‘Or from a boat, going through—’
‘Would she be able to do this, but be unable to scream for help? This makes no sense, Deacon.’
The young man buried his head in his hands and sobbed. Holmes shook his head in frustration, then rose and stepped towards the fireplace where he busied himself with his pipe. He nodded to me, indicating that I could be of help.
I moved to the young man and took Holmes’s chair facing him. ‘Mr Buttons,’ I said gently, ‘look at me.’
The young man did so.
‘We both realize that you are genuinely concerned about Miss Wyndham’s safety. That is not in question. But we need to be assured that yours is a complete and truthful account of how you came upon this object.’
The young man attempted to control his tears, wiping his face with his handkerchief.
‘I did not place the doll in the lock. I saw it floating in there and retrieved it, just as I described. You must believe me. I ran to the Wyndham house with it first. I woke the maid. We both went to Dillie’s room to confirm it was her doll.’
‘But you knew it was her doll before this,’ said Holmes. ‘How?’
‘I – well, I—’
‘You have been in her room?’
‘No. Yes. I … I looked in once.’
‘Under what pretext?’
‘I, er, had been asked to look in on Mrs Wyndham. She was ill. Her room is upstairs—’
‘And you happened to pass Dillie’s room?’
‘The door was open and I … yes, sir, I did look in.’
Holmes looked sharply at the deacon. ‘Continue with recent events.’
‘The maid confirmed the doll was Dillie’s. She begged me to come to you. Really, sirs, it is all true. When I left, the maid was just about to wake the household. I am sure they are all alarmed now. Perhaps they have even called the police!’
‘And yet you took the evidence away and hurried to London to consult with me,’ said Holmes.
‘I am worried that no one there will take this seriously.’
‘That contradicts what you have just said about the maid and the family, Deacon. You realize, of course, that you have given us every reason to doubt you?’ Holmes asked sharply.
The young man stood up. ‘I suppose this was a wasted journey, then, sir?’
I stood to accompany him to the door. He was the picture of dejection.
‘I understand that you occasionally take cases gratis. I … had hoped to hire you, Mr Holmes. But I have no money of my own.’
I took him by the arm and gently propelled him into the hallway. ‘It is not a matter of money, Deacon, Mr Holmes is quite busy at present. But do keep us informed, please,’ said I, attempting to soften the blow. ‘We shall be all ears.’
‘Just a moment, Watson,’ said Holmes.
Deacon Buttons and I paused on the landing to face my friend.
‘Call it an instinct. Call it whatever you wish, Watson, but whatever the story is behind this doll … there is something chilling in the very fact of it. I have decided to investigate.’
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes!’ cried Buttons.
‘But Madame Borelli?’ I said.
‘In time, Watson. I believe we can quickly wrap things up in Cambridge. But I would like to satisfy my curiosity on one or two points. This missing young lady may indeed be in danger. Book us a train, would you please?’
The deacon closed his eyes in relief and offered up a prayer.
Without another word, I reached for our Bradshaw and attended to worldly matters. The last train to Cambridge had departed. It would have to wait until morning.
CHAPTER 12
The Wyndhams
After a few short hours of sleep, with the deacon stretched out on our divan in the sitting-room and the windows wide open to catch any breath of air, the three of us departed for the ancient town early the next morning. The Indian summer days were still long, and the sun was up when we arrived shortly after six. After securing a driver at the station, we raced through Cambridge’s dusty streets. Early morning light slanted off the strange mix of ancient and modern architecture as we headed directly for the Wyndham residence, located in a favourable riverside location at the city’s northern end.
When we arrived, it was still early, but the police were in attendance at an impressive three-storey stone house, one surly looking officer placed at the door. An expensive brougham, trimmed in red, stood between the front door and a small stable off to one side.
Wyndham was evidently a wealthy and important man.
Holmes, the deacon and I alighted from our carriage and my friend took us both by the arm, directing us away from the house and towards an adjacent carriage house.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Shh.’ Indicating we should wait for him behind this building, out of sight of the Wyndhams’, Holmes left us and went around the back of the main house. I noted him examining the ground, pulling his magnifying glass from his pocket as he did so. He disappeared round the back of the house and was gone for a full five minutes. The deacon looked increasingly uncomfortable.
