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

there! I know just the man,’ he cried, and ran from the room.

‘Have a care!’ cried Holmes.

‘She will not try again,’ said the young man, his voice disappearing down the hall.

Holmes leaned down to peer at me, a worried expression on his face. Pain made my eyes water and my head swim.

‘Holmes …’ I said. ‘What …?’

‘You were shot with an arrow. No, keep your hand away.’

‘What? Pull it out!’ I cried, trying to reach it.

‘No, Watson!’ he said, stopping my hand with his own. ‘Lie back. As a doctor, you know better. Pull it out and you could bleed to death!’

In retrospect, of course I did know this, but for the life of me I could not summon the reason at that moment.

I gritted my teeth. ‘Who on earth would shoot me?’

‘The target was more likely Mr Eden-Summers.’

‘How? Who—’

‘Come, Watson! Who is an archer with reason to wish harm to that young man? Think!’

I was spared coming up with a retort, for at that moment I passed out.

CHAPTER 34

Just a Bodkin

I came round blearily in what must have been a doctor’s surgery. A small, serious man of about forty with bright red cheeks was bent over me, busily tugging at something. I do recall that my right leg was numbed and felt like a gigantic loaf of bread and nothing to do with me, although somehow attached. The smell of carbolic acid filled the room. He brought up a pair of forceps and leaned in. I felt a dull pulling and could hear him snipping at sutures.

‘My … uh …’ In a haze, I located in my mind the spot on my leg which was receiving the attention. ‘The … the femoral artery?’ I mumbled.

The diminutive surgeon looked down at me over a pair of silver reading glasses. His round face and sharp brown eyes brought to mind a small bear. I noted a carefully groomed and waxed moustache, with the ends precisely turned up in matching curls. Meticulous was precisely the trait one would wish for in a surgeon.

‘Awake, are ye? You’re a doctor, then, tae be askin’ about that?’ said the surgeon. A Highland accent. Scottish medical training, another good sign. ‘Missed the artery. You were lucky.’

‘Yes. Watson here was an army surgeon,’ said Holmes. ‘How soon can you have him on his feet, Doctor?’

‘Macready is the name,’ the surgeon said pleasantly to me. He then looked up at Holmes, who loomed nearby. He frowned. ‘Stand back, sir, you are dreadfully underfoot.’

Holmes was taken back at a phrase I’d heard him rudely bark at our own dear Mrs Hudson, but he complied, disappearing from my view.

‘What is the extent of the wound, Doctor?’ I asked.

‘Mr Eden-Summers brought you to the right place. Arrow wounds are my speciality. Get little call for it, now. Arrow missed the femoral by less than an inch. As I said, you were very, very lucky.’

Holmes’s voice floated over as he held up the bloody arrowhead so that I could see it. ‘Hmm, bodkin point! Small favours, Watson.’

‘Indeed. I used one of my smallest tubes to retract it with minimal damage,’ said Macready. ‘You’ll appreciate that, Doctor Watson.’

‘Not as bad as a broadhead, though. You are lucky, my friend,’ continued Holmes. ‘Bodkins have much smaller ears.’ At my puzzled look, he added. ‘Shoulders. Barbs. The parts that tear the flesh when pulled out.’

Macready looked up from his work. ‘Get back from there!’ Holmes disappeared again. ‘You are an archer, then?’

‘Formerly,’ said Holmes.

‘Hit the adductor longus?’ I asked.

‘Yes. It could have been much worse,’ said Macready.

‘Meaning what?’ asked Holmes.

‘It means he should pass on any morris dancing for the immediate future,’ said the surgeon. ‘That muscle moves the leg from side to side.’

‘How soon for normal walking, Doctor?’ asked Holmes.

‘And what is your hurry in that?’ replied Dr Macready, coldly. ‘Stand further back, over there, would you? What is your relationship to this man, might I ask?’

‘I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, here in Cambridge on a case. This is my friend and colleague Dr John Watson.’

‘Yes, yes, army surgeon, you said. How does a medical colleague help a detective?’ When neither of us answered, he looked down at me. ‘Now … think of something else while I sew this up.’

‘Aaah!’ I distracted myself with Holmes’s exploits. ‘Eh … so … how did you get out of gaol, Holmes?’

The surgeon stopped what he was doing and reappraised my friend. ‘Do I have a criminal in my midst? Put that down, I say, and go and sit over there by the door. You are a damnable distraction, man!’

I craned my neck to see Holmes wiping off the bloody arrow tip with his handkerchief. He pulled off the tip from the arrow shaft and pocketed it.

‘Evidence,’ he said with a smile.

Macready shook his head.

‘It is true. I do need to be back on my feet shortly,’ I said. ‘How much do I risk by activity, please?’

‘Ach, you put me in mind of a college footballer whose lady love shot him in the leg accidentally. He was out dancing the following week, then took half a year to recover.’

‘No dancing, I promise.’

‘Well … I’ll patch you up good. You’ll be as well as you choose to treat yourself, Doctor. ’Twere me, I’d catch up on my reading and run about with this gaolbird much less than I’m guessing you might.’

‘Can you give him something for the pain – something that will not fog his brain?’ asked Holmes.

‘You have need of my brain?’ I almost laughed. ‘Ow! The anaesthetic is wearing off, Doctor.’

‘I know. Almost finished. Who shot you, man?’

‘I am not sure—’

‘Oh, come, Watson, you know exactly who did this,’ said my friend.

‘Well, I hope he is brought to justice,’ said the surgeon.

‘She,’ said Holmes. ‘And I doubt it. Although Eden-Summers is reporting this to her father as we speak.’

She? I closed my eyes and lay back. Of course. ‘Atalanta Wyndham,’ I said.

‘She shot you through the curtain, Watson. I believe she mistook your