The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty Rage?

  I gave him back the page. ‘“A gentle Belle reject a Lord.” What does this mean, Holmes?’

  ‘A general warning, no doubt. Note the reference to rage,’ said he. ‘But the deacon penned this note, and he has a vested interest in warning Dillie off her two rival beaus. My worry is about those threatening letters one of them might have sent.’

  ‘Might have sent?’

  ‘The deacon has lied to us before. And who tore off the arm? Someone in a rage or wishing to threaten. My instincts tell me that the deacon was telling the truth, at least about that.’

  ‘What about this line here, Holmes: “A well-bred Lord t’ assault a gentle Belle”? Isn’t one of her beaus in line for a dukedom?’

  Holmes nodded. ‘Yes. I am not yet ready to leave that irritating young lady on her own. Watson, we must visit the two young suitors so that I may take the measure of each. Finish your sandwich.’

  The aristocrat Freddie Eden-Summers was to be first. His Great Court lodging at Trinity was the perfect picture-postcard subject of romantic Cambridge. Three storeys high, with ancient stone arches, gargoyles and mullioned windows with leaded glass, the student lodgings were designed to face a spacious green of great beauty. After a brief chat with the porter, in which Holmes mentioned the revered Professor Wyndham’s name, implying that we were in service of that august person, the porter informed us that Freddie Eden-Summers was playing tennis at that moment with friends some ten minutes’ walk away.

  We came upon the courts, and were pointed to a tall, pink-cheeked lad with a luxurious mop of golden-brown curls, who was in the midst of smoothly annihilating his opponent. His movements were elegant and graceful, his expensive sports clothes, teasing manner and natural charm giving the impression of a privileged and self-confident young gentleman of leisure.

  The game finished a minute or two later, and Holmes seized the moment to approach the boy.

  ‘Mr Frederick Eden-Summers,’ he called out cheerfully. ‘May I have a word, please? My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am up from London on behalf of the Wyndhams. I am a renowned planner of weddings.’

  ‘Weddings?’

  ‘Miss Odelia Wyndham has requested me to organize her upcoming wedding and asked me to consult with you.’

  My jaw must have dropped, for Holmes quickly clenched my arm, saying, ‘And this is my partner, the celebrated London florist, John Watson. You are thinking lilies and roses are you not, John?’

  ‘I, uh …’

  ‘And clematis?’

  ‘Certainly, clematis. Orange blossoms,’ I added, ‘but only a few. They overpower.’

  Eden-Summers laughed. He had perfect white teeth, long blond eyelashes and was a young Greek god in every aspect. I could see why Dillie’s older sister Atalanta would describe him in such glowing terms – and why any young girl would consider him a prize.

  ‘Wedding? To Dillie! Why, that cheeky young thing! I have not even proposed yet! Silly girl. A bit presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Not proposed? Why, er, then there must be some mistake,’ Holmes blustered.

  ‘Well, I am close to it, to be sure. Ah, those Wyndham women! Her sister, Atalanta, she is something. Watch out for that one! A narrow escape on my part!’

  ‘But Miss Odelia? Dillie? She has not accepted you yet?’

  ‘I tell you I have not proposed. But I don’t see why she should refuse.’ He shrugged, smiling. ‘She’s certainly been welcoming to my, er, attentions. Hmm … I say, old man, you are getting a bit personal! You are here to plan her wedding? This must be her idea of a joke!’

  Holmes as the ‘wedding planner’ looked suitably contrite. ‘I am quite embarrassed, sir, and beg your pardon. It seems Mr Watson and I are here in error. Good day.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go away all sorry like that. Here’s something for your pains.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled five-pound note, and offered it to Holmes, who looked at it like it might be a snake. I took it and doffed my hat. As a florist might, I supposed.

  ‘Do not worry, gentlemen. We’ll hire you for the wedding if we do decide to tie the knot. That Dillie! Quite a sense of humour she has!’ His lighthearted guffawing followed us off the court.

  ‘Not our man, then, Holmes?’ I said when we were out of earshot.

  ‘He would not be an obvious choice. If there were a threat, he is low on the list of suspects, though I’d like to know more of his temper. Let us pay a quick visit to Dillie’s other suitor, Mr Vitale.’

