Thunder cracked and a flash of lightning flooded the room for a brief moment.
My eyes closed and a flash to my childhood trauma came unbidden. A pair of ladies’ shoes, lined neatly up by the river, under a tree. Green, with ribbons. My mother’s shoes.
‘Swimming,’ I said.
Holmes stopped moving and stood perfectly still.
‘My God, Watson, sometimes you surprise me!’ He ran to the window and looked out. ‘Of course! Look!’
I joined him at the window. Through the sheets of silver rain, barely lit by the new moon, I looked across the field to the dark, rushing Cam. Silhouetted in front of it was a ghostly white shirt only dimly visible against the black of the glittering river, and seeming to float in the air was the figure of a man. He moved, and a halo of light curly hair was caught in the glow of a streetlamp.
Deacon Buttons.
CHAPTER 37
The Sinner
We were out and rushing through the muddy fields in seconds. As we approached, we could see that it was indeed young Buttons, standing poised on the wooden footbridge over the Jesus Lock, staring down into swirling dark waters.
Was he Dillie’s killer, returning in guilt and horror to the site of his transgression? Perhaps to the exact spot where he had dumped her, still alive but unconscious, and where she had met her watery end.
The rush of the river and the hiss of the late summer downpour masked our footsteps, and the boy heard nothing as we approached. We came within ten feet and Holmes put his hand on my arm to stop me. With a finger to his lips, he shook his head.
As we watched, Buttons leaned over the railing, mesmerized by the churning current. Lightning flashed again and lit up the scene for a brief flickering second. A moment later came the boom of thunder.
We had not made a sound, but in that strange way that one feels the regard of another, the young man sensed our presence and turned. His face was ghastly pale, and his hair was dripping as it was the first time we had met him at Baker Street. He was not wearing his glasses, and his white face was drenched from the rain and, I could only assume, tears.
‘Mr Buttons,’ said Holmes calmly, ‘please step away from the railing.’
‘Dillie died here,’ said Buttons in a strange, high-pitched voice. ‘Last night.’
‘Yes, we know,’ said Holmes.
‘The river … the river …’ The boy turned and looked at the rushing waters. ‘It washed away her sins,’ he murmured.
‘How did she get into the river?’ asked Holmes.
The boy did not reply but kept his eyes on the water. Holmes slowly inched closer. I stayed back, fearing the boy would panic.
‘I have just been in your room, Mr Buttons. It is clear to me that Dillie visited you there last night,’ said Holmes.
Buttons looked up at my friend in alarm, then looked at me.
‘The signs were unmistakable,’ I said.
The boy looked from one of us to the other, and sensed he was lost, though not sure how. ‘She came to get me.’
‘Get you?’ Holmes asked.
‘It was such a surprise. I never thought. But she … but she …’ He closed his eyes.
‘Let us start at the beginning. What time was this?’ said Holmes.
The boy spoke, his eyes remaining closed. ‘Two o’clock or maybe three. She woke me. She had brought her valise, all her things. She asked for my help. I had promised to help her if she ever needed … she told me that she wanted to run away with me. Right then. With me.’ He gestured vaguely. I noticed that his right hand was wrapped in something white, with a dark stain on it.
‘Holmes, his hand!’ I whispered.
Holmes nodded without taking his eyes off the boy. ‘Run away with you, where?’ he asked.
Peregrine Buttons looked at us and smiled. Mad, definitely mad, I thought. ‘Scotland. Or maybe Paris.’ His eyes glittered briefly at the image of this joyful thought.
‘Did you believe her?’ asked Holmes.
‘Of course.’
‘But she wanted something from you. She asked you to do something.’
‘The rings …’
‘Yes. You pawned Freddie Eden-Summers’ and Leo Vitale’s engagement rings for her with Piotr Flan across town at three a.m. He gave you twenty-five for the two,’ said Holmes. ‘But it wasn’t enough.’
‘Holmes,’ I whispered, ‘take this slowly.’
‘You are a magician! How can you know this?’ stammered Buttons, staring in horror at Holmes.
