‘But Dillie did not get the chance,’ he continued. ‘Atalanta escaped, you say? It was she, then, at the Jesus Lock, opening the drain as we tried to save Buttons. Intending to kill Buttons, I suspect. My death would have merely been a bonus.’
The priest rose to his feet. ‘If that is true, then you have your second villain. If you don’t mind, Inspector Hadley, I would like to collect Mr Buttons and return to the church. You know Miss Wyndham’s murderer is the late Mr Vitale. I shall leave you to deal with this attention-seeking actor.’
‘Father Lamb, patience is not your greatest virtue,’ said Holmes. ‘If only you had had a shred more of it, two young people would still be alive today.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Lamb.
‘Yes, do explain yourself, Holmes,’ said Hadley.
Just then Palmer rushed in. ‘Gentlemen! Sirs! Deacon Buttons has just breathed his last. He died from shock. We could not revive him.’
The news hit the room like a stroke of thunder. I felt sick.
Holmes was the first to break the silence. ‘That makes three young people. Miss Wyndham. Mr Vitale. And now …’
A moan escaped the lips of Father Lamb. ‘Peregrine?’ he said. ‘Not my boy. Not Peregrine?’
We all turned to look at the priest. He sank back onto his chair, ghostly white and unable to speak.
‘You know, Father Lamb, it is a shame that you so badly mistook Dillie Wyndham’s intentions that night,’ Holmes remarked. ‘I don’t believe the young lady intended to seduce your Peregrine. It was merely a manipulation. Of course, we will never know for sure.’
The priest looked up, his eyes burning.
‘Dillie Wyndham would be alive, in Paris perhaps. Vitale would be happily in his laboratory. And your young deacon would have been exactly where you want him.’ Holmes turned to Hadley. ‘I left something out earlier. While Peregrine Buttons was at the Cross and Anchor looking for the third ring, Father Lamb returned from London and went straight to his beloved young man’s room. Yes, beloved. There he discovered Miss Wyndham, naked in Deacon Buttons’ bed! What were your thoughts, Father Lamb?’
The man said nothing.
‘You drew a wrong conclusion, that you had come across an affair – in flagrante delicto and instigated by a terrible Jezebel. You became enraged. Dillie had a formidable temper and met your fury with her own. A terrible battle ensued, the physical evidence, though mitigated, remained. Broken glass, a candle flung. It ended with you striking the fatal blow with the ironstone water-jug.’
The priest stared at Holmes with wolfish fury. I stood up, and noted Wright moving closer, protectively.
‘If only you had just done nothing, Father Lamb! Dillie would have bolted, as she planned all along. Your young deacon, finding himself abandoned, would have been devastated. And you could have offered solace, comfort, a haven. Just as you had done when his father died. Peregrine Buttons, the boy you love so dearly, would be alive today. But instead, in a rage and assuming the worst, you killed Dillie Wyndham, pitched her body into the river, and then tried to erase the signs of your struggle.’
Father Lamb did not move.
Holmes turned to Hadley. ‘So you see, it was done in the name of love.’
‘This was not the kind of love I anticipated,’ said Hadley with evident distaste. ‘It would not be the first time, I suppose, among clergy.’
‘That is unclear, and ultimately irrelevant. Love of any kind is not for us to judge,’ said Holmes. ‘What is critical is that Father Lamb’s feelings became a kind of obsession. An obsession which propelled these horrible events. Confess, Lamb. Because there is nothing left for you, now, but to absolve your guilt in the manner of your Church.’
‘You will never hear a confession from me,’ said the father.
‘But perhaps you will make one to me,’ came a voice from the door. Peregrine Buttons stood there, weak but alive, and supported by Palmer.
My heart leapt.
The priest turned in his seat and staggered to his feet at the sight of his young disciple. ‘Peregrine? Dear boy! You are alive!’ He sobbed and started towards the boy, but Wright stepped forward and quietly slipped on handcuffs. The priest looked down at them in surprise. Then up at his young deacon.
‘Peregrine! I did this to save you,’ he cried.
