As Hadley began instructing his men to begin the investigation into Dillie’s death, I made my way outside and walked down the sunbaked street, unsure of what to do next. I had no idea where Holmes might have gone, but I had not long to ponder this as a hiss drew my attention to a narrow alleyway. In the shadows, a head of tousled dark hair peeked from behind several stacks of rubbish. A skinny arm waved me over.
I glanced about me, then ducked into the alley. ‘Holmes!’ I whispered. ‘You have made a mistake. Hadley was planning to release you tomorrow, and now—’
Holmes pulled me down next to him behind the heaping waste. ‘Tomorrow will be too late, Watson!’ He grasped both my arms, too hard, his face inches from mine. He was the picture of dismay. ‘Dear God, I have failed that young woman!’
‘No, Holmes. You gave her clear advice which she ignored.’ He shook his head. ‘You warned her that her provocations put her in danger.’
‘Not her provocations. It was her casual cruelty that made me fear for her.’
‘And you tried to tell her this, while still supporting her independence, Holmes. You did the right thing.’
‘No young woman deserves such a fate!’ he cried and released my arms. I almost fell backwards into the refuse.
‘Careful, Holmes. We are out of our element here. And you do not have a client, remember.’
‘Dillie. The late Odelia Wyndham is my client,’ said he. ‘And I will find her murderer.’ We stood, but he yanked me back down when he spotted two policemen running in the direction of the river. After a minute, he peeked out. ‘It’s clear, Watson. We must do our work before the police. Tell me of the post-mortem along the way.’
I did so as Holmes and I hurried down side streets and ducked into alleys. Holmes’s plan was to visit each of Dillie’s beaus in turn, as quickly as possible. It would require a fair amount of luck, but there was no dissuading him. He knew the Cambridge police were not up to the case. I had to agree.
Our first stop was Trinity College, and the rooms of Freddie Eden-Summers. Perhaps the missing engagement ring meant Dillie had broken off her engagement with this young man. And Eden-Summers was fit and strong enough to overcome the girl. Perhaps he had torn his ring from her finger.
If luck was with us, we could question him and be gone before the police arrived to pursue the matter themselves.
Minutes later, we found ourselves facing his elegant student lodgings in one of the more beautiful courts in Cambridge. Upon entering the foyer, the heat faded instantly to a delicious coolness. The Wyndham name gave us immediate cachet, and a porter led us to Mr Eden-Summers’ room without hesitation.
We followed him up a spiralling staircase to the third floor. As we passed each door in the stairwell, I took in muffled laughter, the sound of a tennis ball hitting the wall, and when both inner and outer doors were open, caught glimpses of young men lounging, studying, smoking. There was a distinct aura of sports, coffee, whisky, cigarette smoke and sweat, with an occasional waft of expensive cologne. It was the beginning of term, and studies not much in evidence, at least here.
I was struck intensely by the difference between this renowned institution and my own less prestigious alma mater. The outer door to Frederick Eden-Summers’ room was open, indicating he was in. The porter gave a short knock on the inner door and called out, ‘Mr Eden-Summers. You have visitors!’ There was no reply. ‘Be patient. He is there,’ said the porter. ‘I shall return with coffee.’ He left us.
Coffee, rather than a key, I wondered. The urgency of our mission tightened my chest as several loud knocks on the door went unanswered.
Holmes withdrew his lockpick kit, and we were soon inside. The room was enormous for a student accommodation, larger than our sitting-room on Baker Street. It was nicely appointed with a wide bed, a number of quality bookcases and an intricately carved armoire. Linen curtains billowed in the hot afternoon breeze. The moth-eaten rug on the floor must once have cost a king’s ransom. Hung on one wall was a magnificent longbow, the patina of its glorious wooden limbs gleaming in the morning sunlight. I remembered Atalanta mentioning ‘Freddie’s’ passion for archery. And there, to the right, at one end of the spacious room, was a most curious sight.
