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

I was not and was still awash in anxiety. I had heard nothing regarding my mysterious box. Two letters to the strange Mr Lossop had gone unanswered. Holmes had admonished me to wait, but I was gathering my nerves to travel to the man and confront him, alone if need be.

The clock struck eleven. It was unlike Holmes to sleep in this late.

To distract myself, I returned to the newspaper and came upon an article that thoroughly surprised me. I tore it out in anticipation of showing Holmes, whenever that layabout finally arose.

To my surprise, he entered from the hallway, fully dressed, and somewhat pale from exertion. A large bruise bloomed red and purple on his cheek, and a rim of caked blood was just visible in his left ear.

‘Holmes! I thought you were still abed. Where have you been? And what has happened to you? You are a wreck.’

‘Am I?’ He moved into his bedchamber and I could see him examining himself in the mirror over his washbasin. He began to scrub at his ear.

‘Would you like me to have a look?’

‘No.’ Holmes dried his face gingerly. He would tell me in his own time.

‘Holmes! In the paper today – it seems Gertrude Aufenbach has married!’

‘Who?’

‘That German Soprano. Berlin. Remember, Dario Borelli’s secret lover?’

He stood in the doorway, suddenly all attention. ‘Married? Not to Borelli, then?’

‘No! To some Russian count. Apparently, they had been engaged for two years.’

Holmes entered the room, drying his hands. ‘Let me see.’

He flung the towel back in the general direction of his room, snatched the paper from my hands and spread it on our dining table. While reading, he rummaged absently for leftover toast, and finding nothing but my last crusts, popped them into his mouth.

‘Shall I ring for some more breakfast, Holmes?’

He didn’t answer but tore the article from the broadsheet and laid the clipping on the table. He threw the rest of the paper to the floor.

While staring transfixed at the six lines of text, he felt in his various pockets. From one he removed a small brown envelope, and from another a small package wrapped in dirty paper, both of which he flung on the table in annoyance.

As he did so, I noted his left sleeve and the entire back of his frock coat were streaked with dirt. Even someone of my limited observational abilities could deduce that his nighttime escapade had been tinged with the dramatic. ‘Holmes have you been rolling in the London byways again?’

‘Ah!’ he said, discovering at last what he was seeking in his waistcoat pocket. It was another torn newspaper clipping. He smoothed it out on the table next to the one about Gertrude Auerbach. Trying for some coffee, he discovered the pot was empty and set it down with a clatter. He then stared at the two clippings for a long time.

I cleared my throat to remind him that another human being inhabited the room.

‘Ah, yes, Watson, read,’ he said. ‘I was right! Ha ha!’

I came over to the table and stared down at the second clipping. It was dated a week ago, with the headline ‘Body Fished from Thames’. It read:

‘The body of a deceased male was removed from the Thames after being spotted by a Mr Camphor Rooney, a pilot with the J. Benson Ferry Co. Police despair of a positive identification due to the decomposition of the corpse, which is believed to have been in the water some two weeks or more. However, the police have revealed that the body was found unclothed and was male, between thirty to fifty years of age, strongly muscled and slender, indicating athleticism. Dark hair and dark black moustache. No other identifying features were noted. Anyone with any information …’

‘Holmes! You don’t think—’

He smiled at me, that impish smile of having known something all along. ‘Yes, Watson. Dario Borelli. Your clipping seems to confirm it.’

‘Then he never ran off to Berlin with Gertrude Aufenbach?’

Holmes said nothing. Instead, he peeled off his frock coat with a wince of discomfort and reclined himself on the settee exactly where I had been sitting. He then picked up my coffee cup next to the settee and drained it.

‘Madame Borelli! Do you think she … extracted revenge on her husband for his attempt to frame her?’ I mused. ‘Without your intervention, she could have very easily been convicted of frying him up in the Great Cauldron.’

‘I suppose,’ said Holmes.

‘Or perhaps she still loved Colangelo. That is another explanation,’ said I with enthusiasm.

‘Possibly. But I favour a third.’

‘What is that, Holmes?’

‘That the Great Borelli remained in London after faking his death and threatened her later. Perhaps Madame Borelli killed her husband in an act of self-preservation.’

Upon reflection, that sounded more logical. ‘What a dangerous woman!’ I exclaimed.

‘Was that ever in doubt, Watson?’

Another thought struck me. ‘But what of her lovestruck professor, Cosimo Fortuny? Might he, and by association Leo Vitale, be in her clutches now?’

‘They are not. Two days ago, an anonymous buyer in London purchased the rights to ‘Lucifer’s Lights’, as Madame Borelli called the invention I helped to inspire. For a rather exorbitant price. Madame profited and was well pleased. The two young men have returned to Cambridge considerably the richer, and in Mr Fortuny’s case, his thirst for a life in theatre has been quite thoroughly quenched. I believe he gained some insight into Madame via a letter from a “concerned friend”.’

I laughed. ‘You? And were you the anonymous buyer, as well? With what funds?’

‘My brother makes himself useful from time to time. In this case, in support of the Cavendish Laboratory. Not hard to convince him.’ Holmes smiled enigmatically. ‘Mycroft is sure, as I am, that great things are to come from that place.’

‘But you will let Madame Borelli roam free to continue with her life?’

‘For the present, yes.’

‘But isn’t she a dangerous madwoman? May not others be in danger?’

‘I think the population at large have nothing to fear.’

‘Then you condone her action! You condone revenge?’

‘Revenge, no. Self-preservation