‘No, Father. You did it so as not to lose me,’ said Peregrine Buttons. ‘But I was already lost.’
CHAPTER 43
221B
It was on a Tuesday morning, five days after the events in Cambridge that Holmes and I were ensconced at Baker Street, recovering from our adventure at the great university town. Holmes’s mood had been morose. He would not speak of it, but I knew that despite solving Dillie’s murder, his inability to prevent her death haunted him. I pointed out that without him on the case, Vitale might have hanged for the crime – in his cell or on the scaffold. The murderer would be free and young Deacon Buttons’ fate uncertain. But my words did not appease him. Time, I suppose, might give him perspective.
Shortly after breakfast, I reclined on our settee, my injured leg elevated as I attempted to enjoy the last of my coffee and the relative calm of a sitting-room that had been neatened once again by Mrs Hudson. A note from Polly had been left on the table, presumably by Holmes, and I was amused to read in her untutored printing that Miss Atalanta Wyndham no longer lived with her parents but had run off with the gardener. Holmes had correctly intuited that relationship, to the young lady’s displeasure. And Polly herself had found a new position in Inspector Hadley’s household.
With the Cambridge complexities mostly resolved, I suppose I should have been at peace. But I was not and was still awash in anxiety. I had heard nothing regarding my mysterious box. Two letters to the strange Mr Lossop had gone unanswered. Holmes had admonished me to wait, but I was gathering my nerves to travel to the man and confront him, alone if need be.
The clock struck eleven. It was unlike Holmes to sleep in this late.
To distract myself, I returned to the newspaper and came upon an article that thoroughly surprised me. I tore it out in anticipation of showing Holmes, whenever that layabout finally arose.
To my surprise, he entered from the hallway, fully dressed, and somewhat pale from exertion. A large bruise bloomed red and purple on his cheek, and a rim of caked blood was just visible in his left ear.
‘Holmes! I thought you were still abed. Where have you been? And what has happened to you? You are a wreck.’
‘Am I?’ He moved into his bedchamber and I could see him examining himself in the mirror over his washbasin. He began to scrub at his ear.
‘Would you like me to have a look?’
‘No.’ Holmes dried his face gingerly. He would tell me in his own time.
‘Holmes! In the paper today – it seems Gertrude Aufenbach has married!’
‘Who?’
‘That German Soprano. Berlin. Remember, Dario Borelli’s secret lover?’
He stood in the doorway, suddenly all attention. ‘Married? Not to Borelli, then?’
‘No! To some Russian count. Apparently, they had been engaged for two years.’
Holmes entered the room, drying his hands. ‘Let me see.’
He flung the towel back in the general direction of his room, snatched the paper from my hands and spread it on our dining table. While reading, he rummaged absently for leftover toast, and finding nothing but my last crusts, popped them into his mouth.
‘Shall I ring for some more breakfast, Holmes?’
He didn’t answer but tore the article from the broadsheet and laid the clipping on the table. He threw the rest of the paper to the floor.
While staring transfixed at the six lines of text, he felt in his various pockets. From one he removed a small brown envelope, and from another a small package wrapped in dirty paper, both of which he flung on the table in annoyance.
As he did so, I noted his left sleeve and the entire back of his frock coat were streaked with dirt. Even someon
e of my limited observational abilities could deduce that his nighttime escapade had been tinged with the dramatic. ‘Holmes have you been rolling in the London byways again?’
‘Ah!’ he said, discovering at last what he was seeking in his waistcoat pocket. It was another torn newspaper clipping. He smoothed it out on the table next to the one about Gertrude Auerbach. Trying for some coffee, he discovered the pot was empty and set it down with a clatter. He then stared at the two clippings for a long time.
I cleared my throat to remind him that another human being inhabited the room.
‘Ah, yes, Watson, read,’ he said. ‘I was right! Ha ha!’
