The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird (learn to read books txt) 📕

‘I am worried that no one there will take this seriously.’

‘That contradicts what you have just said about the maid and the family, Deacon. You realize, of course, that you have given us every reason to doubt you?’ Holmes asked sharply.

The young man stood up. ‘I suppose this was a wasted journey, then, sir?’

I stood to accompany him to the door. He was the picture of dejection.

‘I understand that you occasionally take cases gratis. I … had hoped to hire you, Mr Holmes. But I have no money of my own.’

I took him by the arm and gently propelled him into the hallway. ‘It is not a matter of money, Deacon, Mr Holmes is quite busy at present. But do keep us informed, please,’ said I, attempting to soften the blow. ‘We shall be all ears.’

‘Just a moment, Watson,’ said Holmes.

Deacon Buttons and I paused on the landing to face my friend.

‘Call it an instinct. Call it whatever you wish, Watson, but whatever the story is behind this doll … there is something chilling in the very fact of it. I have decided to investigate.’

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes!’ cried Buttons.

‘But Madame Borelli?’ I said.

‘In time, Watson. I believe we can quickly wrap things up in Cambridge. But I would like to satisfy my curiosity on one or two points. This missing young lady may indeed be in danger. Book us a train, would you please?’

The deacon closed his eyes in relief and offered up a prayer.

Without another word, I reached for our Bradshaw and attended to worldly matters. The last train to Cambridge had departed. It would have to wait until morning.

CHAPTER 12

The Wyndhams

After a few short hours of sleep, with the deacon stretched out on our divan in the sitting-room and the windows wide open to catch any breath of air, the three of us departed for the ancient town early the next morning. The Indian summer days were still long, and the sun was up when we arrived shortly after six. After securing a driver at the station, we raced through Cambridge’s dusty streets. Early morning light slanted off the strange mix of ancient and modern architecture as we headed directly for the Wyndham residence, located in a favourable riverside location at the city’s northern end.

When we arrived, it was still early, but the police were in attendance at an impressive three-storey stone house, one surly looking officer placed at the door. An expensive brougham, trimmed in red, stood between the front door and a small stable off to one side.

Wyndham was evidently a wealthy and important man.

Holmes, the deacon and I alighted from our carriage and my friend took us both by the arm, directing us away from the house and towards an adjacent carriage house.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Shh.’ Indicating we should wait for him behind this building, out of sight of the Wyndhams’, Holmes left us and went around the back of the main house. I noted him examining the ground, pulling his magnifying glass from his pocket as he did so. He disappeared round the back of the house and was gone for a full five minutes. The deacon looked increasingly uncomfortable.

‘What is he doing?’ he asked, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Shouldn’t we be talking to the family?’

‘In time, Mr Buttons,’ I said. Holmes, I surmised, must have been looking for clues of anyone who might have breached the house surreptitiously to take the doll.

Presently he returned, apparently satisfied, and we proceeded to the Wyndhams’ front door. The frowning sergeant regarded us coldly. The man was sallow, with thinning hair the colour of dirty laundry water, and had upon his bony face a look of permanent indigestion. He glanced at the damp sack containing the doll. ‘There it is! Wait here, Buttons,’ he snarled, and disappeared into the house, locking the door behind him. He brought to mind a scurrying lizard.

Holmes eyed the deacon. ‘Who was that?’

‘Sergeant Pickering. He’s not a very kind—’

‘I take it you did not ask permission of anyone in the police to remove the doll?’

Before he could answer, the reptilian Pickering returned with a senior officer of perhaps fifty. This older man, a tall, well-built and nattily attired fellow with red muttonchops greying at the temples and the eyes of a hawk, gave us one angry glance, then focused on the canvas bag. ‘Give us that, Deacon Buttons!’ he roared. ‘How dare you remove a valuable clue to whatever has transpired? Just because you found it, it was not yours to take!’

‘Inspector H-H-Hadley. Let me explain,’ stammered the deacon.

Pickering grabbed the bag and opened it for his superior. Satisfied the doll was there, Hadley waved it away. ‘Take that inside, Sergeant, and give it to Mrs Wyndham,’ he ordered.

The unpleasant Pickering favoured us with a venomous look and departed.

Hadley took in Holmes and me with a critical glance. ‘And who the devil are you two? Londoners, by the look of you.’

‘This is the esteemed detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his associate Dr Watson,’ said the deacon. ‘I – I – brought the doll to London. To induce Mr Holmes to help find Miss Wyndham.’

‘Sherlock Holmes, you say? The London, er, crime solver, detective, or whatever it is that you do. I seem to have read something, somewhere.’ While Holmes’s achievements had occasionally made the papers, at this time he was not yet widely known outside of law enforcement. Inspector Hadley stared hard at my friend as though he could read a man’s worth by this look, or perhaps diminish it by his dismissive gaze.

Holmes did not flinch but smiled warmly. ‘Ah, are you Inspector George Hadley, then? I have heard of you, sir! You solved the case of the stolen artefacts intended for the new Fitzwilliam Museum. A matched pair of Roman vases worth an untold fortune, if I remember correctly. A puzzle and great distress for the donor’s family –