Chapter Text
The first task on the second day was to locate Señora Carmela, the nanny. John had managed to track her down the day before, thanks to information from one of the older staff. She had cared for Tomás since birth, after his mother had passed away following his birth. Now elderly, she had left the mansion long ago and lived in a quiet, distant part of town.
John had planned to rent a car, hoping it would give Sherlock more freedom to explore and observe the area. But then he remembered they still needed to interview Señora Carmela—a task complicated by the fact that she would likely never trust non-spanish speaking strangers who claimed to be inquiring about Tomás. John definitely didn’t want to arrive and tell the elderly woman that her dear child was missing. The solution was obvious: he would need Hugo’s help.
Señora Carmela lived in a small, modest house with her cousin. When John and Hugo arrived, they found her on the balcony. She was small and wiry, but full of life, with bright, intelligent hazel eyes. Comfortably dressed and shaded by the wicker rocking chair, she wore a headset, listening to music as her hands moved rhythmically over her knitting.
Her face lit up when she saw Hugo, who, honoring the understanding he and John had reached, offered her a gentle reassurance even before John spoke. They spent some time exchanging warm greetings and laughter.
“Señora Carmela, this is John Watson. He’s been helping the family recently.” Hugo said.
John mentioned that Hugo could serve as their interpreter. She gave a small, charming smile, lifted her phone from beside a large mug of coffee, and said, “No need,” showing the Google Translate app.
John couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh—the lady was far more up-to-date than he had expected.
Hugo gently guided the conversation, helping John ask whether she had seen Tomás recently, or anything about his life now.
Sherlock whispered in his ear, “Good. Now, use your Watson charm.”
John resisted an eye roll and offered a gentle smile, keeping his tone calm and respectful.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Hugo has told me so much about your devotion to Tomás over the years. I’m just here to understand a little more about him—how he’s been, what’s on his mind. The family asked me to check in and make sure everything is all right.”
He was more grateful than ever to have Hugo as their guide and buffer, as her attention shifted back to John, her smile tightened slightly, and a brief, fleeting glimmer of worry passed over her sharp, alert eyes. It was just a flash, but enough to make him pause—enough to tell him that, despite her outward calm, she was quietly concerned.
It was clear she didn’t know what had really happened—otherwise, she wouldn’t be so relaxed, so calm. Equally obvious that she had never cared for Don Alejandro; her eyes darkened slightly at the mere mention of him.
Her voice wavered as she spoke of Tomás’s mother, recalling the difficult pregnancy and the hardships she had endured. She described the father’s coldness, his emotional distance, and the neglect that had shadowed the boy’s early life.
Señora Carmela’s gaze softened as she spoke of Tomás. She had cared for him like a mother—fierce, unwavering. With a quiet sigh, she set her crochet hook down.
John waited silently, giving her space.
“Growing up with that father…” she began, shaking her head. “It wasn’t easy. Not only was he distant, cold. Never a warm word.” Her mouth tightened. “He sent Tomás to boarding school. The boy cried for days. Clung to me. And I could do nothing but let him go.”
She went on, explaining how everything in Tomás’s life was meant to follow tradition—his grandfather, his great-grandfather, all the way back. “But this time,” she said with a hint of pride, “Tomás chose his passion. He chose architecture.”
Then her expression dimmed. She spoke of how Don Alejandro had imposed that winter Germany trip—half punishment, half discipline—ostensibly a prestigious architectural internship, but cruelly timed, deliberately harsh. A lesson in obedience.
She met John’s eyes and said one word, firm and bitter:
“Dictador.”
John asked gently, “So… he wasn’t really happy here, was he?”
Her eyes glistened. “The last time Tomás visited me… he was happy.” A small, sad smile. “After so long.” She glanced toward Hugo, as if confirming it was safe to say more. “Probably happy it was over.”
John felt there was more—something she hadn’t said yet. He waited, gently, hoping she might continue. But Carmela only lifted her crochet hook again, her hands steady even as her voice faded into silence.