It was an antique card table, littered with bottles of ale at each corner, around which were three empty chairs, two turned over on their sides, and numerous discarded bottles. Cards were spread across the table in a jumble, as were various coins and numerous crumpled white fivers. Everything spoke of casual wealth.
Two young men were still at the table, although this was not exactly accurate. The feet of one were up on the table, the rest of him lying down on the floor face up, dead to the world. And seated but draped across the table, head facing away from us, was Freddie Eden-Summers.
His tousled mop of golden-brown hair was instantly recognizable, with the familiar tennis sweater clothing his torso. But his lower half sported only undergarments, feet bare. Both arms were outstretched on the table, one hand on a stack of five-pound notes, the other grasping a bottle. Just as I had begun to worry that we’d come upon a second murder scene, a loud snore emanated from this partially clothed figure.
‘Mr Eden-Summers,’ said Holmes, the sharpness of his tone intending to cut through the torpor of the room’s denizens. There was no response.
Holmes shook his head. He moved to the bed, pulled off one blanket from the jumble that was upon it, and placed it on the table next to the slumbering golden-haired boy. At the washbasin he filled a small drinking glass and then returned to the table, where he poured it over the head of Frederick Eden-Summers.
The young man sprang awake with a snort. ‘Wha – wha—?’ He coughed.
‘Mr Eden-Summers!’ Holmes said. The boy nodded, then in a series of moves worthy of a pantomime actor he stood, took us in, noticed his lack of trousers, looked about in confusion for something with which to cover himself, grabbed the blanket Holmes had placed next to him, and wrapped it around himself to cover everything from the waist down. He then turned to face us blearily, but with a certain pluck.
Holmes opened his mouth to speak but Eden-Summers held out one finger, signalling us to wait. He turned back to the table, noticed the feet resting on it, peered over at the figure on the floor. ‘Laurence?’ he mumbled, then grinned at us. Scanning the table, he seized a nearby bottle, took two long swigs, emitted a sonorous belch, and turned again to face us.
‘All right, then. Gentlemen, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ he intoned with all the grace a half-clad, drunken man of twenty could manage. ‘You look, er … familiar?’
‘Mr, Eden-Summers, I am here on the matter of Miss Odelia Wyndham. Or Dillie, as you know her,’ said Holmes.
‘Have we met?’ the boy slurred. ‘Oh, yes. Wedding planner? I …’
‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I am his friend, Dr John Watson,’ said I. ‘We are here—’
‘A detective? What? Oh, Dillie, my God, what has she done now?’
‘You are engaged to the young lady, are you not?’ asked Holmes, sternly.
‘Why, yes. She has the ring. It was in the newspaper … erm …’ The youth peered at Holmes with bloodshot eyes. ‘Tell me, old man, why is a consulting detective and his … whoever you are … barging into my room at this hour of the morning?’
‘It is after three p.m.’ I said.
‘I’ll need you to account for the last eighteen hours,’ said Holmes.
Just then the young man on the floor stirred. His feet fell with a thump onto the threadbare oriental carpet, where he lay sprawled.
‘Where are my manners?’ said Eden-Summers. ‘Let me introduce Laurence Manon Le Cru – my friend and fellow Dallier. That’s our club. He was with me.’ Eden-Summers waved grandly at this figure, then peered over the table at him. ‘Larry, where are the others?’
‘Gone,’ moaned Le Cru from the floor. ‘You cleaned them out.’
‘I say!’ Eden-Summers turned to us with an unsteady smile. ‘After I lost my shirt, or rather my trousers, I suppose I had something of a comeback. Yes, I remember it now.’
‘To the point, young man!’ said Holmes sternly.
‘All right. What was the question?’ The fellow blinked, swayed, then closed his eyes in an effort at cogitation. ‘But wait, just a moment! How did you get in here?’
