The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘I know that. You, at least, dress well, if conservatively, but you have a hungry look. You—’ he turned to me, ‘are more in fashion, but lack great means.’

  Holmes had removed his chequebook.

  ‘Put that away,’ said the locksmith sharply.

  ‘Yes, do. I will pay for this,’ I said, reaching for my own, but then remembered that Holmes had locked it back in a drawer, having moved it from the one I had smashed open. That he thought to bring his own but not give me back mine gave me a moment of pique.

  The locksmith held up a hand. ‘I have not yet named my price. And I doubt you will have what I require, Doctor.’

  Before I could rise to the insult, Holmes replied, ‘What is your price, Mr Lossop?’ His tone made me uneasy.

  Lossop smiled and stepped back from the counter. Turning to the wall behind him, on which were shelves and shelves of locks, bolts, keys, tools and parts, he pulled a key which he wore on a chain around his neck and leaned towards a keyhole under a small handle at the back, dead centre of these shelves. There was the sound of a click, and to my surprise the shelves split and rolled apart to reveal a secret wall behind them.

  On this wall were hung a series of locked metal boxes of various sizes. Each had a tag hanging from it, but the tags faced the wall, and I could see from my angle that something had been written on them, but what?

  ‘I require a personal commitment from you. And a personal token. Something which you have in the past taken great care not to lose. Something that is very dear to you.’

  Holmes was stone faced. Had he known? I, on the other hand was puzzled in the extreme.

  ‘I will lock it for you in a special box which I construct for the purpose,’ Lossop continued, ‘hang it on this wall, and I guarantee there is no locksmith alive who can open it but me.’

  ‘But … why?’ I asked, frankly amazed. ‘And more to the point, how can you afford to live, paid in such a manner?’

  ‘Banks, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘The banks pay him handsomely for custom, unassailable locks. And there are other clients, not all of whom are legitimate businesses. Am I not right, Mr Lossop?’

  Lossop’s answer was the briefest smile. I shook my head, unconvinced.

  ‘But why—?’ I began.

  ‘These are trophies, Watson.’

  ‘What do you do with these things? Extort people?’ I could not stop myself.

  ‘No,’ said Lossop. ‘I … treasure them. I take them out upon occasion and ruminate on their value to the depositor. I revel in the human story. You see, I have few stories of my own. You might say I live vicariously. Oh, I see you don’t understand. They offer a kind of sustenance.’ He laughed, an unhealthy, percussive sound like a dry cough. ‘Does that make it any clearer?’

  I suddenly saw this strange, oleaginous little man as a kind of enchanted toad, hiding under a rock and picking over sparkling valuables stolen from people who had wandered too near – feeding on them. I was revolted.

  But I looked down at the box in my hands. I had to discover what was inside it. I had to know what my mother had left for me. I did not trust Lossop but felt I had no choice.

  ‘I … I don’t know what I have to give you that would serve,’ I said. ‘Something I have kept and treasure? I don’t know. Perhaps the charm off my brother’s watch? No? The watch itself?’

  Lossop shook his head.

  ‘I believe I have … my childhood wooden soldiers, one or two … somewhere – er, a little clock, ticket stubs to the circus in 1860; my first stethoscope?’ I had a vague recollection of something like these in a trunk in the attic at 221B. Lossop stared at me. ‘I have a favourite hat?’

  That laugh again. ‘Dear Doctor, you are infinitely – what is the word – ordinary.’ Lossop turned to stare at Holmes, who remained silent. ‘But you have something. I know a man with secrets when I see one. What will you give me?’

  Holmes, without taking his eyes off the man, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and removed a small brown envelope.

  ‘You came prepared, Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ said Lossop.

  ‘I did indeed. I had heard of your collection.’

  ‘Then why ask my price?’

  ‘I was hoping money would suffice.’

  Lossop stared at the envelope. He licked his lips.

  ‘But clearly not,’ said Holmes. ‘Here is … here is a photograph.’

