The Three Locks Page 8

  ‘No, sir. She never liked that doll, sir.’

  Holmes looked up sharply at her. ‘Then the doll was still here on Monday?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘When did you notice it gone?’

  ‘Er … Tuesday, sir.’

  ‘When exactly?’

  ‘Night. Nine-thirty, sir.’

  ‘What were you doing in her room on Tuesday night?’

  The girl shifted uncomfortably. ‘I often checks all the rooms, sir, afore I goes to bed. To make sure no lights are left lit. Close the windows.’

  ‘What did you do when you discovered the doll missing?’

  ‘I felt sick. Somebody were in the room. Secret, like. I was scared.’

  ‘Perhaps Dillie herself returned for her doll?’

  ‘No, sir. Like I said.’ A shy smile. ‘It’s her mother likes dolls, not Miss Odelia.’

  Holmes shrugged. ‘But anyone could come in. What about her sister? Or Mrs Wyndham? Why did you not first think of a family member?’

  The girl hesitated. ‘That window.’ She pointed to the largest, adjacent to the tree.

  ‘It was open?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’

  ‘But not when you tidied the room earlier?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Holmes moved to the window, examined the lock, opened, shut it. He stood motionless for a few seconds, then turned back to the girl with that piercing stare that intimidated all who encountered it.

  ‘And what of yesterday? When Deacon Buttons arrived at this house with the drowned and dismembered doll. What time was that, I forget?’

  Of course, Holmes forgot nothing. The girl hesitated. He did not take his eyes from her.

  ‘Nine, or so,’ said she.

  ‘Mrs Wyndham did not hear of the doll until ten-thirty,’ he said. ‘Where were you in the hour and a half between Deacon Buttons arriving with it, and when her parents were informed?’

  The girl froze, eyes wide.

  Holmes sighed, then made an effort to soften his approach. His voice took on a gentler tone. ‘You were not worried about Dillie before this, Polly?’

  ‘N-not really, sir.’

  ‘Young lady, I believe you know more than you are telling us. This doll is disturbing. Your mistress may now be in danger. I suggest that you know where she is hiding, and between nine, when the drowned doll showed up here with the deacon, and ten-thirty, when the Wyndhams were informed, you went to see if she was all right. And you took the doll with you so that Deacon Buttons could not alert the parents just yet. But she was not there, and you became worried. You then returned to the house and alerted her mother. Have I got that right?’

  The girl was preternaturally still, like a small wild animal that wishes to be invisible.

  ‘I take that as a yes. How is it that Deacon Buttons allowed you to run off with the doll?’

  ‘I just did it, afore he could stop me. He found me on the way back though. He offered to escort me through the streets, so as I would not get caught again, and—’

  ‘Caught?’

  The girl looked down and blushed.

  ‘Caught by whom?’

  She hesitated. Then, ‘The proctor’s men.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, I had forgotten,’ said Holmes.

  At my puzzled look, Holmes explained. ‘There is a kind of private police force run by proctors from the University. In the interest of keeping “moral order”, they arrest random young women seen to be consorting with students after curfew. An indiscriminate sweep, I am told. Many are shopgirls, servants, innocent working girls. They hold them without charges in private prison called the Spinning House.’

  And in our modern times! I thought. What an outrage.

  ‘That could be dangerous,’ continued Holmes. ‘Have you been stopped before, Polly? Perhaps on an errand for your mistress?’

  Polly nodded and looked down, ashamed. ‘’Tweren’t her fault, sir. I was stupid. I stopped to ask directions and a young man … he … he started to show me the way, and I were arrested.’ The trembling increased, and a tear escaped her eye and ran down her face. She swiped it away. ‘It was a close one, sir. I was let off with a warnin’.’

  I wanted to know more of these ‘proctor’s men’, but Holmes pressed on.

  ‘That was fortunate. Yet you risked another arrest last night? Why did you go alone to your mistress?’

  ‘Miss Odelia, she wanted Mr Buttons not to know where she was.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘That was brave of you. Polly, your mistress may be in a bit of trouble.’

  The maid looked at her feet and refused to reply.