  ‘May he be her only other suitor,’ said I.

  Holmes laughed.

  We reached St Cedd’s College, but Vitale was not in his rooms either, and we were directed to the Cavendish Laboratory. We headed south and upon arriving at the imposing stone building on Free School Lane, Holmes paused a moment, staring up at the dramatic, Gothic arched entrance.

  ‘I wanted to attend this University, study here,’ he remarked. ‘At the Cavendish.’ It was an uncharacteristic personal admission, and I looked at him in surprise.

  ‘Why did you not, Holmes?’

  ‘Did you know that James Clerk Maxwell’s personal library has just been donated by his widow? I would love to spend some time with that collection.’

  ‘You have not answered my question.’

  ‘Perhaps another time, Watson.’

  After wandering the halls briefly, we were directed to the physics lab. There we found ourselves in a long, narrow room facing an array of strange glass tubes, electrical equipment, wires, and beakers of chemicals. A much larger version of the strange device in our sitting-room that Holmes had called a ‘Ruhmkorff Coil’ stood on a table near the door. Long stone counters ran the length of the room.

  A lone young man sat at the far end of the room, poring over a single sheet of paper, his head in his hands, concentrating in a manner that looked as if he could burn a hole in the page. He was so thin and pale that he made Holmes look positively blooming in comparison. Dark reddish-brown hair, worn unfashionably long, flopped over his forehead.

  ‘Mr Vitale?’ said Holmes as we approached him.

  The boy looked up as though surprised by a human presence. Perhaps twenty or twenty-two, Leo Vitale had a handsome but serious young face, with high cheekbones and piercing green eyes magnified slightly by a pair of round silver spectacles. A ‘surprised baby owl’, Atalanta Wyndham had called him.

  He was rather a good-looking fellow but appeared to have a mind in the clouds.

  ‘Why is the sky blue?’ he asked, dreamily.

  ‘What? Why is the rain wet?’ I exclaimed, already annoyed at this second overprivileged youth. What would England come to with these debouched characters cluttering up our finest institutions?

  The boy looked at me blankly.

  ‘It is a physics problem, Watson.’ Holmes turned to the boy. ‘Rayleigh scattering,’ he said. ‘The sunlight bouncing off the molecules of the atmosphere.’

  The young man blinked and seemed to arrive back on earth. A shy smile, followed by ‘Yes, you have it, sir. But Mr Fortuny will be in later. I am busy now.’ He turned away from us and picked up a long, delicate glass tube in the shape of a corkscrew.

  ‘Ah, Cosimo Fortuny, I know of him!’ said Holmes. ‘And I would love to chat with him about artificial lightning. A storm in a glass tube. But we are here to see you, Mr Vitale.’

  No reaction. Vitale continued had begun to busy himself with the glass tubing before him.

  ‘Young man, I am here in regard to Miss Odelia Wyndham.’

  The fellow started, dropping the glass tube which shattered on the counter.

  ‘Careful, I would imagine those Geissler tubes are not easy to come by.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the boy, his voice barely a whisper.

  ‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr John Watson.’

  I was tempted to add ‘florist’ but restrained the impulse.

  Leo Vitale regarded us with a remarka
bly flat, contained expression. I wondered if he masked himself in this manner consciously or truly was feeling next to nothing.

  ‘Mr Vitale, if we could go somewhere to discuss—?’ began Holmes.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ said a voice behind us. We turned to see a charismatic and darkly handsome young man in his late twenties, with a swath of thick dark hair and the chiselled features of a theatre performer. ‘I am Cosimo Fortuny. We do not allow visitors in this laboratory, for the very reason you have just witnessed. Who are you and what is your business here?’ He had a mellifluous, cultured voice.

  ‘Ah, Mr Fortuny!’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘I have read of your work on the effects of rapidly alternating currents on various gases! A pleasure to meet you. I see you are trying Geissler tubes of various shapes and diameters. Why, I wonder?’

  If Fortuny was impressed, it was not apparent. ‘What is your business, sir?’ he asked coldly.

  Holmes gave our names again. ‘We are up from London on personal business that concerns Mr Vitale. Nothing to do with your research.’

