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

attached recently. Look, the soldering or brazing is pewter-coloured. The rest here is brass or copper.’ Holmes handed me his glass. ‘With this shut, the person inside could not open this door.’

‘Oh God, we tried to pull it open but did not see.’ said Fricano.

With magnification, the bolt indeed looked different from the nearby pipes and ornamentation. I would never have noticed, either. It was a subtle piece of work. I handed the glass back, nodding.

‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Nicely hidden. What happened next? In the act, that is. The audience sees Borelli get inside. The front hatch is apparently secured. What does the girl do?’

Fricano took a deep breath. ‘The girl lights fire under the cauldron. Then she climbs up this ladder and stands up high next to top of the cauldron. She touches the surface and pretends it is very hot. Ssss! Of course, it is too soon and not really hot yet. It makes drama. The whole act designed to make big drama.’

‘You have succeeded, I would say.’ Holmes’s humour could suffer in the timing, I noted.

‘Then the girl opens the top latch and calls down to Borelli, pretending to hear his answer. She smiles at the audience, then picks up the bottle of whisky.’

‘Whisky? That bottle over there? All part of the act?’ Holmes pointed to a bottle lying on the stage near the girl’s body.

‘Yes, and she pours it down in on him. That gets a big laugh from the audience.’

‘Big laugh. Right. Meanwhile you are still trying to open the back?’

‘Yes!’

I pictured the frantic efforts. I glanced again at the newly added back latch, which was nearly impossible to see. But of course, Holmes had the eyes of a bird of prey.

‘Go on.’

‘Then the girl leans down on top and looks in, but she pretends she cannot see.’

‘Still part of the act?’

‘Yes.’

Holmes glanced over at me. ‘Watson, could you retrieve that bottle and smell it, please?’

I complied. Given the overwhelming odour of burnt flesh in the room itself, smelling anything else would be difficult, but I inhaled deeply. ‘Nothing,’ I reported.

‘What was in that bottle, Mr Fricano?’ asked Holmes.

‘Just coloured water. Is all a trick.’

Holmes hesitated, and I could tell he had some doubts. ‘Yes, go on,’ he said.

‘After she pours it in, she calls down but gets no answer.’

‘Part of the act as well?’

‘Yes, yes! Normally no one is inside by this time. So then she lights a match and holds it at entrance as if to look, and then pretends to drop match in by accident. Audience cry “Oh no!” because they think it will ignite the alcohol. Big excitement.’

‘Again. Still part of the act?’ prompted Holmes.

‘Yes.’

‘But this time …?’

‘This time … oh …’ Fricano put a hand to cover his face a moment, then recovering, he continued, ‘She drops the match in, and a big flame comes out top. And there is a big sound. Like … FOOOF! We hear screaming from inside cauldron. And the girl … her face … oh, horrible! She is burned! She falls back off the ladder. The audience screaming … it was terrible.’

‘What did you do then, Mr Fricano?’

‘I am on stage, trying to help the girl. But it is too late, she is dead. Then I unlock the cauldron’s front hatch. I burn my hand, you see!’ He held up his hands.

Holmes took them in his two hands, and jerking Fricano forward examined them closely. The man winced in pain. ‘Ah! Yes, burns!’ said Holmes. He dropped Fricano’s hands. The man backed away, affronted.

‘And then?’ Holmes prompted.

‘I find … I find … Oh, God,’ moaned Fricano. He covered his face with his injured hands. ‘I find Dario.’

‘Doctor? The body, now, inside the cauldron, if you please? Take a very close look.’

I moved a few feet around the sphere and spun it so that the front opening faced me and was well lit from one of the stage lights. Hamilton appeared behind me, a pocket lantern in his hand to help illuminate the interior.

While my wartime experiences had somewhat inured me to the sight of grievous injury and death, what I encountered here sickened even me. I opened the front hatch and the stench of burned flesh gagged me, but there was another smell as well, a metallic odour – not exactly paraffin, not exactly petroleum, but similar. I quickly placed my handkerchief over my nose and mouth.

Inside was an image that will forever be seared into my mind.

It was the figure of a large man, contorted into a kind of foetal position, arms raised in what is known by coroners as the pugilistic pose. The clothes, the shoes and most of his skin was burned away, leaving a shiny black coating overall. The face was unrecognizable.

I was filled with revulsion, but I had a job to do.

Gingerly, I leaned in through the opening and touched the corpse’s shoulder. A large flake of cinder fell off, leaving what looked like raw meat below. I have seen many a gruesome death, but this was a horror. I backed out to catch my breath.

‘Dear God, Holmes. The man was incinerated under some extreme and sudden heat. All the clothes and skin are gone,’ I said. I leaned and in continued my examination.

After few terrible minutes, my investigation was done. I stood next to Holmes, wiping my hands as best I could on my handkerchief. Hamilton, much affected by the sight, had followed and stood behind me.

‘An accelerant, then, Watson?’ said Holmes.

‘Definitely,’ I replied. ‘It was a kind of flash burn. Uniformly across the entire body. No one’s skin and clothes would ignite in such a way without some kind of chemical present.’

‘A petrochemical from the smell, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Perhaps. I don’t recognize the odour.’

‘Could it have been poured in from that bottle by the young lady?’

‘I would say not.’

‘Why?’

‘To get this result, you would need much, much more. And uniformly covering the body. Perhaps in some kind of gel or powder.’

‘The entire body?’ asked Holmes. ‘Prepared, then?’

‘It would