  ‘Help us to help her,’ Holmes whispered.

  Polly stole a glance up at him. It was telling, even to my eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ came a low-pitched, female voice from the doorway.

  CHAPTER 14

  Atalanta

  We turned to see a tall, willowy young woman with short, curly dark hair, clothed in an expensive lacy nightgown and velvet dressing gown. Her face was translucently pale, and while nearly my height, she was slender and wiry, with something of the woodland sprite about her. Not exactly beautiful, but striking in her way. The older sister, of course. I wondered why she was still abed at this hour. Her eyes shone with either fever or something else. That and her short hair suggested she might be suffering or recovering from some illness.

  She placed a hand on either side of the doorway, her voluminous, lace-trimmed sleeves flopping back, revealing finely muscled porcelain arms. She smiled at us in an overly bright manner I found unnerving.

  Except for the mother, these Wyndhams were all of a kind with their studied posturing, I thought.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked, taking in both of us.

  ‘Atalanta Wyndham, I presume?’ said Holmes, glancing up from where he was examining Odelia’s shoes with an air of distraction.

  ‘I am she.’

  He shrugged and returned to his inspection of a fine silk slipper.

  ‘Have we awakened you?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ the young woman said. ‘But I write, you see, sometimes all night long. Now, about you, sirs. Are you from the police?’

  Holmes, without turning, waved to me to answer her, and continued his inspection of the missing girl’s shoes. Atalanta Wyndham’s smile faded instantly at this rudeness.

  I stepped forward. ‘No, Miss Wyndham, not the police,’ I said. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I am his colleague, Dr John Watson. We have come up from London in the matter of your missing sister.’

  ‘Well that was certainly quick.’ She paused, staring at Holmes. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, you say?’ Still he did not respond. ‘Mr Holmes, do they not teach you manners in London?’

  Not deigning to answer, Holmes stood and returned to the dressing table. He ran his hand underneath it. With the merest glance at the older sister, he asked. ‘Did you notice your sister’s doll missing yesterday?’

  ‘No.’ Atalanta Wyndham’s expression had turned icy. ‘I rarely come in here. It was the maid.’ She turned to Polly. ‘Leave us, Polly,’ she said sharply. ‘Shoo!’

  Polly melted from the room.

  ‘Means well, but really a rather stupid girl,’ the young woman said to me. ‘I can’t help you. My sister is incorrigible.’

  Holmes stood up from the dressing table and turned to face the sister. As his eyes took her in, he appeared to be abruptly taken by her beauty. ‘Miss Wyndham, please forgive me,’ he said in a curiously mollifying tone as if he had suddenly been presented a rare prize. ‘I am easily distracted when on a case.’ He crossed over to her and took her right hand in his and gently kissed it. As he raised it to his lips, her lacy sleeve fell back once again. All this was grossly out of character, and I wondered at his purpose.

  ‘Miss Wyndham. Author of Faded Blossoms!’ said Holmes.

  I was startled but endeavoured to hide it. This must be the book from her shelf that he had pocketed! Atalanta Wyndham lo
oked pleased and strangely triumphant.

  ‘How did you hear of that, pray tell? I am published, but not widely.’

  Holmes danced on. ‘“December Roses”. A perfect sonnet of the Shakespearean type. You show great feeling.’

  To my knowledge, Holmes had little use for poetry. The young woman smiled warmly at Holmes. ‘Do you like poetry, Mr Holmes?’

  He said nothing but smiled.

  ‘When did you have occasion to read my work?’

  ‘I will be honest with you, Miss Wyndham. Just now,’ said Holmes pleasantly, nodding to her sister’s bookcase. He removed the book from his pocket, waved it at her and replaced it. The man could charm when he wanted to.

  Atalanta Wyndham was clearly entranced, as would be any author whose work garners appreciation, even if just in the moment. She laughed. ‘You thought to fool me!’

  ‘You are too intelligent for that. Though I am new to your work, it is quite lovely, Miss Wyndham. I intend to read more. Given the observant eye of the poet, perhaps you might be able to help us, I think?’

