The Three Locks

by Bonnie MacBird

  ‘Recognize these, Madame Borelli?’ asked Lestrade.

  She turned away, repelled, and did not answer.

  ‘Of course you do. Your husband’s ring, and the buckles from your husband’s shoes. All part of his stage costume, confirmed by his crew. And removed from the corpse earlier by Smith here.’

  I glanced at Hamilton, who shrugged.

  ‘You withheld evidence from me, Lestrade. Hardly sporting.’ Holmes smiled ruefully. ‘I will admit Borelli wore both the ring and buckles in the show I saw.’

  ‘Exactly! And there is more,’ crowed Lestrade. ‘Two hundred people witnessed Borelli climb into the cauldron. Normally, he would simply escape through the secret hatch in the back right away, according to Mr Fricano, the stage manager. But he did not come out … because he could not! Take a look, Mr Holmes.’

  Lestrade shut the front hatch on the corpse and spun the cauldron on its chain to the back. He pointed to the tiny, hidden latch.

  ‘A new latch. Recently welded on, look at the solder here – pewter-coloured, when everything else is copper and brass,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Very observant, Lestrade. You improve.’

  ‘I found it because I was looking for it,’ announced Lestrade, ‘as you like to say. Trapped in his own trick. As he nearly was last week.’

  ‘Dario!’ wailed Madame. I patted her shoulder.

  Holmes simply smiled at Lestrade. ‘There is a similar new one on the front, as well.’

  Lestrade shrugged this off. ‘And so there was no escape! Few people in the world are familiar enough with this stage contraption to hide a little latch like this—’

  ‘Two latches.’

  ‘Fine. Madame was familiar with both,’ said Lestrade. ‘And she had motive. They had been heard arguing. Mr Fricano himself said he felt that the couple was on the verge of separating.’

  ‘Yes, where is Mr Fricano now?’ asked Holmes innocently. Next to me, Hamilton started, remembering that Holmes had asked him to keep an eye on the fellow. ‘He might be able to shed some light.’

  ‘He is a witness, to be sure,’ said Lestrade. ‘Hamilton, find the fellow, would you?’ Hamilton moved off, rounding up two more policemen.

  ‘Madame Borelli, is it true that you fought with your husband earlier today?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Yes,’ said the lady, ‘but I welded no latch.’ She rose shakily to her feet. ‘I must see inside,’ she said, nodding towards the cauldron.

  ‘Madame, perhaps not,’ I suggested. ‘It is pitiable sight.’

  But Lestrade nodded to his remaining man, who took the lady’s arm and conveyed her to the front of the cauldron.

  Madame Borelli looked inside, went white and turned away. She steeled herself and looked again.

  ‘That is not Dario.’

  ‘As I said,’ remarked Holmes.

  ‘Of course it is,’ sneered Lestrade. ‘The man is burnt to a crisp.’

  ‘No,’ said she, wiping her tears.

  ‘Why do you think not, Madame?’ asked Holmes.

  She shrugged. ‘Too fat maybe. But it is not him.’

  Holmes stepped up and took one of her hands and led her back to the chair.

  ‘Madame, I believe you are correct. But if your husband went to such trouble to frame you, where would he be now?’

  She hesitated and looked stricken. Tears coursed down her face. She said something in a voice so low I could not catch the words.

  ‘Speak up,’ said Lestrade.

  ‘He would be on a train.’

  ‘To where? asked Holmes.

  ‘To Berlin.’

  No one said anything, but she was not forthcoming.

  ‘Madame?’ prompted Holmes.

  The woman took a deep breath and sat very straight. ‘Gertrude Aufenbach,’ said she.

  ‘The German soprano?’ said Holmes, evidently surprised.

  She nodded.

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Holmes enthused. ‘A beautiful woman. And that voice—’

  ‘Holmes loves the opera,’ I interjected, attempting to cover this insensitivity.

  Catching himself, Holmes turned to the police detective. ‘But never mind. I suggest you send your men to the station after all, Lestrade.’

  ‘On the trail of a dead man! Now why should I do that? Borelli’s clothes are still in his hotel room.’

