The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird (books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

‘How old is the lady?’

‘Eighteen, I believe.’

‘You believe, or you know?’

‘Eighteen and four months.’

Holmes said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘On what subject were you to counsel her?’

‘She is troubled by a young man at the university. Frederick Eden-Summers. A third year, going for law.’

‘Ah, some facts at last. Eden-Summers, that name is familiar. Watson, be so good as too look that up in my files. Would we be correct in consulting Debrett’s as well, Deacon?’

The young man nodded once again.

I was already wading through the clutter to Holmes’s alphabetized files. I retrieved the appropriate box, and Debrett’s as well, wherein the details of peerage soon revealed that Frederick Eden-Summers was the oldest son of the Duke of Harbingden, and therefore set to inherit his father’s estate and title. Once that matter had been determined, Holmes turned again to our young visitor.

‘Now, how is Mr Eden-Summers troubling the young lady?’

‘She is being pressured to accept his marriage proposal.’

‘By the young man himself?’

‘Apparently, and by her father as well. It is shameful! I am of the school of thought that a young lady should choose for herself. My own sister is at Girton. A very independent young lady. Our parents raised us this way.’

‘Yet you chose a profession with many restrictions. Are your parents pleased with your choice?’

‘My parents are dead, Mr Holmes. I left the university after one year, as I had no way to support myself once my father was gone. And so I entered the Church. But what has this to do with Miss Wyndham?’

‘Perhaps nothing. How do you propose to help the young lady?’

‘Spiritual counselling, of course.’

‘Of course. What says her family about this brief disappearance?’

‘Strangely, nothing. Polly, her maid, says they are not concerned.’

‘You are on intimate terms with her maid?’

‘Mr Holmes, sir! Polly attends our church!’

‘Why, then, Deacon Buttons, if the family is unconcerned, are you worried?’

The young man looked down at his hat.

‘Be forthcoming, Mr Buttons, or I shall send you home on the next train.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His foot tapped in the air, giving away his impatience. He caught my frown and stopped the foot.

Mrs Hudson arrived with a glass of water. She set it down next to Buttons, kicked a small stack of refuse out of her way, glanced at me, and departed.

The deacon turned his hat in his hands, acutely uncomfortable. After a moment, Holmes broke the silence.

‘Is Miss Wyndham aware of your affections?’

The young man looked up, startled. I had seen such reactions so many times.

‘Come now, it is patently obvious,’ said Holmes.

‘I … I have said nothing. Perhaps she has intuited. But in my position, I am unable … I cannot offer her, and she deserves …’

Holmes got up and moved to the fireplace. He rummaged among several pipes in his rack and selected one. This kind of sentiment made him uncomfortable. He turned and leaned against the mantel, lighting his pipe with a match, then tossed it into the fire, which had sunk to embers, I was relieved to note.

‘I believe you mean well, Mr Buttons, but you have wasted your time. The family’s response is telling. It is most likely the young lady is away shopping or visiting relatives. Or perhaps she needs time alone to think. Please return to Cambridge. But do cable me if Miss Wyndham does not return in two days, or if her family also become worried. Then, and only then, will I consider this a case of a missing person. I wish you well with Miss Wyndham. Dr Watson will see you out.’

I accompanied the young deacon to the door where I gently reiterated Holmes’s offer. He nodded tearfully and departed. I returned to find my friend frowning as he shuffled papers on the table.

‘Why do people bother me with these trifles? The girl is obviously fleeing his unwanted attentions. Any fool can see that.’

‘I don’t know, Holmes. He is a terribly good-looking young man. He seems sincere.’

‘With few prospects, as he pointed out.’

‘Not every young girl is so concerned about that.’

‘But priests are meant to be celibate,’ he said. ‘Unless I have missed something. Where are those notes?’

‘Catholic clergy may marry, if they do so before ordination,’ I offered.

Holmes shrugged. ‘Romance is your department, Watson. But it hardly matters.’ He glanced about him as if noticing for the first time the mounds of his personal clutter. ‘My friend, I have let things get out of hand here. Will you help me for a couple of hours? Then off to dinner and the Great Borelli’s performance as compensation?’

I hesitated. ‘I will help you, Holmes, this time. But it will all go into the fire.’

‘No! Some of these papers are vital. I need to find—ah, what a mess Madame has made of these!’

‘No promises.’ I bent down to relight the fire, and sighed. It was still too hot in the room for it. But perhaps burning his papers was the reason he had had it blazing in the first place.

As I leaned in with a match, this was confirmed for me. The charred remains of a stack of papers lay at the bottom of the grate. I made out the words at the top of one. It was a treatise on medieval locks. Was he going try opening my little box?

CHAPTER 8

A Close Escape

That evening we sat amidst a varied crowd in the cavernous, drafty stalls at Wilton’s Music Hall, located in Grace’s Alley, Whitechapel. While the place lacked the cachet of a West End theatre, it was a storied venue for variety acts and attracted a wide range of London’s social classes.

We did not know it at the time, but the place would be shuttered within a year and turned into a mission for feeding the poor, but at this moment it was filled with eager theatregoers. Above our heads, with elbows resting on the overhanging balcony surrounding on three sides, was a noisy crowd of working-class men, women and children.