The Three Locks Read online

  ‘We have covered that ground, Miss Wyndham, and once again I assure you that is not my intent. But even if you refuse to see danger, people have been concerned for your safety. You do understand that? People who care about you. They are suffering.’

  ‘Or claim to be,’ she said and looked away.

  ‘Your mother, for one,’ said Holmes.

  A small frown flashed across the beautiful young face, but if she felt any contrition, she shook it off like a dog shaking off water. ‘She will recover.’

  ‘And yet she is suffering, Miss Wyndham. And I believe your maid Polly was arrested one night, presumably on an errand for you. I understand that a girl like that can be gaoled without trial here in Cambridge, if the University so wishes. You know of the Spinning House? Ah, I see you know what I am talking about.’

  Miss Wyndham was clearly uncomfortable at this.

  ‘I’m sure Polly is careful,’ she said.

  ‘But let us turn to your reasons for needing to hide, Miss Wyndham,’ said Holmes. ‘Do you not see various escape routes from what you feel to be an awful confinement in the home of your father? For example, have you not considered studying at Girton, or Newnham? I understand that opportunities have opened there for women to expand their—’

  ‘I have grown up steeped in academia. Statues. Greek plays. Pah! That is the last thing I want!’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And anyway, my father forbids it.’

  Holmes paused at this. ‘I am sorry to hear it. But what of marriage? I understand that you are being courted, and by more than one suitor.’

  His words contained no trace of sarcasm.

  ‘Escaping from the frying pan into the fire?’ she said bitterly. ‘As it is, I am being steered, none too gently, towards one of them.’

  ‘Which one do you prefer?’

  ‘What does it matter? Being steered at all is objectionable,’ she cried. ‘Everything I do has been controlled by others. I hate my life. I hate my parents. I hate this world that tries to rein me in, that excludes me from an education, adventures, excitement, and – well, everything I want!’

  Holmes was silent for a moment.

  ‘I see. And I may understand this better than most. Like you, Miss Wyndham, I too have a secret location where I go to get away when life is oppressive.’

  I had long suspected that Holmes had a bolt-hole or even more than one in London, although I always presumed these had to do with the danger of his profession, not for a need for privacy.

  ‘Even Watson here needs to get away from time to time.’ Holmes continued.

  ‘Holmes, I—’

  ‘Bath. Just recently. So yes, Miss Wyndham, we do understand.’

  She stared at us, trying to make up her mind to accept this or not. ‘You men have far more freedom.’

  ‘I will admit that this is so. Miss Wyndham, why do you think your maid shared your location with me?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘I have been wondering that,’ said the girl, ‘and I shall take Polly to task for it.’

  ‘She did so because she knew I could help you. I believe you are in danger.’

  ‘Well, I don’t, Mr Holmes. That doll, it’s just a bid for attention. Stop trying to scare me! It will not work. I do not wish to be helped. I only wish to live my life as I please, and I am prepared to do whatever it takes for freedom. And if that includes smearing your reputation – both of you – I will not hesitate!’

  ‘You are playing a dangerous game, Miss Wyndham. I am not a vengeful or easily insulted person. You may fear no harm or repercussions from me. If I am not successful with my mission here, I shall simply go back to London and leave you all to sort out your difficulties. But not every man is so fitted.’

  ‘What do you mean, a dangerous game?’

  ‘You are fomenting drama with your disappearances. Perhaps you wrote a message on your doll, tore off its arm, and then threw it into the Jesus Lock. A “bid for attention”, as you just said.’

  ‘What a stupid notion. You are a stupid man.’

  Holmes said nothing.

  ‘I did no such thing,’ said she. ‘I suppose someone wanted everyone to worry about me. That would not be me, Mr Holmes. I would prefer that everyone forget about me and leave me to pursue my own happiness.’

  ‘Do you often find yourself in the vicinity of the Jesus Lock?’

  ‘Well, of course. Our house is nearby. I need to get out for air. Anyone would.’

