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

inside the building. I wondered aloud when it had been built.

‘Fifteen hundred, or thereabouts,’ said the priest.

‘Father Lamb, I have come to you about a young man of your church: Deacon Buttons,’ said Holmes.

Lamb laughed. ‘Well, he is the only young man of my church, sir. We are a small operation here. Lamb and Buttons. The source of much merriment, you can be sure.’

The names were odd. But it was the phrase ‘small operation’ which caught my attention.

‘I see,’ said Holmes. ‘You have not been long in this location.’

‘No. Six months only. This church had been abandoned and stood mostly empty for some eight years. A shame really.’

‘And your congregation. I suppose a few hovered about, awaiting a … resurrection, so to speak?’

Here the man’s face clouded slightly. He seemed to share with me the characteristic of having a face which reflected every thought, like a glassy pond with clouds floating overhead.

‘Well, a few have returned to the flock, although frankly we are having to start, more or less, from scratch.’

‘I imagine there is competition here, though mostly Anglican,’ said Holmes.

‘Well, competition is perhaps not the right word. But we do hope to find our people. Rome will only support us insofar as we gain a following. I am optimistic, however. Why do you ask?’

It was not the first time that I considered that running a church was not unlike running a business. I became aware of a pounding sound that started up from somewhere beneath us.

‘Deacon Buttons seems like a promising young man to have with you, then,’ remarked Holmes. ‘Charming fellow.’

‘He is, indeed. He is set to be ordained soon, and he already gives a stirring sermon. I am counting on him to bring more young people into the fold. Our lifeblood, so to speak. Please forgive the noise, we are having some construction work below.’

The muffled banging continued under our conversation.

‘How is it that you know young Buttons?’ asked Father Lamb. ‘And what did you wish to discuss?’

‘He came to us in London in the matter of a young lady who had gone missing. A Miss Dillie Wyndham.’

‘Came to you, sir?’

‘Mr Holmes is a consulting detective,’ I offered. ‘He has a considerable reputation in London for his work in locating missing persons and solving crimes.’

Lamb’s regard clouded, then he turned his gaze on me.

‘And you, sir?’

‘This is Dr John Watson, an army surgeon and my colleague in work,’ said Holmes.

Lamb took me in, then turned abruptly back to Holmes.

‘London, you say? A consulting detective who plays the violin? Well, you certainly must be unique. How is it that I can help you, sir?’

‘Is Deacon Buttons here at present?’ asked Holmes.

‘No. He is with the Carews, a family struck by illness. Terribly sad, the mother will expire soon.’

‘May we wait for him?’

‘I suppose so. Though it is not clear how long he may be.’ The priest smiled politely. ‘You are a detective. Has a crime been committed?’

Holmes glanced around him. Through an open doorway we could see the altar and the pulpit. A small vase of roses sat next to the pulpit, clearly cut from the garden outside. Lacking all the gilded paraphernalia, the embroidered draping, the accoutrements of the popular and well-funded Catholic Church, these were a modest though charming offering.

‘Perhaps, Father. Deacon Buttons mentioned that a Miss Odelia Wyndham is a congregant here?’ said Holmes.

‘She is.’

‘Is her family Catholic?’

‘The mother, perhaps. Lapsed.’

‘But the young lady? How long has she been attending church here?’

‘For some months now. Shortly after we began here.’

‘Interesting. You are aware that the family has reported Miss Wyndham missing?’

The priest paused, feeling the weight of Holmes’s gaze settle upon him. He shifted uncomfortably. ‘Young Buttons mentioned it, yes.’

‘And that her doll was found floating in the Jesus Lock?’

‘What? A doll? No. But she is a mature young lady—’

‘Her childhood doll. A favourite, apparently. And found by the deacon in the lock.’

The priest looked puzzled. ‘I see. How can I help you?’

Holmes had stood up and was now moving about the room. As it was bare stone with only the benches on which we sat, I wondered what he would be looking for.

Holmes’s movements made the priest uneasy. My friend looked down at the stone floor with interest and brushed his foot across two of the stones. A few pebbles scraped underneath his boot.

Lamb stared at Holmes. ‘Did her parents call you in?’

Holmes smiled at him but said nothing.

‘We have had some repair work done. Ongoing. Some loose stones replaced,’ the priest said.

‘Ah! Was anyone buried here?’ drawled Holmes. ‘I know that in many churches it is the custom to bury past clergy or notable congregants directly under the church flooring. Although usually there is a plaque memorializing them.’

‘I am afraid that information has been lost to time,’ said Lamb. ‘Those records have not come down to us. The church has had a number of lives. It was a kind of sanctuary for the vagrants of Cambridge until recently. And, I believe, someone attempted to open a restaurant here before that. But back to the young lady …’

‘Ah, too bad. The stories these stones could tell!’ murmured Holmes. A sound from the nave had us all turn to see three men in dusty overalls, carrying some tools, passing through. One of them saluted the father.

Lamb waved them away.

‘I am sorry. Workmen. Quite a few repairs to be made.’

‘Repairs or construction?’ asked Holmes.

‘Both, actually. The restaurant, when it was here, had a wine cellar in the crypt below. I am having it expanded.’

At Holmes’s raised eyebrow, the priest continued. ‘The crypt is the perfect temperature for wine storage. We will be renting out space to several local restaurants to store their bottles there.’

‘Ah, a welcome bit of income, then!’ said Holmes cheerfully.

‘One must be resourceful,’ said the priest. ‘But again, sir, I don’t wish to be rude. What is your business with the deacon?’

‘I understand there have been some problems with this church. I read about a flood some years ago.’

The priest frowned. ‘But what