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

your hiding place. But I will convey the news to your family that you are safe and well and will return to them when ready. I will also suggest to them that they open up a conversation by writing to you care of my address in London, where you can mail your responses.’ He took out a calling card and jotted down our address on the back with a small silver pencil. He handed it to her.

‘I shall leave it to you to sort out your grievances and your options in this case. If you find that this game – no, don’t take offence, it clearly is a game – becomes cumbersome, I suggest you fashion a more open approach to declaring your well-deserved independence.’

‘I don’t—’

‘If you do not achieve your desired results, but instead anger someone to the point where you feel endangered, you may feel free to call on me.’

She stared at him in surprise.

‘I can be here in a matter of hours. It is my belief that you do not fully understand the effect you are having on those who have feelings for you. Also, I think you have more options than you currently see.’

‘Oh, you men! You think you understand!’ And yet I could read in her face that she had been affected by his words.

‘In the meantime, please be careful, young lady. Not every man you toy with and mistreat will feel or act as I do. Keep your windows and door locked.’

Holmes picked up his hat and was out of the door before I could rise to my feet.

‘Good day, Miss Wyndham,’ I said, struggling with the uncharitable thought that I did not really wish her one. ‘Be assured, Mr Holmes is a man of his word.’

She looked up at me from her sofa. I thought I saw tears glistening in her eyes. Then I, too, made my escape.

PART FOUR

STRANGE MAGIC

‘Bid Suspicion double lock the door.’

—William Shakespeare

Venus and Adonis

CHAPTER 17

Smell the Roses

We left the young lady and were once again traipsing through the hot and dusty streets of Cambridge. ‘Home, then, Holmes? The next train to King’s Cross is in thirty minutes.’ I said, having glanced at my Bradshaw.

‘Not yet, Watson. Until I know who put that doll in the lock, I will not feel comfortable leaving that rather irritating young lady on her own. That doll’s missing arm – my mind is not at ease.’

‘You think she is inciting danger, Holmes, by running off alone and unchaperoned?’

‘It is not her independence that concerns me, but her hostility. I wonder that she does not fathom the full effect.’

I thought (but did not voice) that Holmes, so terribly observant of minutiae, and so keenly aware of motives and emotional undercurrents, could still at times be completely oblivious to the effect he had on others.

Holmes was staring at me. ‘I know, Watson, that obliviousness can serve in certain cases. My brother champions it when it suits. Miss Wyndham, however, is making things harder for herself.’

‘I agree, Holmes. But who would have thrown that doll in the lock?’

‘As her sister says, there is a long list. I have a few questions for our distressed deacon. The church next, Watson.’ He made a right turn. ‘This way.’

A few minutes later, we arrived at the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. It was an ancient, small stone church tucked behind newer college buildings, near to the river and the Jesus Lock. Next to it was an overgrown graveyard and, by contrast, a small, extremely well-kept garden of forty or so rosebushes. They were still in full bloom on this humid September day, and glowed in diffuse pinks, reds and corals in the unfiltered sunlight which beat down on the small space with relentless intensity. I wondered how long a rose garden had existed in this space and if the flowers came before or after the name of the church.

A light tenor voice trilled out a charming melody behind a dense row of red and white roses. Holmes indicated with a finger to the lips that I should make no sound and began to sing out a melody which seemed to echo and answer the singing gardener most prettily.

A heavyset priest of about fifty, wearing a wide-brimmed hat against the sun, popped his head up behind the roses. He continued to sing, Holmes right with him. They came to a rousing cadence. ‘Ta da!’

The man laughed, rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes giving him a cheery countenance. ‘Pachelbel’s canon!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another baroque music aficionado! Lovely contrapuntal lines! Do you play an instrument, sir?’

‘I do,’ said Holmes pleasantly. ‘The violin.’

‘Wonderful. I am an organist, myself.’ The man came around from behind the rosebushes. He was a large fellow, but soft, well-fed, with the build and easy movement of a man who had been athletic not so long ago.

A monocle dangled down his chest, its chain entwined with that of a large cross. The secular and the religious, I thought, tangled together. I had always been wary of men of the cloth. Where others found many of them to be avuncular and receptive, I frequently felt patronized and, well, judged. But perhaps that was my upbringing. The clergy of my parents’ church had indeed been rather unpleasant.

The man’s piercing, merry eyes were nearly lost in the folds of his pale, chubby face. At this moment they conveyed an amused welcome.

‘Father Lamb, I presume,’ said Holmes.

‘Atticus Lamb, at your service, sir. And you are—?’

‘Sherlock Holmes. This is Dr Watson. We are up from London on some business here in the town. May we steal a moment of your time from this beautiful day?’

In a few minutes we were seated in an anteroom off a transept of the church, with hot tea in hand. Even in this common area, the ancient stone walls gave off the chill of antiquity. A velvet silence surrounded us, the mild hubbub of Cambridge completely obstructed