Wyndham moved to a small table opposite the door and poured himself a whisky. It was not even noon! We turned to face him. He did not offer us a drink.
‘I have had it with your prevarication, Holmes. You knew where my daughter had gone to hide and yet you chose to conceal her location from me. Now look what has happened. For a so-called detective, you bring more mystery to the situation than you solve.’ His voice grew louder.
He took his whisky and stood in front of the window. Wyndham took a sip, turned to his right and favoured us with a dramatic view of his profile, the mane of white hair in a sweeping wing. It was a studied pose. ‘She saw the light of reason, returned home, and announced her engagement,’ he continued. ‘Who knows what you may then have advised her? Now she has gone off alone—’
‘How do you know she is alone?’ asked Holmes.
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Dr Wyndham, if anyone is responsible for your daughter’s desire to flee, it would most certainly be you,’ said Holmes. ‘She was remarkably unhappy here. I can’t imagine you are unaware of that fact.’
The man gave us a scornful smile. ‘When she vanished again, I prevailed upon my household to find her,’ said he. ‘They canvassed the town. Began to go door to door. Polly flew from the premises on the flimsiest of excuses. But thank heavens for Atalanta. Not only did she find Dillie’s hideaway, but she also followed Polly and saw her board a train for London. Visiting her mother, indeed!’ His face darkened. ‘She came to see you.’
Holmes and I exchanged a look. There was no use denying it.
‘She did,’ said Holmes. ‘At considerable risk to herself. Where is Polly now? She returned by a late train last night.’
‘Holmes!’ I cried, thinking it dangerous for him to have given Polly away.
‘We need to find her, Watson, if she did not return here.’
‘Here? No. That maid was a thief. As was my daughter! I found one of Odelia’s earrings in the back of a drawer in her hideaway, one that she swore was missing from the house a year ago. Come to think of it, several pieces of my mother’s jewellery have gone missing from my wife’s room over the last year. It got so that Ianthia would not mention this to me for fear of … but dear Atalanta noticed and kept me informed. I suspected my wife’s carelessness … but now I think it was Odelia and Polly, stealing things and perhaps pawning them to fund Odelia’s adventures. When I get my hands on either of them—’
A slight movement in the periphery drew my eye to a side door, near the fireplace. There, positioned behind her father, Atalanta was visible watching the proceedings. Her face was a blank and yet everything about her projected eager concentration. I got the distinct impression of a mongoose watching a snake.
Holmes regarded the father with disdain equivalent to the don’s. ‘Sir, your irresponsible actions have driven your daughter from you and have made it impossible for me to do my job.’
‘What job? No one has hired you.’
‘Rest assured I will find out what happened to your daughter, and if she is hurt, and you were involved, Wyndham, you will be sorry that—’
‘You dare to threaten me! I hold you responsible for what has happened! Officers!’
A small sound behind us caused me to turn. Detective Inspector Hadley and the unpleasant Sergeant Pickering had arrived without our seeing, thanks to the don’s careful choreography. They now stood on the threshold. A third policeman, a tall, muscular lad of twenty, with a black handlebar moustache, glowered behind them.
‘Mr Hadley, did you hear what this upstart detective Mr Holmes just said?’ bellowed Wyndham. ‘He threatened me!’
‘I did indeed, Mr Wyndham,’ said Hadley, in his reasonable manner. ‘Mr Holmes, will you come with me to the station, please? I don’t wish to cuff you but will if you resist.’
Sergeant Pickering removed shiny silver handcuffs and held them up. I had the sudden image of him polishing them, alone, each evening.
‘You are arresting me, Inspector Hadley? On what charge?’ asked Holmes.
‘Trespassing,’ said Hadley. ‘We are told you forced your way in here.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘The footman and the butler will swear to the contrary,’ said the don with a small smile.
Holmes turned incredulously to the man.
‘Sir?’ I said, equally outraged.
