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

uncomfortably. Holmes seemed oblivious, fired up as he was by the intrigue of the Wyndham family.

‘Breakfast, Holmes?’ I enquired.

‘A poet, Watson. A poet who is jealous of her sister,’ he said. ‘And yet …’

‘Atalanta!’ I cried. Of course! Whatever had been written on the doll was a poem, as he had noted. ‘Could she be the culprit behind the dismembered doll?’

‘My thought when I found her book of poems. But ultimately … I lean away from this theory.’

‘Why?’

‘The ink stains on Atalanta’s hand were slight. She is fastidious. But they were of a distinct aqua blue. Not the colour of the note.’

‘Perhaps she has more than one colour ink.’

‘I saw only one bottle on her sitting-room desk when I glanced inside. No, Watson, I think not.’ He was silent for a moment as we trudged through the sunbaked streets.

‘Those footprints!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a tremendous amount of clambering up trees has been done in the name of love. And then the secret archer. Ha! What a family! Have you ever climbed a tree to reach a young lady, Watson?’

I had to think a moment. ‘No. But I once tried to wade across a river. Ended up a mile downstream. Have you done anything so rash?’

‘For a girl? No,’ said Holmes. ‘But neither have I practised archery from my window.’

We looked at each other and laughed.

‘You shoot, then?’ I asked.

‘Not for some time. Wait, I think we turn left here.’ We did so.

‘Were you any good?’

Holmes glanced at me with a smile. ‘I was invited into the Woodmen of Arden myself. I declined.’

‘Who are the Woodmen of Arden?’

‘An honorary society of men who practise archery with the longbow. Invitation only. One must be an accomplished archer and also have friends who are Woodmen. Something of a closed society. They do have tournaments and prizes, however.’

‘Robin Hoods, then?’

‘Ah, Watson, always the romantic,’ said Holmes. ‘Sportsmen, to be sure.’

‘I think we turn right, here. Let me see the map. But you turned them down?’

Holmes smiled. ‘I am no joiner, Watson, you know that.’

Carrying on through the town, we discovered we were lost. A student then misdirected us, but we eventually found the place we were seeking.

The address belonged to a lodging house behind a brewery on the eastern edge of the town. A small pub fronted the building, The Cross and Anchor. We walked into the low-beamed, darkened interior, and Holmes introduced himself and asked to see the owner. As he did, I eyed some tempting ham sandwiches on the counter. But Holmes was not to be delayed.

The Wyndham name and a half sovereign were sufficient to induce the owner, a surly elf of a man, to cooperate, and he unlocked a door to a stairway leading to several lodging rooms above.

Holmes asked whether he had seen Miss Odelia Wyndham of late.

‘You won’t hear that name from me,’ said the man. The fellow gestured to the stairs. ‘Two flights up. Room Three.’

We were up the narrow, worn stairs in a rush and then encountered the door marked ‘Three’. We knocked. There was no reply. Holmes tried the knob. It was locked. He put his ear to the door and listened, shook his head.

‘It appears no one is home,’ he whispered.

He then withdrew a familiar small leather kit from his frock coat and opened it to reveal an array of precise metal instruments. Holmes had the door unlocked in what seemed mere seconds, and in complete silence. His timing had improved since I had witnessed a similar display in an earlier case.

We opened the door to a surprising sight. It was a large room painted in white, as Dillie’s bedroom had been, with a large double bed in one corner, long blue curtains with sheer panels flapping in the breeze from an open window, and a long blue velvet sofa, on which sat a poised young woman. She was motionless, calm, and obviously expecting us.

Miss Odelia Wyndham, or Dillie, lounged in a curiously studied pose in the centre of this sofa, her arms extending along the back of it, head tilted back, replicating the languid, arrogant bearing of her father, Richard Wyndham.

She took us in haughtily – two strange men who had unlocked the door to her private sanctuary – but said nothing. Her position and attitude struck me as odd in the extreme, given the circumstances.

‘Miss Odelia Wyndham, I presume,’ said Holmes, formally.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,’ said the lady. Clearly her father’s daughter, she managed to be dismissive and wry at the same time. It was a peculiar effect coming from an eighteen-year-old.

She was, as the deacon had described, singularly beautiful, with mocking eyes and golden hair arranged in a knot high on her head, and curls escaping around her face in a look of disarray that was both casual and becoming. She was dressed in a striped cotton summer frock, and from the bottom of it peeked long matching bloomers. These ended in curiously large white tennis shoes of the kind I have worn on the court myself.

She was clearly one of the new sporty breed of young ladies who bicycled and partook of racquet sports. I glanced around me, and there was indeed a tennis racquet leaning up against the wall under the window. I was certain she must own a two-wheeler parked nearby. I could well imagine Atalanta would be jealous of this glowing creature, who possessed not only beauty but, perhaps even more enviable, vibrant good health.

Holmes said nothing to her but took in the room in his comprehensive manner. I followed his gaze to an open closet door, from which hung a young man’s suit of dark blue summer linen, a boater hat, and a wrinkled white shirt and navy tie. I inferred a regular visitor.

He turned to the lady. ‘Miss Wyndham,’ said he severely, ‘since you know my name and were expecting me, you have been informed that I have been called in from London to find you. You have given your family and friends quite