The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘A very soft bag for little Peter,’ offered Madame, moving to the cage to peer in at her tiny charge. She looked up at me. ‘My illusions will never harm a living creature.’

  ‘My illusions,’ shouted Borelli.

  Madame smiled at us out of sight of her husband.

  I returned my attention to the ankle. Her illusions would never harm a creature … except, perhaps, her boorish husband. That thought gave rise to a sudden suspicion. As I tightened the bandage around Borelli’s ankle, he jerked again, sending the makeshift splint awry.

  ‘Hold still, Mr Borelli! Holmes, press down here, and do not let go.’

  ‘I am not a nurse, Watson.’

  ‘Try,’ I said, sharply.

  ‘You say I have six special somethings. You name two only,’ said Borelli.

  ‘The third is also common,’ said Holmes. ‘Misdirection. You direct the audience’s attention to the wrong thing.’

  ‘Pah, you read in a book. Every fool thinks they understand this. But any faker on the street can make money with a shell game.’

  Holmes carried on, undaunted. ‘Lock-picking is your fourth bird in hand, and here you pull ahead of your competition. I have read that regulation police handcuffs are child’s play to you.’

  ‘You think this is magic?’

  ‘No. It is a skill acquired with a great deal of practice and research. You are a master at picking most known locks. Even a Chubb, if I am not mistaken.’

  ‘You flatter me. But you miss the main point. Nothing can restrain me! Not just the locks. Ropes, chains, a straitjacket. Bandages wound around me like the mummy. I will escape from anything.’

  ‘Indeed, I have read of your exploits. You have been bound upside down. Hung off buildings. Underwater. Buried alive. However, your ankle cuffs tonight required your fifth skill.’

  Borelli cried out in pain as I manipulated the broken ankle. ‘Finish quickly, you, Doctor!’ Then, to Holmes, ‘What fifth skill?’

  Holmes continued, his enthusiasm growing, ‘Physical cultivation has turned you into a man of steel – but in addition, you are nearly double-jointed. An extremely rare combination.’

  Borelli laughed. ‘Watch!’ he exclaimed. ‘The mirror, Ilaria!’ She picked up a large mirror and moved behind him so that we could easily see his back. Leaning forward he made the prayer sign over his heart, then circling his arms behind his back, made the identical sign behind his back, fingertips reaching skyward.

  ‘My God!’ I exclaimed. ‘That is impossible!’

  ‘And yet there it is,’ said Holmes. ‘Astonishing! May I touch your arm?’

  Borelli looked up, startled at this. To my surprise he said, ‘Come. Touch. Marvel.’ He raised his arm as if displaying a trophy.

  Holmes moved around to grasp Borelli’s upper arm. He felt the man’s biceps, nodding in admiration. Patted him on the back. ‘Like a rock. You are indeed an unusual specimen, sir!’

  Borelli shrugged, nodding. ‘How long will this take to heal, Doctor?’

  ‘You must stay off of it for a month,’ said I. ‘After that—’

  ‘That is too long,’ said Borelli. ‘I have many shows to perform.’

  Holmes remained standing next to Borelli, ‘Will that splint hold, do you think, Watson?’ he asked, leaning over Borelli and tapping it.

  ‘Ah! Get away, you! And hurry, dottore, be finished,’ the magician demanded. Then, to Holmes, ‘What is number six, in the list, you are so smart?’

  Holmes stepped back and crossed his arms. ‘Number six is your wife. Madame Borelli is your ace in the hole.’

  Borelli shot a quick, dismissive glance at his wife. ‘Ilaria? She help me, of course. Some. But no.’

  ‘I am finished here, sir.’ I stood up. ‘Shall we be off, Holmes?’

  ‘You are not so smart, Mr Detective. Most people think they see my illusions, but they do not see,’ said Borelli.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Holmes. ‘But I did see you pick Watson’s pocket as he examined you.’

  ‘Dario!’ exclaimed his wife. ‘What did you take? Show us!’

  Borelli grinned at his wife and shrugged as if he had no idea what Holmes was on about.

  I patted my pockets in alarm. ‘My keys! Mr Borelli, that is hardly sporting of you!’ I cried. ‘Give me those, sir!’

