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

that moment to look about to see if the police might be visible yet. I saw no one. Had the message gone awry? The rain hissed down around us.

‘You returned with the money, and then what happened?’

Buttons suddenly doubled over the railing as if hit in the stomach. A sob escaped him. ‘Oh God! Oh God!’

Holmes took the opportunity to draw closer.

‘Pull yourself together, Mr Buttons,’ I said, trying to distract him by moving away from Holmes.

He made an effort and straightened, then crumpled again. ‘Oh, Dillie.’

‘Let me help,’ said Holmes. ‘You returned and found Dillie in your bed.’

‘By God, how do you know this?’

‘Mr Buttons, you remember why you came to me in the first place?’

‘Because you read of Mr Holmes particular reputation as a detective,’ I prompted.

Lightning flashed, lighting up the sky and the boy’s confused face.

‘You came back with the money,’ Holmes pressed on. ‘But something happened. Perhaps Dillie refused you. You quarrelled. You fought.’

‘No! No! But … she said the money was not enough. We would need more.’

‘For train tickets?’

‘No. To start a new life. Then Dillie said she remembered a third ring. A little gold one, shape of an arrow. That would ensure … but she had misplaced it. She sent me to search for it. Across town.’

‘To her room above the Cross and Anchor pub?’

‘Yes. That is the place.’

‘Did anyone see you there?’

The boy had shut his eyes again. ‘I didn’t find that ring. I looked and looked.’

‘Mr Buttons. Again, did anyone see you at the Cross and Anchor?’

‘No. No one was about.’

‘So you returned empty-handed?’

There was a long silence.

It struck me then that all three young men who had loved Dillie had been in some altercation the night of her murder. Had this volatile girl been attracted to young men of similar temperament? Or did she drive them to it? Someone had beaten that girl in his room. I glanced again at Buttons’ bandaged hand. ‘This is our man, I think,’ I whispered.

Holmes sighed.

‘What happened to your hand, Mr Buttons?’ asked Holmes.

The boy looked at it like he had forgotten its existence. ‘I hit the wall with my fist.’

‘Did you leave a dent?’

The boy looked confused. ‘Yes. Why, yes, I did.’

‘I saw no such mark in your room.’

‘I didn’t hit the wall of my room. I hit the wall just outside. To the left of my door.’

‘Mr Buttons, I have just come from a thorough inspection of your room. In spite of its apparent normal state, it had been cleaned up hurriedly. I found clear evidence of a mighty battle. Drops of blood. A chip on your water-jug, and two dents in the furniture. Dillie put up a valiant fight. That was very like her.’

‘No.’ The boy was inching away from us. ‘No.’

‘Holmes,’ I warned.

‘A smear of blood on the windowsill showed where you pushed her body out before bringing it here, to the river. But the girl received her fatal blow … in your room.’

‘No!’ said the boy, now ghostly pale, his eyes wild. A young madman?

Holmes stepped forward and held out his hand. ‘You realize, of course, that I must present this evidence to the police. And that you will be arrested for murder. There may be a faint ray of hope for you. It is possible the Church will come to your defence. They have been known to rally mighty forces. And there could be mitigating factors. Did Dillie attack you? Were you hurt? Was anyone else present during this altercation?’

I knew better than to voice my thoughts, which were that it was damnably clear that the young man was Dillie’s murderer and that no ‘mitigating factors’ or Church interference would save him. Dillie had been a provocative young woman and sometimes a cruel one. But no provocation justifies murder. Offering a lifeline to a killer was a tactic Holmes had used before to extract a confession.

‘Come with me now, Mr Buttons. I will make sure that you are treated fairly,’ said my friend, now only ten feet from the boy. He reached out his hand towards Buttons.

A wind had come up and the trees nearby moaned with the sudden gusts.

‘No! Get back! I am a sinner! I have sinned! Only God can forgive me!’ cried Buttons as he recoiled from Holmes’s outstretched hand and backed further towards the centre of the bridge.

A bolt of lightning bleached the sky and a crack of thunder sounded milliseconds later. And before we could stop him, Buttons catapulted over the railing, plunging into the black waters of the Jesus Lock.

We both ran to the edge. There was no trace of him. Only dull concentric ripples where his body had entered the water, broken by raindrops distorting the widening rings.

‘Get help, Watson!’ cried Holmes, tearing off his coat.

PART EIGHT

THE UNLOCKING

‘Let him have the key of thy heart, who hath the lock of his own.’

—Sir Thomas Browne

CHAPTER 38

Rescue

‘My God!’ I cried. ‘Can he swim?’ I struggled to remove my boots.

‘Watson, no! Your leg!’ shouted Holmes. ‘Get help!’

He plunged into the water.

I stood frozen as I witnessed the boy surface with a strangled cry some distance away, then go under, and surface again. His arms flailed, he gasped for air. ‘Help!’ he cried and went under again. Holmes swam with strong strokes towards the drowning boy. But the boy’s survival instinct and panic would endanger anyone trying to save him.

I could not leave them. I looked about for a pole, for a rope – something to toss to Holmes.

Lightning flashed again across the sky. It was five in the morning. Would anyone be near? It was then that I heard bells and a police whistle. I turned to see a police van pulled by four horses, lanterns blazing, racing towards us from some distance away down Chesterton Road.

Then I remembered that Holmes had asked the young officer with Polly to send men to the rectory! Limping from the bridge into the centre of the road,