We were led to the rectory, an adjoining small building, more recent in construction, which held a meeting room and the private sleeping quarters of both churchmen. Buttons’ small room was spartan in the extreme, with few places to hide anything. Lamb left us there on our own.
Holmes’s initial examination was rapidly done. A narrow single bed, a desk and a plain armoire crowded into a small space gave the room the look of a gaol cell. A window draped by a single panel of stained linen opened out to an unused part of the garden, and beyond that, the river. The barren, tight quarters were not dissimilar to Holmes’s own ascetic bedroom in Baker Street, minus the smoking paraphernalia, the maps and the portraits of various criminals, and with the addition here of a crucifix hanging on the wall. Against another wall, the small pine armoire contained nothing but two changes of cleric’s vestments, two pairs of boots and a rather flamboyant set of silk pyjamas.
But upon the second pass, Holmes discovered, somewhat to his dismay, what he was looking for. It was on the young deacon’s small, rough-hewn desk that Holmes found traces of ink.
‘Look, Watson!’
As I looked closely at the minuscule ink stains, Holmes felt all around the desk. With a cry of triumph, he discovered a small leather bag, hidden and hanging by a peg behind the desk. He removed it to reveal a nearly full bottle of ink and a dip pen. The ink was an unusual purplish-blue colour, and it unmistakably matched the blurred writing on the doll.
Hearing a slight sound, I turned to see Father Lamb standing in the doorway. Not having heard the entire story of the waterlogged writing on the doll, it seemed he may not have caught the inference.
Suddenly young Deacon Buttons appeared just behind him in the hallway. He called out ‘Hello, Father!’ to Lamb, but upon spotting me in his room, a look of panic washed over him.
‘Dr Watson!’ he blurted. ‘What brings you to my—’ But at that moment Lamb stepped to the side, and the young man got a clear view of Holmes at the desk with the ink bottle. The words died in his throat. He knew in an instant the game was up.
‘Mr H-Holmes,’ he stammered.
Holmes held up the bottle of distinctly coloured ink.
‘Deacon Buttons,’ he said, ‘why would you use such a unique colour of ink? A more common colour would have made it much more difficult to trace.’ Holmes glanced at Lamb and explained, ‘A note was written on the doll in this ink.’
The young man looked between his accuser and his mentor, in the manner of a rabbit that has been cornered by two foxes. ‘I found it – discarded in a bin,’ he mumbled.
‘Explain yourself,’ said Holmes.
‘I can … I …’
‘Do so,’ said Holmes. ‘I am eager to hear it.’
The young man looked up at his superior and dropped his eyes in shame. He seemed more afraid of the kindly father than my clearly antagonized friend.
‘Dillie … er … I think she may be in danger. I felt it was important to have Mr Holmes come out,’ he addressed the father. ‘I did not think he would come unless … unless …’
Father Lamb sighed. ‘My son, you should have come to me with this.’
‘What kind of danger?’ asked Holmes.
‘She has received letters. Or at least one threatening letter. I don’t think she has shown it to her family.’
Lamb sighed. ‘Young man. Many a time an intrigue such as this can be cleared up with the help of a friendly clergyman. Miss Wyndham is known to be highly strung. Is it not possible that she is playing on your sympathies for attention?’
‘But a threatening letter you say, Mr Buttons?’ demanded Holmes. ‘That would have sufficed. You did not mention this.’
The young man coloured. ‘I—’
‘Has there been more than one?’ persisted my friend.
‘I am not sure. I think so.’
‘What was the nature of the threat?’
‘I do not know exactly. She … read a part of one aloud.’
‘What did it say?’ Holmes impatiently waved him to continue.
‘I don’t remember the exact words. But it warned her to stop playing games and to choose among her suitors or to suffer dire consequences. She made light of it.’
‘The letter did not specify this consequence?’
‘No.’
Holmes set down the bottle of ink on the desk. He took a deep breath, willing control. I could sense his mounting anger.
‘Why did you not mention this to us earlier?’
‘It was told to me in confession.’
Holmes glanced at me then turned back to the young man. ‘She mentioned nothing of this to us! Did she suspect anyone in particular to have written this letter?’
‘Mention, sir? Then you have seen her?’ asked Buttons, flushing with excitement.
‘We have just come from her, Mr Buttons. You may rest assured she is safe.’
‘Thank the heavens!’ the young man exclaimed. ‘But where is she?’
‘To the point, did Miss Wyndham venture a theory about the writer of this letter?’