‘What is he doing?’ he asked, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Shouldn’t we be talking to the family?’
‘In time, Mr Buttons,’ I said. Holmes, I surmised, must have been looking for clues of anyone who might have breached the house surreptitiously to take the doll.
Presently he returned, apparently satisfied, and we proceeded to the Wyndhams’ front door. The frowning sergeant regarded us coldly. The man was sallow, with thinning hair the colour of dirty laundry water, and had upon his bony face a look of permanent indigestion. He glanced at the damp sack containing the doll. ‘There it is! Wait here, Buttons,’ he snarled, and disappeared into the house, locking the door behind him. He brought to mind a scurrying lizard.
Holmes eyed the deacon. ‘Who was that?’
‘Sergeant Pickering. He’s not a very kind—’
‘I take it you did not ask permission of anyone in the police to remove the doll?’
Before he could answer, the reptilian Pickering returned with a senior officer of perhaps fifty. This older man, a tall, well-built and nattily attired fellow with red muttonchops greying at the temples and the eyes of a hawk, gave us one angry glance, then focused on the canvas bag. ‘Give us that, Deacon Buttons!’ he roared. ‘How dare you remove a valuable clue to whatever has transpired? Just because you found it, it was not yours to take!’
‘Inspector H-H-Hadley. Let me explain,’ stammered the deacon.
Pickering grabbed the bag and opened it for his superior. Satisfied the doll was there, Hadley waved it away. ‘Take that inside, Sergeant, and give it to Mrs Wyndham,’ he ordered.
The unpleasant Pickering favoured us with a venomous look and departed.
Hadley took in Holmes and me with a critical glance. ‘And who the devil are you two? Londoners, by the look of you.’
‘This is the esteemed detective Mr Sherlock Holmes, and his associate Dr Watson,’ said the deacon. ‘I – I – brought the doll to London. To induce Mr Holmes to help find Miss Wyndham.’
‘Sherlock Holmes, you say? The London, er, crime solver, detective, or whatever it is that you do. I seem to have read something, somewhere.’ While Holmes’s achievements had occasionally made the papers, at this time he was not yet widely known outside of law enforcement. Inspector Hadley stared hard at my friend as though he could read a man’s worth by this look, or perhaps diminish it by his dismissive gaze.
Holmes did not flinch but smiled warmly. ‘Ah, are you Inspector George Hadley, then? I have heard of you, sir! You solved the case of the stolen artefacts intended for the new Fitzwilliam Museum. A matched pair of Roman vases worth an untold fortune, if I remember correctly. A puzzle and great distress for the donor’s family – but brilliantly handled.’
Hadley melted visibly at the flattery. ‘Indeed, I did,’ said he. ‘It made the London papers, did it?’
; I remembered nothing of this, but Holmes smoothly replied, ‘I make it a point to keep up on excellent policework. You, sir, are well thought of in London.’ While this clearly soothed the senior officer, the disagreeable young Pickering reappeared behind him and stared at us with obvious suspicion.
‘I will admit to having heard your name before,’ said Hadley. ‘I am friends with Jones and Lestrade up in London. All right then, come in, meet the family.’ He turned and went into the house.
Holmes followed him, but the younger policeman barred me at the door. ‘Wait right here, mister,’ said he. ‘We don’t need all manner of people disturbing the Wyndhams.’
Holmes appeared over his shoulder in an instant. ‘Mr Pickering, this is Dr John Watson. He is my colleague and assists me in my work. It is both or none.’
The officious fellow paused, his lip curling in distaste. He stifled himself, however, and stepped aside. As Buttons attempted to follow, Pickering put up a hand. ‘Not you. Go back to your church. The police will summon you if needed.’
Buttons hesitated.
‘Go. That is an order,’ said Pickering.
