I wondered if forgiveness was in the priest’s heart, for learning of the violence that had transpired in the young man’s room would surely burn all the love away.
CHAPTER 39
Gaol
This tender moment was interrupted by Inspector Hadley. He appeared on the scene, apparently straight from his bed, his hair awry, coat buttoned wrongly and his normally calm visage creased with anger and concern. He approached me.
‘The deacon! Dr Watson, will this man survive?’
‘Probably,’ I said.
‘Can you confirm a suicide attempt, Doctor?’
‘Yes, I witnessed it.’
‘What were you and Holmes doing here?’
‘Investigating Deacon Buttons. Mr Holmes has discovered a great deal in his room at the rectory. Miss Dillie Wyndham was abducted from there, and he has much to tell you.’ I looked up to see Holmes now standing some ten feet away with the same two constables who had helped him rescue Buttons. Now each gripped one of his arms. The three of them – soaked and with the morning rain further splattering upon them – were a sorry sight.
Hadley approached the group. ‘Mr Holmes, you are under arrest for your previous escape. Disregard for the law will not be tolerated. Palmer and Wright, convey Mr Holmes and Deacon Buttons to the station – Buttons on the charges of suspected murder and attempted suicide. Then dry yourselves off.’
‘Inspector Hadley,’ I cried, ‘Mr Holmes just rescued a man!’
‘True enough, sir,’ said the young constable on Holmes’s right, with blond, brush-cut hair. ‘We helped, but this gentleman saved the fellow, sir.’
Holmes turned to the young man. ‘Thank you, Constable—?’
‘Palmer,’ said the fellow.
‘Thank you, Palmer,’ said Holmes. ‘Now, Mr Hadley. Dr Watson and I have been at the rectory, and—’
‘Dr Watson has told me. We will follow up, but you’re going to the gaol now,’ said Hadley. ‘Is that boy safe for transport?’ he asked me, nodding towards Buttons.
‘He needs care. Shock can follow near drowning,’ I said.
‘We’ll take that risk. Ride with me, Doctor Watson.’
And so it happened that Buttons, weak and shivering, and Holmes, frustrated and angry, were both handcuffed and bundled, soaking wet, into the single Black Maria owned by the Cambridge police.
In Hadley’s private carriage, I attempted to reason with the man. ‘Mr Hadley! I do not exaggerate the dangers of shock. Deacon Buttons came close to death back there. Please let me examine him when we arrive.’
‘The question is, did he confess to killing Odelia Wyndham before jumping?’ Hadley smoothed his rumpled hair self-consciously. I wondered how often the inspector was pulled from his bed in this sleepy town.
‘Not exactly,’ said I. ‘But Deacon Buttons expressed some kind of guilt. I am sure Mr Holmes has more to tell you.’
‘I will hear it at the station,’ said Hadley, brusquely.
Once there, Holmes and Buttons were placed in separate cells, and I was not allowed to see either, at least not right away. The early morning temperature had dropped from the night storm, and in spite of the humidity, a fire had been lit in the reception area. I shivered in front of it. It was nearly six a.m. and I had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. Seeing my distress, the second young officer from the rescue team, a dark-haired, handsome man with a luxurious moustache, brought me a coffee and a sandwich, and attempted to make me comfortable.
‘I’m Wright,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Close call out there.’
‘Is someone seeing to Mr Holmes?’ I asked him, thinking that if anyone needed to eat, it was my friend.
Wright leaned in close as he placed my food on a nearby table. ‘He is fine, sir. More angry than distressed.’
‘He needs food. Coffee. Brandy perhaps.’
‘I will get something to him.’
I waited, growing more impatient by the minute. I felt strongly the need to check on Holmes, and also Buttons. Yet still I waited. The clock above the police intake desk struck seven. At last I was ushered into Hadley’s office, annoyed to see the older man must have returned home to shave and freshen himself, despite the urgency and gravity of the case. In contrast to my own muddy disarray, his well-dressed hair gleamed and his shoes were shined to match.
At his questions, I related succinctly what Holmes had discovered at Piotr Flan’s pawnshop, and what he had revealed to me about Buttons’ room at the rectory. To his credit, Hadley listened carefully, and then called in young Wright, directing him to see to Holmes and get his notes, and then follow up with his own investigation.
