The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  Holmes had stood up and was now moving about the room. As it was bare stone with only the benches on which we sat, I wondered what he would be looking for.

  Holmes’s movements made the priest uneasy. My friend looked down at the stone floor with interest and brushed his foot across two of the stones. A few pebbles scraped underneath his boot.

  Lamb stared at Holmes. ‘Did her parents call you in?’

  Holmes smiled at him but said nothing.

  ‘We have had some repair work done. Ongoing. Some loose stones replaced,’ the priest said.

  ‘Ah! Was anyone buried here?’ drawled Holmes. ‘I know that in many churches it is the custom to bury past clergy or notable congregants directly under the church flooring. Although usually there is a plaque memorializing them.’

  ‘I am afraid that information has been lost to time,’ said Lamb. ‘Those records have not come down to us. The church has had a number of lives. It was a kind of sanctuary for the vagrants of Cambridge until recently. And, I believe, someone attempted to open a restaurant here before that. But back to the young lady …’

  ‘Ah, too bad. The stories these stones could tell!’ murmured Holmes. A sound from the nave had us all turn to see three men in dusty overalls, carrying some tools, passing through. One of them saluted the father.

  Lamb waved them away.

  ‘I am sorry. Workmen. Quite a few repairs to be made.’

  ‘Repairs or construction?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Both, actually. The restaurant, when it was here, had a wine cellar in the crypt below. I am having it expanded.’

  At Holmes’s raised eyebrow, the priest continued. ‘The crypt is the perfect temperature for wine storage. We will be renting out space to several local restaurants to store their bottles there.’

  ‘Ah, a welcome bit of income, then!’ said Holmes cheerfully.

  ‘One must be resourceful,’ said the priest. ‘But again, sir, I don’t wish to be rude. What is your business with the deacon?’

  ‘I understand there have been some problems with this church. I read about a flood some years ago.’

  The priest frowned. ‘But what has that to do—?’

  ‘Church histories are a special hobby of mine,’ offered Holmes. ‘They reflect so much about the changing populations and customs of our towns. And this one is particularly colourful.’

  His thoroughness never failed to impress me.

  ‘Yes, there was a flood,’ said Father Lamb. ‘But we have taken precautions. There is a drainage system in the crypt, somewhat complex. The workmen are attending to that.’

  Holmes turned to me with a smile. ‘Watson, the Cam regularly runs over her banks during a heavy rainfall. You have noticed the broad fields which line the river, where cattle and sheep graze? They are floodplains, and that is where the water spreads harmlessly. Most buildings are set back from the river for this reason. But not this church.’

  I wondered at this seemingly irrelevant disclosure.

  ‘Yes, flooding has been a problem,’ the priest replied.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Holmes. ‘Some records survived, then?’

  ‘The floods are a matter of town history.’

  ‘You should be secure then, I suppose, though not from human disaster. I believe I read that this church has been touched by scandal. Just after the flood, was it?’

  Lamb smiled thinly. ‘You are well informed, Mr Holmes. But I still wonder why you are here.’

  ‘Something about the previous priest,’ Holmes continued. ‘What was his name, Watson?’

  I said nothing but Holmes turned to me as though I had. ‘It’s true – a terrible scandal! It reached all the way to London, Father Lamb, did you know?’

  The priest’s face slowly coloured, and he stiffened. ‘Yes, of course I am aware. That, however, had nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Dr Watson and I were just discussing this on the way here. What a scandal indeed! No one would have expected Father – what was his name? – well, he was quite the roué, I understand. Before the – before the terrible event.’

  We had discussed no such thing. However, I nodded my head and made a mental note to ask him to catch me up a bit more in advance of these meetings.

  Holmes regarded Father Lamb, who sat unmoving, his face now a mask of guarded but extreme displeasure. I became aware of a dripping sound. It seemed to come from underneath us.

  Lamb cleared his throat and forced a smile back upon his face.

  ‘We are trying to put that all behind us, sir. Father Menenius was ill; he contracted brain fever, during the flood you mentioned … and it affected his thinking. He had many, many years of devoted service to the Church with no hint of misbehaviour. But then suddenly—’

  ‘A sad tale. The girl was found drowned in the crypt, Watson! After she had been horribly – well, never mind. Has there been more flooding since?’

