‘You say there has been no murder, no abduction. What are you inferring? A relationship of any type at all outside of confessor and advisor would – well, I would not believe it of him. Deacon Buttons is a paragon of virtue.’

‘So that my time in Cambridge is not wasted, may I please inspect Deacon Buttons’ rooms? I would like to content myself with what I know we all believe to be true – that this exemplary young man had nothing to do with the doll found in the lock.’

Pastor Lamb smiled thinly and acceded. ‘If it will put an end to this, then certainly,’ he said.

CHAPTER 18

Buttons Unbuttoned

We were led to the rectory, an adjoining small building, more recent in construction, which held a meeting room and the private sleeping quarters of both churchmen. Buttons’ small room was spartan in the extreme, with few places to hide anything. Lamb left us there on our own.

Holmes’s initial examination was rapidly done. A narrow single bed, a desk and a plain armoire crowded into a small space gave the room the look of a gaol cell. A window draped by a single panel of stained linen opened out to an unused part of the garden, and beyond that, the river. The barren, tight quarters were not dissimilar to Holmes’s own ascetic bedroom in Baker Street, minus the smoking paraphernalia, the maps and the portraits of various criminals, and with the addition here of a crucifix hanging on the wall. Against another wall, the small pine armoire contained nothing but two changes of cleric’s vestments, two pairs of boots and a rather flamboyant set of silk pyjamas.

But upon the second pass, Holmes discovered, somewhat to his dismay, what he was looking for. It was on the young deacon’s small, rough-hewn desk that Holmes found traces of ink.

‘Look, Watson!’

As I looked closely at the minuscule ink stains, Holmes felt all around the desk. With a cry of triumph, he discovered a small leather bag, hidden and hanging by a peg behind the desk. He removed it to reveal a nearly full bottle of ink and a dip pen. The ink was an unusual purplish-blue colour, and it unmistakably matched the blurred writing on the doll.

Hearing a slight sound, I turned to see Father Lamb standing in the doorway. Not having heard the entire story of the waterlogged writing on the doll, it seemed he may not have caught the inference.

Suddenly young Deacon Buttons appeared just behind him in the hallway. He called out ‘Hello, Father!’ to Lamb, but upon spotting me in his room, a look of panic washed over him.

‘Dr Watson!’ he blurted. ‘What brings you to my—’ But at that moment Lamb stepped to the side, and the young man got a clear view of Holmes at the desk with the ink bottle. The words died in his throat. He knew in an instant the game was up.