  ‘Then how do you know of it?’

  ‘Mr Holmes follows such things,’ I said. ‘Much as other men follow football. Those Hiburnians, quite something, eh?’

  Fortuny laughed. ‘Ah, all right! An amateur scientist. I know your kind. You doubtless have some arcane specimens of something in a glass case. Perhaps even a small Bunsen burner in your sitting-room. Go ahead, Leo. Remove yourselves to the hall, please.’

  I sensed Holmes about to make a stinging retort and pulled him through the door.

  In a moment, we stood facing Leo Vitale in the hallway. There was something awkward about the thin young man, something not at ease. It was as if he had only newly inhabited this body and still didn’t know how it worked. His gestures were stilted, self-conscious. But when he smiled, which was rare, this awkwardness melted away and the fellow did, I suppose, have a certain uncultivated charm.

  ‘How can I be of help, Mr Holmes?’ he asked.

  ‘Mr Vitale, I have been called in by Miss Wyndham’s family,’ said Holmes. ‘They are worried about her disappearance. May I see the bottom of your left shoe?’

  I looked down at Vitale’s shoes. They were of good quality but worn. What on earth was Holmes on about?

  The fellow hesitated, then raised and twisted his foot to display the sole, on which a large patch was evident. Holmes smiled at this.

  Vitale frowned, then understanding dawned. ‘My footprint?’ he mused. ‘You are a detective. But where …?’ His eyes flicked back and forth, and he put a hand to his forehead. ‘Oh, the tree! Her house!’ He coloured violently. ‘How careless of me,’ he mumbled. ‘But she hasn’t truly disappeared.’

  Holmes smiled at the boy’s quickness. ‘I am aware. We have just come from her. I am not here to censure, Mr Vitale. Rather to understand who might have sent a threatening letter to Miss Wyndham.’

  ‘What? Someone has threatened Dillie? Sir, I must know more!’ He brushed the hair out of his eyes nervously. ‘What is the nature of these threats? Enough to call in a man from London? Who called you, sir? And why have you come to me?’

  ‘Are you not seeing the young lady? I believe you have also visited Miss Dillie at her hideaway?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘No use prevaricating. She said so herself.’

  ‘If you know of this place, and I know that she hasn’t disappeared, then you know that I have been there.’

  ‘Did you threaten Miss Wyndham?’

  ‘No, sir! You confound me!’

  ‘Do you know the Jesus Lock footbridge? Do you go there often?’ Holmes studied the young man closely for a reaction.

  ‘Yes, I know it, and no, not often. What is this about?’

  ‘Did you find Miss Odelia’s doll there, the one that looks like her, and throw it in the river after tearing off its arm?’ Holmes did not take his eyes off the boy’s face.

  The young man went white, and he tried to speak but couldn’t. ‘Has that happened?’ he finally asked.

  Holmes said nothing but kept his eyes on the boy.

  ‘By God – if there were a God, I’d ask Him to protect her,’ said Vitale. ‘We must go to the police!’

  ‘The police know of it. It is why I have been called in.’

  ‘But why you are questioning me? You cannot think I would threaten Miss Odelia Wyndham? I … I have feelings for her.’ He followed this with a nervous glance back at the laboratory door. ‘Sir, I hope to make her my wife. Now you know, and I hope that you will retain this confidence. My position here is hard won. Science requires a devotion that, well—’

  ‘Devotion to science can be all-consuming, Mr Vitale,’ said my friend.

  ‘With all respect, sir, how would you possibly know about that?’

  ‘Because Mr Holmes has made a science of his own work,’ said I.

  Vitale shrugged dismissively. ‘You can know nothing of real science, sir. Nor of my feelings!’

  Holmes paused, evaluating. ‘Watson, come. I am satisfied.’ He turned on his heel and marched away in his precipitous manner, leaving me to face the young scientist.

  Vitale called out, ‘But Mr Holmes, what of this threat?’

  Holmes was already halfway down the hall.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Vitale. Miss Wyndham is in good hands,’ I said. ‘Sherlock Holmes will ensure it.’