  ‘Shame, Dario, these men try to help you,’ said Madame. ‘Give the gentleman his keys!’

  Borelli laughed, delighted at his little joke, then reached into his pocket. He stopped, surprised. He patted the other pockets in alarm. He looked up at Holmes and his eyes widened in shock.

  There in Holmes’s hand were my keys! Holmes handed them to me. He’d stolen them from the thief himself.

  I expected an explosion, but to my surprise, the arrogant fellow laughed. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. Then his laugh died in his throat. ‘Wait! What is that?’

  Holmes was holding a hotel key in the air. ‘Yours, I believe, sir?’ Holmes handed Borelli his own key. The magician snatched it away.

  Holmes turned to go, then paused, turning back. ‘And your handkerchief, sir?’ He flicked a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it in the air.

  Madame Borelli took it, amused. Holmes patted his trouser pockets and pulled out a third item. ‘Oh dear me! And this Ace of Diamonds. I believe this is yours as well.’

  He handed Borelli the playing card.

  ‘Get out,’ said the magician. ‘All of you.’

  CHAPTER 10

  A Lady’s Desire

  We found ourselves ousted summarily and standing in the hallway, from which we had a view onto the empty stage. Madame Borelli rushed out, and taking Holmes’s arm said, ‘Oh, Mr Holmes, I am so sorry. I hope you will help us. Help me. Please, we will not tell Dario. You must find out who caused Santo Colangelo’s accident.’

  Holmes looked at her strangely.

  ‘Colangelo’s? His cut finger is your concern, rather than the culprit behind tonight’s fiasco that nearly killed your husband?’

  ‘Yes … er … mainly, yes.’

  I did not follow the lady’s reasoning. Nor did my friend, evidently.

  ‘You know, then, this evening’s perpetrator?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Explain yourself, Madame.’

  Behind her, Falco Fricano and two other stagehands were clearing away the Great Borelli’s props and equipment. ‘Please, wait one moment,’ said Madame Borelli as she strode onto the stage. She had a word with Fricano, who shrugged and began to direct the others.

  Holmes had clearly overheard something. ‘You are preparing another act?’ said he incredulously, as the lady returned to us.

  She again took hold of Holmes’s arm. ‘Dario will insist. Sitting down, of course. We will be very careful. But Mr Holmes … Santo Colangelo hates Dario, it is true, and Dario may change his mind and tell the police his suspicions. Then they will arrest Santo. Santo, he is angry enough to do this, and the police will see.’

  ‘But your husband did not want the police!’ I said.

  The lady shrugged. ‘He maybe want to handle himself. I fear this.’

  ‘Your Dario is unpredictable, Madame Borelli. Of course, Mr Colangelo does have a clear motive, if your husband caused his career-changing accident.’

  ‘Yes, but I think Santo did not do this to Dario.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘I would like you to confirm.’

  ‘To investigate your former lover with an eye to clearing him?’

  ‘Yes, please. And also to be sure Dario did not harm Santo with the guillotine.’

  ‘You want me to investigate both stage accidents? And if I discover the two men are waging a vendetta?’

  She hesitated. Her face clouded. ‘I … well I suppose then you must tell the police.’ A reasonably believable tear appeared in one eye. She wiped it away.

  ‘Of course, then both would go to gaol, Madame,’ said Holmes. ‘Which might well be convenient for you, given that your interests look to the f
uture.’

  Holmes stared at the woman in a fashion that I had seen unnerve the sternest barrister and the most violent street thug.

  Madame Borelli met the challenge. ‘Mr Holmes, why you look at me so?’ she demanded.

  ‘If that lock was rigged tonight, and I could not spot it, then it took a real expert to do so.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect you could name more than one suspect with the skills needed to sabotage that one lock tonight.’

  ‘I … I am not sure.’

  ‘Madame, I believe you have one or even more definite ideas.’

  ‘I do not wish to point the finger.’

  The finger. A lot of fingers involved in this case!

  ‘For example, if not Santo Colangelo, it might be your new lover?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘What? How do you know I have a—’

  ‘It is your pattern. As I said, you are looking to the future. You are out of love with your husband. We have covered this ground. And he treats you badly. Also, you brought me his secret files. That was not a loving act. Rather a self-serving one. You perhaps wish for your own recognition eventually? And his arrogance was on clear display tonight. Is the Great Borelli’s replacement in view?’