After a few more minutes in which I repeated the story of what Holmes and I had done the night before, I was made to wait, and then finally released to see my friend. I was hot, exhausted, sticky, damp and irritable beyond reckoning. Sherlock Holmes must only have felt worse.
The station had long ago been converted from a warehouse with offices, and the prisoners’ cells were in random locations throughout the facility. Holmes’s current cell was off a main hall and through an anteroom. I entered to discover Holmes seated in a metal chair in the centre of this isolated cell. To my surprise, he was strangely encumbered in a straitjacket with a few chains round it, and his ankles were handcuffed to the legs of the chair. It brought to mind the provocative posters I had seen for the escapist thrills of the Great Borelli. In my exhaustion and surprise, a thoroughly inappropriate laugh escaped my lips.
Holmes looked up. He was white with fury, his jaws clenched, and he clearly did not share my humour at the situation.
Pickering stood over him, holding another chain and set of locks, apparently in the hope of figuring out where to add these to the pitiful mess before him. Constable Palmer entered with apparent reluctance, carrying a long white rag.
‘Gag him,’ said Pickering.
‘Sir?’ Palmer looked at the sergeant dubiously.
‘‘I think not,’ said Holmes sharply. ‘Do you think I’m going to undo these locks with my teeth, Pickering?’
‘Do it.’
Palmer hesitated.
‘Mr Holmes just nearly drowned.’ I said. ‘He is still recovering.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Pickering.
‘It is highly unusual, Sergeant,’ the younger fellow stammered, his decency getting the better of him.
Just then Hadley entered the anteroom. Pickering dropped an ounce or two of swagger at the sight of his superior.
Hadley took in the ridiculous sight and frowned. ‘Pickering, what’s the meaning of this?’
‘Well, we don’t want him escaping again, do we, sir? I assure you, he will not be picking any locks this time.’
‘Where did you get that straitjacket?’
‘From the sanatorium. When we delivered Miss Atalanta yesterday.’
Her family had had Atalanta committed to an institution! A sharp pain in my leg reminded me of the reason. Dr Macready must have reported the incident, and perhaps Eden-Summers as well. But a sanatorium! I thought I must look into this later.
Hadley, too, had the decency to be outraged. ‘You managed to ask for an extra straitjacket? Sergeant, what on earth were you thinking? This is a gaol, not an asylum.’
‘I was thinking ahead, of exactly this situation, sir. We have occasional unruly prisoners. Remember Willoughby last month – Palmer’s broken finger?’ He nodded fiercely at Palmer, who reluctantly held up his little finger, which bent sideways at an odd angle.
Pickering glanced down at Holmes and smiled. This was not lost on Hadley.
‘Outside, Pickering, now!’ he ordered. ‘Palmer, you too.’
Pickering and the younger man left, leaving only Hadley and myself with Holmes. Hadley closed the door of the anteroom, which led to the rest of the station, and sat in a chair facing the cell. He eyed my friend wearily and shook his head. ‘What a morning! You have made this extremely difficult for me, Mr Holmes. Your escape last time was reported to th
e Wyndhams, and the University has become involved, naming you as a dangerous threat. A great deal of pressure is being brought to bear on the police regarding you.’
‘Mr Hadley,’ said Holmes reasonably, ‘I know that it appears that Deacon Buttons murdered Miss Wyndham, but when you know all, you will agree that it is not quite sewn up. I believe I am very near to closing this case for you and need only a short time more to finish my investigation. I have given some details to Constable Wright which I have asked him to check for me at the rectory just now, but it would be best if you allowed me to complete the investigation.’
‘You are bound by law to report all your findings to me, Mr Holmes.’
‘Bound by law is an understatement in this case,’ said Holmes wryly. ‘Release me, and I will deliver Miss Wyndham’s murderer to you.’
‘You have tied my own hands, Mr Holmes – to continue the metaphor,’ said Hadley. ‘But I don’t mean to be flippant. We have the two main suspects in hand now. Both had reason to kill the girl. Good reason. With Buttons’ attempted suicide, I am afraid he slants the case towards himself.’