‘Down through the chimney, Mr Eden-Summers. Put on your clothes, send your friend away, and call up for coffee at once, if you know what is good for you,’ barked Holmes.
‘Oh, I seldom know what is good for me,’ slurred Eden-Summers.
‘And when he does …’ came an even blurrier voice from the floor.
‘It matters not a whit!’ said both in unison, then laughed.
‘Mr Eden-Summers, pull yourself together. You may talk to me or to the police.’
‘My word!’
Holmes nodded to me, indicating ‘Larry’. I helped the boy up with a touch more force than he clearly was used to, and handing him his shoes, ejected him into the hall. As I returned, Frederick Eden-Summers was just fastening his trousers.
‘Sit down, young man,’ said Holmes sternly. ‘Where were you last night between suppertime and this morning at six?’
The boy flopped into a chair and looked about for his shoes. ‘I do not like the sound of this. What has Dillie done exactly?’
Holmes was silent.
The boy’s face went grave. He stood up. ‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’
‘Again, I ask, where were you?’
‘Right here. The Dalliers. Our bi-weekly game.’
‘Tell me about the Dalliers,’ said Holmes.
‘A club I started. We … er … we gamble, dine, drink and generally carouse. It’s a small group. We are dedicated to bringing a special touch of levity to our otherwise quite dreary studies. We study the law. Before the wig, before the bar, we … drink. And gamble.’ He smiled charmingly. I could see the appeal he would have had for a young woman. Rakish, and rich beyond compare. Even his dishevelled clothing probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
‘Will anyone vouch for you besides your inebriated friend?’ Holmes asked.
‘Several. Although I think they wandered off at various times. Must have been this morning, though. I recall losing big at five-thirty.’ He nodded to one wall, where a grandfather clock, another unusual component of student lodging, stood bedecked with a variety of coloured socks. It did, however, read the correct time, three-thirty p.m.
The porter knocked and entered with coffee. He brought only one cup, handed it to young Eden-Summers, who leaped up and, as a parched desert traveller might grab a drink, took the cup and gulped it down. The porter retreated.
The young man shook his head, then met our eyes. ‘Sir, I see you are here on serious business. What?’
‘Sit down again, Mr Eden-Summers, and put that cup on the table.’
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘Very well. Miss Odelia Wyndham was found drowned some four hours ago.’
The boy dropped the cup with a clatter. His face went white.
‘Dillie! But … but I was with her just yesterday. She …’ His voice trailed off as he focused on an image which seemed in the far distance. His face clouded, and he closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and gave a long, shuddering sigh.
Holmes glanced at me in frustration. After a moment, Eden-Summers opened his eyes and stared at Holmes, all traces of the night’s debauchery gone. ‘Has her body been … er … are they sure that it is her?’ he asked in a new, serious voice.
‘Yes,’ said Holmes.
‘Found by whom?’
‘A baker passing the location.’
‘Where?’
‘You tell me.’
‘What? You think that I—? Why would—?’ Eden-Summers scowled. ‘My father will have something to say about this!’
‘Threats will get you nowhere, Mr Eden-Summers. The police are soon to arrive and will take you in for questioning. They’ll be considerably less patient than I.’
‘How do they know this drowned … person … is Dillie?’
‘Watson attended the post-mortem and confirmed the identity,’ said Holmes.
‘It was she,’ I said.
Eden-Summers nodded. ‘My God. That is a shame. A shame and a loss. She was—’ Here he paused. ‘She was … a fine girl. A very fine girl indeed.’ I saw no trace of tears. And an odd turn of phrase for one’s fiancée, I thought.
Holmes smiled. ‘I will need the names of your “Dalliers”. Everyone who was here and could vouch for you. I will, of course, have to confirm your presence here during the time of her death.’
‘Then you believe it was murder!’
Holmes said nothing.
‘You must believe so, else why be here? What makes you think it was a murder and not some kind of terrible accident? You said “drowned”. Where? Might she have fallen into—’
‘Fallen in? No.’
