Before Holmes could retort, Mrs Hudson entered and interrupted us.
‘Peregrine Buttons, Deacon, Church of Our Lady of the Roses, Cambridge. Says you are expecting him, Mr Holmes?’ She stepped aside, leaving us facing a young man.
Holmes clearly had forgotten this appointment. ‘Ah, Deacon Buttons!’ He gestured to the chair recently vacated by Ilaria Borelli.
Surely he would not take on a second case? But I had not long to worry.
This slender fellow edged past Mrs Hudson and paused at the threshold. He was garbed in black, with a cleric’s collar and wide black Saturno hat. I put his age at twenty-two or so. His eager, innocent expression, wide-set blue eyes and handsome, boyish face conveyed both hope and trepidation.
He paused, realizing that his clothing was soaked and dripping onto the rug. He had apparently worn no overcoat.
‘Oh, please forgive me!’ He flushed, backing into the hallway, brushing the moisture from his jacket.
‘Come in, young man! Never mind the rug,’ said Holmes, impatiently.
The young deacon entered, removing his hat. Raindrops dotted his gold spectacles. A wild mop of fair hair, flattened on the top from the hat but curling wildly all around the sides from the dampness, gave the amusing effect of a faux tonsure with a peculiar shape. Noticing my stare, he ruffled his hair, erasing the effect, and attempted a shy smile. He had remarkably straight, white teeth.
I also observed carefully manicured hands and a small gold ring. Here was a handsome young man of the cloth who was rather aware of his appearance. Unusual, I thought.
‘Mr Buttons. Your name was derived from Bouton? French?’ said Holmes.
The young man nodded.
‘I received your note early this morning.’ He turned to me. ‘Watson, it concerned a young lady who has gone missing in Cambridge. Come and sit down – here, Deacon, place this cloth underneath you on the chair – and begin at the beginning. I would like my colleague Dr Watson to hear your story.’
The young man sat. ‘Well, Mr Holmes, as I wrote to you last night, Miss Odelia Ann Wyndham – Dillie, as she is known – is missing. This is a young lady of my acquaintance, a regular at our services, and the daughter of Richard Anderson Wyndham.’
‘Yes, the famous Cambridge don, the classics professor and wayward archeologist? I inferred her relationship from the name. Is she his only child?’
‘He has two daughters. She is the younger. In any case, Dillie has been missing since Monday afternoon.’
‘Dillie? You are on a first-name basis?’
The young man shifted in his chair. ‘Father Lamb, my superior, encourages us to consider each of our flock as family … children of God.’
‘Hmm. Watson, the deacon’s is a new Catholic church in Cambridge, recently reopened after a scandalous closure eight years ago. Go on, Deacon.’
‘Er … yes!’ said the young man. ‘How do you know all this, if you do not mind the question, sir?’
‘I read. In any case, Miss Wyndham was last seen on Monday, and you wrote to me the next day. That is not much time to have passed. What is your concern?’
‘Well, on Tuesday after evening services, we – that is, I – run a discussion group in the church, and Dillie has always attended. But not last night. I was already worried, Mr Holmes, because we had made an informal arrangement for earlier in the day, and she did not show up as planned for that, either.’
‘What kind of arrangement?’
‘We were to have lunch.’
‘Where?’
‘At the The Bull and Rat.’
‘A pub, from the name. Is it a regular habit of yours to meet single female congregants in pubs for lunch?’
The young cleric flushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Father Lamb says that if we can counsel a person in need, it does not matter where or when, only that—’
‘How old is the lady?’
‘Eighteen, I believe.’
‘You believe, or you know?’
‘Eighteen and four months.’
Holmes said nothing for a long moment. Then, ‘On what subject were you to counsel her?’
‘She is troubled by a young man at the university. Frederick Eden-Summers. A third year, going for law.’
‘Ah, some facts at last. Eden-Summers, that name is familiar. Watson, be so good as too look that up in my files. Would we be correct in consulting Debrett’s as well, Deacon?’
The young man nodded once again.
