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

women of his family in torment. Dillie responded by emulating him. And yet I had hope for her. Many children manage to recover from cruel treatment and turn the other way.’

This was not the first time that Holmes made me wonder about his own childhood.

‘But Dillie did not get the chance,’ he continued. ‘Atalanta escaped, you say? It was she, then, at the Jesus Lock, opening the drain as we tried to save Buttons. Intending to kill Buttons, I suspect. My death would have merely been a bonus.’

The priest rose to his feet. ‘If that is true, then you have your second villain. If you don’t mind, Inspector Hadley, I would like to collect Mr Buttons and return to the church. You know Miss Wyndham’s murderer is the late Mr Vitale. I shall leave you to deal with this attention-seeking actor.’

‘Father Lamb, patience is not your greatest virtue,’ said Holmes. ‘If only you had had a shred more of it, two young people would still be alive today.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Lamb.

‘Yes, do explain yourself, Holmes,’ said Hadley.

Just then Palmer rushed in. ‘Gentlemen! Sirs! Deacon Buttons has just breathed his last. He died from shock. We could not revive him.’

The news hit the room like a stroke of thunder. I felt sick.

Holmes was the first to break the silence. ‘That makes three young people. Miss Wyndham. Mr Vitale. And now …’

A moan escaped the lips of Father Lamb. ‘Peregrine?’ he said. ‘Not my boy. Not Peregrine?’

We all turned to look at the priest. He sank back onto his chair, ghostly white and unable to speak.

‘You know, Father Lamb, it is a shame that you so badly mistook Dillie Wyndham’s intentions that night,’ Holmes remarked. ‘I don’t believe the young lady intended to seduce your Peregrine. It was merely a manipulation. Of course, we will never know for sure.’

The priest looked up, his eyes burning.

‘Dillie Wyndham would be alive, in Paris perhaps. Vitale would be happily in his laboratory. And your young deacon would have been exactly where you want him.’ Holmes turned to Hadley. ‘I left something out earlier. While Peregrine Buttons was at the Cross and Anchor looking for the third ring, Father Lamb returned from London and went straight to his beloved young man’s room. Yes, beloved. There he discovered Miss Wyndham, naked in Deacon Buttons’ bed! What were your thoughts, Father Lamb?’

The man said nothing.

‘You drew a wrong conclusion, that you had come across an affair – in flagrante delicto and instigated by a terrible Jezebel. You became enraged. Dillie had a formidable temper and met your fury with her own. A terrible battle ensued, the physical evidence, though mitigated, remained. Broken glass, a candle flung. It ended with you striking the fatal blow with the ironstone water-jug.’

The priest stared at Holmes with wolfish fury. I stood up, and noted Wright moving closer, protectively.

‘If only you had just done nothing, Father Lamb! Dillie would have bolted, as she planned all along. Your young deacon, finding himself abandoned, would have been devastated. And you could have offered solace, comfort, a haven. Just as you had done when his father died. Peregrine Buttons, the boy you love so dearly, would be alive today. But instead, in a rage and assuming the worst, you killed Dillie Wyndham, pitched her body into the river, and then tried to erase the signs of your struggle.’

Father Lamb did not move.

Holmes turned to Hadley. ‘So you see, it was done in the name of love.’

‘This was not the kind of love I anticipated,’ said Hadley with evident distaste. ‘It would not be the first time, I suppose, among clergy.’

‘That is unclear, and ultimately irrelevant. Love of any kind is not for us to judge,’ said Holmes. ‘What is critical is that Father Lamb’s feelings became a kind of obsession. An obsession which propelled these horrible events. Confess, Lamb. Because there is nothing left for you, now, but to absolve your guilt in the manner of your Church.’

‘You will never hear a confession from me,’ said the father.

‘But perhaps you will make one to me,’ came a voice from the door. Peregrine Buttons stood there, weak but alive, and supported by Palmer.

My heart leapt.

The priest turned in his seat and staggered to his feet at the sight of his young disciple. ‘Peregrine? Dear boy! You are alive!’ He sobbed and started towards the boy, but Wright stepped forward and quietly slipped on handcuffs. The priest looked down at them in surprise. Then up at his young deacon.

‘Peregrine! I did this to save you,’ he cried.

‘No, Father. You did it so as not to lose me,’ said Peregrine Buttons. ‘But I was already lost.’

CHAPTER 43

221B

It was on a Tuesday morning, five days after the events in Cambridge that Holmes and I were ensconced at Baker Street, recovering from our adventure at the great university town. Holmes’s mood had been morose. He would not speak of it, but I knew that despite solving Dillie’s murder, his inability to prevent her death haunted him. I pointed out that without him on the case, Vitale might have hanged for the crime – in his cell or on the scaffold. The murderer would be free and young Deacon Buttons’ fate uncertain. But my words did not appease him. Time, I suppose, might give him perspective.

Shortly after breakfast, I reclined on our settee, my injured leg elevated as I attempted to enjoy the last of my coffee and the relative calm of a sitting-room that had been neatened once again by Mrs Hudson. A note from Polly had been left on the table, presumably by Holmes, and I was amused to read in her untutored printing that Miss Atalanta Wyndham no longer lived with her parents but had run off with the gardener. Holmes had correctly intuited that relationship, to the young lady’s displeasure. And Polly herself had found a new position in Inspector Hadley’s household.

With the Cambridge complexities mostly resolved, I suppose I should have been at peace. But