  ‘Expensive tastes, remember? Look for that velvet jacket. It will be gone, I wager. In his room you will only find cheap replacements bought for the illusion. And it is indeed an illusion, worthy of a conjuring star. I can prove the body in the cauldron is not Dario Borelli.’

  Lestrade snorted. ‘“Data, data,” as you like to say. The buckles?’

  ‘Certainly. Borelli broke his ankle last week, Dr Watson here set it, and the man could not have been wearing two shoes when he entered the cauldron. He could not get a shoe on over that splint. Ask your audience that. Some will remember.’

  Lestrade blinked. ‘No one could pull that off: get in, and then leap out and put another person in! His own stage manager said he did not emerge.’

  ‘Yes, have you found Falco Fricano yet?’

  Hamilton appeared behind Lestrade. ‘No Fricano,’ he said.

  ‘I expect he was Borelli’s accomplice. There was much to arrange, and in a short time. Madame Borelli is no easy mark. Lestrade, I suggest you put more men on it. Fricano cannot have gone far.’

  Lestrade paused, then to his credit, agreed. He turned to Hamilton and a young constable. ‘Find the stage manager! Now!’ Realizing this left the lady unguarded, he quickly handcuffed her to the chair.

  ‘Mr Lestrade!’ I exclaimed, finding this remarkably insensitive.

  He stepped away, presumably to request reinforcements. Holmes flashed me a small smile.

  Lestrade returned, and Holmes continued. ‘Consider these facts. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to disguise the identity of the body. That man was soaked, painted perhaps in some kind of highly flammable liquid or gel. All identifiers including clothes and facial features would be destroyed. Of course, they wanted everyone to think it was Borelli, and so they selected someone of a similar stature. Planted the buckles and the ring.’

  ‘But,’ said Lestrade, rubbing his chin, ‘how did they get this “other person” into the cauldron? And who is he?’

  ‘Borelli entered the cauldron and then immediately exited the back, as usual. Fricano, who was complicit, lied about that. I believe you will discover the corpse is that of a man named Santo Colangelo. Presumably he was drugged and covered in this chemical, then loaded in. The back hatch, which usually opened easily, was then secured with the newly added latch. The front as well.’

  ‘Then he was unconscious, or he would have struggled. But screams were heard.’

  ‘Colangelo must have come to at some point. Oh, and some kind of kindling substance, highly flammable, was added. That caused the “foof” described to us. And, sadly, the demise of the poor young lady.’ He squinted. ‘Powdered magnesium and potassium chlorate would be my guess.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Quite a new thing. “Blitzlicht” it is called. It is used by photographers. You have been no doubt temporarily blinded when you were captured by a camera in service of the newspaper men?’

  Madame Borelli moaned slightly at the thought.

  Lestrade was still not convinced. ‘Who added the latch – er, the latches – then, if not this clever woman?’

  ‘Fricano, or Borelli himself. Both have the skills. And while Madame was on her errand earlier today, he worked very quickly to pack the bare minimum of his own things – his favourites, no doubt – and replace them with cheap substitutes to make you think he had never left. He and his accomplice, for it must have taken at least two to manage all of this, drugged the lady and set her here in the manner you found her.’

  ‘Yes, and I do not even drink the gin,’ offered Madame.

  ‘Applied to your lips, Madame Borelli,’ said Holmes.

  ‘T
hen what, Holmes?’ said Lestrade.

  ‘The act proceeded as normal, with the newly trained assistant, poor Miss Durgen, none the wiser. She lit the match and dropped it in, sealing both Colangelo’s fate and her own. Perhaps more flash powder than was needed had been introduced and that killed her. I doubt that she was an intended victim.’

  Lestrade hesitated. No one likes to be topped, even by Sherlock Holmes. ‘Plausible, Mr Holmes, but I am not convinced the corpse is not Borelli’s,’ said he. ‘The body is the same size; it has been confirmed.’

  ‘Check his teeth. They will have survived. The man I mentioned, Santo Colangelo is a rival conjurer. He has a small diamond embedded in his left canine.’

  Lestrade nodded at the young officer guarding the cauldron. ‘Look at his tooth.’

  With a shudder, the fellow leaned into the deadly sphere. A retching noise echoed within it, and he backed out quickly. ‘Ugh. It’s there, sir.’