John exhaled slowly. It wasn’t the full answer he’d hoped for—but it was a crucial piece all the same.
And he couldn’t help wondering how much Hugo had known all along, while the rest of the staff seemed oblivious. One thing was clear: Hugo was likely one of the only people Don Alejandro truly trusted.
--------------------------------------------------
John returned to the mansion to interview a few more staff members who hadn’t been available the day before. Llorente, the manager, informed him that they hadn’t received any new letters.
The staff John spoke to today seemed even less aware of what was going on, and he couldn’t help feeling that he was wasting his time. He imagined Sherlock probably about to burst from boredom—or maybe even asleep, since he hadn’t heard a peep from him in a while.
John wished he didn’t have the language barrier and could speak directly to the staff. But with the grim Llorente always present as interpreter, even when there wasn’t a need for one, he wasn’t sure anyone would ever reveal anything in front of the man. Did Don Alejandro truly trust anyone to speak freely?
His suspicions were confirmed when it was Anna’s turn, an almost newly hired maid. She greeted him in flawless English, leaving no doubt about her skills. And yet, Llorente remained beside John, sitting rigidly with his neutral, unreadable smile.
Anna was the only staff member John noticed who didn’t carry the usual air of stress or excessive caution. She seemed at ease, confident in herself—probably because she hadn’t been at the mansion long enough to absorb its oppressive rhythms. Her large olive green eyes shone with intelligence, alert and lively.
She went on to explain that she was a sophomore at ECAM, the famous film school in Madrid, and had only started working at the villa because her father’s vineyard had an “accident,” and she needed to help her family financially.
Suddenly, Sherlock’s whisper in his ear: “You need to talk to her more! Alone!”
John told himself, Yeah… easier said than done! And tried to think quickly.
“So, you’ve been helping the family in the kitchen… do you have any cooking experience?”
Anna shrugged a little: “Not really. My studies were in cinema, so nothing like that. I just used to work part-time at a coffee shop in town.”
“Oh? Which one?” John asked, smiling, leaning slightly forward with genuine curiosity. “Was it any good? I might have to try it sometime.”
Anna brightened a bit, as if enjoying the topic. “La Ventana-It was small, cozy… the pastries were amazing, though the espresso could have been stronger.”
“Sounds perfect. Do you still go there?”
“Yeah, it has a nice, cozy balcony—perfect for writing in the late afternoon.”
John tried a small, casual gesture—a glance toward the window and a soft, fleeting nod. If she notices, she’ll understand… otherwise, nothing lost.
Anna met his eyes for a brief second, a faint smile flickering across her face. She said nothing, but something in that glance told him she’d understood.
John wasn’t sure if the subtle hint had worked, but at least Llorente remained completely unaware, still sitting with his neutral smile.
Later that day, John stepped into Café La Ventana. There she was—seated at a corner table, fingers flying over her laptop keys. He smiled politely. “May I join you?”
Her smile lit up, brighter than it had been that morning.
John ordered a cortado, just as she had recommended, and she had a café con leche in front of her. They fell into a casual chat, the gentle hum of the café and the warm afternoon sunlight spilling across the table making the conversation easy and unhurried.
John said, “Beautiful town, isn’t it?”
She shook her head with a small frown. “I don’t like it. It’s so boring—nothing ever happens here. It’s really hard to find inspiration for the story I want to turn into my first short film.”
John tasted his drink. “I have to say, I’m impressed—you got my hint and actually came here.”
Anna smiled. “I’m not stupid. When the famous Dr. Watson comes all the way here, there has to be something serious going on!”
John laughed. “Haha, don’t tell me you’re reading my blog!”
“Of course I do! I love it. It’s amazing. A bit dramatized sometimes… but I’ve always thought about writing a script out of some of your stories. Would Detective Sigerson allow it?”
