“She was hit on the head. The police thought . . .” and for the second time, his mouth moved while no sound reached me. I waited calmly until his face muscles were still before I asked him to repeat himself. His gaze flicked to the door and back, and I thought that if he got up to summon help, I would physically stop him and force the information from him. Fortunately, assault proved unnecessary.

“Someone broke into her office at home, where she met patients. Apparently he thought she was out, but she was not, and she disturbed him in the process of ransacking her desk for money. He hit her with a statue she had on the desk, and left her for dead. She wasn't found until morning. She never regained consciousness.”

There. I had it now, and hadn't fainted or gone deaf again. I could handle this. I heard myself speak, and sat wondering at my ability to appear rational.

“When was this, precisely?”

“Precisely, I don't remember. But it was in the early weeks of 1915.”

“That's not possible.”

“Er, well, I suppose I could be mistaken, although I think—”

“I'd appreciate the date, if that's available.” It could not have been so soon after I left for England, simply could not.

“I could have my secretary research it,” he said, clearly uncertain why it would matter.

“Thank you. Another question: Why is the hospital still receiving the mail addressed to her home?”

That question made his body relax into surer ground. “We administer Dr Ginzberg's estate. She left everything to the hospital, for the benefit of mental patients. Some of her holdings we sold, others we retained as income. The house is one of those.”

“Where do letters go?”

“She didn't have much family. We generally open letters, and if they are business we answer them, if personal—there are few of those anymore—we send them to a cousin of hers who lives near Philadelphia. I believe the cousin is getting on in years; her communication has become quite . . . eccentric.”

“Was an arrest made?”

“Not that I've heard.”

“Do you know the officer in charge of the investigation?”

“I met him, but years ago. His name slips my mind.”

“Perhaps your secretary could look that up as well?”

“If you like. Although as you are not family, I don't suppose he'd have much to tell you.”

“We'll see,” I told him, a trifle grimly. Although Holmes tended to travel under an assumed name—currently he was using a favourite, Sherrinford Holmes—if necessity called I would not hesitate to send him in under his own name. There wasn't a policeman in the world who would turn down a conversation with Sherlock Holmes. “Well, thank you, Mister, er . . .”

“Braithwaite,” he provided.

“Of course.” I pushed myself out of the chair, obscurely pleased that I did not fall on my face. My feet seemed remarkably far away.

“Miss Russell, let me arrange a car for you.”