‘Not a magician, more like a bloodhound. I just came from Flan’s. What was this money to be used for?’
‘Holmes. The situation is precarious,’ I whispered.
‘Our train tickets. And a new start.’
‘But then?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Something went wrong.’
The young man wavered. He placed a foot on the railing.
‘Take your foot off there,’ cried Holmes.
The boy took his foot down and looked about dreamily. ‘“You belong with me, Perry,” she said. That was what she called me.’
‘That is very sweet,’ I said, hoping to distract him. Holmes gave me a sharp look and turned back to the boy.
‘Running away together – was this something you had planned?’
‘No. We had joked about it. But I never … I only dreamed …’ Buttons replaced his foot on the railing.
‘Step back from the railing, please,’ said Holmes sharply.
‘No. Stay away from me!’ The young man turned and looked down at the water.
Holmes moved to one side. I took that moment to look about to see if the police might be visible yet. I saw no one. Had the message gone awry? The rain hissed down around us.
‘You returned with the money, and then what happened?’
Buttons suddenly doubled over the railing as if hit in the stomach. A sob escaped him. ‘Oh God! Oh God!’
Holmes took the opportunity to draw closer.
‘Pull yourself together, Mr Buttons,’ I said, trying to distract him by moving away from Holmes.
He made an effort and straightened, then crumpled again. ‘Oh, Dillie.’
‘Let me help,’ said Holmes. ‘You returned and found Dillie in your bed.’
‘By God, how do you know this?’
‘Mr Buttons, you remember why you came to me in the first place?’
‘Because you read of Mr Holmes particular reputation as a detective,’ I prompted.
Lightning flashed, lighting up the sky and the boy’s confused face.
‘You came back with the money,’ Holmes pressed on. ‘But something happened. Perhaps Dillie refused you. You quarrelled. You fought.’
‘No! No! But … she said the money was not enough. We would need more.’
‘For train tickets?’
‘No. To start a new life. Then Dillie said she remembered a third ring. A little gold one, shape of an arrow. That would ensure … but she had misplaced it. She sent me to search for it. Across town.’
‘To her room above the Cross and Anchor pub?’
‘Yes. That is the place.’
‘Did anyone see you there?’
The boy had shut his eyes again. ‘I didn’t find that ring. I looked and looked.’
‘Mr Buttons. Again, did anyone see you at the Cross and Anchor?’
‘No. No one was about.’
‘So you returned empty-handed?’
There was a long silence.
It struck me then that all three young men who had loved Dillie had been in some altercation the night of her murder. Had this volatile girl been attracted to young men of similar temperament? Or did she drive them to it? Someone had beaten that girl in his room. I glanced again at Buttons’ bandaged hand. ‘This is our man, I think,’ I whispered.
Holmes sighed.
‘What happened to your hand, Mr Buttons?’ asked Holmes.
The boy looked at it like he had forgotten its existence. ‘I hit the wall with my fist.’
‘
Did you leave a dent?’
The boy looked confused. ‘Yes. Why, yes, I did.’
‘I saw no such mark in your room.’
‘I didn’t hit the wall of my room. I hit the wall just outside. To the left of my door.’
‘Mr Buttons, I have just come from a thorough inspection of your room. In spite of its apparent normal state, it had been cleaned up hurriedly. I found clear evidence of a mighty battle. Drops of blood. A chip on your water-jug, and two dents in the furniture. Dillie put up a valiant fight. That was very like her.’
‘No.’ The boy was inching away from us. ‘No.’
‘Holmes,’ I warned.
‘A smear of blood on the windowsill showed where you pushed her body out before bringing it here, to the river. But the girl received her fatal blow … in your room.’
‘No!’ said the boy, now ghostly pale, his eyes wild. A young madman?
Holmes stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘You realize, of course, that I must present this evidence to the police. And that you will be arrested for murder. There may be a faint ray of hope for you. It is possible the Church will come to your defence. They have been known to rally mighty forces. And there could be mitigating factors. Did Dillie attack you? Were you hurt? Was anyone else present during this altercation?’
