‘All right, yes. I want you to find who hurt Santo, causing him to lose a finger. It is not Dario Borelli, I am sure. If we learn the truth, Santo will no longer threaten Dario. Then … only then … I can leave Dario, happy because I know he will be safe.’
Holmes and I exchanged a glance. This was a formidable lady who not only improved her lovers’ magic acts but protected them, as a mother might look after a wayward child. Fickle, perhaps, but she could afford to be. Ilaria Borelli defined, I suppose, a bold new kind of woman. I briefly wondered what being married to such a woman, perhaps an expert in my own medical field, might be like. The thought brought a smile to my lips.
The doorbell rang for the second time that morning. Soft voices came from below. A male visitor. Madame Borelli stood again.
‘I go. Will you help me, Mr Holmes? I will pay you, of course.’
‘When I deliver your result, you can pay me then. I will visit this Santo Colangelo and see if I can discover the cause of his accident, although I must warn you that trail is cold. Why do you think he waited so long after his accident to send a threat?’
‘He is trying to win me back. But cannot. Santo is not the bad man. But now he is angry that he cannot have me. And jealous. And Dario recently is a big success.’ She took two tickets from her reticule and placed them on a table next to Holmes. ‘Come tonight. See the show again.’
Holmes sat still for a moment, considering. Then, ‘Tell the Great Borelli, er, your Dario, that I will come. I have a few questions for him. I will also visit Colangelo and see if I cannot get to the bottom of this.’
‘Very good. Thank you. And no word to Dario that you have read these pages!’ With a final glance around the room and a haughty sniff, Madame Borelli departed.
‘Not your usual case, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Seems more a matter of the heart than the brain.’
‘Hearts drive more crimes than brains do, Watson. And the conjuring element is intriguing. I always enjoy a good magic show, although most of it is glaringly obvious.’
‘If you know how it’s done,’ I said, ‘does that not remove half the fun?’
Holmes regarded me with amusement. ‘Come, come, Watson. Everyone enjoys a little sleight of hand.’ With a wave of his arm, his cigarette suddenly disappeared.
I did not favour him with a reaction. ‘Why do I need the theatre when you are a constant source of amusement, Holmes? Alternating, like the current, with being vexatious.’
‘I am sorry, Watson, it is the heat.’ He winced. ‘Ouch!’ he said, pulling the still glowing cigarette from his sleeve. ‘I need to keep practising this.’
‘And perhaps your manners,’ I remarked.
CHAPTER 7
The Deacon
Before Holmes could retort, Mrs Hudson entered and interrupted us.
‘Peregrine Buttons, Deacon, Church of Our Lady of the Roses, Cambridge. Says you are expecting him, Mr Holmes?’ She stepped aside, leaving us facing a young man.
Holmes clearly had forgotten this appointment. ‘Ah, Deacon Buttons!’ He gestured to the chair recently vacated by Ilaria Borelli.
Surely he would not take on a second case? But I had not long to worry.
This slender fellow edged past Mrs Hudson and paused at the threshold. He was garbed in black, with a cleric’s collar and wide black Saturno hat. I put his age at twenty-two or so. His eager, innocent expression, wide-set blue eyes and handsome, boyish face conveyed both hope and trepidation.
He paused, realizing that his clothing was soaked and dripping onto the rug. He had apparently worn no overcoat.
‘Oh, please forgive me!’ He flushed, backing into the hallway, brushing the moisture from his jacket.
‘Come in, young man! Never mind the rug,’ said Holmes, impatiently.
The young deacon entered, removing his hat. Raindrops dotted his gold spectacles. A wild mop of fair hair, flattened on the top from the hat but curling wildly all around the sides from the dampness, gave the amusing effect of a faux tonsure with a peculiar shape. Noticing my stare, he ruffled his hair, erasing the effect, and attempted a shy smile. He had remarkably straight, white teeth.
I also observed carefully manicured hands and a small gold ring. Here was a handsome young man of the cloth who was rather aware of his appearance. Unusual, I thought.