‘You mean three suspects? You also have Frederick Eden-Summers and Leo Vitale?’ asked Holmes. ‘Three men were in love with the girl.’
‘We have eliminated Eden-Summers for the moment. I will admit his alibi is weak. Most of the card-playing fellows he named as witnesses were inebriated during the hours in question. However, the sheer number of them who came forward weights the case in favour of his innocence. We have remanded him to his parents’ estate.’
‘Surely Eden-Summers is the most motivated of the three!’ Holmes said. ‘Miss Wyndham publicly announced her engagement to him, then became engaged to a second young man, and pawned both rings.’
I was surprised at this. I thought that Buttons had been confirmed in Holmes’s mind as the killer, or at least that our recent discoveries had moved the deacon into first position among the suspects.
‘And,’ said Holmes, ‘Mr Eden-Summers apparently found out about that second engagement the night of Dillie’s murder. Leo Vitale paid him a visit at his lodgings. Don’t you find that sufficient to keep him in the running?’
‘You have spoken to Mr Eden-Summers, then?’
‘I have spoken to all three of her young men,’ said Holmes.
Hadley’s eyebrows lifted, but to his credit he took this in his stride. ‘My impression from Mr Eden-Summers was that this was a marriage more of convenience than of love. His family desired closer University ties for political reasons which elude me,’ said Hadley.
This would explain Eden-Summers’ slightly odd response to the news of Dillie’s death, I thought.
‘The pawning of the rings, however, casts a new light,’ continued Hadley, thoughtfully.
‘Of course, Miss Wyndham also accepted Leo Vitale’s ring and proposal,’ I offered. Holmes shot me a look of reproach. I wondered if he didn’t harbour an unusual bias towards the young scientist.
‘We know that, Dr Watson,’ said Hadley, smoothing his reddish moustache. ‘I arrested him on the basis of his shouted fight with the deceased on the night of her murder, apparently all about this ring. It was heard by several in the street near the Cross and Anchor – where, incidentally the girl had been hiding out.’
‘Yes, yes, Vitale is not beyond suspicion,’ agreed Holmes, ‘but I would not have let Eden-Summers off so quickly.’
Hadley looked uneasy at the thought. It struck me how odd it was that the Cambridge policeman was allowing the case to be led by a prisoner in his own gaol.
‘I feel certain that Eden-Summers will remain at his estate,’ said Hadley. ‘The Duke is incensed at the loss of the ring – apparently a family heirloom worth a small fortune.’
The pawnbroker Mr Flan must consider himself in luck, I thought. He knew all along the worth of Eden-Summers’ rather ostentatious ring and had vastly underpaid.
‘It may be found, along with Mr Vitale’s ring, at Piotr Flan’s pawnshop on the Cheltenham Road. Brought there by Deacon Peregrine Buttons.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Hadley, clearly surprised by this news.
‘If you will set me free, I will show you what I found in Buttons’ room. Miss Wyndham received her fatal blow there in a fierce battle. The signs are there to be read. But I had not finished my examination when Watson spotted Buttons on the Jesus Lock footbridge. You know the rest.’
‘Wright is a good man. He will find anything that is in the room.’
Holmes grimaced, the picture of frustration. ‘Nevertheless, doing so without me is a mistake.’
‘Perhaps, Mr Holmes, but you dug your own pit by escaping from custody earlier. Buttons is the most obvious suspect. His attempted suicide shows he is clearly deranged and racked by guilt. By several accounts he was utterly obsessed with the girl.’
As much as I had liked Buttons, I was beginning to agree with Hadley on this matter.
‘I understand from Professor Wyndham that it was young Buttons who brought you into the case,’ Hadley continued.
‘An argument against his guilt, would you not think?’ said Holmes.
‘No, I would not think. I have seen boastful criminals taunt the police in precisely this way. It is sheer arrogance,’ said Hadley, smoothing his hair self-consciously.
Holmes had used this same argument regarding Madame Borelli, and it was true. We had encountered this before. The more I considered the matter, the stronger I leaned towards Buttons as the culprit. The constraints of his chosen profession had weighed heavily upon him. He was a highly emotional man.