  Her eyes glanced about the room, and a shadow crossed her face. It was obvious even to me that the sisters were not friends. ‘Well, I will certainly try, although I doubt it.’

  ‘I understand your sister goes missing on a regular basis?’ said Holmes.

  The young woman coughed. The wheeze was familiar. ‘Would you like to sit down, Miss?’ I asked, noting also a drop of perspiration on her forehead. It could indicate the early stage of consumption.

  She waved a dismissive hand at me and remained in the doorway, stifling a second cough. ‘She does. Quite often.’

  ‘For how long?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘One or two days, usually. Some of the time our parents don’t even notice. I write at night, mainly. They don’t notice that, either.’

  ‘Do they care that your sister runs away?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Our mother might. But she is too busy attending to her own needs,’ said Miss Wyndham. ‘A lady of constant small woes.’ Her smile softened her dismissive comment.

  ‘Ah, understood,’ I said.

  ‘And the servants?’ asked Holmes.

  She rolled her eyes.

  ‘With two invalids in the house, the servants are quite occupied, I would imagine,’ I said.

  She flashed a look of anger, then willed it away. ‘My mother is not an invalid. She is just a rather weak person, given to strong emotions.’

  ‘And you, Miss Wyndham,’ I said. ‘That cough—’

  ‘You overstep, Doctor,’ she responded sharply. ‘I am both mobile and self-sufficient. As you can easily see.’

  Holmes looked at her steadily for a long moment. ‘Miss Wyndham, do you have any information about your sister that might help us to find her?’ he asked. ‘Might there be a young gentleman she is seeing?’

  ‘Only this. Dillie has another place she goes to. It happens often enough. She is, well, she will do as she pleases. Always.’

  ‘This other place – do you know where it is?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘It is somewhere in town, close by. I know this because she once left, forgot something, came back, and left again. All within an hour. Find it, and you will find her.’

  Holmes nodded at me. That fitted with the maid’s timeline last night as well. ‘Have you anything more for us?’ he asked her.

  Atalanta Wyndham shrugged.

  ‘You don’t seem worried. Do you think that there is a threat to your sister? Her doll was found partially dismembered. Somewhat suggestive, don’t you think?’ said Holmes.

  ‘How terribly dramatic! Well, let’s see, who would dislike my sister? I would wager there is a list.’ She laughed at this.

  ‘Do give us your thoughts, Miss Wyndham.’

  ‘You asked about a young man? There are many. She is rather carefree in bestowing her affections, with little thought to their effect.’

  ‘We know, of course, of Mr Frederick Eden-Summers,’ said Holmes.

  At the mention of this name, a shadow passed across the features of this ethereal young woman. It was gone so quickly that I doubted my perception, but the quality of Atalanta Wyndham’s voice changed. It became stronger, more strident. ‘A sterling young man. Award-winning sportsman. And of the finest family. Dillie could not do better.’

  ‘A match, then?’ prompted Holmes.

  ‘Hardly! My sister does not value his qualities. She treats him abominably.’

  Holmes said nothing.

  The girl cleared her throat and reverted to her softer voice. ‘By her own admission,’ she added.

  ‘Ah, a shame. A sportsman, you say. What is his sport?’

  ‘He is an archer. A Woodman of Arden!’ she added proudly.

  ‘Impressive! And at quite a young age!’ said Holmes. I presumed this was some honorary society of archers.

  ‘His father was a member as well.’

  ‘I see. Does your sister partake in the sport?’

  ‘Dillie? Ha! No. She does play at tennis a bit.’ She said this with a hint of disdain. ‘I don’t know what Freddie sees in her!’

  ‘Freddie?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Mr Eden-Summers and I were childhood friends.’

  ‘I note you are an archer yourself,’ said Holmes.

  Atalanta Wyndham stepped back in surprise, crossing her arms. ‘My parents told you this?’

  ‘No. I merely observe.’

  ‘I still do not see,’ she said.

  I was glad that for once someone other than me ‘saw but did not observe’, as Holmes so frequently chided.