I was already wading through the clutter to Holmes’s alphabetized files. I retrieved the appropriate box, and Debrett’s as well, wherein the details of peerage soon revealed that Frederick Eden-Summers was the oldest son of the Duke of Harbingden, and therefore set to inherit his father’s estate and title. Once that matter had been determined, Holmes turned again to our young visitor.
‘Now, how is Mr Eden-Summers troubling the young lady?’
‘She is being pressured to accept his marriage proposal.’
‘By the young man himself?’
‘Apparently, and by her father as well. It is shameful! I am of the school of thought that a young lady should choose for herself. My own sister is at Girton. A very independent young lady. Our parents raised us this way.’
‘Yet you chose a profession with many restrictions. Are your parents pleased with your choice?’
‘My parents are dead, Mr Holmes. I left the university after one year, as I had no way to support myself once my father was gone. And so I entered the Church. But what has this to do with Miss Wyndham?’
‘Perhaps nothing. How do you propose to help the young lady?’
‘Spiritual counselling, of course.’
‘Of course. What says her family about this brief disappearance?’
‘Strangely, nothing. Polly, her maid, says they are not concerned.’
‘You are on intimate terms with her maid?’
‘Mr Holmes, sir! Polly attends our church!’
‘Why, then, Deacon Buttons, if the family is unconcerned, are you worried?’
The young man looked down at his hat.
‘Be forthcoming, Mr Buttons, or I shall send you home on the next train.’ Holmes leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His foot tapped in the air, giving away his impatience. He caught my frown and stopped the foot.
Mrs Hudson arrived with a glass of water. She set it down next to Buttons, kicked a small stack of refuse out of her way, glanced at me, and departed.
The deacon turned his hat in his hands, acutely uncomfortable. After a moment, Holmes broke the silence.
‘Is Miss Wyndham aware of your affections?’
The young man looked up, startled. I had seen such a reaction so many times.
‘Come now, it is patently obvious,’ said Holmes.
‘I … I have said nothing. Perhaps she has intuited. But in my position, I am unable … I cannot offer her, and she deserves …’
Holmes got up and moved to the fireplace. He rummaged among several pipes in his rack and selected one. This kind of sentiment made him uncomfortable. He turned and leaned against the mantel, lighting his pipe with a match, then tossed it into the fire, which had sunk to embers, I was relieved to note.
‘I believe you mean well, Mr Buttons, but you have wasted your time. The family’s response is telling. It is most likely the young lady is away shopping or visiting relatives. Or perhaps she needs time alone to think. Please return to Cambridge. But do cable me if Miss Wyndham does not return in two days, or if her family also become worried. Then, and only then, will I consider this a case of a missing person. I wish you well with Miss Wyndham. Dr Watson will see you out.’
I accompanied the young deacon to the door where I gently reiterated Holmes’s offer. He nodded tearfully and departed. I returned to find my friend frowning as he shuffled papers on the table.
‘Why do people bother me with these trifles? The girl is obviously fleeing his unwanted attentions. Any fool can see that.’
‘I don’t know, Holmes. He is a terribly good-looking young man. He seems sincere.’
‘With few prospects, as he pointed out.’
‘Not every young girl is so concerned about that.’
‘But priests are meant to be celibate,’ he said. ‘Unless I have missed something. Where are those notes?’
‘Catholic clergy may marry, if they do so before ordination,’ I offered.
Holmes shrugged. ‘Romance is your department, Watson. But it hardly matters.’ He glanced about him as if noticing for the first time the mounds of his personal clutter. ‘My friend, I have let things get out of hand here. Will you help me for a couple of hours? Then off to dinner and the Great Borelli’s performance as compensation?’
I hesitated. ‘I will help you, Holmes, this time. But it will all go into the fire.’
‘No! Some of these papers are vital. I need to find—ah, what a mess Madame has made of these!’
‘No promises.’ I bent down to relight the fire, and sighed. It was still too hot in the room for it. But perhaps burning his papers was the reason he had had it blazing in the first place.
As I leaned in with a match, this was confirmed for me. The charred remains of a stack of papers lay at the bottom of the grate. I made out the words at the top of one. It was a treatise on medieval locks. Was he going try opening my little box?