‘Yes indeed! Trespassing!’ Wyndham went on. ‘And lying by omission to me about my dear daughter Odelia. Officer, I hold this man responsible for her disappearance, if not complicit!’
‘What?’ I cried. ‘That is a ludicrous accusation, sir!’
‘Mr Hadley! You saw it yourself with me this morning. My daughter had been living there on and off for some time,’ said Wyndham. ‘This man Holmes knew where she was, and few others did.’
‘By the way, sir, we have new information,’ offered Hadley. ‘A man by the name of “Leo” was heard just outside the Cross and Anchor at two in the morning last night, having a violent argument with your daughter. Something about wanting the return of his ring. The neighbour said the man skulked about for a bit after.’
Wyndham looked aghast.
‘That would be Leo Vitale,’ came a voice over my left shoulder. Atalanta Wyndham was more than happy to add to the scene. ‘St Cedd’s. Cambridge Laboratory. Besotted with her. Gave her a ring as well.’
‘A ring? Why did you not say this sooner?’ bellowed Wyndham to his daughter.
‘She threatened me,’ said Atalanta in her best approximation of a wounded deer.
Holmes tore his eyes away from this treacherous sister.
‘Inspector Hadley, you saw the room, then, before Mr Wyndham emptied it?’ asked Holmes. ‘Did you note any signs of a struggle?’
‘A struggle? No, not exactly.’ The man caught himself. ‘But I will not discuss this with you. Come along, now, Mr Holmes.’
Holmes did not move. ‘Sir, I expect better of you. Why would I harm that young lady? What would be my motive?’
‘Why, to get yourself hired to find her, of course,’ snarled Pickering.
‘I believe you know better, Inspector,’ said Holmes, addressing the older man. ‘And you may easily ascertain that I have been in London the last three days.’
‘We will be checking on that, Mr Holmes,’ said Hadley. ‘But for now, you’ll need to come with me, sir. You too, Dr Watson.’
‘Surely you don’t think Watson—’
‘Just a formality. He is coming for questioning, that is all.’
Pickering moved towards Holmes with his handcuffs at the ready.
‘No need for those,’ said Holmes, calmly. ‘I will not resist.’
But Pickering could not. He fastened Holmes’s hands behind his back and pushed him roughly out the door.
Hadley shook his head at this action but did not stop him. ‘Come along, Doctor.’
‘Good riddance,’ I heard Wyndham say as we exited the room. Atalanta giggled.
PART SIX
THE SETUP
An object is frequently not seen, from not knowing how to see it,
rather than from any defect of the organ of vision.
—Charles Babbage
CHAPTER 28
The Spinning House
Once at the local police station on St Andrews Street, we were questioned at length. I was released, but Holmes was taken to a cell, alone. As we parted, he called out to me, ‘Find Polly, Watson! I shall be out shortly.’
Pickering laughed. ‘We will see about that.’
I stood in front of the police station, at a loss. It was midday, and the sun was high in the sky, the heat shimmering through the air causing the edges of the building to waver in front of the eyes. Or perhaps it wasn’t the heat …
I mopped my forehead with my handkerchief. I felt faint. I had eaten nothing since dinner yesterday. I didn’t know how Holmes managed to go without food. It was as though a fever of energy overtook him while on a case.
But wh
at to do? My friend was more confident of his release from gaol than I was. At a nearby post office, I wired Mycroft Holmes, informing him in the briefest terms of his brother’s circumstance. What happened next, while deeply disturbing, nevertheless proved to be providential in this case, in which so much went so terribly wrong.
I decided to return to Dillie’s hiding place in the diminishing hope that at least Polly might have returned there in our absence.
I walked down St Andrews Street and came upon a forlorn two-storey brick building with bars along the upper windows. As I passed, I heard a female scream emanate from a window above me. ‘Noooo!’ came the anguished cry, followed by a shriek of pain.