  ‘No. Mr Holmes, we are taking contributions to the reparations fund, if you would consider a small donation?’ The man’s face, previously so benign had now shut as tight as a pub at breakfast time.

  ‘Certainly! Watson? Have you any cash on hand?’

  I dug into my pockets, although resentfully. I had a couple of five-pound notes, as I usually set out with Holmes well prepared for possible needs. Holmes snatched the one I retrieved and gave it to Father Lamb.

  ‘No use dwelling on the negative, then, Father,’ Holmes said cheerfully.

  ‘We begin anew. It is up to me – and to Deacon Buttons – to rebuild trust, to re-establish our glorious church in this small corner of the world.’

  ‘And Rome? They support you?’

  ‘We are at present … on our own. But not for long, I expect. We will be brought back into the fold, I am sure.’

  ‘Your young deacon is charming,’ said Holmes. ‘But with apologies, Father, I need to confirm that it was not Deacon Buttons who placed Odelia Wyndham’s doll in the Jesus Lock, thus terrifying her family, alarming her friends, and causing me to come all this way to investigate her disappearance.’ He paused. ‘Which is what he wanted me to do a day or so ago.’

  ‘For Mr Holmes to come, that is,’ I said, feeling the need to clarify.

  Father Lamb stood firm. ‘Has the young lady been harmed in any way?’

  ‘No. But that is not to say she is out of danger.’

  The priest stared at Holmes. ‘But why is your attention turned to young Buttons? I cannot imagine he would be so devious. He is simply looking after a troubled young person.’

  ‘He is barely older than she, Father,’ said Holmes.

  ‘You begin to disturb me with your questions, sir.’

  From inside the nave, I could see a workman conferring with others and gesticulating urgently to Lamb. But the priest’s back was to them and they evidently did not want to interrupt.

  ‘You say there has been no murder, no abduction. What are you inferring? A relationship of any type at all outside of confessor and advisor would – well, I would not believe it of him. Deacon Buttons is a paragon of virtue.’

  ‘So that my time in Cambridge is not wasted, may I please inspect Deacon Buttons’ rooms? I would like to content myself with what I know we all believe to be true – that this exemplary young man had nothing to do with the doll found in the lock.’

  Pastor Lamb smiled thinly and acceded. ‘If it will put an end to this, then certainly,’ he said.

  CHAPTER 18

  Buttons Unbuttoned

  We were led to the rectory, an adjoining small building, more recent in construction, which held a meeting room and the private sleeping quarters of both churchmen. Buttons’ small room was spartan in the extreme, with few places to hide anything. Lamb left us there on our own.

  Holmes’s initial examination was rapidly done. A narrow single bed, a desk and a plain armoire crowded into a small space gave the room the look of a gaol cell. A window draped by a single panel of stained linen opened out to an unused part of the garden, and beyond that, the river.
The barren, tight quarters were not dissimilar to Holmes’s own ascetic bedroom in Baker Street, minus the smoking paraphernalia, the maps and the portraits of various criminals, and with the addition here of a crucifix hanging on the wall. Against another wall, the small pine armoire contained nothing but two changes of cleric’s vestments, two pairs of boots and a rather flamboyant set of silk pyjamas.

  But upon the second pass, Holmes discovered, somewhat to his dismay, what he was looking for. It was on the young deacon’s small, rough-hewn desk that Holmes found traces of ink.

  ‘Look, Watson!’

  As I looked closely at the minuscule ink stains, Holmes felt all around the desk. With a cry of triumph, he discovered a small leather bag, hidden and hanging by a peg behind the desk. He removed it to reveal a nearly full bottle of ink and a dip pen. The ink was an unusual purplish-blue colour, and it unmistakably matched the blurred writing on the doll.

  Hearing a slight sound, I turned to see Father Lamb standing in the doorway. Not having heard the entire story of the waterlogged writing on the doll, it seemed he may not have caught the inference.