I knew better than to voice my thoughts, which were that it was damnably clear that the young man was Dillie’s murderer and that no ‘mitigating factors’ or Church interference would save him. Dillie had been a provocative young woman and sometimes a cruel one. But no provocation justifies murder. Offering a lifeline to a killer was a tactic Holmes had used before to extract a confession.
‘Come with me now, Mr Buttons. I will make sure that you are treated fairly,’ said my friend, now only ten feet from the boy. He reached out his hand towards Buttons.
A wind had come up and the trees nearby moaned with the sudden gusts.
‘No! Get back! I am a sinner! I have sinned! Only God can forgive me!’ cried Buttons as he recoiled from Holmes’s outstretched hand and backed further towards the centre of the bridge.
A bolt of lightning bleached the sky and a crack of thunder sounded milliseconds later. And before we could stop him, Buttons catapulted over the railing, plunging into the black waters of the Jesus Lock.
We both ran to the edge. There was no trace of him. Only dull concentric ripples where his body had entered the water, broken by raindrops distorting the widening rings.
‘Get help, Watson!’ cried Holmes, tearing off his coat.
PART EIGHT
THE UNLOCKING
‘Let him have the key of thy heart, who hath the lock of his own.’
—Sir Thomas Browne
CHAPTER 38
Rescue
‘My God!’ I cried. ‘Can he swim?’ I struggled to remove my boots.
‘Watson, no! Your leg!’ shouted Holmes. ‘Get help!’
He plunged into the water.
I stood frozen as I witnessed the boy surface with a strangled cry some distance away, then go under, and surface again. His arms flailed, he gasped for air. ‘Help!’ he cried and went under again. Holmes swam with strong strokes towards the drowning boy. But the boy’s survival instinct and panic would endanger anyone trying to save him.
I could not leave them. I looked about for a pole, for a rope – something to toss to Holmes.
Lightning flashed again across the sky. It was five in the morning. Would anyone be near? It was then that I heard bells and a police whistle. I turned to see a police van pulled by four horses, lanterns blazing, racing towards us from some distance away down Chesterton Road.
Then I remembered that Holmes had asked the young officer with Polly to send men to the rectory! Limping from the bridge into the centre of the road, I waved my arms to stop them.
Turning back, I saw that Holmes and the boy had disappeared. The water near where the boy had surfaced was roiling and a pair of white hands emerged and then went under.
And then, on the other side of the river, I saw something that made me freeze in terror. A figure swathed in a dark, shapeless coat and hood ran across the lock gates to the lock controls, seizing the crank handle and opening the sluice gates.
Lightning flashed and the top half of the face was revealed, eyes fierce and mad, but the lower half of the face was covered by a heavy scarf, even in this steamy, hot night.
There was the sound of a loud groan of machinery, and I could see the wall of the lock lifting at the far end. This put anyone in the lock in mortal danger from the severe and sudden undertow that opening the sluice gates would cause. Holmes and Buttons would be sucked into the slacker tunnel just as Dillie had been!
Both heads surfaced. Buttons panicked, clutching at Holmes, his hands raking my friend’s face, ripping at his hair.
‘Holmes, the lock!’ I shouted.
But Buttons continued thrashing about, his arms flailing, striking Holmes and dragging his would-be rescuer underwater again in a desperate dance of survival.
Holmes surfaced. ‘Wats—!’ he shouted, but was cut off when Buttons pulled them both under again. Both heads surfaced, gasping, then there was a loud whooshing sound as the lock gates fully opened, and both of them were abruptly sucked under as the rushing waters pulled them towards the dangerous tunnels.
‘Holmes!’ I cried. I raced off the bridge and towards the eastern side of the lock. I could see nothing in the black waters.
The Jesus Lock was efficient, and the water level had begun to drop visibly. I started across the bridge towards the lock controls. The mysterious figure had vanished. I had to stop the flow!