‘At this point,’ said Hadley, ‘my suspicions are divided, however. I have not eliminated the rather unusual Mr Vitale. Now that is a strange young man. A touch inhuman.’
Holmes shifted on his chair. He must be devilishly uncomfortable, I thought, soaking wet and having just undergone tremendous physical strain while rescuing a drowning man from a powerful current.
‘Miss Wyndham was attacked and dealt the fatal blow in Deacon Buttons’ room,’ said he. ‘Her body was dumped out of the window and from there conveyed to the river. But I found evidence that at some point during the night in question, others were in that room. Possibly two others. Whoever killed her attempted to straighten up the room and remove evidence, but did so in haste. There is something still to be learned. You must let me finish there!’
‘I am sorry, but no.’
Just then Holmes was taken by a sudden coughing spell and appeared to cough up more water. He gasped. ‘I am having difficulty breathing in this thing. Doctor …’
I took his meaning at once. ‘Sir! This man nearly drowned. At least let me, a medical doctor, examine him. You don’t want the famous London detective to suffocate while in your custody because your inept sergeant was too enthusiastic. Believe me, I will make sure the full force of the law comes down upon you if he is hurt here.’
‘Oh, stop threatening me, Dr Watson. I don’t want him in here at all,’ said Hadley. ‘But you see my position. Yes, by all means check. But nothing funny, Doctor, or I’ll lock you up as well.’
CHAPTER 40
Church and State
Hadley unlocked the cell and I moved inside and knelt by Holmes, to check that his breathing was not constricted. Behind me, young Constable Palmer entered the small room outside Holmes’s cell. ‘I cannot induce Father Lamb to leave, sir. He is very concerned about the prisoner.’
‘Tell him to wait,’ Hadley answered.
As I leaned over Holmes to check his bonds, he whispered in my ear, ‘Give me your pocketknife, Watson.’
This seemed like a terrible idea. I gave Holmes my best ‘you are utterly mad’ look while saying aloud, ‘I will need to loosen this strap here.’ As I went about my task, I nevertheless managed to slip him the knife, unseen, pressing it into his hand from the bottom of the straitjacket. ‘Careful, Holmes,’ I whispered.
Giving him the knife had been against my better judgement.
‘Father Lamb is awfully impa
tient,’ insisted Palmer.
‘Palmer, you have your order!’ said Hadley, and then turned to me. ‘Doctor? All is well with Mr Holmes?’
‘I need another moment,’ I replied.
‘All right. Then would you be good enough to check on Mr Buttons?’ said Hadley.
He departed, and I finished and exited the cell. Palmer shut the barred door with a loud clang and locked it securely. A quick glance at my friend showed him already at work, squirming under the straitjacket.
I wondered what Holmes’s plan could be. He might free himself, and then what? He would not get far. The station was full of men and bustling with activity.
Meanwhile, I had an urgent mission. Buttons could be suffering from shock. Another suicide attempt would not be unusual. I said as much to Palmer, who assured me the bedding had been removed from Buttons’ cell to prevent him hanging himself.
‘Yes, but shock is now the risk. Can you bring a blanket and something warm to drink?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll be right with you. He’s down that hallway there.’ He pointed me in the direction of the cell.
Echoing from the distant end of the hall and around the corner, I heard the familiar voice of Father Lamb. ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I do, I fear for this young man’s soul.’ The strident voice grew fainter.
Thinking to follow, I hurried down the corridor but made a wrong turn. I saw neither Father Lamb nor Buttons’ cell. I did pass one larger cell which contained two drunken, somnolent men. What a labyrinthine place this was!
I asked directions and at last I arrived at Buttons’ cell. I peeked in through the door’s barred window. The young man lay on the hard cot, curled into a foetal position, shivering and moaning. Father Lamb was nowhere in sight. The bedding had been removed, but it left him soaking wet and chilled. He was ghastly white, shaking mightily, and I did not like the look of him. The delay in allowing me to check him was unconscionable.
I put my face near the small window into the cell. ‘Buttons!’
He looked up, saw me, and moaned. ‘Why did you save me? I want to die.’
The Three Locks Page 25