  ‘You overstep, sir, attempting to work your magic—’

  ‘Not magic, simple observation. Is your new lover a stage conjurer?’

  ‘All right. You are too smart for me. Well, he is not exactly a conjuror but he has ideas for the magic. A young professor of the science. There is a future.’

  ‘I see. The pattern again. And you will make him a star?’

  She was taken aback by this. ‘We have some interesting ideas, he and I. He is no performer. Yet. But very handsome, Mr Holmes. A bit young. But … why you look at me this way? You disapprove, I see.’

  ‘Madame, I have no opinion on your personal life. However, you must realize that with your young professor on the horizon, this makes you a prime suspect in tonight’s dramatic events?’

  The lady laughed. ‘Mr Holmes,’ she said quietly. ‘If I wanted Dario to die, you can believe me that he would be dead already, and no one would know how, why or who. Even you.’

  Holmes was silent.

  ‘Sir – mi Dario, I can handle. I wish him no harm. Nor Santo Colangelo. Please, Mr Holmes, clear both men of this vendetta, if indeed they are innocent, then I can leave knowing one will not destroy the other. I leave each man better than he was before we met. That is my pattern. Do you see, sir?’

  Holmes considered this. ‘Of course, there is a third possibility. The “Great Borelli” might have engineered his own mishap, tonight? Perhaps with the help of that Falco Fricano?’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘If so, it went a little bit wrong?’

  ‘Yes, went a little wrong.’

  ‘But why would your husband do such a thing?’

  ‘Dario maybe want attention and sympathy and to point finger at Santo Colangelo, make him go to gaol. But I do not know. You will make clear, no? All will be resolved.’

  ‘Madame, I have already agreed to visit Santo Colangelo. You said there could be one or two other suspects. Give me those names, please.’

  ‘Later. But first, I hire you to clear Santo. Then Dario and Santo will stop trying to harm the other.’

  ‘This is highly unusual, Madame. No promises. Watson? Shall we?’

  We were shortly in a hansom cab on the way back to Baker Street. As the cab pulled away from Wilton’s Music Hall, the faint, intermittent gaslights of Whitechapel washed dimly across Holmes’s keen, ascetic features.

  ‘A strange woman,’ remarked my friend. ‘I am not entirely convinced she is not the culprit tonight. What do you think, Watson?’

  ‘I suppose it is possible.’

  ‘But you do not think so, Doctor?’

  ‘No. I rather like her.’

  Holmes did not reply but looked out of the window. The few trees lining the streets drooped from the day’s heat, their parched leaves lit faintly by the streetlamps. Even at this late hour the temperature was oppressive, and I could feel a drop of sweat making its way down my back.

  Holmes closed his eyes. ‘Unlikely, perhaps. I do believe her when she says that she could have dispatched her boorish husband earlier and without clues, if she so chose. She is more than capable.’ He paused, then opened his eyes. ‘If he did not engineer his own mishap tonight, Borelli is a fool to keep performing with this mystery hanging over him.’

  ‘Don’t you find Madame sympathetic, though, Holmes?’

  He looked out of the window again. ‘No. Intriguing, perhaps. But I will admit I am mildly curious about this case of warring magicians. I shall give it more consideration tomorrow. In the meantime, I hope Mrs Hudson has replenished the ice. I would appreciate something chilled after tonight’s little adventure.’

  ‘Indeed!’ I said, with sudden visions of a lemonade and perhaps a splash of gin, and a long sleep following.

  But it was not to be.

  PART THREE

  THE DOLL

  ‘I am turned into a sort of machine for observing facts and grinding out conclusions.’

  —Charles Darwin

  CHAPTER 11

  The Floating Doll

  After midnight, Holmes and I sat together near the fireplace in shirtsleeves over our last drink. The cold hearth was filled with ash from the disposal of Holmes’s papers earlier in the day. The windows were wide open to catch the faintest cooling breezes. Outside, the tumult of Baker Street had settled into a calmer rhythm—the night soil men attending to those very few near us still without plumbing, the policeman making rounds, the dairy carts, a few late revellers.

