Hadley unlocked the cell and I moved inside and knelt by Holmes, to check that his breathing was not constricted. Behind me, young Constable Palmer entered the small room outside Holmes’s cell. ‘I cannot induce Father Lamb to leave, sir. He is very concerned about the prisoner.’
‘Tell him to wait,’ Hadley answered.
As I leaned over Holmes to check his bonds, he whispered in my ear, ‘Give me your pocketknife, Watson.’
This seemed like a terrible idea. I gave Holmes my best ‘you are utterly mad’ look while saying aloud, ‘I will need to loosen this strap here.’ As I went about my task, I nevertheless managed to slip him the knife, unseen, pressing it into his hand from the bottom of the straitjacket. ‘Careful, Holmes,’ I whispered.
Giving him the knife had been against my better judgement.
‘Father Lamb is awfully impatient,’ insisted Palmer.
‘Palmer, you have your order!’ said Hadley, and then turned to me. ‘Doctor? All is well with Mr Holmes?’
‘I need another moment,’ I replied.
‘All right. Then would you be good enough to check on Mr Buttons?’ said Hadley.
He departed, and I finished and exited the cell. Palmer shut the barred door with a loud clang and locked it securely. A quick glance at my friend showed him already at work, squirming under the straitjacket.
I wondered what Holmes’s plan could be. He might free himself, and then what? He would not get far. The station was full of men and bustling with activity.
Meanwhile, I had an urgent mission. Buttons could be suffering from shock. Another suicide attempt would not be unusual. I said as much to Palmer, who assured me the bedding had been removed from Buttons’ cell to prevent him hanging himself.
‘Yes, but shock is now the risk. Can you bring a blanket and something warm to drink?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I’ll be right with you. He’s down that hallway there.’ He pointed me in the direction of the cell.
Echoing from the distant end of the hall and around the corner, I heard the familiar voice of Father Lamb. ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir. I do, I fear for this young man’s soul.’ The strident voice grew fainter.
Thinking to follow, I hurried down the corridor but made a wrong turn. I saw neither Father Lamb nor Buttons’ cell. I did pass one larger cell which contained two drunken, somnolent men. What a labyrinthine place this was!
I asked directions and at last I arrived at Buttons’ cell. I peeked in through the door’s barred window. The young man lay on the hard cot, curled into a foetal position, shivering and moaning. Father Lamb was nowhere in sight. The bedding had been removed, but it left him soaking wet and chilled. He was ghastly white, shaking mightily, and I did not like the look of him. The delay in allowing me to check him was unconscionable.
I put my face near the small window into the cell. ‘Buttons!’
He looked up, saw me, and moaned. ‘Why did you save me? I want to die.’
‘Here we are, Doctor!’ It was Palmer, with blankets and a coffee.
‘Hurry!’ I said. ‘He appears to be in shock. We need to get him warm.’
We entered and I covered the shivering young man. Palmer handed me the coffee.
‘Try to drink some of this, Deacon Buttons,’ said I. Father Lamb is on his way,’ although it was clear to me that the boy needed medical attention more than spiritual.
He moaned. ‘Father? No, no! He can’t see me like this.’
‘Easy now. He already saw you at the river. He was terrified for you. You were very nearly successful in killing yourself.’
Buttons sobbed, burying his face in his arms. ‘If only …’ he wailed.
‘Find him dry clothes, and make sure he stays warm,’ I said and left as the young policeman helped Buttons to drink. Perhaps Lamb could offer some comfort or even some insight. As I left the cell I glanced back at the young deacon. It struck me that saving a man for the second time in a day only to send him to the gallows was a questionable act of mercy.
Back in the hallway, a red-haired constable I had glimpsed at the riverside hurried by me in the hall.
‘Excuse me, Constable!’ I called out. ‘Father Lamb, the Catholic priest who was at the reception desk? He was called to see this prisoner. Do you know where he is?’