‘Mr Buttons. Your name was derived from Bouton? French?’ said Holmes.
The young man nodded.
‘I received your note early this morning.’ He turned to me. ‘Watson, it concerned a young lady who has gone missing in Cambridge. Come and sit down – here, Deacon, place this cloth underneath you on the chair – and begin at the beginning. I would like my colleague Dr Watson to hear your story.’
The young man sat. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I wrote to you last night, Miss Odelia Ann Wyndham – Dillie, as she is known – is missing. This is a young lady of my acquaintance, a regular at our services, and the daughter of Richard Anderson Wyndham.’
‘Yes, the famous Cambridge don, the classics professor and wayward archeologist? I inferred her relationship from the name. Is she his only child?’
‘He has two daughters. She is the younger. In any case, Dillie has been missing since Monday afternoon.’
‘Dillie? You are on a first-name basis?’
The young man shifted in his chair. ‘Father Lamb, my superior, encourages us to consider each of our flock as family … children of God.’
‘Hmm. Watson, the deacon’s is a new Catholic church in Cambridge, recently reopened after a scandalous closure eight years ago. Go on, Deacon.’
‘Er … yes!’ said the young man. ‘How do you know all this, if you do not mind the question, sir?’
‘I read. In any case, Miss Wyndham was last seen on Monday, and you wrote to me the next day. That is not much time to have passed. What is your concern?’
‘Well, on Tuesday after evening services, we – that is, I – run a discussion group in the church, and Dillie has always attended. But not last night. I was already worried, Mr Holmes, because we had made an informal arrangement for earlier in the day, and she did not show up as planned for that, either.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’
‘We were to have lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘At the The Bull and Rat.’
‘A pub, from the name. Is it a regular habit of yours to meet single female congregants in pubs for lunch?’
The young cleric flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Father Lamb says that if we can counsel a person in need, it does not matter where or when, only that—’
‘How old is the lady?’
‘Eighteen, I believe.’
‘You believe, or you know?’
‘Eighteen and four months.’
Holmes said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘On what subject were you to counsel her?’
‘She is troubled by a young man at the university. Frederick Eden-Summers. A third year, going for law.’
‘Ah, some facts at last. Eden-Summers, that name is familiar. Watson, be so good as too look that up in my files. Would we be correct in consulting Debrett’s as well, Deacon?’
The young man nodded once again.
I was already wading through the clutter to Holmes’s alphabetized files. I retrieved the appropriate box, and Debrett’s as well, wherein the details of peerage soon revealed that Frederick Eden-Summers was the oldest son of the Duke of Harbingden, and therefore set to inherit his father’s estate and title. Once that matter had been determined, Holmes turned again to our young visitor.
‘Now, how is Mr Eden-Summers troubling the young lady?’
‘She is being pressured to accept his marriage proposal.’
‘By the young man himself?’
‘Apparently, and by her father as well. It is shameful! I am of the school of thought that a young lady should choose for herself. My own sister is at Girton. A very independent young lady. Our parents raised us this way.’
‘Yet you chose a pro
fession with many restrictions. Are your parents pleased with your choice?’
‘My parents are dead, Mr Holmes. I left the university after one year, as I had no way to support myself once my father was gone. And so I entered the Church. But what has this to do with Miss Wyndham?’
‘Perhaps nothing. How do you propose to help the young lady?’
‘Spiritual counselling, of course.’
‘Of course. What says her family about this brief disappearance?’
‘Strangely, nothing. Polly, her maid, says they are not concerned.’
‘You are on intimate terms with her maid?’
‘Mr Holmes, sir! Polly attends our church!’
‘Why, then, Deacon Buttons, if the family is unconcerned, are you worried?’
The young man looked down at his hat.
‘Be forthcoming, Mr Buttons, or I shall send you home on the next train.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His foot tapped in the air, giving away his impatience. He caught my frown and stopped the foot.
Mrs Hudson arrived with a glass of water. She set it down next to Buttons, kicked a small stack of refuse out of her way, glanced at me, and departed.
