark shapes below the window pane. From this angle, I could see little; but Holmes informed me later that his face was grimly determined, and I could discern in muttered Gaelic: Very well. There is nothing else to be done.

I caught Holmes’ eye. Ominous words. 

He hissed: Go! Talk to her, find out what happened. 

I made to move; he remained crouched to the ground, and when I gave him a questioning look, he merely waved his hands impatiently, as though this were ordinary behaviour. Which, I thought, sighing, it might have well been with Holmes. 

Alone, therefore, whilst Holmes eavesdropped like an ill-mannered child, I knocked.

Good afternoon.

“Dr. Watson. Is Mr. Holmes not with you?”

“Not today, I’m afraid. Just me.”

“You’ll be wanting my father, then.”

“Ah, no- I have something for you. Journals.”

“Journals,” she repeated flatly.

“Medical journals,” said I; she remained distinctly unimpressed. “Kirsty Maclaren- she mentioned to me that you might find something of interest in them.”

“Oh,” she said quietly; and then, “Well then. Thank you, Dr. Watson. I’ll give these back to you when I’m done.”

“There’s no need,” said I; “I’m only sorry I couldn’t find any more. Oh- but while I’m here- I heard raised voices as I was coming up. Is everything alright?”

She gave me a sharp look, almost suspicious; but before she could answer, Dr. Macleod appeared, a large hand laid on her shoulder. 

“Thought I’d see what was keeping you, Fionnghal. Ah, it's Dr. Watson again, I see!” he exclaimed pleasantly. “Fionnghal, didn’t you invite him in?”

“I can’t, I’m afraid,” I answered; “I just came by to-”

I hesitated. As much as I didn’t want to lie to the man, who was beaming with genuine delight to see me, I had heard enough to know that he would no doubt disapprove, as many men would, of his daughter reading such things.

“Dr. Watson came by to drop off some newspapers for Ciorstag, Dadaidh, to help the older bairns learn to read.”

“Oh,” he said. “Very good! How very generous of you, Doctor. Are you sure you won’t come in? Fionngal, go and see if we have enough tea, will you?.”

“Maybe some other time,” I said politely, even as Fiona disappeared. 

He laughed. “I’ll take you up on that, doctor!”

“Oh-” said I; “Before I go. I thought I saw the Captain leaving here just now? Is everything alright?”

He laughed again. “Nothing to worry about, doctor, you know how he is. He’s a strange one, got all upset about his leg- he’s having problems with it, an old injury- you’ll know the type, I’m sure, some men never want to admit they aren’t thirty anymore! Although that reminds me- before you leave- you haven’t seen the Maclaren boy around anywhere, have you?”

“I’m afraid not. Any particular reason?”

He shook his head affably. “I’ve noticed him hanging around here sometimes, that's all. You think he’d be too old for all that- but he’s unmarried, you know, and- well- boys like that play fast and loose with girls’ affections, and I won’t have my Fionngal getting hurt.”

Not a sentiment usually directed at middle-aged women, I thought wryly; certainly, Fiona seemed far too sensible for that sort of thing, but it is only Holmes, not I, who professes me to be an expert in the interior lives of women. I made, therefore, some vague noises of sympathy, and bidding the old man goodbye, left to join Holmes, who had been eavesdropping like a child beneath the windows. 

Dusk by now was settling, the orange glow of the sunset succumbing to dark-blue shadows; the terrible wind from earlier had driven the clouds away and left the sky brilliantly clear, hard and glittering as though with diamonds. Holmes took my arm in his, and together, leisurely, we began our walk across the village to reach our lodging-house. 

We were, perhaps, two-thirds of the way there- far enough that we could only see the vague impression of the lighthouse- when we were suddenly overtaken by a young man, sprinting as though there was a wolf at his heels. Jamie Maclaren, I thought after a moment; Kirsty’s brother, and, if Dr. Macleod was to be believed, a regular Lothario. A few moments later, and another figure rushed past: Sineag Strath Carran, holding in her haste her skirts up to her knees.

“Come on,” said Holmes, pulling at my arm; and following the path we sloped further and further down, stumbling over the grassy hill. As we got closer, it became swiftly apparent Jamie McLaren was not the only one heading for the loch; for the entire village was there, voices confused and urgent, turning the evening bird-song into frantic alarm. Dread settled in me, seeping into my limbs and making them clumsy; in our haste, Holmes and I nearly fell several times over the irregular land.

“What's going on?” Holmes demanded, turning to me. “What's wrong?”

I hurried to the nearest person I recognised, who turned out to be Ceit Domhall Mharie. “Dè fo ghrian a tha ri tachairt?”

She slowly turned to face me, eyes red, face a solemn mask. In Gaelic, she said: “Didn't you hear? Ciorstag and the Caiftean have vanished, and they've taken the faerie-children with them.”

“Vanished?” said I, hardly believing my ears, and she gestured ahead, clearing the way for me to see with a few sharp words.

Before us, by the place where the loch and the woodlands met, a travelling cloak, a wooden cane, and Kirsty’s fathers old, broken flute were piled neatly together. A scrap of paper, weighed down by the flute, was all that was left. 

It read: 

chan eil roghainn eile ann. a bheil sinn lag? feumaidh sinn sàbhalaidh na cloinne. 

bithibh air ur faiceall.

Ciorstag. Caiftean.

With mounting horror, I translated in a murmur to Holmes:

There is no alternative. Are we cowards, are we weak? We have to save the children.

Be careful. Beware.

Ciorstag. Caiftean. Kirsty. The Captain.

“Ciorstag and the Caiftean have vanished,” I repeated dumbly. “Ciorstag and the Caiftean have vanished, and they've taken the children with them.”