The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  I started to pull back one of the coats covering the body but Hadley stopped me with a hand on the arm. ‘Not here.’ He looked up at one of his men. ‘A full post-mortem. Inform the coroner.’

  Pickering, who had the knack of insinuating himself into every discussion, had handed off the fabric screen, and was now kneeling beside us. ‘But sir, perhaps the family would prefer—’ he began.

  ‘No. This is my responsibility,’ said the senior man, gruffly. ‘Summon Dr Caswell. And cover the face. Now.’

  Pickering hesitated.

  ‘Do it!’

  The mortuary was in the basement of a building some ten blocks from the river. As Hadley filled in paperwork upstairs, I descended the iron steps to the examination room where Odelia Wyndham’s body had been brought. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees, as it always did in such places.

  Dr Caswell, a rotund, porcine man with a grey brush cut, was laying out his instruments. My nostrils were assailed by the familiar yet always disturbing odours of carbolic acid, ammonia and death. I shivered in my linen suit at the sudden chill, contrasting so sharply with the damp heat of the day.

  Caswell looked up and nodded. A combination of gas and electric light gave the place a strange brilliance. On the table, covered by a white sheet, lay the body of poor Odelia Wyndham. An attendant pulled back the draping, and once again I stared down at the girl’s dead face.

  The young woman, of late so vibrant, volatile and lively – was now a marble carving, white and still. Her blonde hair, free from its constraints, billowed about her on the table, a wet and tangled mass of curls. Her beauty was transformed into an ethereal shell of young womanhood. Our first meeting had been troubled, but even so, in this quiet, cold room, I felt a sharp pang of grief. A wasted young life, tempestuous but nevertheless promising, that promise now never to be fulfilled.

  Had Holmes been there, he would no doubt have chided me for the sentiment.

  ‘May I begin?’ I asked, and with Caswell’s nod I withdrew the covering, took out my pocket lens, and began to examine the corpse in the manner I hoped was like my friend’s.

  Sherlock Holmes’s protocol was unique, as he never took the means of death for granted. Although it would appear Miss Wyndham had drowned, I checked her nails, inside her mouth, her neck and head, and all the major and minor bones. The body had been in the water for several hours, and in that amount of time and with the heavy current in the lock, vital evidence could have been washed away.

  Hadley joined us and stood silently against the wall to give us room to work.

  ‘Serious bruising,’ I said. ‘Two fingers broken, and possibly two – no, three – ribs. She fought someone, and fought hard.’

  Caswell followed behind me, confirming these larger injuries and undertaking his own business. He vouched that the young lady had not been molested. At least there was that.

  Thirty minutes later, I had all the information that could be gleaned from Miss Wyndham’s corpse. Her wrists bore the bruises of someone’s strong grip. The broken fingers and more bruises along the side of her right hand and across the knuckles indicated she had struck something, more than once, with considerable force. I announced those findings to the others.

  ‘I concur on all,’ said Dr Caswell.

  ‘If she struck the face of her murderer with the force this indicates, there would surely be a mark on him,’ said Hadley, who had been watching with interest. ‘Or her, if the murderer were female,’ said I. ‘But I rather think a larger person, so more likely a man. Her left fourth finger was bare, with an abrasion near the second joint. Had a ring been torn from her hand? And yet this wound looks slightly less fresh.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Caswell, ‘I missed that.’ He looked closer. ‘As to the timing of this injury, the immersion makes this uncertain.’

  ‘By the amount of liquid in the lungs, Miss Wyndham was alive and breathing when she hit the water,’ I said. Her hair was tangled, more so than one might have predicted. A small patch of hair was torn free, the scalp had bled, but very little. Torn off in the lock, no doubt.

  ‘Oh, to be trapped in the lock like that,’ said Hadley, shaking his head. The senior man had more feeling than I had credited.

  Unbidden, a sudden image washed across my mind, another woman, perhaps thirty, floating in water, tangled in some branches, the river rushing past her. A flash and then an image of a six-year-old girl, her body floating underwater and undulating with a strong current.

  A wave of sadness flooded me. I closed my eyes for a moment, shaking my head to dispel the vivid thought.