  ‘Really quite simple, Miss Wyndham,’ said Holmes. ‘Before we entered here, I made an inspection of the yard surrounding the house. I noticed that there are several large burlap sacks at the foot of some trees, stuffed with hay. Archery targets, from the holes, and one arrow left embedded. Facing these, I now learn, is your bedroom.’

  Atalanta shifted uneasily.

  ‘The angle of that arrow indicated it was shot from above. Unless someone was aiming from the large plane tree that abuts your – and your sister’s – bedroom windows, it was shot from one of these windows. That and the evidence on your person, Miss Wyndham, are strongly suggestive.’

  ‘Evidence on my person?’

  ‘You do not use an arm guard – but you really should – and have the bowman’s scars on your left arm. And the calluses on the fingers of your right drawing hand. Do you only do this in secret then? Shooting from your window, perhaps?’

  Knowing Holmes’s abilities as I did, nevertheless this train of inferences was impressive. And the notion of this young woman practising archery from her window … what a very odd family, I thought.

  ‘I presume you do this at night, as I cannot imagine your parents condoning this activity,’ said Holmes. ‘Accidents will happen.’

  Atalanta Wyndham smiled. ‘I shoot at dawn. First light. Only the cook is awake, preparing breakfast – and she is on the other side of the house. My parents keep the rest of the staff working late and have moved their hours to start later in the morning.’

  ‘How convenient. But I thought you stayed up at night to write?’

  ‘I do both,’ said she.

  ‘And who retrieves the arrows for you?’

  ‘The gardener.’

  ‘And you compensate him … in some way?’

  The slender creature drew herself up at this question. ‘Sir! You imply impropriety!’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Wyndham, nor did it occur to me. Do you pay him?’

  ‘Yes. What has all this to do with Dillie’s disappearance?’

  ‘I do not know which facts pertain until I have them in hand. Earlier you said Dillie has several admirers. Do you know who they might be?’

  ‘Well, at last you attend to the real issue,’ snapped Atalanta Wyndham with a toss of her head. ‘That young deacon is infatuated with her. Hopeless fool. Buttons, what a stupid name! Then, of course, Mr Eden-Summers – if she hasn’t scared him away. And there is
another: a science student at St Cedd’s. I did glimpse him once, in Dillie’s room. His name is Leo Vitale.’ She pronounced his name ‘vih-tally’.

  ‘Italian name?’ said Holmes.

  ‘I suppose. But English now. Pale, glasses. Face of a surprised baby owl. I don’t know what she sees in him.’

  ‘Here? Young Mr Vitale visited your sister here?’ I blurted out. ‘How is it that your parents would allow—’

  Holmes held up a hand to silence me. ‘Thank you very much, Miss Wyndham, you have been helpful. And have no fear, I will not give away your secret archery practice.’ He turned to leave but paused at the door and turned back. ‘Oh, but one other question, if you would. Has it rained here in Cambridge in the last few days?’

  ‘No, but I wish it would. This heat is oppressive!’

  So, I felt, was the Wyndham family.

  We returned downstairs. Holmes asked to speak with Polly, the maid, but we were told she had been sent on an errand. He informed Professor Wyndham that evidence pointed to his daughter Dillie’s planned departure, and that he did not believe an abduction had taken place.

  Wyndham’s response was quick, decisive, and rude. ‘Deliver this observation to the police, then, and they will take it from there. If there is no abduction, we have no further need for your services.’

  ‘Professor Wyndham, yet I believe this doll – designed to look like your daughter and found dismembered in the lock – is clearly a kind of message. It could well be a direct threat of bodily harm. I would like to find your daughter and get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘This is a private matter now, and the family will deal with it. Return to London, Mr Holmes, and not a word of this to anyone, or I shall have legal proceedings instituted.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Holmes in his chilliest manner, ‘your idle threat is uncalled for. I have no interest in bringing shame to anyone. Only to solve a crime where a crime has been committed. Not in this house, apparently.’ He turned abruptly and left. I followed.

  I was more than happy to depart this strange household.

  A servant was sent to fetch us a carriage as we waited near the road some twenty yards from the house.

  ‘What of this doll, Holmes? Who could have put it in the river, and why?’