John heard a grumble in his ear and decided to change the subject before the said detective could intervene. “Perhaps. I hope this entry ends up well, too… if the Aldabó family lets us. Do you know them?”
Anna’s smile faded. “Of course I do–everybody here does. And lots of people hate them. I’m sure they were responsible for the fire at our family’s farms, but there’s no way we can prove it. Don Alejandro helped a little, but now I have to help my father– bye bye, dreams…”
“So you believe they’re dangerous?”
“If something stands between them and their profit, they are. I’m sure you’ve already heard about the historical feud between the two families.”
“I did a bit. So, are you comfortable working in the mansion?”
Anna shrugged. “Not really. I don’t care what others say—I can’t stand Don Alejandro. He’s too rigid and old-school; you saw the atmosphere yourself. But I can’t deny they pay well, at least for this part of the country, and there are benefits. That’s why everybody just sucks it up and never complains.”
John’s attention sharpened. “Is it really that bad?”
Anna finished her café con leche with a long sip. “Not so bad if you’re okay with working in a fridge. That’s what it feels like. That Llorente is always everywhere, like a shadow. Staff say he’s caring, always looking out for everyone, smiling and listening—the opposite of his boss—but he creeps me out. He also controls who gets hired and who doesn’t, even people like that… quiet Julián.”
“Julián?”
“Yeah, the tall, good-looking fellow. Follows him like a puppy. Interesting that no one knew him before. The rest of us either have a family member on the staff or have lived in the house for generations.”
John thought: That’s something maybe worth checking.
Anna grabbed her laptop. “I’d better go now…”
“Just one more thing, Anna—Doña Mercedes mentioned she heard a big argument between Don Alejandro and his son. Did you know anything about it?”
“If Mercedes said it, it definitely happened! No one hears and sees things better than her,” she said with a grin, then her expression hardened.
“Is it something about Tomás? I hope not. He’s such a sweet guy—I feel bad for him.”
“Why then?”
Anna paused, as if almost regretting her words. “I mean… such a warm-hearted, sweet guy with a dictator of a father. You know, I’ve only seen him a few times, but every time he looked miserable, even if he was trying not to show it. I’d feel the same if I had that father. Mine’s not much better, but at least he can’t control me.”
She stood up and grabbed her things. “I hope he’s okay. Wish you luck with your case!” and left with a warm smile.
John told Sherlock, “What do you think about Anna?”
Sherlock, clearly thinking about something else, answered absently, “Yeah, she’s clean. Can’t be involved.”
“You didn’t suspect her, did you?!”
“I suspect everyone. Are we done here? I need to stretch.”
Sherlock was unusually quiet, even more so than when absorbed in a case. He rejected John’s suggestion to walk along the beach—it was a beautiful evening—and insisted he needed to rest.
John spent an hour strolling along the shoreline, the sand cool beneath his feet, waves lapping rhythmically, and the salty breeze teasing at his hair. Seagulls called overhead, and the horizon blushed as the sun slowly dipped, painting the sky in shades of gold, pink, and violet. Eventually, he settled into a beach chair, letting the calm wash over him, before heading back to their villa to share his notes and conclusions with the detective.
He found Sherlock once again in his mind sanctum—a space he seemed to be growing fonder of lately
John, surprisingly tired, was getting ready for bed when a low, almost imperceptible voice reached him.
“You’re still cross.”
John blinked, yanked from his thoughts. “What?”
“About the case,” Sherlock continued, voice soft, almost teasing. “Don’t you think it’s… interesting?”
John’s exhaustion made the conversation difficult to engage in. “I’m not cross, Sherlock. I’m just tired. Try to get some sleep, will you? We can talk tomorrow.”
John contacted Llorente to arrange a meeting with the Aldabó family, hoping to reach some sort of agreement. He didn’t like the silence that followed his request, the weight of uncertainty pressing on him. The manager confirmed the plan, and they decided to hold the meeting the following day.
John went to bed late, his mind restless, turning over how the discussion might unfold and what it could mean for everyone involved.