The deacon turned his hat in his hands, acutely uncomfortable. After a moment, Holmes broke the silence.
‘Is Miss Wyndham aware of your affections?’
The young man looked up, startled. I had seen such reactions so many times.
‘Come now, it is patently obvious,’ said Holmes.
‘I … I have said nothing. Perhaps she has intuited. But in my position, I am unable … I cannot offer her, and she deserves …’
Holmes got up and moved to the fireplace. He rummaged among several pipes in his rack and selected one. This kind of sentiment made him uncomfortable. He turned and leaned against the mantel, lighting his pipe with a match, then tossed it into the fire, which had sunk to embers, I was relieved to note.
‘I believe you mean well, Mr Buttons, but you have wasted your time. The family’s response is telling. It is most likely the young lady is away shopping or visiting relatives. Or perhaps she needs time alone to think. Please return to Cambridge. But do cable me if Miss Wyndham does not return in two days, or if her family also become worried. Then, and only then, will I consider this a case of a missing person. I wish you well with Miss Wyndham. Dr Watson will see you out.’
I accompanied the young deacon to the door where I gently reiterated Holmes’s offer. He nodded tearfully and departed. I returned to find my friend frowning as he shuffled papers on the table.
‘Why do people bother me with these trifles? The girl is obviously fleeing his unwanted attentions. Any fool can see that.’
‘I don’t know, Holmes. He is a terribly good-looking young man. He seems sincere.’
‘With few prospects, as he pointed out.’
‘Not every young girl is so concerned about that.’
‘But priests are meant to be celibate,’ he said. ‘Unless I have missed something. Where are those notes?’
‘Catholic clergy may marry, if they do so before ordination,’ I offered.
Holmes shrugged. ‘Romance is your department, Watson. But it hardly matters.’ He glanced about him as if noticing for the first time the mounds of his personal clutter. ‘My friend, I have let things get out of hand here. Will you help me for a couple of hours? Then off to dinner and the Great Borelli’s performance as compensation?’
I hesitated. ‘I will help you, Holmes, this time. But it will all go into the fire.’
‘No! Some of these papers are vital. I need to find—ah, what a mess Madame has made of these!’
‘No promises.’ I bent down to relight the fire, and sighed. It was still too hot in the room for it. But perhaps burning his papers was the reason he had had it blazing in the first place.
As I leaned in with a match, this was confirmed for me. The charred remains of a stack of papers lay at the bottom of the grate. I made out the words at the top of one. It was a treatise on medieval locks. Was he going try opening my little box?
CHAPTER 8
A Close Escape
That evening we sat amidst a varied crowd in the cavernous, drafty stalls at Wilton’s Music Hall, located in Grace’s Alley, Whitechapel. While the place lacked the cachet of a West End theatre, it was a storied venue for variety acts and attracted a wide range of London’s social classes.
We did not know it at the time, but the place would be shuttered within a year and turned into a mission for feeding the poor, but at this moment it was filled with eager theatregoers. Above our heads, with elbows resting on the overhanging balcony surrounding on three sides, was a noisy crowd of working-class men, women and children. One small boy – his mother occupied with her flashy swain seated beside her – was folding tiny pieces of paper and dropping them on the heads of the better-dressed patrons sitting beneath him in the stalls.
I had been only ten years old myself when I first saw a magic show. That one had featured dancing dogs, and I recalled the canines were infinitely more entertaining than the florid, grotesque man who had performed after them, sweating under his battered top hat and manipulating cards on a stained, felt-covered table. But that was long ago.
The Great Borelli promised to entertain at an entirely different level. A spangled red and silver curtain billowed at the back of the stage. In front were arrayed various gleaming contraptions and velvet topped tables.
Seated next to me in the stalls, Holmes drummed his long thin fingers on his knee, as impatient as the young boy above us.