  I focused again on the body of Odelia Wyndham. Evidence of a severe blow to the forehead, and gentle palpating revealing a shattered skull, divulged the coup de grace. ‘From this head injury, I believe she was knocked unconscious before hitting the water. She would have died soon after from bleeding in the brain, but it is likely that she did not suffer in the drowning.’

  ‘A small blessing,’ murmured Hadley.

  Holmes would have the entire picture of the struggle in his head, no doubt, and minutes before our own conclusions.

  I then asked to see the items of clothing in which she’d been found.

  ‘There were none,’ said Hadley.

  ‘No clothing?’ I cried, aghast that this fact had not been mentioned to me earlier. But of course, it was why they would not let me examine her in situ at the river. That Odelia Wyndham fell or was thrown naked into the lock put an entirely different light on events.

  ‘We did not wish for this fact to receive public attention,’ said Hadley, ‘given the prominence of the family. My men have been sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘A baker en route to his shop at five in the morning.’

  ‘But that was hours ago!’

  ‘He was not immediately sure. He saw something white floating in the lock – he thought it was a lily. But it bothered him, and he came back some time later. It was still there. He went in for a closer look and discovered it was a foot. It apparently took him some time to get anyone to pay attention to his claim.’

  The foot presenting on the surface was highly unusual, as it was the torso – lungs filled with air and abdomen with fat – that floated more readily. ‘Then she must have been trapped underwater, submerged … face down. Perhaps her hair was tangled into something?’ I said.

  The policeman nodded. ‘Yes. Exactly. The gates were opened and she was sucked into the sluice tunnel, her hair tangled into the gate mechanism.’

  This image was horrifying, but she had been unconscious at the time, I reminded myself. Unaware. Thank the heavens for this, at least. ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘Sherlock Holmes may have something useful to offer us. If you will permit?’

  Minutes later, back at the station, we were both in for a surprise. Where Holmes had been locked in, Hadley and I now faced an empty cell, the door ajar, and handcuffs on the floor. In spite of it all, in spite of the horror of our discovery, I felt a small tingle of delight. Holmes had managed to free himself!

  Hadley missed the humour. ‘Now this is a real shame’ said he.

  ‘Mr Holmes can help you solve this case,’ I said. ‘He has only to—’

  ‘He has ruined his chances,’ said Hadley. ‘You must realize that his arrest was a courtesy to the don. I planned to hold him overnight only. He will now face serious charges.’

  I inwardly cursed my friend’s impatience, while admiring his skills. But where was he now?

  CHAPTER 30

  Freddie Eden-Summers

  As Hadley began instructing his men to begin the investigation into Dillie’s death, I made my way outside and walked down the sunbaked street, unsure of what to do next. I had no idea where Holmes might have gone, but I had not long to ponder this as a hiss drew my attention to a narrow alleyway. In the shadows, a head of tousled dark hair peeked from behind several stacks of rubbish. A skinny arm waved me over.

  I glanced about me, then ducked into the alley
. ‘Holmes!’ I whispered. ‘You have made a mistake. Hadley was planning to release you tomorrow, and now—’

  Holmes pulled me down next to him behind the heaping waste. ‘Tomorrow will be too late, Watson!’ He grasped both my arms, too hard, his face inches from mine. He was the picture of dismay. ‘Dear God, I have failed that young woman!’

  ‘No, Holmes. You gave her clear advice which she ignored.’ He shook his head. ‘You warned her that her provocations put her in danger.’

  ‘Not her provocations. It was her casual cruelty that made me fear for her.’

  ‘And you tried to tell her this, while still supporting her independence, Holmes. You did the right thing.’

  ‘No young woman deserves such a fate!’ he cried and released my arms. I almost fell backwards into the refuse.

  ‘Careful, Holmes. We are out of our element here. And you do not have a client, remember.’

  ‘Dillie. The late Odelia Wyndham is my client,’ said he. ‘And I will find her murderer.’ We stood, but he yanked me back down when he spotted two policemen running in the direction of the river. After a minute, he peeked out. ‘It’s clear, Watson. We must do our work before the police. Tell me of the post-mortem along the way.’