  Lossop took the envelope and opened it. It was the photograph of a beautiful young woman, a photograph that Holmes had taken in payment on a case which I had not yet published at that time. Remarkably, as it had seemed at the time so out of character, Holmes once said of the lady, ‘She had a face a man might die for.’ His feelings for this woman remained a mystery, as did much about my friend.

  ‘And who is this?’ asked Lossop, savouring the image like a gourmand contemplating a mound of expensive pâté.

  ‘An opera singer,’ said Holmes simply. ‘I am a music lover. I would like it back when you are finished with it.’

  ‘Music lover, eh? You know I do not give these things back.’

  ‘Ah, but you will to me. You will require my services one day, Mr Lossop, and perhaps soon. There are certain people in Norway, and one in London, who wish to see you dead.’

  Lossop backed away from Holmes in surprise. He attempted to hide his reaction, but his face had gone white with fear.

  ‘I alone will be able to help you,’ Holmes continued. ‘You can confirm this, I think. And when you do ask me for this help, the return of this photograph will be my payment.’

  Lossop swallowed. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a Webley, not unlike my own gun. He placed the gun on the counter, between us.

  ‘I can protect myself quite well, Mr Holmes,’ said he.

  ‘Against most, I do not doubt it,’ said Holmes. ‘But the man in London is far more than your match. I think you have already begun to realize that. He has employed you twice. Now, will you help my friend Dr Watson and unlock the box for him?’

  Lossop put the gun down and looked at the box resting on the counter. He took up Holmes’s small, precious envelope and placed it in his own pocket, patting it gently. ‘I will. And I will look after this lady, do not fear.’ His broad smile revealed two or three teeth missing.

  ‘221B Baker Street. When you are successful, let us know,’ said Holmes.

  But Lossop had picked up the box and was already engaged in the task, breathing heavily, and turning the mysterious object over and over in his skeletal hands.

  As we exited into the summer sunlight, I breathed a sigh of relief in leaving this dark and decidedly strange place. I wondered who the man in London might be, who had struck such terror into the locksmith, and from whom my friend offered protection.

  But that fearsome identity would remain only as a flickering shadow until several years later.

  CHAPTER 24

  Two for One

  Upon leaving the locksmith, I managed to sidetrack Holmes to a favourite Italian restaurant in Dorset Street not far from 221B. The heat had inspired the proprietors to set several tables out on the pavement, and there we enjoyed a leisurely al fresco meal, along with a bottle of good Chianti. We returned to Baker Street around eight in the evening. I was pleased to have enabled some small transformation in my friend, but I knew that unless a new case arrived on our doorstep to occupy his feverish mind, danger would persist.

  I had not long to worry, for upon our arrival we discovered a visitor, seated in a hall chair near our front door awaiting our return. It was Polly, the maid who served Odelia and Atalanta Wyndham. The poor girl was trembling, and her reddened eyes and pale face spoke volumes.

  ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, I was hoping you’d return sooner,’ said Mrs Hudson. ‘Miss Polly here has been waiting for you for over an hour. She has some urgent business, it seems.’

  We brought the girl upstairs and sat her in a comfortable chair. I noticed with relief that Mrs Hudson had once again restored order to our si
tting-room.

  The girl perched on the edge of the chair, stifling sobs.

  ‘Polly,’ said Holmes kindly, ‘please gather yourself together. You are among friends. What has happened to bring you here?’

  ‘My … my first time in London, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that is enough to unsettle anyone,’ I said with a smile. ‘Are you all right? May I offer you a refreshment?’

  ‘Mrs Hudson gave me tea and a sandwich, thank you.’

  ‘Nothing untoward has happened to you?’ asked Holmes, sitting himself across from her.

  ‘No. No! I, er … it’s her. She … she’s fixin’ to leave.’

  ‘Miss Dillie, you mean?’ asked Holmes gently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Leave her parents? I thought she just announced her engagement to Mr Eden-Summers?’

  ‘She don’t mean to go through with that, I don’t think. She ran away from home again. Went to the secret place. The place you know …’

  ‘This place is still a secret from her parents?’

  ‘I think so. But Atalanta …’

  ‘Polly, what has you so upset? Perhaps she just changed her mind, needs time to think.’