The man shrugged. ‘He wasn’t called for Buttons. It was for that other young man from last night.’
‘One of your drunks in there?’
‘Oh, no. Tall, pale fellow. Vittle or something, I think. Odd character.’
‘Leo Vitale?’
‘That’s the one. Wanted to make confession.’
How strange. But Leo Vitale was an Italian name – perhaps he was Catholic. Did asking to confess imply guilt? Holmes had said something about Vitale possibly being a third man in Buttons’ room at the rectory the night of the murder. And now Vitale wanted to confess.
This was news Holmes needed to hear.
‘Where is Vitale?’ I asked.
‘Out back, I think. We have an extra cell in what used to be the stables. Five prisoners last night. That’s crowded for us,’ he said with a laugh, then departed.
I ran back to Holmes’s cell in the desperate hope that he was still in the building. I was in luck. He had escaped his bonds and the cell itself but was still in the small anteroom where, as yet, no one had spotted him. There he had lingered and was leaning, rather casually, I thought, against the wall.
He glanced up. ‘Buttons is all right?’ His voice was weak.
‘Yes. Mild shock, but he is being treated. Give me my knife back,’ I snapped. Holmes reached into his pocket shakily. His face was ghastly white. ‘What is the matter with you?’ And then I saw it. ‘Holmes, your shoulder! You dislocated it again, you damned fool!’
‘Pop it in for me, Watson, that’s a good fellow,’ he said, handing me back my knife.
I could not take my eyes off him and fumbled as I put the thing in my pocket.
‘Now, if you don’t mind,’ he said.
He was right. I needed to work quickly before swelling made it impossible. There was no time to bring him to task for this foolish manoeuvre.
‘Stand away from the wall,’ I ordered. ‘Hold onto these bars with your other hand, and brace against me.’ I felt the injured shoulder. ‘Dear God! Why didn’t you wait? Hadley will release you eventually.’
‘Watson. Do it now!’
‘Steady, there.’
I took hold of his right wrist and pulled it gently and firmly straight out from the torso. Then yanked. There was a distinct pop and Holmes stifled his own cry into the crook of his other arm. He sank against the wall, breathing heavily. ‘I think I might need to give up on this trick.’
‘Your best idea of the day. Let us do this right, Holmes, and get you officially released. I will post bail.’
He did not move for a moment, his eyes closed in an effort to recover. ‘I must get to the rectory before the police destroy the evidence. I am not at all sure Buttons is our man, after all. But I need to confirm two details. I hope Wright—’
‘Holmes! Vitale just called for Father Lamb.’
‘Vitale called for the priest? Why?’
‘To hear his confession,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize Vitale was a religious man.’
‘He isn’t. Don’t you remember “if there is a God”?’
‘Then what would drive a man to—?’
‘Stop!’ Holmes held up a finger. ‘Be quiet.’ For five seconds he was a perfect statue. His face reflected something I had witnessed before. It was like the tumblers of a lock, clicking into place inside his mind.
Vitale killed Dillie. It had to be. The loss of a ring he could not afford to lose. The quiet, logical demeanour masking a roiling, tumultuous emotional life, a love he had never experienced, ripped from his grasping hands. By now I had become more adept at following my friend’s logic. And now, consumed with guilt, needing to confess—
‘Where is Leo Vitale being held?’ Holmes asked quietly.
‘I am not sure. I think they put him in some kind of overflow cell somewhere behind this building. In the stables.’
Holmes leaped to the door and peered into the hallway beyond. It was empty.
‘Watson, there is no time. Listen to me carefully. Go and get Hadley. Bring him to Vitale’s cell. And hurry! A man’s life depends on it!’ And he was up and running down the hall before I could stop him.
I hurried to the front of the station. ‘Inspector Hadley?’ I asked the man behind the desk.
‘Just left,’ said the fellow, nodding towards the entrance.
I exited on a run.