Dr Fetch carefully lifted his spoon and then cried out as though scalded. The whey-faced girl rushed to attend him.

‘What is it? I ejaculated. ‘May I be of assistance?’

‘It’s nothing, nothing!’ he cried, pushing away the servant. ‘A mere splash on my shirtfront. And yet … I fear I must change. I have a peculiar horror of staining … ’

He scraped back his chair with a shriek of woodwork. ‘If you will excuse me.’

The servant opened the door, and he shuffled out. The door closed with a soft report and I sighed. This was getting me nowhere! Had Dimple sent me on a wild goose chase?

At length the door opened again and the girl appeared.

‘The master sends his apologies and begs that you join him in the withdrawing room for Hock and Seltzer.’

And so, at last, I laid eyes on my host. Illumined only by a shaded desk lamp, the little halo of orange showed a bent-backed old man, almost swallowed by a winged chair. He seemed more beard than flesh, great ropes of wispy white hair tumbling down his waistcoat almost down to his slippers. He glanced towards me and his blue spectacles flashed in the lamplight.

‘My apologies again, sir,’ he whispered. ‘But I have my ways. Cigar?’

I demurred.

‘You don’t mind if I –?’

I waved my hand and then was conscious once more of the curious mechanical sound. To my astonishment, Dr Fetch reached for a cigar box – daubed with phosphorescent paint so as to render it visible in the near darkness – and plucked a fat specimen from within. But the hand with which he did so was of surpassing oddness.

‘Ah yes,’ he said, holding his digits aloft. ‘A little memento of the days when I was of more athletic bent.’ His hand whirred and clicked as he waggled his fingers. ‘It is made from celluloid and steel and replaces the one I lost to a Nile crocodile back in ’56.’ He chuckled, exposing tiny yellow teeth. ‘Now then … ’ He lent forward in his chair. ‘I am Dr Fetch. Dr Brutus Marganus Porrex Cassivelaunus – um, Dennis – Fetch. I specialise in the unusual. The uncommon. The outré. Indeed, I have devoted my life to the exploration of all that lies on the margins, shall we say, of experience. I have delved into some very dark corners of the world, sir, and come back –’ he chuckled and lifted his mechanical hand again – ‘relatively intact. But, in a very long life, I cannot say I have ever heard of such symptoms as this … Crimson Horror … before. You have no theories of your own?’

‘None. I am at my wits’ end.’

‘I have consulted my indexes and come up short. And the police …?’

‘Seem intent on sweeping the whole matter under the carpet.’

‘Such is their way,’ murmured Dr Fetch. ‘I think, however, that I may be able to help you.’

‘You do!’ I cried, my heart leaping.