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

removed it as well. All right, thank you.’ Holmes appeared to be disappointed. ‘Sir, you have been a great help. Madam.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, before we go, may I have my watch back, please? Without it you are twelve pounds the richer, for naught but a few minutes of your time. Surely you have the advantage of me, even so.’

Flan shook his head, patting his pocket with the watch. ‘We have made our deal,’ said he. ‘It will be fifteen if you get back before I sell it.’

‘Well, then,’ said Holmes, ‘let me offer you this in exchange for the watch. That small diamond tiara over there? It was stolen from a minor royal with a country house nearby. Lady Debenby, you have heard of her? The thief killed a treasured servant in the taking, and the family are offering a hefty reward to identify the culprit. May I suggest you bring your information to the police?’

Flan looked askance at Holmes.

‘I am a good friend of Detective Inspector Hadley,’ remarked Holmes.

We left with the watch.

CHAPTER 36

A Holy Place

We ran – well, Holmes and Polly ran, and I limped – through the rain across town towards the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. My wound was now throbbing. I wish I had taken Dr Macready up on his offer of medication.

At last, the church was in sight. And there, thankfully, Holmes espied a constable on his rounds. Gripping my arm, he whispered, ‘Ask him to see Polly home safely. Tell him to wake up Hadley and say that Sherlock Holmes has been seen at the church and to come at once.’

Holmes carried on and I did as he asked. Regretting the need for this, I vouched for Polly’s honour with the young fellow and asked him to accompany the girl to her sister’s, so as to avoid the horror of the Spinning House. He was more than happy to do so.

‘I’m not so fond of those proctor’s men, myself,’ he said. ‘Bulldogs, we call ’em. Come, little lady.’ Polly rolled her eyes at ‘little lady’ but waved a thank-you to me.

‘But before that, please! Tell Inspector Hadley that Sherlock Holmes has been seen at the Church of our Lady of the Roses. And to come at once,’ I urged.

‘I’ll not be waking up the Inspector—’

‘Sherlock Holmes … who escaped from gaol earlier today!’

‘Oh, that fellow!’ cried the man, not realizing it was Holmes who had just left us. ‘By God, then, I’ll do it! Come along, young lady!’

I caught up with Holmes just outside of the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. The rain continued to beat a tattoo on the stone pavers and the garden soil. A small lantern high on the stone church wall sent a faint glow out over the rose garden, where the delicate flowers danced and vibrated under the heavy downfall, some knocked from their fragile stems into the growing puddles of water.

As we passed the church en route to the outer building which housed the two clergymen, I could see glowing lights coming from the basement clerestory windows and heard the sounds of banging and a few shouts. Two men ran past us with ropes and buckets. A rubber hose extended out of one of the windows, spewing water into the already soaked and pooling flowerbeds.

‘Where are Father Lamb and Deacon Buttons?’ shouted Holmes to one of them.

‘The father is down below, no idea about Buttons!’ cried one.

I glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty in the morning.

‘Picked a fine time to disappear!’ shouted another. ‘And with the father gone to London yesterday! We’ve a flood on our hands!’

‘We’ll send for help,’ said Holmes. He grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘Quick, to Buttons’ room!’

Shortly we stood dripping at the entry to his small quarters. We knocked on the door and it swung open. Empty. I started to step inside, but Holmes blocked my entry.

‘Wait, Watson. We must disturb nothing. Go and fetch some candles, please. A lantern. As much light as you can gather.’

I scavenged quickly, returning with several candles I discovered in Lamb’s spartan room down the hall, and two more from a niche nearby. Holmes had lit the paraffin light on Buttons’ desk, then quickly lit all the candles and placed them around the room. One near the window guttered and went out. I noticed the window was open a crack and the rising storm was seeping into the room.

‘Holmes, shall I close the window?’

‘No! And keep back – out of the room.’ I paused at the threshold. Holmes ran to the window, and noting something on the sill, said, ‘Stay there, in the hall, Watson.’ He left the room and returned after five very long minutes. I waited nervously, hoping that Father Lamb would not appear to confront us.

Buttons’ quarters, at first glance, were unremarkable. All seemed to be in order. The bed had been made to near military perfection. Clothes hung neatly in the open armoire, shoes aligned below it. Holmes would learn nothing here, I feared.

My friend returned shortly, his knees muddied, boots caked with mud. ‘Find anything?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Stay in the doorway. Touch nothing.’

He took off his boots and left them at the door, although his wet socks left prints behind on the stone floor. He began a process I had witnessed many times before. I thought of it as his strange dance of detection, in which he moved with great animation and a kind of electrified focus, examining minutely even the most prosaic and benign objects, and from them piecing together a complete and detailed sequence of events.

As usual, I was relegated to the position of observer – and in this case, lookout. If a crime had been committed here, I could as yet see nothing of it.

Holmes took out his lens and worked his way around the small, neat room.

From the doorway, the desk, like everything else, looked pristine. Holmes ran his finger across the top, sides and back,