I hesitated. The cry came again and turned into a wail. Someone was suffering agony in that building. Without a pause, I raced through the front door. It was some sort of public place, and a sharp-faced man sat at a reception desk and looked up at me with a face compressed into a permanent scowl. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘I – I heard a cry!’ I said. ‘A woman. It sounded like she was in pain.’
‘Sir, you have no business here.’
‘I am a doctor. If someone is in such pain, perhaps I can be of help.’
‘Be gone! It is not your affair.’
‘What is this place?’
‘It is the Spinning House.’
The Spinning House! This was the place Holmes had mentioned where women were held without trial by the special University police – outside the regular law.
‘But what is happening upstairs?’
Abruptly the wiry gatekeeper stood, picked up a walking stick and came round from his desk. He held the stick in a way that said he might make creative use of it. ‘Now, be gone!’ he growled.
‘As a member of the public, I demand to know what is going on here,’ said I, placing my own stick in front of me. I would not be intimidated by this toad.
‘Don’t you know what this place is?’
‘Yes! I have heard that you people arrest women who seem to be consorting with students and hold them here without trial.’
‘Trial!’ he spat.
‘Do you torture them as well? I will call the real police if you do not explain to me what I just heard.’
‘The University has sovereignty here, in case you were not aware.’
The shriek came again, followed by a sob.
‘Dear God, man, have you no empathy? What is happening to that poor woman?’
‘Nothing untoward, you nosy know-nothing. We are protecting the students of the University – from illness, madness, and death! Many whores prowl the town and prey on these innocent young men.’
‘Innocent young men? I’m told that girls are taken in for merely speaking to a student after curfew.’
‘Well, then,’ he sneered, ‘what are the little trollops doing out at those hours?’
I suddenly realized the extent of the danger to Polly when she ran off from Baker Street last night. My chest went tight. ‘How are they released? Is there a bail system?’
‘Not officially. Why?’
‘Well, surely their parents come for them. Or their husbands, brothers, employers? You can’t tell me that none of them are released?’
‘Well, eventually, of course. Under certain circumstances they are released early.’
‘What circumstances?
‘There is a—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘—a private bail system. It is not cheap.’
‘I have means.’
The man paused, then lowered his stick. He moved back behind his desk and sat down, staring up at me thoughtfully.
‘Whom have you come to release? Or did you want to meet a few? Take your pick.’ He smiled. My stomach turned. ‘Want to set one free, then?’ He continued. ‘We do process them for illness, so you’ll be getting a clean one. Tell me you’re her brother, perhaps. Father, maybe even, if she’s a young ’un.’
‘You process them for illness?’
‘Examine every one of ’em. And treat ’em if necessary.’
As a doctor, I did not need to hear more. I knew this was done in London on a regular basis. But here, outside of municipal law? ‘Do you have a young lady named Polly, red hair, about sixteen, brought in last night?’
‘Surname?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You fellows never do.’ The man hesitated. ‘I will have to check.’ He went to a cabinet and ruffled through some files. He pulled out a sheet of paper and turned to me. ‘We have a Polly. She’s a dangerous one. Feisty. Caused some damage, I think. Bail is set at five pounds.’
I paused. There was the chance I would need to bail out Holmes. I had brought a sizeable amount of money with me, as I had learned to do on such adventures. Who knew what Holmes’s bail might be? But this situation demanded action now.
I reached into my pocket to discover the crumpled five-pound note from Freddie Eden-Summers. What better use for it? In five minutes, a dishevelled Polly was freed and stood with me in front of that awful place, pale, and with her hair escaping her braids in copper-coloured strands. A hot breeze blew old newspapers and chip wrappings down the street but did nothing to cool the air.
‘Dear God, Polly,’ said I. ‘You should have stayed at Baker Street last night. Cambridge is no place for you alone after dark.’
‘I know about it, sir. I have managed before.’
‘Are you all right, my poor girl? Not hurt in any way?’
She held up her right hand. Her knuckles were bruised. ‘I am less hurt than some chap named Pete in there.’ She smiled.
