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

‘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