  ‘And the footbridge there, do you cross it on a regular basis? Meet up with anyone there repeatedly?’

  ‘Yes. And, no. This is not your business.’ She looked away, and I noted, finally, a touch of unease.

  ‘The mutilated doll found in the lock is quite possibly the work of someone who does not wish you well, Miss Wyndham.’

  ‘Or some kind of joke, Mr Holmes,’ said she. ‘Yes, a joke. That is what I think.’

  ‘Who would be your choice for such a remarkable piece of hilarity?’ persisted Holmes.

  Miss Wyndham laughed, but it was a nervous laugh.

  ‘Anyone,’ she said. ‘Any of my suitors, I suppose. My mother is bereft, or so she appears to you. But that weak little bird enjoys receiving sympathy and is probably playing up her despair to the hilt. Tell me, has she taken to bed? Oh, I am sure that she has.’ The girl smiled, none too kindly.

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘We are not friends. I stole her beau. Well, not really her beau, he never fancied her. Her dream. Could be Atalanta.’

  ‘Yes, the archer,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Perhaps it is someone who is “desperate” to have me found? Well, let’s see. I suppose that might be my father.’ That thought pleased her. ‘Oh, the scandal.’

  ‘What of your two young men? Do they know you are staying here?’

  ‘Three young men. Two of them know. One does not. Freddie and Leo know.’

  ‘And Freddie is Frederick, Lord Eden-Summers – your sister’s dream?’

  She shrugged and leaned forward to retie the laces of one of her tennis shoes.

  ‘And Leo?’

  ‘Ha! My parents know nothing of him! Leo Vitale. Studying physics. St Cedd’s. Frighteningly intelligent. A bit unschooled with women, but he has potential.’

  ‘And who is the third? Deacon Buttons?’

  ‘Perry! Well, yes, but he is hardly in the running. He is besotted, a puppy. You ask too many questions.’ She turned her attention to the other shoe.

  ‘Please, Miss Wyndham. How do you suppose the culprit acquired your doll? I noted a large tree in the back of the house whose branches reach right up to the window of your bedroom. Which of your young gentlemen is in the habit of accessing your room via this route?’

  She looked up in surprise. ‘How do you know this?’ she exclaimed before she could think to deny the fact entirely.

  ‘It is my profession.’

  ‘Well, it is none of your business.’

  ‘There were several sets of footprints in the soft earth beneath the tree, in addition to your own. I suggest that one of these young men retrieved your doll and threw it in the lock. I also suggest that it would be to your advantage to know which. I don’t like it. And neither should you.’

  ‘I have no idea. Leo or Freddie have visited. But I can’t imagine them doing this.’

  ‘And the deacon has seen your room?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose.’

  I must have smiled as I imagined all of this. She turned to glare at me. ‘Ah, Doctor! You seem amused. Have you never been young and in love?’

  ‘Me? Oh, well—!’ I exclaimed. Holmes shot me a bemused look. ‘We were all young once,’ I said.

  ‘None of this matters. Who would have suspected anyone would summon Sherlock Holmes, all the way from London? My father must be desperate! His reputation above all.’ She smiled to herself, pleased at the thought of giving her father discomfort.

  Holmes stood up. ‘Miss Wyndham, I will not give away your hiding place. But I will convey th
e news to your family that you are safe and well and will return to them when ready. I will also suggest to them that they open up a conversation by writing to you care of my address in London, where you can mail your responses.’ He took out a calling card and jotted down our address on the back with a small silver pencil. He handed it to her.

  ‘I shall leave it to you to sort out your grievances and your options in this case. If you find that this game – no, don’t take offence, it clearly is a game – becomes cumbersome, I suggest you fashion a more open approach to declaring your well-deserved independence.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘If you do not achieve your desired results, but instead anger someone to the point where you feel endangered, you may feel free to call on me.’

  She stared at him in surprise.

  ‘I can be here in a matter of hours. It is my belief that you do not fully understand the effect you are having on those who have feelings for you. Also, I think you have more options than you currently see.’