  I did so as Holmes and I hurried down side streets and ducked into alleys. Holmes’s plan was to visit each of Dillie’s beaus in turn, as quickly as possible. It would require a fair amount of luck, but there was no dissuading him. He knew the Cambridge police were not up to the case. I had to agree.

  Our first stop was Trinity College, and the rooms of Freddie Eden-Summers. Perhaps the missing engagement ring meant Dillie had broken off her engagement with this young man. And Eden-Summers was fit and strong enough to overcome the girl. Perhaps he had torn his ring from her finger.

  If luck was with us, we could question him and be gone before the police arrived to pursue the matter themselves.

  Minutes later, we found ourselves facing his elegant student lodgings in one of the more beautiful courts in Cambridge. Upon entering the foyer, the heat faded instantly to a delicious coolness. The Wyndham name gave us immediate cachet, and a porter led us to Mr Eden-Summers’ room without hesitation.

  We followed him up a spiralling staircase to the third floor. As we passed each door in the stairwell, I took in muffled laughter, the sound of a tennis ball hitting the wall, and when both inner and outer doors were open, caught glimpses of young men lounging, studying, smoking. There was a distinct aura of sports, coffee, whisky, cigarette smoke and sweat, with an occasional waft of expensive cologne. It was the beginning of term, and studies not much in evidence, at least here.

  I was struck intensely by the difference between this renowned institution and my own less prestigious alma mater. The outer door to Frederick Eden-Summers’ room was open, indicating he was in. The porter gave a short knock on the inner door and called out, ‘Mr Eden-Summers. You have visitors!’ There was no reply. ‘Be patient. He is there,’ said the porter. ‘I shall return with coffee.’ He left us.

  Coffee, rather than a key, I wondered. The urgency of our mission tightened my chest as several loud knocks on the door went unanswered.

  Holmes withdrew his lockpick kit, and we were soon inside. The room was enormous for a student accommodation, larger than our sitting-room on Baker Street. It was nicely appointed with a wide bed, a number of quality bookcases and an intricately carved armoire. Linen curtains billowed in the hot afternoon breeze. The moth-eaten rug on the floor must once have cost a king’s ransom. Hung on one wall was a magnificent longbow, the patina of its glorious wooden limbs gleaming in the morning sunlight. I remembered Atalanta mentioning ‘Freddie’s’ passion for archery. And there, to the right, at one end of the spacious room, was a most curious sight.

  It was an antique card table, littered with bottles of ale at each corner, around which were three empty chairs, two turned over on their sides, and numerous discarded bottles. Cards were spread across the table in a jumble, as were various coins and numerous crumpled white fivers. Everything spoke of casual wealth.

  Two young men were still at the table, although this was not exactly accurate. The feet of one were up on the table, the rest of him lying down on the floor face up, dead to the world. And seated but draped across the table, head facing away from us, was Freddie Eden-Summers.

  His tousled mop of golden-brown hair was instantly recognizable, with the familiar tennis sweater clothing his torso. But his lower half sported only undergarments, feet bare. Both arms were outstretched on the table, one hand on a stack of five-pound notes, the other grasping a bottle. Just as I had begun to worry that we’d come upon a second murder scene, a loud snore emanated from this partially clothed figure.

  ‘Mr Eden-Summers,’ said Holmes, the sharpness of his tone intending to cut through the torpor of the room’s denizens. There was no response.

  Holmes shook his head. He moved to the bed, pulled off one blanket from the jumble that was upon it, and placed it on the table next to the slumbering golden-haired boy. At the washbasin he filled a small drinking glass and then returned to the table, where he poured it over the head of Frederick Eden-Summers.

  The young man sprang awake with a snort. ‘Wha – wha—?’ He coughed.

  ‘Mr Eden-Summers!’ Holmes said. The boy nodded, then in a series of moves worthy of a pantomime actor he stood, took us in, noticed his lack of trousers, looked about in confusion for something with which to cover himself, grabbed the blanket Holmes had placed next to him, and wrapped it around himself to cover everything from the waist down. He then turned to face us blearily, but with a certain pluck.