‘Mr Holmes is incarcerated as well,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry, Doctor Watson. He’s in regular gaol, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘They play fair over there. Not all of ’em. But mostly.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘My sister. She is a bit of a thief. Nice girl, though. And she don’t work at night – for the reason you just saw.’
‘Where is your sister now?’
‘At work. Well, her lawful-like work. She has a room nearby,’ said Polly, indicating with a thumb in an easterly direction.
‘Write down the address on this slip of paper. Can you take refuge there ’til we come for you? Wyndham will have you arrested. He thinks you stole from him. Will you be safe?’
She nodded, and I watched her, relieved, as she vanished up the street. She nearly ran into two boys of about the same age who galloped towards me down the street, ringing a bell. ‘A dead body! A dead body! A ha’penny for the news,’ they cried.
My stomach lurched. I grabbed one by the arm as he brushed by me. ‘What news? What body?’
The boy held his hand out and I slammed a coin into it. ‘Dead girl. In the Jesus Lock. Drownded!’ he rasped.
‘Girl? How old?’
The boy shrugged. ‘Dunno. Grown up, maybe?’
‘A love affair gone wrong, methinks,’ intoned the other with a knowing look and his hand out for another coin. But I was off and running for the police station.
CHAPTER 29
The Lady in the Lock
The place was a madhouse. Evidently news of the body had arrived at the station only minutes before, and the officers were assembling in the reception area, with Hadley barking orders. Before I could approach him, he spotted me and gestured me over brusquely.
‘Dr Watson,’ he said, ‘a body was spotted in the Jesus Lock some hours ago. A young woman, drowned. Long blonde hair. Age twenty or thereabouts. It is looking like a murder. We’ve just managed to get her out of the water.’
My stomach sank. Dillie.
‘Can you accompany me, please? I know you have experience with … such things,’ Hadley said.
Pickering materialized behind him with a length of cloth, his face like an eager wolf. ‘We have it in hand, sir. No need to bring the Londoner in.’
Hadley turned sharply to his subordinate. ‘Attend to the men, Pickering. I’ll bring whom I like.’ Pickering
gave me a sour look and melted away.
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘if it is Miss Wyndham and there is foul play, Mr Sherlock Holmes can prove invaluable. Might you not free him to join us?’
‘No, Dr Watson. Follow me.’
I would have to stand in for my friend. As we hurried to the river, I could not help but wonder how the body could have been spotted but not removed until recently. I was soon to learn the awful reason why.
The Jesus Lock was surrounded by some twenty or thirty eager townspeople who crowded the banks, craning necks and whispering in excitement. On the bank of the lock, near the eastern end, lay what looked like a mound of clothing on the grassy slope.
As we drew closer, I could see it was a body, the head protruding. The face had been covered by two white handkerchiefs which clung to the damp features, creating a ghostly visage. The rest of the corpse was concealed by layers of summer jackets and shawls. Two delicate white feet extended out the other end of this motley pile.
Her shoes must have come off in the lock.
Five or six policemen attempted to discourage the crowd, waving hands and admonishing the gawkers. The public’s response to horrible deaths never failed to disturb me. Two constables stood directly over the corpse, attempting to act as human screens.
‘Pickering! The cloth!’ barked Hadley and indicated that the younger man should hold up the fabric to keep the crowd from seeing the body. Even as he did so, I could see running towards us a newsman and his assistant carrying photographic equipment. Pickering held up his fabric shield just in time.
Hadley and I kneeled by the body. He nodded to me, and I peeled back the handkerchiefs.
‘Dear God,’ I said. The face was indeed Dillie Wyndham’s, her blue eyes half-lidded and lips parted. She looked peaceful, but I could tell in an instant that her end had been anything but calm. A bruise above her left eye was telling. One hand was visible at the edge of the coverings, and I looked closely at it.
‘Blood under her fingernails,’ I said. ‘Clearly not a suicide.’
‘Not with that bruise,’ agreed Hadley.
The Three Locks Page 18