  ‘Oh, you men! You think you understand!’ And yet I could read in her face that she had been affected by his words.

  ‘In the meantime, please be careful, young lady. Not every man you toy with and mistreat will feel or act as I do. Keep your windows and door locked.’

  Holmes picked up his hat and was out of the door before I could rise to my feet.

  ‘Good day, Miss Wyndham,’ I said, struggling with the uncharitable thought that I did not really wish her one. ‘Be assured, Mr Holmes is a man of his word.’

  She looked up at me from her sofa. I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes. Then I, too, made my escape.

  PART FOUR

  STRANGE MAGIC

  ‘Bid Suspicion double lock the door.’

  —William Shakespeare

  Venus and Adonis

  CHAPTER 17

  Smell the Roses

  We left the young lady and were once again traipsing through the hot and dusty streets of Cambridge. ‘Home, then, Holmes? The next train to King’s Cross is in thirty minutes.’ I said, having glanced at my Bradshaw.

  ‘Not yet, Watson. Until I know who put that doll in the lock, I will not feel comfortable leaving that rather irritating young lady on her own. That doll’s missing arm – my mind is not at ease.’

  ‘You think she is inciting danger, Holmes, by running off alone and unchaperoned?’

  ‘It is not her independence that concerns me, but her hostility. I wonder that she does not fathom the full effect.’

  I thought (but did not voice) that Holmes, so terribly observant of minutiae, and so keenly aware of motives and emotional undercurrents, could still at times be completely oblivious to the effect he had on others.

  Holmes was staring at me. ‘I know, Watson, that obliviousness can serve in certain cases. My brother champions it when it suits. Miss Wyndham, however, is making things harder for herself.’

  ‘I agree, Holmes. But who would have thrown that doll in the lock?’

  ‘As her sister says, there is a long list. I have a few questions for our distressed deacon. The church next, Watson.’ He made a right turn. ‘This way.’

  A few minutes later, we arrived at the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. It was an ancient, small stone church tucked behind newer college buildings, near to the river and the Jesus Lock. Next to it was an overgrown graveyard and, by contrast, a small, extremely well-kept garden of forty or so rosebushes. They were still in full bloom on this humid September day, and glowed in diffuse pinks, reds and corals in the unfiltered sunlight which beat down on the small space with relentless intensity. I wondered how long a rose garden had existed in this space and if the flowers came before or after the name of the church.

  A light tenor voice trilled out a charming melody behind a dense row of red and white roses. Holmes indicated with a finger to the lips that I should make no sound and began to sing out a melody which seemed to echo and answer the singing gardener most prettily.

  A heavyset priest of about fifty, wearing a wide-brimmed hat against the sun, popped his head up behind the roses. He continued to sing, Holmes right with him. They came to a rousing cadence. ‘Ta da!’

  The man laughed, rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes giving him a cheery countenance. ‘Pachelbel’s canon!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another baroque music aficionado! Lovely contrapuntal lines! Do you play an instrument, sir?’

  ‘I do,’ said Holmes pleasantly. ‘The violin.’

  ‘Wonderful. I am an organist, myself.’ The man came around from behind the rosebushes. He was a large fellow, but soft, well-fed, with the build and easy movement of a man who had been athletic not so long ago.

  A monocle dangled down his chest, its chain entwined with that of a large cross. The secular and the religious, I thought, tangled together. I had always been wary of men of the cloth. Where others found many of them to be avuncular and receptive, I frequently felt patronized and, well, judged. But perhaps that was my upbringing. The clergy of my parents’ church had indeed been rather unpleasant.

  The man’s piercing, merry eyes were nearly lost in the folds of his pale, chubby face. At this moment they conveyed an amused welcome.

  ‘Father Lamb, I presume,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Atticus Lamb, at your service, sir. And you are—?’

  ‘Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr Watson. We are up from London on some business here in the town. May we steal a moment of your time from this beautiful day?’

