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

We followed him up a spiralling staircase to the third floor. As we passed each door in the stairwell, I took in muffled laughter, the sound of a tennis ball hitting the wall, and when both inner and outer doors were open, caught glimpses of young men lounging, studying, smoking. There was a distinct aura of sports, coffee, whisky, cigarette smoke and sweat, with an occasional waft of expensive cologne. It was the beginning of term, and studies not much in evidence, at least here.

I was struck intensely by the difference between this renowned institution and my own less prestigious alma mater. The outer door to Frederick Eden-Summers’ room was open, indicating he was in. The porter gave a short knock on the inner door and called out, ‘Mr Eden-Summers. You have visitors!’ There was no reply. ‘Be patient. He is there,’ said the porter. ‘I shall return with coffee.’ He left us.

Coffee, rather than a key, I wondered. The urgency of our mission tightened my chest as several loud knocks on the door went unanswered.

Holmes withdrew his lockpick kit, and we were soon inside. The room was enormous for a student accommodation, larger than our sitting-room on Baker Street. It was nicely appointed with a wide bed, a number of quality bookcases and an intricately carved armoire. Linen curtains billowed in the hot afternoon breeze. The moth-eaten rug on the floor must once have cost a king’s ransom. Hung on one wall was a magnificent longbow, the patina of its glorious wooden limbs gleaming in the morning sunlight. I remembered Atalanta mentioning ‘Freddie’s’ passion for archery. And there, to the right, at one end of the spacious room, was a most curious sight.

It was an antique card table, littered with bottles of ale at each corner, around which were three empty chairs, two turned over on their sides, and numerous discarded bottles. Cards were spread across the table in a jumble, as were various coins and numerous crumpled white fivers. Everything spoke of casual wealth.

Two young men were still at the table, although this was not exactly accurate. The feet of one were up on the table, the rest of him lying down on the floor face up, dead to the world. And seated but draped across the table, head facing away from us, was Freddie Eden-Summers.

His tousled mop of golden-brown hair was instantly recognizable, with the familiar tennis sweater clothing his torso. But his lower half sported only undergarments, feet bare. Both arms were outstretched on the table, one hand on a stack of five-pound notes, the other grasping a bottle. Just as I had begun to worry that we’d come upon a second murder scene, a loud snore emanated from this partially clothed figure.

‘Mr Eden-Summers,’ said Holmes, the sharpness of his tone intending to cut through the torpor of the room’s denizens. There was no response.

Holmes shook his head. He moved to the bed, pulled off one blanket from the jumble that was upon it, and placed it on the table next to the slumbering golden-haired boy. At the washbasin he filled a small drinking glass and then returned to the table, where he poured it over the head of Frederick Eden-Summers.

The young man sprang awake with a snort. ‘Wha – wha—?’ He coughed.

‘Mr Eden-Summers!’ Holmes said. The boy nodded, then in a series of moves worthy of a pantomime actor he stood, took us in, noticed his lack of trousers, looked about in confusion for something with which to cover himself, grabbed the blanket Holmes had placed next to him, and wrapped it around himself to cover everything from the waist down. He then turned to face us blearily, but with a certain pluck.

Holmes opened his mouth to speak but Eden-Summers held out one finger, signalling us to wait. He turned back to the table, noticed the feet resting on it, peered over at the figure on the floor. ‘Laurence?’ he mumbled, then grinned at us. Scanning the table, he seized a nearby bottle, took two long swigs, emitted a sonorous belch, and turned again to face us.

‘All right, then. Gentlemen, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he intoned with all the grace a half-clad, drunken man of twenty could manage. ‘You look, er … familiar?’

‘Mr, Eden-Summers, I am here on the matter of Miss Odelia Wyndham. Or Dillie, as you know her,’ said Holmes.

‘Have we met?’ the boy slurred. ‘Oh, yes. Wedding planner? I …’

‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I am his friend, Dr John Watson,’ said I. ‘We are here—’

‘A detective? What? Oh, Dillie, my God, what has she done now?’

‘You are engaged to the young lady, are you not?’ asked Holmes, sternly.

‘Why, yes. She has the ring. It was in the newspaper … erm …’ The youth peered at Holmes with bloodshot eyes. ‘Tell me, old man, why is a consulting detective and his … whoever you are … barging into my room at this hour of the morning?’

‘It is after three p.m.’ I said.

‘I’ll need you to account for the last eighteen hours,’ said Holmes.

Just then the young man on the floor stirred. His feet fell with a thump onto the threadbare oriental carpet, where he lay sprawled.

‘Where are my manners?’ said Eden-Summers. ‘Let me introduce Laurence Manon Le Cru – my friend and fellow Dallier. That’s our club. He was with me.’ Eden-Summers waved grandly at this figure, then peered over the table at him. ‘Larry, where are the others?’

‘Gone,’ moaned Le Cru from the floor. ‘You cleaned them out.’

‘I say!’ Eden-Summers turned to us with an unsteady smile. ‘After I lost my shirt, or rather my trousers, I suppose I had something of a comeback. Yes, I remember it now.’

‘To the point, young man!’ said Holmes sternly.

‘All right. What was the question?’ The fellow blinked, swayed, then closed his eyes in an effort at cogitation. ‘But wait, just a moment! How did you get in here?’

‘Down through the chimney, Mr Eden-Summers. Put