Professor and Mrs Wyndham awaited us in a grand but slightly shabby salon littered with papers, books, and notable for an enormous marble head, an ancient Greek goddess perhaps. She appeared to be glowering at the gathering from a stand in one corner with those ghostly, vacant eyes possessed by all old statues.
‘Professor Wyndham,’ said Hadley, deferentially. ‘I have brought in the esteemed London detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. And his, er …’
‘—colleague, Dr John Watson,’ said Holmes smoothly.
Professor Richard Anderson Wyndham, an enormous, muscular and handsome man of about sixty, leaned back on a red velvet sofa, relaxed as though he were passing a normal Sunday afternoon in anticipation of a good roast. En route Holmes had mentioned another fact about the fellow. Despite his esteemed academic credentials, Wyndham was known by his students as ‘the Blustering Berry Bulwark’ for his red-faced temper tantrums while teaching. But at this moment the don reclined languidly, his arms spread wide along the back of the sofa, appearing not the least bit worried. As he turned away from us to snap his fingers at a maid hovering in the doorway, he revealed his long white hair brushed into a plume at the back of his head like the bottom of a duck.
He slowly turned to regard us, with his head tilted backwards, managing to look down his long nose at us, even from a seated position.
‘That was prescient of you, Hadley. An “esteemed” man, you say? Are you out of your depth already?’ he drawled. Echoes of Eton and years in the Ivory Tower coloured his speech. He turned to my companion and eyed him slowly from head to toe. ‘Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you.’
‘It is well you have not had the occasion, sir,’ said Holmes, more respectfully than his usual manner with such pedants. ‘My trade is a sad and difficult one.’
‘He is a private detective, sir,’ said Hadley, somewhat more stiffly. ‘Something of a London legend,’ he added.
‘Consulting detective,’ said Holmes, amiably.
Before the don could reply, Holmes turned smoothly to Mrs Wyndham, a wan creature of fifty or so who sat stiffly on a velvet chair nearby, holding the doll at arm’s length, with tears coursing down her pale face. I noted she was wearing what appeared to be expensive lace bedclothes. A maid had rushed over to her to hand her a fresh handkerchief and to place a towel under the object, still damp from its immersion in the River Cam.
Mrs Wyndham handed the doll to the maid and dabbed at her tears.
‘Madam,’ said Holmes, ‘if I may be so forward with you. Can you confirm that the doll is your daughter Odelia’s?’
The lady looked up at Holmes. She glanced quickly at her husband, then replied, ‘Yes. It is Dillie’s. I had it made to resemble her.’ Her voice was a mere whisper. I wondered if she was ill, and if so, with what. She was pale but did not look emaciated or jaundiced. And although she was crying, her breathing did not have the sound of the consumptive’s.
‘At what time was the doll discovered missing?’
Mrs Wyndham began to respond but her husband overrode her. ‘Ten-thirty last night. We were all abed!’ he said in disgust.
‘Is your daughter in the habit of disappearing from time to time?’ asked Holmes.
Again, Mrs Wyndham started to speak but her husband cleared his throat loudly. She seemed to shrink in her chair.
‘Odelia is incorrigible. Yes, she is in the habit,’ Wyndham said.
‘Then you are perhaps less worried than you might be, sir?’ asked Holmes.
‘I was not worried, particularly,’ said the supercilious father. ‘But in the matter of this doll, I suppose one must take note.’
‘Do you know where she has gone on the other occasions, by chance?’
‘I have no idea and no desire to know. I have given up on Odelia. Fortunately, it does not seem to have ruined her chances. Young men today are less interested in the past history of their brides. Ianthia, here, was as pure as the driven – well, in any case, I do not know about Odelia. If the police approve, then go about your business here, Mr Holmes. I suppose if you’ve bothered to make the journey, you might as well. Now, if you do not mind, Mrs Wyndham and I have business to attend to.’
His wife started and looked at him in alarm.
‘Life goes on, dear one,’ he said without a trace of warmth. ‘The student luncheon will proceed. Get dressed, Ianthia, and see to the final preparations.’ He stood up and turned to face us. ‘I am hosting a luncheon with my very best young men.’