At the sound of a musical flourish from a small band on the right side of the stage, the lights dimmed. Followed by a spotlight, the Borellis appeared from behind the curtain. Tall, dark-skinned, with the pointed beard and trimmed moustache of Renaissance portraits, the Great Borelli boasted an athletic physique and the light-footed movements of a sportsman in his youthful prime.
Madame Borelli was glamorous far beyond her already striking appearance at Baker Street earlier in the day. A red silk gown draped over her statuesque figure like molten lava, adorned with red and black sequins that seemed to give off sparks from the limelights at the front of the stage.
The act proceeded with a fast-paced series of magic tricks, most employing lavishly decorated pieces of equipment, including a gold filigreed coffin-like box into which Madame Borelli was locked, her head and feet sticking out of either end, promptly followed by Borelli piercing the coffin with swords. Holmes leaned in to whisper, ‘Either careful choreography, and Madame is a contortionist, or trick swords which fold in on themselves.’
I nodded. ‘Shhh.’
Holmes leaned in again. ‘Those feet sticking out are false feet. Look, the soles are unworn!’ whispered the spoilsport.
‘Let me enjoy this!’ I hissed back.
Borelli flung a red satin drape over the whole thing, intoned incantations, then tossed it away with bravado, revealing Madame Borelli standing intact next to the gold coffin. The audience erupted in applause.
More tricks followed, in which the magician seemed to be in flirtatious competition with his mischievous wife. The charming Ilaria threatened to upstage him at every turn, but he won the day by making a variety of objects – including a teacup apparently filled with liquid, and a small, live rabbit – appear and disappear into his hat.
‘Fabric pocket at the edge of the table. See there, he drops the rabbit in while you are watching the scarf, it never goes in the hat,’ said my companion. ‘And there is no liquid—’
‘Oh, Holmes,’ I groaned.
A woman in front of us turned to look at us. ‘Yes, go home, you rude man!’
Holmes chuckled, but for the next several illusions did manage to hold his tongue.
After more remarkable hat tricks, the audience exploded into enthusiastic applause. I leaned over and said, ‘Now that was well done, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?’
‘Mmph. Sleight of hand. Misdirection. Pre-rigged table and hat,’ came the
reply. ‘This is not what I came for.’
But the music started up again, and the stage lights dimmed. The table was whisked away and a large tank was rolled in, some six feet high and four feet square. A spotlight followed it in. It was filled to the brim with water, which sloshed over the edges as the thing was wheeled to the centre of the stage. Lowered from above was a large clock, with a vivid second hand slowly ticking round.
The band’s music grew ominous. The top of the tank was removed and in it were embedded two iron cuffs.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! In our next adventure,’ the Great Borelli boomed with his Italian accent, ‘holding the breath is important. First, I ask you to try. Do I have a volunteer to be submerged with these iron cuffs around your ankles and try to escape?’
The audience went silent, except for some nervous laughter. I stole another glance at Holmes. ‘Not ready for this one?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps one day,’ said Holmes.
I regretted my joke.
‘How long can the average man hold his breath?’ Madame tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Or woman?’ He looked out over the audience. ‘Let us see. Will you give it a try? Upon my signal, my assistants will keep watch. Keep your eyes on the clock. Raise your hand to start. Lower it when you must take a breath. We shall see who is best among you. Ready? Deep breath in now, ready … go.’
There was a collective gasp from the audience and many hands went up. Why not? I thought, and raised my hand, taking in a big breath.
As the clock ticked and we literally held our breath with one hand in the air, the Great Borelli stripped off a layer of clothing, revealing a grey woollen bathing costume underneath. After displaying his remarkable physique in a classic strongman pose, he removed his shoes and socks. He then made as if to remove his bathing costume to a collective gasp from the ladies. He stopped with a wink. The clock ticked on … thirty seconds, forty seconds.
Borelli next climbed up a ladder to the top of the tank and sat on a small platform. Two assistants removed the top, displayed to the audience the iron cuffs securely welded into it, then carefully locked his ankles into them, clicking them shut like handcuffs and then adding padlocks on top of these.
The Three Locks Page 4