  ‘Dario Borelli is responsible for tonight’s drama. I suggest you wire Berlin,’ said Holmes.

  Lestrade sighed. To his credit, he knew when he was beaten. ‘All right, Mr Holmes. But you must give me this. I do know when to call you in.’

  Holmes smiled, a little too self-satisfied, I thought, in the face of all this tragedy.

  ‘Please unlock Madame Borelli. She has suffered enough today,’ I admonished. The poor woman was pale with emotion, her eyes closed. She opened them suddenly and handed Lestrade his handcuffs, having freed herself while we had been looking elsewhere.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Lestrade.

  Holmes shrugged and smiled insouciantly. ‘Child’s play, Mr Lestrade. I warrant your gaol could not have held her. Good evening.’

  I turned to Madame. ‘Do you have somewhere to go, Madame, to take comfort?’

  She waved me off. ‘I will be fine,’ said she. ‘I have friends here in London.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Vanished

  Once again back at Baker Street, now near midnight, we were surprised to find Mrs Hudson still awake. ‘That young lady, Mr Holmes. She would not stay. Insisted on returning to Cambridge, even at such a late hour. I tried to convince her.’

  Holmes shook his head ruefully. ‘What folly! She endangers herself needlessly.’

  ‘Polly seems like a resourceful young lady,’ I offered.

  ‘You forget, Watson, the Spinning House. Cambridge at night is not safe for young women like Polly!’

  ‘Ah, yes, Holmes.’

  Holmes had the Bradshaw in his hands. ‘We have missed the last train again! Oh, what a shame. Watson, to bed, quickly! We must be on the earliest train to Cambridge.’

  As dawn broke the following morning Holmes and I found ourselves on a train bound for Cambridge with only a few hours’ sleep. We were both attired in our linen summer suits and the day promised no break in the weather. Cambridge, I knew, would be hotter even than London.

  To Holmes’s extreme frustration, our train was delayed for nearly two hours due to an accident on the tracks and it was after ten when we arrived at our destination. We headed first to Dillie’s bolt-hole, hoping to find both girls there. No one answered the door. Once again, Holmes used his kit to open the lock and was dismayed to find the room had been emptied. There was nothing left of Dillie Wyndham’s that I could see.

  But who had done this?

  I have never known Holmes to curse but he came close to it that day, surveying the empty room. All of Dillie’s clothes had been removed from the closet, all the personal belongings packed up and taken away, with drawers left open, two clothes hangers on the floor, and a bedside table upended.

  Holmes made a careful inspection, even as his fury was evident. I knew well enough to leave him to his work and not to interrupt him with questions. It was afterwards, in a carriage en route to the Wyndhams’ that he opened up to me.

  ‘Watson,’ said he, ‘I am not, as you know, a great believer in hunches. I prefer data – real, tangible data. That room provided very little. And yet I have a very bad feeling.’

  ‘Holmes, I know you. Surely there was something – a tiny clue, perhaps not even registered consciously that has given rise to this “feeling”?’

  ‘You may be right, but it is presently abstruse, Watson. And yet … I cannot shake my fear for Miss Wyndham at this moment.’

  We pulled up to the front of the Wyndhams’ house. At eleven in the morning, the heat was already oppressive. I could feel the sweat running down my back.

  ‘Now,’ said Holmes as we dismounted the cab, ‘if only we would find Dillie here, healthy, spirited—’

  ‘—and slightly pugilistic,’ I inserted.

  ‘Ha! Yes, even that. But I fear we will not.’

  Five minutes later we were seated in the parlour of the Wyndham family home awaiting the appearance of Mr and Mrs Wyndham. Into the room swept the ethereal Atalanta, looking even paler than before, but with a strangely triumphant smirk on her elfin face. A bright rose dress accentuated her pallor, giving her skin an almost greenish cast.

  ‘Well, the gentlemen from London,’ she drawled, posing in the doorway like a Greek statue. ‘You are days late for the engagement celebration. There might be the dregs of some champagne in the kitchen. It will have gone flat by now, but shall I ring for some anyway? You look parched.’

  ‘Miss Atalanta,’ said Holmes, ‘I take it Miss Odelia is not here. Have you seen her?’

