“The original Fishing Club was a group of eleven international investors operating out of London,” she continued. “They bought Bad Boll in 1893, taking over from the previous owners—who were actually themselves, under different names. The club has had many names over the years, sometimes no name, and many members, although only ever eleven in the core circle, stretching right back to the 1600s. Membership has been passed down since then, usually from parent to child.

“In the late 1800s, they built an elegant hotel out there in the Black Forest, advertised as a health spa, a retreat for those seeking to soothe their nerves in nature. They opened paths through the woods for the first time: hiking trails under great chestnut trees among ancient rocks and rare orchids. Sounds rather idyllic, doesn’t it?” She directed the question to Alex.

“I guess. But you said: ‘To all appearances.’”

“Very good. Now. Isn’t it curious that a group from London would make such fuss around some anonymous little spot buried in the woods in Germany? They even had a telegraph station built out there, so they could stay connected with the outside world. They brought in electricity, using a waterfall to power a generator so they could light the place by night. They built a chapel. I mean: how good could the trout be? And isn’t it curious they managed to attract some of the world’s most influential people to this obscure place? Guests included royalty from around the globe, politicians, thinkers, artists, writers. Winston Churchill stayed there. You know that name?”

“Sure.” Alex nodded. “British prime minister, he was in charge during the Second World War.”

“Right. So isn’t it most curious of all,” Kingdom went on, “that after being such a fashionable, internationally renowned resort, the place simply vanished? The First World War brought an end to the Fishing Club’s official ownership of Bad Boll, but the club kept secret watch over the place afterward, and they made sure it disappeared. The spa was gradually allowed to fall into wrack and ruin—or, perhaps, steered into it.

“Mysterious fires destroyed buildings and so on, until by the 1990s it was decided what was left should just be demolished, let wild nature reclaim the area. Today, apart from the chapel, which still stands in the forest—abandoned, overgrown, and rotting away—there’s no sign Bad Boll ever existed. As if it had been completely wiped out of history.”

“Okay.” Alex’s grandfather sat forward. “Very interesting for students of the history of European tourism, I’m sure. But I feel you haven’t told us the part we’re not going to believe. So. What’s the real story?”