Claire paused slightly, the compassionate smile on her face remained motionless, but a flash of cold vigilance quickly swept through the depths of her eyes.
"Mr. Sherlock is truly learned."
Her voice remained gentle, yet it carried a trace of imperceptible detachment.
"However, you are overthinking it; music is a good medicine to soothe the soul, especially for these special children, and we pay great attention to propriety."
"Mr. Wright Williams, didn't you want to see Joseph's living quarters? The dormitory area is this way, please follow me."
She changed the subject without a trace and turned to lead everyone out of the nave.
The instant Claire turned, Holmes's gaze swept rapidly across the entire nave.
His gaze swept over the dull-faced choir members, past the frantically waving conductor, past the flickering candlelight and the garishly colored stained-glass windows, and finally settled on a giant tapestry in the shadows behind the altar.
The pattern of the tapestry was the common "Good Shepherd" theme, but by the candlelight, Holmes's keen vision caught a few tiny symbols on the edge of the tapestry that almost blended into the background.
Claire led the group through a side door into a relatively low and dimly lit dormitory corridor, with closed doors on both sides, each with a nameplate attached.
The smell of incense in the air had faded a bit, but the fishy odor of damp earth mixed with rust seemed even stronger.
"This side is the staff dormitory," Claire pointed to one side of the corridor, "and over there are the student dormitories; Joseph's room is at the end of the corridor."
Her pace was composed, and her high heels clicked against the stone slab floor, emitting a crisp and rhythmic sound that echoed in the silent corridor.
Passing by a slightly ajar staff dormitory door, Holmes's extremely keen ears caught a faint hissing sound like a snake flicking its tongue from inside, along with the gurgling sound of a viscous liquid being stirred.
His footsteps paused imperceptibly, and his gaze quickly swept across the door crack; it was pitch black inside.
Claire seemed completely unaware and walked straight to a door at the end of the corridor, where the nameplate read "Joseph Hawkins".
"This is Joseph's room."
Claire took out a key and opened the door.
"Please come in, but please try to keep quiet; the children in the adjacent rooms may have already rested."
The room was not large, and the furnishings were simple to the point of being crude: a single iron-framed bed, a peeling wooden wardrobe, a small desk, and a chair.
The bed was covered with a washed-out plaid sheet, folded quite neatly, and the air was filled with a faint smell of mold and the lingering scent of cheap disinfectant.
Seeing her brother's simple and even shabby living quarters before he passed, Catherine's eyes reddened again; she walked to the bedside and gently stroked the cold sheets.
Wright and Watson began to carefully inspect the room; Wright's gaze swept over the walls, floor, and the corners of the furniture, while Watson focused more on the bed and potential traces of drugs.
Holmes moved silently within the small room, his gaze first falling on the desk; the tabletop was empty, spotless, and unnaturally clean.
Next was under the bed, which was equally empty; the wardrobe contained only a few washed-out robes and undergarments, neatly folded, and everything appeared to be consistent with the room of a young man living a simple and regular life.
But it was too clean, clean as if it had been thoroughly scrubbed.
Holmes's gaze finally rested on the bedside table, which was an ordinary wooden one with some wear on the edges.
He crouched down, his line of sight level with the tabletop, and by the faint moonlight filtering in from outside the window, he carefully observed the side of the bedside table.
Just near the bottom, in the darkest corner most easily overlooked, his sharp gaze caught a line of tiny indentations that looked as if they had been repeatedly carved with a fingernail or a sharp object:
[DDC-133 - 051]
There was no date, no signature, the carvings were very new, and the wood splinters on the edges had not yet been completely smoothed down.
Holmes's brain instantly mobilized the vast knowledge reserves of his Mind Palace: DDC was the abbreviation for the Dewey Decimal Classification, and 133 represented... Parapsychology and Occultism!
He stood up calmly, as if he were just casually looking around the room.