I came over to the table and stared down at the second clipping. It was dated a week ago, with the headline ‘Body Fished from Thames’. It read:
‘The body of a deceased male was removed from the Thames after being spotted by a Mr Camphor Rooney, a pilot with the J. Benson Ferry Co. Police despair of a positive identification due to the decomposition of the corpse, which is believed to have been in the water some two weeks or more. However, the police have revealed that the body was found unclothed and was male, between thirty to fifty years of age, strongly muscled and slender, indicating athleticism. Dark hair and dark black moustache. No other identifying features were noted. Anyone with any information …’
‘Holmes! You don’t think—’
He smiled at me, that impish smile of having known something all along. ‘Yes, Watson. Dario Borelli. Your clipping seems to confirm it.’
‘Then he never ran off to Berlin with Gertrude Aufenbach?’
Holmes said nothing. Instead, he peeled off his frock coat with a wince of discomfort and reclined himself on the settee exactly where I had been sitting. He then picked up my coffee cup next to the settee and drained it.
‘Madame Borelli! Do you think she … extracted revenge on her husband for his attempt to frame her?’ I mused. ‘Without your intervention, she could have very easily been convicted of frying him up in the Great Cauldron.’
‘I suppose,’ said Holmes.
‘Or perhaps she still loved Colangelo. That is another explanation,’ said I with enthusiasm.
‘Possibly. But I favour a third.’
‘What is that, Holmes?’
‘That the Great Borelli remained in London after faking his death and threatened her later. Perhaps Madame Borelli killed her husband in an act of self-preservation.’
Upon reflection, that sounded more logical. ‘What a dangerous woman!’ I exclaimed.
‘Was that ever in doubt, Watson?’
Another thought struck me. ‘But what of her lovestruck professor, Cosimo Fortuny? Might he, and by association Leo Vitale, be in her clutches now?’
‘They are not. Two days ago, an anonymous buyer in London purchased the rights to ‘Lucifer’s Lights’, as Madame Borelli called the invention I helped to inspire. For a rather exorbitant price. Madame profited and was well pleased. The two young men have returned to Cambridge considerably the richer, and in Mr Fortuny’s case, his thirst for a life in theatre has been quite thoroughly quenched. I believe he gained some insight into Madame via a letter from a “concerned friend”.’
I laughed. ‘You? And were you the anonymous buyer, as well? With what funds?’
‘My brother makes himself useful from time to time. In this case, in support of the Cavendish Laboratory. Not hard to convince him.’ Holmes smiled enigmatically. ‘Mycroft is sure, as I am, that great things are to come from that place.’
‘But you will let Madame Borelli roam free to continue with her life?’
‘For the present, yes.’
‘But isn’t she a dangerous madwoman? May not others be in danger?’
‘I think the population at large have nothing to fear.’
‘Then you condone her action! You condone revenge?’
‘Revenge, no. Self-preservation is perhaps understandable.’ At my silence, he continued, ‘Watson, as I have said before, I do not exist to supply the deficiencies of the police.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘In any case, I think I shall leave Madame to them.’
‘Well, it is fortunate for Deacon Buttons that you did not do so in Cambridge. He might have hanged for a crime he did not commit. Or ended up in the clutches of Lamb.’
Holmes smiled and adjusted the cushions. He looked about to doze.
‘Holmes, on another matter. I’ve brought this up twice to no avail. I’m going to pay that Lossop a visit today. With or without you.’
His eyes opened sleepily. ‘Oh, that won’t be necessary, Watson,’ he said. He closed his eyes. ‘That package on the table there. I assisted Mr Lossop last night against a rather formidable threat. He is now safely en route to Peru. But your box … have a look.’
I was already at the table, tearing off the brown paper. Inside was the mysterious silver box! It gleamed attractively in the morning sunlight, its Celtic dragons looking nearly alive. The lock had been sprung and it was open a crack.
‘You have not looked inside, Holmes?’
‘Of course not.’
I paused, staring at the thing. Something kept me from lifting the lid. Something I didn’t expect. A kind of dread.
‘Watson, you hesitate. Perhaps you might consider holding off,’ said Holmes quietly.
‘Then you have seen what is in there!’
‘No. But think of this. You have long since put to rest whatever family drama caused this extraordinary act on the part of your mother. It troubles you greatly. I might have ferreted it out, dear friend, but I have left you your privacy—’
‘You had better!’
