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

one might easily trace you by your speciality. In any case, we bring before you a unique challenge. I am Sherlock Holmes. Ah, I see that you have heard my name before. This is my friend and colleague, Dr Watson. He received a package in the mail, containing a highly decorative silver box with an unusual lock. Both the good doctor and I have attempted to open this box—’

Lossop held out his hand, palm up, to receive the object. I noted thin, spidery fingers and long nails.

‘Give,’ he said.

‘But let me complete the thought. Watson here brought it to – who was it, Watson?’

‘Boobbyer on the Strand, and Chubb’s.’

The locksmith snorted in derision.

‘—with no luck. I have done my research. Your name, hard to come by, Mr Lossop, was at last given to me. You are in a class by yourself, apparently.’ Holmes smiled solicitously.

‘The box, please. I shall have a look.’

I took the scented soap container from my satchel, extracted the mysterious and beautiful silver box, and placed it on the counter between us.

Lossop crossed his arms in front of him and leaned towards it. He stared at the box for a full minute without touching it. Thoughts flickered across his sharp features, and a slow smile lit his pale face.

Holmes and I waited patiently. The locksmith then picked up the box, placed a jeweller’s loupe over his spectacles and examined it minutely. He hummed tunelessly, and brought a candelabrum closer, holding the box to the flickering light to scrutinize something that evidently interested him.

He put the box down with a smile.

‘Well, can you open it?’ I asked.

‘It is most probable. But not quickly.’

‘If you cannot, can you break it open?’

‘Yes, but that may well destroy the contents.’

This confirmed my fear.

He held up the box and pointed to a place on the side. I saw nothing but the swirling Celtic tracery. ‘Look closer,’ he commanded, and handed me the loupe.

I did, but could see nothing. The fine workings on the box were complicated, with lines of different depths, small pinpoint dots, and—

Holmes took the box and the loupe from my hand and, holding it up to the light, examined the area the locksmith had indicated. He handed both back to Lossop. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘Well, I don’t,’ I said with some irritation.

‘Someone tried to drill into this box, revealing that it is lined with something. I presume this material is much harder than silver, and blocked the drilling,’ said Holmes.

‘Exactly,’ said Lossop.

‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘A steel alloy, perhaps, even with tungsten?’

‘Ha!’ cried Lossop. ‘Tool steel! Nothing harder. Except diamond.’

‘Exactly,’ continued Holmes. ‘And that would explain why the box is so heavy for its size. One cannot drill into it to unlock it, Watson. Not easily, and perhaps not at all. I wonder where your family might have come upon such a box?’

‘It was commissioned,’ said Lossop. ‘I recognize the workmanship, and I know the maker. Or I think I do.’

‘Perhaps this person could help us?’ asked Holmes.

‘No. He is dead some five years. I have seen his work once before. My mentor, Andelan Schutz, showed one of his creations to me. He could not unlock it, but I did. It took me a month, however.’

‘A month!’ I exclaimed.

‘Excellent that you exceeded your mentor,’ said Holmes.

‘Is that not the purpose of having a mentor?’ murmured the man, taking the box back into his hands. Holmes’s compliment had landed well. ‘I relish the challenge.’

‘Then you will open it for us?’ I asked.

He set down the box abruptly. ‘Perhaps. If you can meet my price.’

‘We are not wealthy men,’ said Holmes.

‘I know that. You, at least, dress well, if conservatively, but you have a hungry look. You—’ he turned to me, ‘are more in fashion, but lack great means.’

Holmes had removed his chequebook.

‘Put that away,’ said the locksmith sharply.

‘Yes, do. I will pay for this,’ I said, reaching for my own, but then remembered that Holmes had locked it back in a drawer, having moved it from the one I had smashed open. That he thought to bring his own but not give me back mine gave me a moment of pique.

The locksmith held up a hand. ‘I have not yet named my price. And I doubt you will have what I require, Doctor.’

Before I could rise to the insult, Holmes replied, ‘What is your price, Mr Lossop?’ His tone made me uneasy.

Lossop smiled and stepped back from the counter. Turning to the wall behind him, on which were shelves and shelves of locks, bolts, keys, tools and parts, he pulled a key which he wore on a chain around his neck and leaned towards a keyhole under a small handle at the back, dead centre of these shelves. There was the sound of a click, and to my surprise the shelves split and rolled apart to reveal a secret wall behind them.

On this wall were hung a series of locked metal boxes of various sizes. Each had a tag hanging from it, but the tags faced the wall, and I could see from my angle that something had been written on them, but what?

‘I require a personal commitment from you. And a personal token. Something which you have in the past taken great care not to lose. Something that is very dear to you.’

Holmes was stone faced. Had he known? I, on the other hand was puzzled in the extreme.

‘I will lock it for you in a special box which I construct for the purpose,’ Lossop continued, ‘hang it on this wall, and I guarantee there is no locksmith alive who can open it but me.’

‘But … why?’ I asked, frankly amazed. ‘And more to the point, how can you afford to live, paid in such a manner?’

‘Banks, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘The banks pay him handsomely for custom, unassailable locks. And there are other clients, not all of whom are legitimate businesses. Am I not right, Mr Lossop?’

Lossop’s answer was the briefest smile. I shook my head, unconvinced.

‘But why—?’ I began.

‘These