  ‘No. She … asked me to bring more things from home.’

  ‘I see. What things?’

  ‘Miss Atalanta saw me leave with a carpet-bag and I had to lie, I said my mother was sick. I can’t go back. But … Dillie, she don’t …’ A tear ran down her face and she wiped it away.

  ‘She doesn’t what, Polly?’

  ‘She don’t want me with her. She sent me away.’

  ‘What things did she ask you to bring her?’

  ‘Everything she cares about. Photographs. A bracelet. Some money she hid.’

  Holmes stood up and began to pace. ‘What of her engagement ring?’ he asked.

  ‘She has them already.’

  ‘Well, of course she would take her engagement ring,’ I said. ‘Although—’

  Holmes paused, alert. ‘Hold on, Watson.’ He turned back to the girl. ‘Them? Plural? More than one ring?’

  ‘Yes. Rings from both her fellas.’

  There was a silence as Holmes took this in.

  ‘Polly, we read of the engagement to Freddie Eden-Summers. Do you mean she accepted tokens from more than one young gentleman? She was betrothed to more than one man?’

  ‘Yes. Two of them.’

  ‘Who was the second?’

  ‘Leo Vitale.’

  ‘The physics student? That tall, rather pale fellow in the Cavendish Laboratory?’ I said incredulously.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said the girl. ‘Her folks don’t know about that one.’

  Holmes smiled. ‘Ah. Now that is something! I smell a plan of sorts. A rather daring one. Did you happen to see both rings, Polly?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘Holmes, what on earth? The girl is surely more important than the rings?’

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘Both of ’em were old. I think the mother’s or the grandmother’s. Freddie’s ring, it was huge. The diamonds, well, they were large and several of ’em. Some emeralds on it, too. He had its cleaned afore he give it her, and it was sparkling something fierce. A beauty.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘’Tweren’t quite so dear, maybe, but very nice. Smaller, but very pretty, with sapphires and two little diamonds.’

  ‘Costly rings, then?’

  ‘Far as I know, sir. Looked like it to me. She were right pleased with them.’

  ‘The rings, I presume, rather than the young gentlemen?’

  Polly ventured a tiny smile. ‘The rings. She don’t talk to me so much about the gentlemen.’

  Holmes leaned closer to the lady’s maid.

  ‘Polly, is it possible that your mistress decided to run away? I mean, permanently? Perhaps to start a new life away from her family. Because the rings might … buy her passage, so to speak.’

  Polly’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Do you understand what I am asking?’

  The girl nodded.

  ‘But …?’ Holmes prompted.

  ‘But she … she would take me with her. She promised to take me.’

  ‘She is good to you, then, Polly?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, sir. She’s a good lady, Miss Odelia. When she gets her way.’

  Just then the doorbell sounded, followed by a frantic knocking. There were thunderous footsteps on the stairs and in rushed young Hamilton, a newly minted police detective and Lestrade’s favourite, whom we had met on the Portsmouth strangler case the year before. The tall, gangly fellow stood before us, pale and sweating, with a look of horror on his face. ‘Come quick, Mr Holmes. There’s been a terrible death. A man burnt alive!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Great Borelli!’ he cried. ‘At Wilton’s. Oh, my God—’

  Holmes looked up in surprise. ‘Borelli? But he is laid up with a broken ankle.’

  ‘He went onstage anyway. He was roasted alive in a copper cauldron set over flames. The audience could hear the screams. They—’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Less than an hour, sir.’

  ‘And Madame Borelli?’

  ‘That’s just it, Mr Holmes. She’s gone. Done a runner. Mr Lestrade thinks she’s the killer. Can you come, sir? Time is of the essence!’

  Holmes turned to Polly, who was frozen in horror. ‘Polly, you must stay here for the night. Providing I can take care of pressing business here, either Watson or we both will return to Cambridge with you in the morning.’ He ran to the landing. ‘Mrs Hudson!’ he shouted. ‘We will have a guest.’