  Atalanta smiled and shook her head.

  ‘Is your maid Polly about?’

  ‘No. She went to see her mother. Or so she said.’ There was mockery in her tone. A nasty smile darkened her features.

  ‘When is she due back?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Holmes and I exchanged a glance. He did not like that news and neither did I.

  ‘Where does Polly’s mother live?’

  ‘Ask in the kitchen. I neither know nor care.’

  ‘Do you know where your sister is?’

  ‘Now, that is the question of the hour, isn’t it?’ said the irritating young woman. ‘I neither know—’

  ‘—nor care. Yes, indeed, Miss Atalanta you have made yourself abundantly clear on that point,’ said Holmes. ‘But the young lady seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘I found her hiding place, you know,’ said Atalanta. ‘After the engagement, she began to show the signs. Her “tell”, Freddie calls it. Something the card players like to say. I knew she was about to run and kept a careful eye, and when she made her break, I followed her there.’

  ‘I see. Did you confront her?’

  ‘To what end? No, I told our father. But by the time he …’ Her face darkened. ‘Well, by the time he believed me and we went there, Dillie was gone.’

  ‘You went there with your father this morning, then?’

  ‘Why? How do you know this?’

  ‘It is too bad your father did not listen to you earlier,’ said Holmes.

  Atalanta shrugged, but I could sense the damaged girl under her practised coolness.

  ‘Where do you think she is now?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I told you. I simply don’t care. My father has disowned her—’

  At that moment Richard Wyndham strode into the room. It was as though there was a tide of invisible energy emanating from him, like the wake of a fast-moving ship, and his daughter backed away as if frightened of its impact.

  ‘Atalanta, leave us!’ he commanded, and the older daughter vanished. ‘What do you want?’ he asked Holmes.

  ‘I am concerned about your daughter, Odelia.’

  Wyndham gave Holmes a peculiar, threatening look.

  Holmes waited.

  ‘Yes, yes. She ran off. Again. Atalanta showed me where she had been hiding. But the damned little hussy has left there and … by God, if I get ahold of her, she—’ His breath caught, and he looked up. ‘But what is this to you? And what brought you here?’

  ‘I will get to that. Who cleaned out her rooms there?’ asked Holmes, meeting the man’s fury
with his own cold anger.

  ‘I and my man did. How do you know they were cleaned out? We only did so a couple of hours ago. How did you get in?’

  Holmes did not answer the question. ‘May I see her things?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Professor Wyndham, your daughter may be in danger.’

  ‘Of her own making, then. If Odelia returns here, she will find no refuge. Duplicitous little wench! Philip!’ A footman scurried in. ‘You have sent my request?’ barked Wyndham.

  ‘Yes, sir. Ten minutes ago, now, sir. With all haste.’

  Wyndham waved the young man away. He took a deep breath, then turned back to us. ‘Sit down. Over there.’ He pointed to a sofa, facing away from the door. It was an order, not an invitation.

  Perhaps it would calm him, I thought, and took a seat as directed. Holmes remained standing. His eyes bored into our host’s.

  ‘You seem to be more angry than concerned about your daughter’s disappearance, Mr Wyndham.’

  ‘Oh, please. The sun rises, the sun sets.’

  ‘You are not worried, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about her fiancé, the young Lord Eden-Summers?’

  ‘I doubt he knows where she is, either.’

  ‘You’ve been in touch, then?’

  ‘Well, when Dillie left our house yet again, he and I spoke. He suggested leaving Dillie to her plans.’

  ‘Perhaps they since eloped?’

  ‘No. I checked this morning and know he is still in his rooms.’ Wyndham snorted like an angry bull. ‘If she breaks this engagement, the girl will be dead to me. She knows that.’

  ‘Professor Wyndham, I found Dillie once before. And I advised you to do nothing but wait, to communicate through me, and to rest assured that I would endeavour to patch things up between you.’

  ‘Yes, and look how well that has gone,’ snapped the don.

  ‘I am concerned for her safety,’ said my friend.

  ‘Based on what? Who told you she was missing this time?’

  ‘A person with her well-being in mind.’

  From behind us, I heard someone at the front door. I stood up. Holmes and I glanced at each other. My friend was on edge.