  Suddenly young Deacon Buttons appeared just behind him in the hallway. He called out ‘Hello, Father!’ to Lamb, but upon spotting me in his room, a look of panic washed over him.

  ‘Dr Watson!’ he blurted. ‘What brings you to my—’ But at that moment Lamb stepped to the side, and the young man got a clear view of Holmes at the desk with the ink bottle. The words died in his throat. He knew in an instant the game was up.

  ‘Mr H-Holmes,’ he stammered.

  Holmes held up the bottle of distinctly coloured ink.

  ‘Deacon Buttons,’ he said, ‘why would you use such a unique colour of ink? A more common colour would have made it much more difficult to trace.’ Holmes glanced at Lamb and explained, ‘A note was written on the doll in this ink.’

  The young man looked between his accuser and his mentor, in the manner of a rabbit that has been cornered by two foxes. ‘I found it – discarded in a bin,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said Holmes.

  ‘I can … I …’

  ‘Do so,’ said Holmes. ‘I am eager to hear it.’

  The young man looked up at his superior and dropped his eyes in shame. He seemed more afraid of the kindly father than my clearly antagonized friend.

  ‘Dillie … er … I think she may be in danger. I felt it was important to have Mr Holmes come out,’ he addressed the father. ‘I did not think he would come unless … unless …’

  Father Lamb sighed. ‘My son, you should have come to me with this.’

  ‘What kind of danger?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘She has received letters. Or at least one threatening letter. I don’t think she has shown it to her family.’

  Lamb sighed. ‘Young man. Many a time an intrigue such as this can be cleared up with the help of a friendly clergyman. Miss Wyndham is known to be highly strung. Is it not possible that she is playing on your sympathies for attention?’

  ‘But a threatening letter you say, Mr Buttons?’ demanded Holmes. ‘That would have sufficed. You did not mention this.’

  The young man coloured. ‘I—’

  ‘Has there been more than one?’ persisted my friend.

  ‘I am not sure. I think so.’

  ‘What was the nature of the threat?’

  ‘I do not know exactly. She … read a part of one aloud.’

  ‘What did it say?’ Holmes impatiently waved him to continue.

  ‘I don’t remember the exact words. But it warned her to stop playing games and to choose among her suitors or to suffer dire consequences. She made light of it.’

  ‘The letter did not specify this consequence?’

  ‘No.’

  Holmes set down the bottle of ink on the desk. He took a deep breath, willing control. I could sense his mounting anger.

  ‘Why did you not mention this to us earlier?’

  ‘It was told to me in confession.’

  Holmes glanced at me then turned back to the young man. ‘She mentioned nothing of this to us! Did she suspect anyone in particular to have written this letter?’

  ‘Mention, sir? Then you have seen her?’ asked Buttons, flushing with excitement.

  ‘We have just come from her, Mr Buttons. You may rest assured she is safe.’

  ‘Thank the heavens!’ the young man exclaimed. ‘But where is she?’

  ‘To the point, did Miss Wyndham venture a theory about the writer of this letter?’

  ‘No. But it must be one of her young men!’

  ‘Your delay in telling me of the letter is inexcusable,’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘It changes everything.’

  ‘My son—’ began Lamb.

  ‘Her fears were expressed in confidence, Father. During confession,’ cried Buttons. He turned to Holmes. ‘My vows do not permit …’

  Holmes exhaled in impatience. He stood up. ‘Mr Buttons, if a life is at stake, surely the most pious member of the Church would use common sense to take action.’ He turned to face the older man. ‘Isn’t that right, Father Lamb?’

  The priest’s face betrayed sadness and a certain resignation. ‘It is a loaded question, Mr Holmes, and one that has been debated over the years,’ said he. ‘Largely, the sanctity of the confession is one to which we cleave quite literally and in all instances.’ He turned to the younger man. ‘My son, we will discuss this at length later today.’

  ‘Shall we?’ continued the priest, indicating the door. ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ he continued, ‘it appears that you have been summoned to Cambridge under false pretences. And that the family of this young lady, a not unimportant one in the hierarchy of the University, I might add, have been unduly alarmed, all in the service of reassuring Deacon Buttons that an excitable member of his flock is unharmed.’