‘Consider the difficulty for your mother to procure such a unique and unassailable item as this box. She must have given you or sent you the key.’
‘How could she? She died two days after she gave this to Elspeth Carnachan!’
Holmes sat up, awake now, and looked around for his pipe.
I turned back to my box. Again, I hesitated.
‘The design of this box, the letter to be held for later delivery, all this smacks of planning, detailed planning,’ said he. ‘All the more reason to think she gave you the key. How did she die, Watson? You have never said.’
I put my hands on the box, feeling its cool, smooth surface so lightly engraved.
‘Watson?’
‘Ah? Oh … my mother. She drowned. Oddly very near where Rose had drowned three years earlier.’
I felt his eyes upon me. ‘Rose?’
‘My twin. We were both six when Rose died.’ I said. ‘Drowned as well.’ I felt suddenly naked, exposed. ‘I think I shall ask for more coffee. Would you like some more coffee?’
‘A twin sister!’ He took some time lighting the pipe. ‘Ah, I am sorry for this. But your mother’s death, Watson – was it by her own hand, then?’ he asked gently.
‘We were never sure.’ I felt sick thinking of it. I kept running my fingers over the engraving.
‘Was she despondent? Hysterical? Grieving, perhaps.’
‘No. This was several years after Rose. My mother was not subject to moods, Holmes.’
‘Nor are you, most of the time.’ He paused. ‘This box may have been long in the planning. She must have given you the key. Think! Was there any unique, decorative, mysterious item of metal in anything she gave you before this?’
‘I was only eleven when she died. She would not have entrusted a key to a small child!’
Open the box, a voice inside me shouted. No, don’t open the box, came another. I closed my eyes. My mother’s face, smiling at me. Then my mother’s face, still and white, eyes bulging.
‘Watson, I wager your sterling qualities were well evident to your mother, even during your early childhood. Do you still have that small box of mementos from your youth?
Ah, the one with the wooden soldiers that I had mentioned to Knut Lossop? But why was he asking now, I wondered?
‘Is there nothing metal, oddly shaped, in that box? Nothing t
hat could be a key?’
I snapped back to the present. ‘Well, I – oh!’ There was one thing. It was a small ornate clock puzzle that had never worked to keep time. I had forgotten it when prompted for a ‘treasure’ at Lossop’s and was later glad of it. It was my dearest possession, my mother’s last Christmas gift to me, eight months before her death. I said as much to Holmes.
I limped upstairs, retrieved the small cigar box of childhood treasures, and set the gilded clock puzzle on the table near the silver box. Holmes arose from the settee and faced me across the table, pipe in hand.
‘Go on, Watson. The clock puzzle first.’
I sat down before the box, and because he was so insistent, reluctantly took up the little clock. It was ornate and odd, constructed of several pieces. It had never kept time and was decorative only. But it had pleased me inordinately. I unpacked its pieces. To my amazement, one of them was silver, and filigreed in a style just like the box. I held it up and it was the right size to match the small keyhole below the box’s lock.
This was too damnably easy.
‘I—my God, you may be right!’ I said. I touched it to the edge of the keyhole. ‘It looks like it fits!’
‘Good,’ said Holmes ‘Then your mother planned this for you, as I thought.’ In a sudden move, he snapped the lid of the silver box down, and the lock clicked shut once again.
‘No!’ I leapt to my feet with a shout.
‘Turn it in the lock.’
I inserted the key. I jiggled it. Nothing. Twisted it again. The box opened with a snap. I had had the damned thing all along! I sank into the chair before the box, relieved.
Holmes yawned and ambled back to the settee, collapsing back onto it. ‘I shall leave you to it, Watson. I am a bit tired. Now, off to slumberland.’ He laid his pipe on an errant plate, stretched out, and closed his eyes.
I stared at the box.
What had my mother meant by this?
I opened it fully, not sure what to expect. A jewel? A keepsake? Another puzzle? But inside the box was nothing but two folded pieces of faded pink paper. I unfolded them and recognized my mother’s precise and beautiful hand. I read:
The Three Locks Page 28