  Both of us had difficulty sleeping in this heat. At least the floor had been cleared, and stacks of papers in the corners were all that remained of Holmes’s recent flurry. The straitjacket had been taken down, and I noted a few other touches that indicated Mrs Hudson had followed our efforts with a few of her own.

  We had continued to discuss the mysterious Borellis. Holmes was unwilling to drop the subject. ‘It is a bit of a hornet’s nest, Watson. Madame has not been fully forthcoming. I sense an agenda.’

  ‘A benign agenda, then,’ I said. ‘Madame seems to be a magician’s angel.’

  ‘By her own description, and yet fickle. The magicians are a tight but jealous community. They steal from each other regularly, and their temperaments are often volatile. When you combine the performer’s ego with the mechanical ability and focus it takes to do stage conjuring, the result can be a dangerous combination.’

  ‘A magician would make an excellent thief, I would imagine,’ I added.

  ‘Or murderer,’ said Holmes.

  Just then there was the sound of loud knocking downstairs. Who might it be at this hour?

  I answered, not wishing to disturb our dedicated landlady. To my great surprise it was Deacon Buttons, returned with a large canvas sack and looking much the worse for wear. His clothes were damp and wrinkled, his hair plastered to his head, his face white, eyes distended in panic. He looked as if he had been dunked in a river before running directly onto a train to London. As it turned out, that was almost exactly what had happened.

  ‘Calm down, Deacon, and begin again,’ said Holmes in a soothing tone, once the young man was seated before us, panting slightly from exertion and the heat. I handed him a whisky. The fellow took a big gulp, then choked and began coughing violently, his face going bright red.

  ‘Watson, perhaps some soda, if you would?’ said Holmes.

  After a minute or two, the young man had gathered his wits enough to speak.

  ‘Please, Mr Holmes. It is dire. Dillie … she is in trouble. In danger, I am sure of it. I was walking along … along the river tonight …’

  ‘Near the Wyndhams’ home, then?’

  The young man flushed. ‘Well, yes, actually …’

  ‘Something you do regularly?’

  ‘Mr Holmes, please! I was walking along the rive
r. I passed the Jesus Lock and I saw something white floating in the water.’

  My stomach lurched.

  ‘Here it is!’ From his canvas satchel, he pulled a bedraggled object, a lace dress, a tiny hand, a—

  ‘A baby doll,’ said Holmes. ‘And—?’

  ‘This is Dillie’s doll. It was specially made to look like her. It normally sits on her bed!’

  Holmes’s eyebrow lifted slightly at this, and my own suspicions followed. Had this deacon been in her bedroom?

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Holmes.

  But the deacon clutched it to his chest. ‘The arm is missing,’ he said.

  ‘May I?’ I asked calmly. ‘It is late.’

  Reluctantly, the young man let go of the soggy object. It was twisted, all in a tangle. The head, right arm and legs were hard, the body soft and limp. The doll’s long blonde hair was wet and matted, the head askew.

  I handed it to Holmes, who drew a light closer and wiggled the remaining arm. He stared at the doll, intrigued.

  Holmes lifted the white lace dress and there on the cloth body was a large stain of dark, purplish blue, spread out from the centre and lighter on the edges. Holmes brought his magnifying glass to the stain. ‘Something has been written here,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, not in waterproof ink. Too bad. This perpetrator, whomever he might be, is lacking in finesse. Six lines of similar length, aligned on the left but not the right. A poem, perhaps. I can make out only two words on the right. One is either “word” or “Lord”. The other is “page” or perhaps “rage”.’

  Holmes set the doll on the table while still gazing at it. It was so soggy that the dress, hanging over the edge, dripped upon the floor. I looked about for something to catch the drips. I located a crystal bowl of peaches on the mantel, removed the fruit, and placed it under the doll.

  ‘Oh, Mr Holmes,’ said Buttons. ‘I fear this is a sign that there is danger to Dillie, that someone has her and—’

  ‘What is your theory about this doll’s appearance?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps it is cry for help from Dillie herself.’

  ‘And so your theory is that she was abducted with her doll and a pen? Carried to the Jesus Lock where she wrote on it, then threw this in—’