  In a few minutes we were seated in an anteroom off a transept of the church, with hot tea in hand. Even in this common area, the ancient stone walls gave off the chill of antiquity. A velvet silence surrounded us, the mild hubbub of Cambridge completely obstructed inside the building. I wondered aloud when it had been built.

  ‘Fifteen hundred, or thereabouts,’ said the priest.

  ‘Father Lamb, I have come to you about a young man of your church: Deacon Buttons,’ said Holmes.

  Lamb laughed. ‘Well, he is the only young man of my church, sir. We are a small operation here. Lamb and Buttons. The source of much merriment, you can be sure.’

  The names were odd. But it was the phrase ‘small operation’ which caught my attention.

  ‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘You have not been long in this location.’

  ‘No. Six months only. This church had been abandoned and stood mostly empty for some eight years. A shame really.’

  ‘And your congregation. I suppose a few hovered about, awaiting a … resurrection, so to speak?’

  Here the man’s face clouded slightly. He seemed to share with me the characteristic of having a face which reflected every thought, like a glassy pond with clouds floating overhead.

  ‘Well, a few have returned to the flock, although frankly we are having to start, more or less, from scratch.’

  ‘I imagine there is competition here, though mostly Anglican,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Well, competition is perhaps not the right word. But we do hope to find our people. Rome will only support us insofar as we gain a following. I am optimistic, however. Why do you ask?’

  It was not the first time that I considered that running a church was not unlike running a business. I became aware of a pounding sound that started up from somewhere beneath us.

  ‘Deacon Buttons seems like a promising young man to have with you, then,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Charming fellow.’

  ‘He is, indeed. He is set to be ordained soon, and he already gives a stirring sermon. I am counting on him to bring more young people into the fold. Our lifeblood, so to speak. Please forgive the noise, we are having some construction work below.’

  The muffled banging continued under our conversation.

  ‘How is it that you know young Buttons?’ asked Father Lamb. ‘And what did you wish to discuss?’

  ‘He came to us in London in the matter of a young lady who had gone missing. A Miss Dillie Wyndham.’

  ‘Came to you, sir?’

  ‘Mr Holmes is a consulting detecti
ve,’ I offered. ‘He has a considerable reputation in London for his work in locating missing persons and solving crimes.’

  Lamb’s regard clouded, then he turned his gaze on me.

  ‘And you, sir?’

  ‘This is Dr John Watson, an army surgeon and my colleague in work,’ said Holmes.

  Lamb took me in, then turned abruptly back to Holmes.

  ‘London, you say? A consulting detective who plays the violin? Well, you certainly must be unique. How is it that I can help you, sir?’

  ‘Is Deacon Buttons here at present?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘No. He is with the Carews, a family struck by illness. Terribly sad, the mother will expire soon.’

  ‘May we wait for him?’

  ‘I suppose so. Though it is not clear how long he may be.’ The priest smiled politely. ‘You are a detective. Has a crime been committed?’

  Holmes glanced around him. Through an open doorway we could see the altar and the pulpit. A small vase of roses sat next to the pulpit, clearly cut from the garden outside. Lacking all the gilded paraphernalia, the embroidered draping, the accoutrements of the popular and well-funded Catholic Church, these were a modest though charming offering.

  ‘Perhaps, Father. Deacon Buttons mentioned that a Miss Odelia Wyndham is a congregant here?’ said Holmes.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Is her family Catholic?’

  ‘The mother, perhaps. Lapsed.’

  ‘But the young lady? How long has she been attending church here?’

  ‘For some months now. Shortly after we began here.’

  ‘Interesting. You are aware that the family has reported Miss Wyndham missing?’

  The priest paused, feeling the weight of Holmes’s gaze settle upon him. He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Young Buttons mentioned it, yes.’

  ‘And that her doll was found floating in the Jesus Lock?’

  ‘What? A doll? No. But she is a mature young lady—’

  ‘Her childhood doll. A favourite, apparently. And found by the deacon in the lock.’

  The priest looked puzzled. ‘I see. How can I help you?’