Holmes turned to Hadley. ‘So you see, it was done in the name of love.’

‘This was not the kind of love I anticipated,’ said Hadley with evident distaste. ‘It would not be the first time, I suppose, among clergy.’

‘That is unclear, and ultimately irrelevant. Love of any kind is not for us to judge,’ said Holmes. ‘What is critical is that Father Lamb’s feelings became a kind of obsession. An obsession which propelled these horrible events. Confess, Lamb. Because there is nothing left for you, now, but to absolve your guilt in the manner of your Church.’

‘You will never hear a confession from me,’ said the father.

‘But perhaps you will make one to me,’ came a voice from the door. Peregrine Buttons stood there, weak but alive, and supported by Palmer.

My heart leapt.

The priest turned in his seat and staggered to his feet at the sight of his young disciple. ‘Peregrine? Dear boy! You are alive!’ He sobbed and started towards the boy, but Wright stepped forward and quietly slipped on handcuffs. The priest looked down at them in surprise. Then up at his young deacon.

‘Peregrine! I did this to save you,’ he cried.

‘No, Father. You did it so as not to lose me,’ said Peregrine Buttons. ‘But I was already lost.’

CHAPTER 43

221B

It was on a Tuesday morning, five days after the events in Cambridge, that Holmes and I were ensconced at Baker Street, recovering from our adventure at the great university town. Holmes’s mood had been morose. He would not speak of it, but I knew that despite solving Dillie’s murder, his inability to prevent her death haunted him. I pointed out that without him on the case, Vitale might have hanged for the crime – in his cell or on the scaffold. The murderer would be free and young Deacon Buttons’ fate uncertain. But my words did not appease him. Time, I suppose, might give him perspective.

Shortly after breakfast, I reclined on our settee, my injured leg elevated as I attempted to enjoy the last of my coffee and the relative calm of a sitting-room that had been neatened once again by Mrs Hudson. A note from Polly had been left on the table, presumably by Holmes, and I was amused to read in her untutored printing that Miss Atalanta Wyndham no longer lived with her parents, but had run off with the gardener. Holmes had correctly intuited that relationship, to the young lady’s displeasure. And Polly herself had found a new position in Inspector Hadley’s household.

With the Cambridge complexities mostly resolved, I suppose I should have been at peace. But I was not and was still awash in anxiety. I had heard nothing regarding my mysterious box. Two letters to the strange Mr Lossop had gone unanswered. Holmes had admonished me to wait, but I was gathering my nerves to travel to the man and confront him, alone if need be.