  Holmes opened his mouth to speak but Eden-Summers held out one finger, signalling us to wait. He turned back to the table, noticed the feet resting on it, peered over at the figure on the floor. ‘Laurence?’ he mumbled, then grinned at us. Scanning the table, he seized a nearby bottle, took two long swigs, emitted a sonorous belch, and turned again to face us.

  ‘All right, then. Gentlemen, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he intoned with all the grace a half-clad, drunken man of twenty could manage. ‘You look, er … familiar?’

  ‘Mr, Eden-Summers, I am here on the matter of Miss Odelia Wyndham. Or Dillie, as you know her,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Have we met?’ the boy slurred. ‘Oh, yes. Wedding planner? I …’

  ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I am his friend, Dr John Watson,’ said I. ‘We are here—’

  ‘A detective? What? Oh, Dillie, my God, what has she done now?’

  ‘You are engaged to the young lady, are you not?’ asked Holmes, sternly.

  ‘Why, yes. She has the ring. It was in the newspaper … erm …’ The youth peered at Holmes with bloodshot eyes. ‘Tell me, old man, why is a consulting detective and his … whoever you are … barging into my room at this hour of the morning?’

  ‘It is after three p.m.’ I said.

  ‘I’ll need you to account for the last eighteen hours,’ said Holmes.

  Just then the young man on the floor stirred. His feet fell with a thump onto the threadbare oriental carpet, where he lay sprawled.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ said Eden-Summers. ‘Let me introduce Laurence Manon Le Cru – my friend and fellow Dallier. That’s our club. He was with me.’ Eden-Summers waved grandly at this figure, then peered over the table at him. ‘Larry, where are the others?’

  ‘Gone,’ moaned Le Cru from the floor. ‘You cleaned them out.’

  ‘I say!’ Eden-Summers turned to us with an unsteady smile. ‘After I lost my shirt, or rather my trousers, I suppose I had something of a comeback. Yes, I remember it now.’

  ‘To the point, young man!’ said Holmes sternly.

  ‘All right. What was the question?’ The fellow blinked, swayed, then closed his eyes in an effort at cogitation. ‘But wait, just a moment! How did you get in here?’

  ‘Down through the chimney, Mr Eden-Summers. Put on your clothes, send your friend away, and call
up for coffee at once, if you know what is good for you,’ barked Holmes.

  ‘Oh, I seldom know what is good for me,’ slurred Eden-Summers.

  ‘And when he does …’ came an even blurrier voice from the floor.

  ‘It matters not a whit!’ said both in unison, then laughed.

  ‘Mr Eden-Summers, pull yourself together. You may talk to me or to the police.’

  ‘My word!’

  Holmes nodded to me, indicating ‘Larry’. I helped the boy up with a touch more force than he clearly was used to, and handing him his shoes, ejected him into the hall. As I returned, Frederick Eden-Summers was just fastening his trousers.

  ‘Sit down, young man,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘Where were you last night between suppertime and this morning at six?’

  The boy flopped into a chair and looked about for his shoes. ‘I do not like the sound of this. What has Dillie done exactly?’

  Holmes was silent.

  The boy’s face went grave. He stood up. ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘Again, I ask, where were you?’

  ‘Right here. The Dalliers. Our bi-weekly game.’

  ‘Tell me about the Dalliers,’ said Holmes.

  ‘A club I started. We … er … we gamble, dine, drink and generally carouse. It’s a small group. We are dedicated to bringing a special touch of levity to our otherwise quite dreary studies. We study the law. Before the wig, before the bar, we … drink. And gamble.’ He smiled charmingly. I could see the appeal he would have had for a young woman. Rakish, and rich beyond compare. Even his dishevelled clothing probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

  ‘Will anyone vouch for you besides your inebriated friend?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘Several. Although I think they wandered off at various times. Must have been this morning, though. I recall losing big at five-thirty.’ He nodded to one wall, where a grandfather clock, another unusual component of student lodging, stood bedecked with a variety of coloured socks. It did, however, read the correct time, three-thirty p.m.

  The porter knocked and entered with coffee. He brought only one cup, handed it to young Eden-Summers, who leaped up and, as a parched desert traveller might grab a drink, took the cup and gulped it down. The porter retreated.