  ‘At least at present she is unharmed,’ said Holmes.

  ‘Where is she, sir?’ blurted the young cleric. ‘Please!’

  Holmes gave Buttons a sharp look. ‘I wondered if she might have thrown the doll herself, but she had not. My suspicion naturally then fell to you. Is there anything else you have managed to leave out? How did the arm part company with the body of the doll?’

  Buttons looked uncertainly at his mentor. ‘I, er, don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I left the doll on the Jesus Lock bridge, hoping she would see it. The next I saw it, it was in the lock with the arm missing.’

  Holmes glowered at the boy. ‘Is this precisely true?’

  ‘Yes, sir. She did offer me one thing, Father. May I share this with Mr Holmes?’ begged the deacon. ‘I fear for the young lady, I really do.’

  Lamb sighed. ‘Use your judgement, my son. She has been found safe, remember?’

  ‘Share, young man, and be quick about it,’ said Holmes. ‘You have wasted my time enormously.’

  Peregrine Buttons continued to struggle. The moral dilemma of this young clergyman seemed the height of hypocrisy even to me. He had lied to Holmes and gone to great trouble to create a false alarm that caused anguish to at least the girl’s mother, even as it set Holmes on the case. Surely that in itself was some kind of sin.

  ‘She said she was feeling a great deal of pressure to become engaged. That the pressure had put her near breaking point.’

  ‘It appears you know this young lady quite well, Mr Buttons,’ said my friend. ‘Then you must also know how she may strike out when she feels cornered. You worry about her, don’t you?’

  Buttons was silent. He looked down at his feet. I noticed that Father Lamb was staring at his young disciple unhappily.

  Holmes turned to go, then suddenly turned back.

  ‘What did the writing on the doll say?’

  The boy looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know it by heart. But …’ He reached into a pocket and removed a small folded paper ‘It was a stanza by someone or other. Something about a lock.’’

  He handed it to Holmes, who glanced at it, ‘The Rape of the Lock. Pope.’ Holmes sno
rted. ‘Pope’s poem is a parody. A classicist would recognize it. The lock. Your humour eludes me. What of this missing arm?’

  ‘I did not pull off the arm. Or throw the doll into the lock. I just sat her there on the footbridge. Dillie walks there most mornings. But I did not throw it in.’

  ‘Peregrine, my boy,’ said Father Lamb, ‘perhaps Dillie herself threw it in, rejecting the message upon it. Consider that, my son.’

  And even though the girl hadn’t mentioned such an act, it seemed to fit.

  Holmes’s eyes bored into the young man. ‘Deacon Buttons, I think it is time for you to think carefully about your commitments, your promises, and perhaps your own sense of what is right and proper. This is certainly a question for each man to ask himself. Gentlemen, you have your work cut out for you. Good day.’

  Holmes exited the room. Father Lamb followed us out. At the gate leading from the rose garden to the street, Holmes paused and faced the priest. ‘Good luck with the re-establishment of your church, Father Lamb,’ he said.

  Without further comment, he strode out into the lane and down the road. As I followed, I glanced back at Father Lamb, standing forlornly at the entrance to the garden.

  While not a religious man myself, I nevertheless felt a pang of sympathy for him. And I rather liked Buttons, for reasons I could not explain. Despite the younger man’s subterfuge, I wished them both well.

  CHAPTER 19

  Those Men! Those Women!

  I convinced Holmes shortly after to stop at a café for a sandwich and lemonade. The temperature remained oppressive, but the bright sun was now occluded by dark thunderclouds. I was sweating even in my linen suit. We sat at an outdoor table amongst a small crowd of animated students, who were arguing philosophical problems which were so much gibberish to me. I ordered a ham sandwich and lemonade, but Holmes abstained. He sat reading the paper from Buttons, then handed it to me. I read:

  Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compel

  A well-bred Lord t’ assault a gentle Belle?

  O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor’ d,

  Could make a gentle Belle reject a Lord?

  In tasks so bold, can little men engage,