The Three Locks Bonnie MacBird (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📖

woman, perhaps an expert in my own medical field, might be like. The thought brought a smile to my lips.

The doorbell rang for the second time that morning. Soft voices came from below. A male visitor. Madame Borelli stood again.

‘I go. Will you help me, Mr Holmes? I will pay you, of course.’

‘When I deliver your result, you can pay me then. I will visit this Santo Colangelo and see if I can discover the cause of his accident, although I must warn you that trail is cold. Why do you think he waited so long after his accident to send a threat?’

‘He is trying to win me back. But cannot. Santo is not the bad man. But now he is angry that he cannot have me. And jealous. And Dario recently is a big success.’ She took two tickets from her reticule and placed them on a table next to Holmes. ‘Come tonight. See the show again.’

Holmes sat still for a moment, considering. Then, ‘Tell the Great Borelli, er, your Dario, that I will come. I have a few questions for him. I will also visit Colangelo and see if I cannot get to the bottom of this.’

‘Very good. Thank you. And no word to Dario that you have read these pages!’ With a final glance around the room and a haughty sniff, Madame Borelli departed.

‘Not your usual case, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Seems more a matter of the heart than the brain.’

‘Hearts drive more crimes than brains do, Watson. And the conjuring element is intriguing. I always enjoy a good magic show, although most of it is glaringly obvious.’

‘If you know how it’s done,’ I said, ‘does that not remove half the fun?’

Holmes regarded me with amusement. ‘Come, come, Watson. Everyone enjoys a little sleight of hand.’ With a wave of his arm, his cigarette suddenly disappeared.

I did not favour him with a reaction. ‘Why do I need the theatre when you are a constant source of amusement, Holmes? Alternating, like the current, with being vexatious.’

‘I am sorry, Watson, it is the heat.’ He winced. ‘Ouch!’ he said, pulling the still glowing cigarette from his sleeve. ‘I need to keep practising this.’

‘And perhaps your manners,’ I remarked.

CHAPTER 7

The Deacon

Before Holmes could retort, Mrs Hudson entered and interrupted us.

‘Peregrine Buttons, Deacon, Church of Our Lady of the Roses, Cambridge. Says you are expecting him, Mr Holmes?’ She stepped aside, leaving us facing a young man.

Holmes clearly had forgotten this appointment. ‘Ah, Deacon Buttons!’ He gestured to the chair recently vacated by Ilaria Borelli.

Surely he would not take on a second case? But I had not long to worry.

This slender fellow edged past Mrs Hudson and paused at the threshold. He was garbed in black, with a cleric’s collar and wide black Saturno hat. I put his age at twenty-two or so. His eager, innocent expression, wide-set blue eyes and handsome, boyish face conveyed both hope and trepidation.

He paused, realizing that his clothing was soaked and dripping onto the rug. He had apparently worn no overcoat.

‘Oh, please forgive me!’ He flushed, backing into the hallway, brushing the moisture from his jacket.

‘Come in, young man! Never mind the rug,’ said Holmes, impatiently.

The young deacon entered, removing his hat. Raindrops dotted his gold spectacles. A wild mop of fair hair, flattened on the top from the hat but curling wildly all around the sides from the dampness, gave the amusing effect of a faux tonsure with a peculiar shape. Noticing my stare, he ruffled his hair, erasing the effect, and attempted a shy smile. He had remarkably straight, white teeth.

I also observed carefully manicured hands and a small gold ring. Here was a handsome young man of the cloth who was rather aware of his appearance. Unusual, I thought.

‘Mr Buttons. Your name was derived from Bouton? French?’ said Holmes.

The young man nodded.

‘I received your note early this morning.’ He turned to me. ‘Watson, it concerned a young lady who has gone missing in Cambridge. Come and sit down – here, Deacon, place this cloth underneath you on the chair – and begin at the beginning. I would like my colleague Dr Watson to hear your story.’

The young man sat. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I wrote to you last night, Miss Odelia Ann Wyndham – Dillie, as she is known – is missing. This is a young lady of my acquaintance, a regular at our services, and the daughter of Richard Anderson Wyndham.’

‘Yes, the famous Cambridge don, the classics professor and wayward archeologist? I inferred her relationship from the name. Is she his only child?’

‘He has two daughters. She is the younger. In any case, Dillie has been missing since Monday afternoon.’

‘Dillie? You are on a first-name basis?’

The young man shifted in his chair. ‘Father Lamb, my superior, encourages us to consider each of our flock as family … children of God.’

‘Hmm. Watson, the deacon’s is a new Catholic church in Cambridge, recently reopened after a scandalous closure eight years ago. Go on, Deacon.’

‘Er … yes!’ said the young man. ‘How do you know all this, if you do not mind the question, sir?’

‘I read. In any case, Miss Wyndham was last seen on Monday, and you wrote to me the next day. That is not much time to have passed. What is your concern?’

‘Well, on Tuesday after evening services, we – that is, I – run a discussion group in the church, and Dillie has always attended. But not last night. I was already worried, Mr Holmes, because we had made an informal arrangement for earlier in the day, and she did not show up as planned for that, either.’

‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘We were to have lunch.’

‘Where?’

‘At the The Bull and Rat.’

‘A pub, from the name. Is it a regular habit of yours to meet single female congregants in pubs for lunch?’

The young cleric flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Father Lamb says that if we can counsel a person in need, it does not matter where or when,