‘That contradicts what you have just said about the maid and the family, Deacon. You realize, of course, that you have given us every reason to doubt you?’ Holmes asked sharply.

The young man stood up. ‘I suppose this was a wasted journey, then, sir?’

I stood to accompany him to the door. He was the picture of dejection.

‘I understand that you occasionally take cases gratis. I … had hoped to hire you, Mr Holmes. But I have no money of my own.’

I took him by the arm and gently propelled him into the hallway. ‘It is not a matter of money, Deacon. Mr Holmes is quite busy at present. But do keep us informed, please,’ said I, attempting to soften the blow. ‘We shall be all ears.’

‘Just a moment, Watson,’ said Holmes.

Deacon Buttons and I paused on the landing to face my friend.

‘Call it an instinct. Call it whatever you wish, Watson, but whatever the story is behind this doll … there is something chilling in the very fact of it. I have decided to investigate.’

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes!’ cried Buttons.

‘But Madame Borelli?’ I said.

‘In time, Watson. I believe we can quickly wrap things up in Cambridge. But I would like to satisfy my curiosity on one or two points. This missing young lady may indeed be in danger. Book us a train, would you please?’

The deacon closed his eyes in relief and offered up a prayer.

Without another word, I reached for our Bradshaw and attended to worldly matters. The last train to Cambridge had departed. It would have to wait until morning.

CHAPTER 12

The Wyndhams

After a few short hours of sleep, with the deacon stretched out on our divan in the sitting-room and the windows wide open to catch any breath of air, the three of us departed for the ancient town early the next morning. The Indian summer days were still long, and the sun was up when we arrived shortly after six. After securing a driver at the station, we raced through Cambridge’s dusty streets. Early morning light slanted off the strange mix of ancient and modern architecture as we headed directly for the Wyndham residence, located in a favourable riverside location at the city’s northern end.

When we arrived, it was still early, but the police were in attendance at an impressive three-storey stone house, one surly looking officer placed at the door. An expensive brougham, trimmed in red, stood between the front door and a small stable off to one side.

Wyndham was evidently a wealthy and important man.

Holmes, the deacon and I alighted from our carriage and my friend took us both by the arm, directing us away from the house and towards an adjacent carriage house.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.