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

‘Perhaps we should not have left her on her own,’ I said. ‘With all those “moths”.’

‘And what do you suggest? That we camp out in her hideaway? It is clear she will be neither advised nor controlled.’

I could not argue with him. We sat in silence as the green countryside passed by.

‘That makes two rather formidable ladies, Holmes, in the course of only two days. Madame Borelli seems to be similarly, shall we say, independent.’

‘Yes. Both of these women strike me as—’

‘Well, they did both strike you, Holmes. And you were not even being half as rude as I’ve had occasion to see you be.’

He laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose they did, didn’t they?’

‘Perhaps we would be as quick to anger were we in the same position as either of them.’

Holmes grimaced. ‘Empathy comes naturally to you, Doctor. No wonder the ladies love you so.’

‘Well, they are only human, Holmes,’ I said. ‘To whom are you more sympathetic, Miss Wyndham or Madame Borelli?’

‘Neither. I look only to see if I can be of use. Women think differently than we do. It seems that everything is far more personal, more charged.’

‘Except, Holmes, as you have often said, it is a capital error to generalize.’

‘True enough. In Odelia Wyndham’s case, her disdain and casual cruelty puts her in jeopardy, I fear.’

Holmes sighed, then tilted his straw fedora over his brow and leaned back in his seat to nap. I attempted to admire the scenery, but the green fields held no particular attraction. High in the sky and off in the distance were the gathering thunderclouds I had noted in Cambridge.

As our train steamed on, I supposed that being slapped twice in twenty-four hours might set a man off in a negative direction. I have never been struck by a woman in my life. I could not imagine that would ever happen to me, save perhaps by some gross misunderstanding.

No, not even then, I mused. Shortly after, I put my newspaper down and must have dozed.

Strangely, the sweet face of my long-dead mother appeared in a dream. She was frowning and waved an index finger at me. In the moment, I was much shorter than she, a small boy. She was admonishing me, but I could not hear the words, try as I might to understand her. This image faded, blurred and reappeared. Now my mother was slightly older, but her face looked wavy, eerily tinged with blue green as if underwater, and her eyes were bulging.

I awoke with a start as our train was pulling into King’s Cross. My mother’s image stayed with me, and I was left with a feeling of dread. When I was eleven my mother had drowned, and the circumstances of her death were cloudy. I never could believe suicide. The tragedy had scarred our family, and my elder brother Harry had never recovered.

The brakes of the train squealed loudly as we slowed into the station, and I turned sharply away from these thoughts. I had rarely been troubled by nightmares.

In minutes we were back at Baker Street. Holmes sent a cable to the Wyndhams, explaining that Odelia was safe, and they could communicate to her via our address. I retired to my room and checked that my silver box was safe in my desk drawer.

As I closed and locked the drawer, I suddenly saw my mother’s drowned face again. I shuddered and blinked it away, feeling the full effect of two tumultuous days and the blinding heat. I was exhausted. Tomorrow, I would take my box to someone Holmes recommended.

The next morning, I awoke to find Holmes had already breakfasted and was out on an unknown errand. It had rained overnight but the oppressive heat had turned the summer showers into a steamy downpour. I sat over coffee, contemplating the small silver box which I had freed from my desk drawer. I toyed with the slender metal bands that braided decoratively around it, culminating in that mysterious lock. Would moving them trigger the lock in some way?

I heard Holmes arrive downstairs and tucked the bonny thing into my dressing-gown pocket.

He joined me at the breakfast table. His eyes raked over me in that disconcerting fashion. ‘There is Chubb’s over near St Paul’s. They were tasked with locking up the Koh-i-Noor Diamond during the exhibition. You could try there,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Most famous locksmith in London. If he cannot help you, then Boobbyer, 14 Stanhope Street, the Strand, might.’

‘Boobbyer? Odd name!’

He smiled. ‘Probably an attempt at anglicization of a French word. Bobbière, or something.’

‘Holmes, how on earth do you know of—’

‘Simple research, Watson!’

‘No! You are not a mind reader! How did you know that I was thinking of the box?’

‘Bulge in your dressing-gown pocket. Cigar-cutter on the table. You don’t smoke cigars in the morning.’

‘But I might.’

‘But you do not. You have been attempting to open that box. Fruitlessly, I might add.’

He picked up a large envelope which had arrived for him, opened it and gave a shout of delight. ‘Ah! Files on the Cavendish Laboratory. I have an inside track there, Watson. I have learned a bit more of Cosimo Fortuny’s work. Fascinating!’ He eagerly removed a stack of files, tossing the envelope onto the floor.

Mrs Hudson brought more coffee. She skulked out with a glance at the littered floor, clearly irritated at Holmes’s continual additions to the disarray.

‘Holmes, I’m going to try that second locksmith you named – Boobbyer?’

‘Do go, dear fellow, I must read these files. You’ll be back in an hour, I warrant. Then we are off to visit Santo Colangelo. I have gone to the address Madame Borelli gave for her former flame while you lingered abed this morning. It seems he has moved on to cheaper lodgings. I sent him a note, and he has agreed to see us. Go, Watson, have your consultation with Boobbyer!’

My visit to the second locksmith was a disappointment. Mr Boobbyer, a kindly old man with an eyepatch and a pendulous lower lip, attempted for