I reached the controls, but just then Holmes surfaced, treading water with mighty strokes as he fought not to go under. He looked wildly about for me.
‘Over here, Holmes! I’ll stop it!’
‘No, Watson! Hold off!’ he shouted. ‘Buttons is caught in the mechanism! I’m going down.’
Before I could respond, he disappeared below the surface. Closing the lock now could trap and crush the two men down there. I was unsure what to do.
A police van and a Black Maria pulled up to the side of the river. I ran to the edge, horrified. ‘Holmes!’ I cried. The water level in the lock had dropped precipitously. A minute had passed since he went under.
By now there were five or six policemen on the scene.
‘Two men in there!’ I shouted.
‘Close down the lock! They’ll be sucked under!’ cried an officer.
‘No! Don’t touch it! One of them is already caught in the mechanism,’ I yelled.
Two brave policemen tore off their boots and coats and dived in. ‘Which side? There are two tunnels!’
I pointed to the one on the south side. But was I sure?
Two minutes. How long had Holmes been under there?
Lightning flashed, and the thunder cracked again. The swimming policemen dived under and resurfaced once, then twice, each time empty handed. Was it the south tunnel? Or had I been mistaken …
Three minutes.
Then, suddenly, I saw them.
It was Holmes … with Buttons cradled in one arm. Struggling to keep the young man’s head above water, he managed – just barely – to keep them afloat with his other arm. But he was losing the battle, and despite my friend’s immense strength, they were slowly being drawn backward towards the drain.
But seeing the boy had been freed, I struggled with the lever to shut the lock. It was not designed to close midway and resisted. I looked up.
The two men in the water had joined Holmes, and all three now held the boy’s head out of the water, and their combined forces were able to withstand the current. A fourth policeman joined me at the controls, and together the two of us managed to close down the drain.
I ran to the bank just as the swimmers reached it. The two policemen lifted Buttons, and I reached down to grasp my friend’s arm as he approached the shore, pulling him to safety.
Holmes gasped and cough
ed up water. I sat him down on the rain-soaked grass, and kneeled next to him to assess his condition. The rain had stopped, and the eastern horizon was glimmering in light, slanting in through the clouds. The dim rays lit up his exhausted face. He gagged, then coughed up water, and I struck him twice on the back to help.
He held his hand up. ‘I am fine,’ he gasped. ‘See to the boy. May have been too late—’
Deacon Buttons was laid out on his stomach on the grass nearby. Two policemen were administering artificial respiration, with Buttons’ arms stretched above him. A bloodied wrist showed where he’d been caught in the lock mechanism.
I ran to help. It was light enough to see the deacon’s drowned face, young and innocent-looking in repose. And yet he was a murderer, I thought. The cut on his wrist was not deep, but he was not breathing. I instructed the two officers to sit him up and we began the arm lifts that sometimes worked when the prone position did not.
Still no breath.
‘On his stomach again,’ I ordered. Holmes was now standing above me.
‘Will he live?’ he asked.
I heard a voice in the distance: ‘Buttons! My God, Buttons!’
With the two policemen’s help, once again we turned the boy over, raised his arms and began another set of rhythmic manipulations hoping to restart his breathing. There was no response. And then, to my surprise, Buttons coughed once and vomited up water. We changed tactics and sat him up, leaning forward. He coughed, gagged, and inhaled at last.
Behind him, Father Lamb had arrived, his face contorted in grief and worry. He leaned in to take the young deacon’s arm. ‘Peregrine, my son, my son,’ he moaned. ‘Dear boy. My God, what has happened here?’
‘Stand back, Father,’ I said. ‘He came near to drowning.’
Silence, then a wheeze followed by another sudden cough, and water poured from Buttons’ lips. He choked and began to breathe. Father Lamb stepped forward and kneeled next to the boy, tears streaming down his face.
The young man at last began to breathe on his own, great rasping breaths.
‘Thank the Lord,’ said Lamb, cradling Peregrine Buttons as though he were his dearest child.
The Three Locks Page 24