  CHAPTER 25

  The Cauldron of Death

  We arrived at Wilton’s Music Hall to find the auditorium had been emptied except for one slender young lady sobbing in a corner, attended by a matronly figure I recognized as the ticket taker.

  ‘Annie! Oh, Annie!’ wailed the young woman.

  At the end of the hall, a small crowd of police clustered onstage next to a large, strange copper vessel suspended by a thick chain and floating three feet above the raised floor of the stage. The thing, perhaps five feet in diameter, looked oddly like an ornate bathysphere, ready to transport an intrepid traveller to the dark ocean depths. It was only missing a porthole. A decorative stage sign prophetically named it ‘The Cauldron of Death’.

  As we approached, I became aware of the terrible odour of burned flesh. There was another smell mixed along with it, some kind of chemical.

  We mounted five steps to the stage and approached the vessel. It was decoratively covered in rivets and piping, with the occasional large crystal, making it look for all the world like a fanciful creation of Jules Verne. A three-foot square hatch opened to the front and was ajar, but only a crack. Another smaller hatch on top was wide open.

  Dangling from both of these openings were a variety of ornate padlocks, all hanging open. A grate underneath the cauldron revealed still smouldering coals in a pit below the stage. A ladder with a platform on top stood next to the thing.

  And next to this ladder was the first horror of the evening.

  Lying on the stage was the body of a slender woman in a sparkling red dress. A cloth had been laid over her face and upper torso. I gasped.

  I started towards the body, but a young policeman put a hand on my shoulder. He shook his head sadly. ‘Dead,’ he said.

  If Madame Borelli was a suspect on the run, who was in her costume? ‘Who is it?’ I asked.

  ‘Name’s Annie Durgen. A girl they just hired today.’

  ‘Watson, examine the girl’s body, please,’ said Holmes, approaching the front hatch of the giant cauldron. He peeked inside and grimaced. I noticed his extreme reaction and he waved a finger at me, coughing at the fumes.

  Without preamble, he launched into an inspection of the outside of the cauldron by running his hand over its surface. His face was grim, but I sensed the humming exc
itement beneath. Near to him stood the stolid figure of Falco Fricano, Borelli’s brother-in-law.

  I turned my attention to the corpse, and a stagehand quickly informed me of the means of death. The poor young woman had been up on the ladder and leaning over the cauldron, conversing through the top opening with Borelli, supposedly trapped inside – all part of the planned act.

  But an unexpected explosion blew up in her face, and she fell backwards off the ladder to the stage below. My examination confirmed third-degree burns on her face and hands. However, the broken neck from her fall was the apparent cause of death.

  I looked up to see Holmes in conversation with Falco Fricano just a few feet away. The muscular Italian stood woodenly, his face pinched in what might be grief, a reaction to the gruesome events. His fists were clenched, and he leaned strangely backwards on his heels, which rather than making him look frightened gave the impression that he was gathering himself to launch at Holmes or to flee. He struck me as someone holding himself back at great cost.

  ‘Mr Fricano, you hired Miss Durgen just today to go on in place of Madame Borelli?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Madame refused to perform.’

  ‘Did she give her reason?’

  ‘The Great Borelli and she had a big argument, I do not know about what. The hotel said there was much shouting.’

  ‘Where is Madame now?’ asked Holmes, looking about the stage.

  ‘No one knows. Mr Borelli told me they were finished.’

  ‘Mr Lestrade is at their hotel room now,’ said Hamilton as I approached.

  I glanced over at the front hatch of the cauldron. I knew I should lean in and take a look, but I hesitated. In due time, I would. I joined Holmes and Hamilton.

  ‘I see,’ continued Holmes. ‘Describe this act in detail. I need to know precisely what happened. Tell me exactly what the audience saw, and how it works.’

  Fricano cleared his throat. He began with great effort. ‘First, the Great Borelli, he comes onstage.’

  ‘In a wheelchair tonight, I presume. Watson set his broken ankle recently.’

  ‘No. With a walking stick only. The Great Borelli, he is very strong. He removes the cape. Then the young lady, she spins cauldron to show no door in back.’