  In retrospect, I wish with all my heart that I had not said those words.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Mind Reader

  An hour later, our train steamed south towards London. Outside, a white haze of rain softened our view of the green fields, hedges and trees speeding by. We were alone in our first-class compartment. Holmes tried several times to read a newspaper, but finally flung it down in frustration and stared out of the window at the passing scenery.

  ‘That arm,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t like the dismembered doll. I do not like it at all, Watson.’

  ‘Any further thoughts on the perpetrator?’

  ‘That is what troubles me. It could be either of her obvious suitors, one arrogant and entitled, the other strange and secretive. Or it could be our mendacious deacon, who has his own agenda. I suppose it could also be someone unknown to us at present. Dillie is both an attractive and a highly inflammatory young person. She is the flame to which many moths are drawn, to be sure.’

  ‘Perhaps we should not have left her on her own,’ I said. ‘With all those “moths”.’

  ‘And what do you suggest? That we camp out in her hideaway? It is clear she will be neither advised nor controlled.’

  I could not argue with him. We sat in silence as the green countryside passed by.

  ‘That makes two rather formidable ladies, Holmes, in the course of only two days. Madame Borelli seems to be similarly, shall we say, independent.’

  ‘Yes. Both of these women strike me as—’

  ‘Well, they did both strike you, Holmes. And you were not even being half as rude as I’ve had occasion to see you be.’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they did, didn’t they?’

  ‘Perhaps we would be as quick to anger were we in the same position as either of them.’

  Holmes grimaced. ‘Empathy comes naturally to you, Doctor. No wonder the ladies love you so.’

  ‘Well, they are only human, Holmes,’ I said. ‘To whom are you more sympathetic, Miss Wyndham or Madame Borelli?’

  ‘Neither. I look only to see if I can be of use. Women think differently than we do. It seems that everything is far more personal, more charged.’

  ‘Except, Holmes, as you have often said, it is a capital error to generalize.’

  ‘True enough. In Odelia Wyndham’s case, her disdain and casual cruelty puts her in jeopardy, I fear.’

  Holmes sighed, then tilted his straw fedora over his brow and leaned back in his seat to nap. I attempted to admire the scenery, but the green fields held no particular attraction. High in the sky and off in the distance were the g
athering thunderclouds I had noted in Cambridge.

  As our train steamed on, I supposed that being slapped twice in twenty-four hours might set a man off in a negative direction. I have never been struck by a woman in my life. I could not imagine that would ever happen to me, save perhaps by some gross misunderstanding.

  No, not even then, I mused. Shortly after, I put my newspaper down and must have dozed.

  Strangely, the sweet face of my long-dead mother appeared in a dream. She was frowning and waved an index finger at me. In the moment, I was much shorter than she, a small boy. She was admonishing me, but I could not hear the words, try as I might to understand her. This image faded, blurred and reappeared. Now my mother was slightly older, but her face looked wavy, eerily tinged with blue green as if underwater, and her eyes were bulging.

  I awoke with a start as our train was pulling into King’s Cross. My mother’s image stayed with me, and I was left with a feeling of dread. When I was eleven my mother had drowned, and the circumstances of her death were cloudy. I never could believe suicide. The tragedy had scarred our family, and my elder brother Harry had never recovered.

  The brakes of the train squealed loudly as we slowed into the station, and I turned sharply away from these thoughts. I had rarely been troubled by nightmares.

  In minutes we were back at Baker Street. Holmes sent a cable to the Wyndhams, explaining that Odelia was safe, and they could communicate to her via our address. I retired to my room and checked that my silver box was safe in my desk drawer.

  As I closed and locked the drawer, I suddenly saw my mother’s drowned face again. I shuddered and blinked it away, feeling the full effect of two tumultuous days and the blinding heat. I was exhausted. Tomorrow, I would take my box to someone Holmes recommended.

  The next morning, I awoke to find Holmes had already breakfasted and was out on an unknown errand. It had rained overnight but the oppressive heat had turned the summer showers into a steamy downpour. I sat over coffee, contemplating the small silver box which I had freed from my desk drawer. I toyed with the slender metal bands that braided decoratively around it, culminating in that mysterious lock. Would moving them trigger the lock in some way?