Claire had been standing at the doorway, a compassionate and patient expression on her face, her gaze seemingly gentle but actually like an invisible spider web, enveloping every movement of the people in the room.
When she saw Holmes crouch down and stand back up, having discovered nothing, a trace of imperceptible relief seemed to flash through the depths of her eyes.
"It seems... there are no special discoveries here."
Wright finished checking the wardrobe, his tone carrying a trace of disappointment and helplessness.
He looked at Claire: "Director, did Joseph have any particularly close friends? Or, in the days before he went missing, were there any unusual behaviors?"
Claire sighed softly: "This child Joseph... was quite withdrawn; what he liked most was to be alone in the library, or find a quiet corner to recite the Bible."
"Before he went missing..." She wore a look of recollection, "it seemed no different from usual, just a bit quieter, and the caregivers didn't report anything unusual."
"The library?"
Holmes suddenly spoke, his voice flat.
"Ms. Claire, since Joseph liked that place when he was alive, perhaps we could go to the library and take a look? Maybe we can find the books he often read and understand his inner world."
"Of course, the library is in the nave, please follow me."
The compassionate smile on Claire's face remained, and she turned to lead the way, her pace still composed.
Passing through the silent corridor again, they returned to the nave area.
Claire pushed open a pair of double doors marked "Library", and a smell of old paper mixed with dust rushed toward them.
It was a medium-sized room with tall oak bookshelves standing against the walls, packed with various books, mainly theological texts, works, and some basic reading materials.
Several long tables and reading chairs were scattered in the center of the room, and the light came from several old-fashioned green glass-shaded desk lamps, casting dim yellow circles of light on the piles of books.
An old librarian with thick glasses and gray hair sat behind a desk in the corner, laboriously reading a thick book by the light of the desk lamp, and only slightly raised his eyelids at their arrival.
"Mr. Wilson, these few are police consultants who want to consult some materials."
Claire introduced them to the old librarian, her tone carrying the commanding implication of a superior.
The old librarian Wilson slowly raised his head, his cloudy eyes sweeping over the four of them through thick lenses.
He paused especially on the attire of Holmes and Watson, then gave a vague "hmm," acknowledging them, and lowered his head to continue reading, looking completely indifferent.
"Please make yourselves at home; if you need any help, you can ask Mr. Wilson. I still have some administrative work to attend to, so please excuse me for a moment."
Claire gave the group an apologetic smile, turned, and left the library, gently closing the door behind her.
But Holmes keenly noticed that in the shadows of the corridor outside the door, there seemed to be an additional stationary silhouette, and the surveillance had not relaxed.
Once Claire left, Wright whispered to Holmes: "I'm going outside for some air, and I'll see if I can find that choir conductor to chat with."
Holmes nodded slightly; Wright took a deep breath, walked toward the door as naturally as possible, and pushed it open to go out. The silhouette in the shadows outside seemed to move and followed him.
Catherine was dispirited, sitting on a chair, staring blankly at the floor, while Watson stood vigilantly by her side, his gaze scanning the entire library and the direction of the door, his hand resting on the handle of the gun at his waist.
Holmes walked straight toward the tall bookshelves, his target very clear: the Parapsychology and Occultism section; his gaze quickly swept over the labels on the shelves.
Religion section, Philosophy section, Psychology section...
Parapsychology section, found it; the books here were significantly older, and the bindings were more archaic.
He quickly browsed the spines: "Research on Mediumistic Phenomena", "History and Fallacies of Necromancy", "Introduction to Astrology"... mostly modern works that held a critical or sensationalist attitude toward the occult.
His fingers slid over the spines, finally stopping on a thick book with a deep blue cloth hardcover, its gold-stamped spine already somewhat peeled.
The title was "On Angels", by Donald Barthelme, and the label number pasted at the bottom of the spine was exactly [051]!
Holmes's eyes narrowed slightly; this must be the relic Joseph left behind.