‘It is not her independence that concerns me, but her hostility. I wonder that she does not fathom the full effect.’

I thought (but did not voice) that Holmes, so terribly observant of minutiae, and so keenly aware of motives and emotional undercurrents, could still at times be completely oblivious to the effect he had on others.

Holmes was staring at me. ‘I know, Watson, that obliviousness can serve in certain cases. My brother champions it when it suits. Miss Wyndham, however, is making things harder for herself.’

‘I agree, Holmes. But who would have thrown that doll in the lock?’

‘As her sister says, there is a long list. I have a few questions for our distressed deacon. The church next, Watson.’ He made a right turn. ‘This way.’

A few minutes later, we arrived at the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. It was an ancient stone church tucked behind newer college buildings, near to the river and the Jesus Lock. Next to it was an overgrown graveyard and, by contrast, a small, extremely well-kept garden of forty or so rosebushes. They were still in full bloom on this humid September day, and glowed in diffuse pinks, reds and corals in the unfiltered sunlight which beat down on the crowded place with relentless intensity. I wondered how long a rose garden had existed here and if the flowers came before or after the name of the church.

A light tenor voice trilled out a charming melody behind a dense row of red and white roses. Holmes indicated with a finger to the lips that I should make no sound and began to sing out a melody which seemed to echo and answer the singing gardener most prettily.

A heavyset priest of about fifty, wearing a wide-brimmed hat against the sun, popped his head up behind the roses. He continued to sing, Holmes right with him. They came to a rousing cadence. ‘Ta da!’

The man laughed, rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes giving him a cheery countenance. ‘Pachelbel’s canon!’ he exclaimed. ‘Another baroque music aficionado! Lovely contrapuntal lines! Do you play an instrument, sir?’

‘I do,’ said Holmes pleasantly. ‘The violin.’

‘Wonderful. I am an organist, myself.’ The man came around from behind the rosebushes. He was a large fellow, but soft, well-fed, with the build and easy movement of a man who had been athletic not so long ago.

A monocle dangled down his chest, its chain entwined with that of a large cross. The secular and the religious, I thought, tangled together. I had always been wary of men of the cloth. Where others found many of them to be avuncular and receptive, I frequently felt patronized and, well, judged. But perhaps that was my upbringing. The clergy of my parents’ church had indeed been rather unpleasant.

The man’s piercing, merry eyes were nearly lost in the folds of his pale, chubby face. At this moment they conveyed an amused welcome.