It was Holmes … with Buttons cradled in one arm. Struggling to keep the young man’s head above water, he managed – just barely – to keep them afloat with his other arm. But he was losing the battle, and despite my friend’s immense strength, they were slowly being drawn backward towards the drain.

But seeing the boy had been freed, I struggled with the lever to shut the lock. It was not designed to close midway and resisted. I looked up.

The two men in the water had joined Holmes, and all three now held the boy’s head out of the water, and their combined forces were able to withstand the current. A fourth policeman joined me at the controls, and together the two of us managed to close down the drain.

I ran to the bank just as the swimmers reached it. The two policemen lifted Buttons, and I reached down to grasp my friend’s arm as he approached the shore, pulling him to safety.

Holmes gasped and coughed up water. I sat him down on the rain-soaked grass, and kneeled next to him to assess his condition. The rain had stopped, and the eastern horizon was glimmering in light, slanting in through the clouds. The dim rays lit up his exhausted face. He gagged, then coughed up water, and I struck him twice on the back to help.

He held his hand up. ‘I am fine,’ he gasped. ‘See to the boy. May have been too late—’

Deacon Buttons was laid out on his stomach on the grass nearby. Two policemen were administering artificial respiration, with Buttons’ arms stretched above him. A bloodied wrist showed where he’d been caught in the lock mechanism.

I ran to help. It was light enough to see the deacon’s drowned face, young and innocent-looking in repose. And yet he was a murderer, I thought. The cut on his wrist was not deep, but he was not breathing. I instructed the two officers to sit him up and we began the arm lifts that sometimes worked when the prone position did not.

Still no breath.

‘On his stomach again,’ I ordered. Holmes was now standing above me.

‘Will he live?’ he asked.

I heard a voice in the distance: ‘Buttons! My God, Buttons!’

With the two policemen’s help, once again we turned the boy over, raised his arms and began another set of rhythmic manipulations hoping to restart his breathing. There was no response. And then, to my surprise, Buttons coughed once and vomited up water. We changed tactics and sat him up, leaning forward. He coughed, gagged, and inhaled at last.

Behind him, Father Lamb had arrived, his face contorted in grief and worry. He leaned in to take the young deacon’s arm. ‘Peregrine, my son, my son,’ he moaned. ‘Dear boy. My God, what has happened here?’

‘Stand back, Father,’ I said. ‘He came near to drowning.’