I did not favour him with a reaction. ‘Why do I need the theatre when you are a constant source of amusement, Holmes? Alternating, like the current, with being vexatious.’

‘I am sorry, Watson, it is the heat.’ He winced. ‘Ouch!’ he said, pulling the still glowing cigarette from his sleeve. ‘I need to keep practising this.’

‘And, perhaps, your manners,’ I remarked.

CHAPTER 7

The Deacon

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?’