‘Dillie was an adventurous girl.’
‘There were marks. She struggled with someone.’
The boy shook his head. ‘But Dillie was a formidable young lady. Strong. Unafraid. I cannot imagine her being easily overcome.’
‘She was not easily overcome.’
These words hit their target. ‘Oh, my God! Dillie! I must wire my father. He – he – he will be …’ The boy paused. ‘But my mother will be relieved, I suppose.’
‘Relieved that your fiancée was murdered?’ I could not hold back this exclamation.
‘Then it was a murder! No, of course not relieved about that. But relieved that the wedding is off. She did not like Odelia. Our marriage was my father’s idea.’ He paused, his eyes going glassy once more. ‘Although no one would have wished … Dillie,’ he said softly. ‘Oh, Dillie.’ He looked up sharply. ‘And the scandal. What of the ring? The ring I gave her?’
‘There was no ring on the body,’ I said.
‘No ring! Perhaps in her rooms?’
‘No. What did it look like?’ asked Holmes.
‘A … an enormous diamond. Several smaller ones, and two serious emeralds. My aunt’s ring. Family heirloom. My father will have my head.’
‘Why your aunt’s ring, and not your mother’s?’
Eden-Summers shook his head, attempting to clear it. He looked up suddenly at his interlocutor with a new resolve. ‘Because she is still wearing it, old boy. What of my other ring? Gold. No jewels but a simple golden arrow? I gave it to her a month ago. Though she never wore it.’
‘No ring of any sort was found.’
The boy’s face fell, and his eyes filled with tears. ‘Dillie.’
Holmes stared at him a moment, then said to my surprise, ‘I believe you are innocent, Mr Eden-Summers. Let us help to prove it. Dr Watson can examine you in private and confirm there are no signs of a struggle.’
Freddie Eden-Summers frowned, and I sensed a certain belligerence.
‘Whoever killed Dillie will bear marks of the fight,’ said Holmes. ‘This can be done here, or more publicly at the police station, if you so choose.’
Eden-Summers’ jaw clenched, but he acquiesced and collapsed onto a worn velvet chair near the window, where I made quick work of the examination. In rapid succession I searched his hands, arms and torso thoroughly for signs of bruises, scratches, blood, or any indications that he had fought physically with the victim.
To my considerable surprise he did indeed bear the marks of a fight. He had a deep bruise under the left ribs, as though from a hard right punch, and, perhaps more telling, his own right knuckles were bruised and abraded, which I pointed out to Holmes. The young man angrily pulled down his tennis sweater and said, ‘I punched a fellow in the stairwell last night. A bit drunk, he wanted to barge into our private party.’ Holmes looked at him askance, and the boy added, chin jutting in anger, ‘This was seen by several of my Dalliers. They will vouch for me.’
‘What is this man’s name?’
Eden-Summers hesitated just a moment too long. He shrugged. ‘He had never been seen here before.’
Holmes and I exchanged a look. Undoubtedly prevarication. But before we could pursue this line of inquiry, the porter knocked crisply and opened the door without waiting.
‘Mr Eden-Summers,’ he said formally. ‘The police are downstairs. They wish to have a word.’
In a moment, Holmes and I had escaped down a back staircase and were outside in the late afternoon heat, keeping to alleys and vigilant for the police.
‘Your thoughts, Holmes?’ I asked.
‘Inconclusive. Those knuckles. And the odd story of the second ring. I wonder where it went?’
‘In the lock perhaps,’ I offered.
‘Even if his fisticuffs are verified, Eden-Summers has the financial means to have hired Dillie’s killer, if that were his intention. And his reaction was most odd.’
‘You told Eden-Summers you thought he was innocent,’ I said.
Holmes shook his head. ‘To put him at ease so that you could examine him. He is enormously entitled.’
‘That is putting it mildly, Holmes. Where next?’
‘We must see Leo Vitale before the police get to him.’