‘No. But it must be one of her young men!’
‘Your delay in telling me of the letter is inexcusable,’ exclaimed Holmes. ‘It changes everything.’
‘My son—’ began Lamb.
‘Her fears were expressed in confidence, Father. During confession,’ cried Buttons. He turned to Holmes. ‘My vows do not permit …’
Holmes exhaled in impatience. He stood up. ‘Mr Buttons, if a life is at stake, surely the most pious member of the Church would use common sense to take action.’ He turned to face the older man. ‘Isn’t that right, Father Lamb?’
The priest’s face betrayed sadness and a certain resignation. ‘It is a loaded question, Mr Holmes, and one that has been debated over the years,’ said he. ‘Largely, the sanctity of the confession is one to which we cleave quite literally and in all instances.’ He turned to the younger man. ‘My son, we will discuss this at length later today.’
‘Shall we?’ continued the priest, indicating the door. ‘Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,’ he continued, ‘it appears that you have been summoned to Cambridge under false pretences. And that the family of this young lady, a not unimportant one in the hierarchy of the University, I might add, have been unduly alarmed, all in the service of reassuring Deacon Buttons that an excitable member of his flock is unharmed.’
‘At least at present she is unharmed,’ said Holmes.
‘Where is she, sir?’ blurted the young cleric. ‘Please!’
Holmes gave Buttons a sharp look. ‘I wondered if she might have thrown the doll herself, but she had not. My suspicion naturally then fell to you. Is there anything else you have managed to leave out? How did the arm part company with the body of the doll?’
Buttons looked uncertainly at his mentor. ‘I, er, don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I left the doll on the Jesus Lock bridge, hoping she would see it. The next I saw it, it was in the lock with the arm missing.’
Holmes glowered at the boy. ‘Is this precisely true?’
‘Yes, sir. She did offer me one thing, Father. May I share this with Mr Holmes?’ begged the deacon. ‘I fear for the young lady, I really do.’
Lamb sighed. ‘Use your judgement, my son. She has been found safe, remember?’
‘Share, young man, and be quick about it,’ said Holmes. ‘You have wasted my time enormously.’
Peregrine Buttons continued to struggle. The moral dilemma of this young clergyman seemed the height of hypocrisy even to me. He had lied to Holmes and gone to great trouble to create a false alarm that caused anguish to at least the girl’s mother, even as it set Holmes on the case. Surely that in itself was some kind of sin.
‘She said she was feeling a great deal of pressure to become engaged. That the pressure had put her near breaking point.’
‘It appears you know this young lady quite well, Mr Buttons,’ said my friend. ‘Then you must also know how she may strike out when she feels cornered. You worry about her, don’t you?’
Buttons was silent. He looked down at his feet. I noticed that Father Lamb was staring at his young disciple unhappily.
Holmes turned to go, then suddenly turned back.
‘What did the writing on the doll say?’
The boy looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know it by heart. But …’ He reached into a pocket and removed a small folded paper ‘It was a stanza by someone or other. Something about a lock.’’
He handed it to Holmes, who glanced at it, ‘The Rape of the Lock. Pope.’ Holmes snorted. ‘Pope’s poem is a parody. A classicist would recognize it. The lock. Your humour eludes me. What of this missing arm?’
‘I did not pull off the arm. Or throw the doll into the lock. I just sat her there on the footbridge. Dillie walks there most mornings. But I did not throw it in.’
‘Peregrine, my boy,’ said Father Lamb, ‘perhaps Dillie herself threw it in, rejecting the message upon it. Consider that, my son.’
And even though the girl hadn’t mentioned such an act, it seemed to fit.
Holmes’s eyes bored into the young man. ‘Deacon Buttons, I think it is time for you to think carefully about your commitments, your promises, and perhaps your own sense of what is right and proper. This is certainly a question for each man to ask himself. Gentlemen, you have your work cut out for you. Good day.’
Holmes exited the room. Father Lamb followed us out. At the gate leading from the rose garden to the street, Holmes paused and faced the priest. ‘Good luck with the re-establishment of your church, Father Lamb,’ he said.
Without further comment, he strode out into the lane and down the road. As I followed, I glanced back at Father Lamb, standing forlornly at the entrance to the garden.
While not a religious man myself, I nevertheless felt a pang of sympathy for him. And I rather liked Buttons, for reasons I could not explain. Despite the younger man’s subterfuge, I wished them both well.