A fresh stream of tears burst forth from Mrs Wyndham, and the same maid leaned in with a second dry handkerchief. She helped Mrs Wyndham to her feet.
‘Pull yourself together, Ianthia,’ the professor said crisply. The maid led the feeble woman from the room. Holmes and I exchanged a glance.
‘May I have a look at Miss Wyndham’s rooms, please?’ said Holmes.
The professor waved a dismissive hand at my friend, then called out, ‘Polly!’ A pale young servant with red hair and a starched cap rushed in and curtseyed nervously to us. ‘Show them to Miss Odelia’s room. Hadley, a moment, please,’ he said to the senior policeman.
He gave Holmes a hard look. ‘I don’t know who is paying you, Mr Holmes, but it will not be me. Be out of here within the hour, before the students arrive,’ he ordered, and departed the room.
CHAPTER 13
Polly
We were escorted upstairs by the young servant. Holmes paused in the hallway at the entrance to the missing girl’s sitting-room, and beyond it, her bedroom. He glanced across the hall to what looked like a similar suite, but this one with a closed door leading into the bedroom. ‘Her sister’s rooms?’ Holmes asked the girl.
‘Yes. Miss Atalanta.’
‘Older?’
‘By two years. Atalanta is twenty.’
We next entered Dillie’s sitting-room, and we passed through to her bedroom. It was a large, airy room, with windows on two walls, the leaves of a large plane tree next to the window providing a lacy screen through which another grove of trees was visible at some distance. Behind that, the beautiful Cam glittered in the bright morning sun. The furniture including the canopy bed was all in white, and the bed was made up. On it sat several dolls, with a vacancy where the drowned doll must have resided.
Holmes’s magnifying glass was out, and he began his typically minute examination of the room. He started with the windows, opening each in turn and examining the sills. As I waited for him to do this, I perused the bookshelves. In addition to Greek and Roman history volumes, which I assumed had been influenced by her famous father, there were the usual Jane Austen, George Eliot and Dickens. But there were also two colourful rows of novels and poetry I did not recognize, presumably aimed at young ladies. They had titles such as Penelope’s Terrible Surprise, The Tragedy of Annie LaMonte and Faded Blossoms.
I looked idly at Dillie’s dressing table. It was impec
cably neat. In fact, the entire room was.
Holmes asked the maid for a glass of water, then as soon as she was gone he went through the bookshelves like an automaton, stopping to study the colourful collection of girls’ novels. He examined one or two, opened one, lingered upon it briefly, then pocketed it. From another pocket he retrieved a small notebook and silver pencil and made some notes.
He then looked under the bed, examined the carpet, and inside the closet. He was looking through the lady’s shoes when the maid returned.
‘Holmes,’ I signalled.
He looked up and smiled at the nervous girl. ‘Ah, my water. Please come in and tell us your name,’ said he.
‘Polly,’ said the maid with a slight curtsy. She served him a glass from a silver tray. She was a fresh-faced girl of perhaps sixteen, with red hair tucked away in a neat knot under her maid’s cap, freckled hands clenched nervously before her.
‘I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr Watson. You are a ladies’ maid, then?’
‘Yes, sir. For Miss Odelia and Miss Atalanta.’
I noticed the girl’s distinct discomfort. ‘You may be wondering why we are here,’ I said. ‘Miss Odelia’s doll was found in the Jesus Lock, Polly. We are concerned for her safety, and we hope to discover something that will help us find her.’
The girl nodded.
Holmes, in his usual manner, leapt in. ‘I understand that your Dillie, er, Miss Odelia, disappears on a regular basis?’ said he.
‘I wouldn’t say “regular”, sir, but yes, she has done so before.’
Holmes moved to Miss Wyndham’s dressing table. ‘Where is her hairbrush? Something to clean her teeth? Pomade? Powder? A number of personal items one expects to see are missing from this table, are they not?’
The maid remained silent.
Holmes scanned the room. ‘There is no sign of violence here. She was not abducted; she packed to go somewhere,’ said Holmes. ‘That is a good sign. Might she have taken the doll with her?’
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