Speaking over his shoulder, Holmes said, “I should like to borrow one of these photographs, if I may? I shall take care to return it undamaged.”

“Certainly,” the old woman replied.

Only then did Holmes stand upright, taking the album back to the table to allow her to turn the remaining pages, none of which proved of any interest to him. He turned back to the picture showing Judith Russell, eased it out of its mounts, and laid it before the old woman.

“That is Judith Russell. What can you tell me about her?”

“A very fine young woman, full of spirit. English, she was—you'd have expected her to be one of those who found the conditions trying, who burst into tears and wrung their hands uselessly at the merest nothing. I remember, one silly young thing found lice in her son's hair a few days after the fire, and collapsed into utter hysterics. And it was Mrs Russell with her fancy accent who put the girl back together again, getting her calm, sending for the barber, helping her boil the child's bedding. Most of the families left fairly quickly, as soon as they could find other arrangements and store their valuables. Others moved in as soon as the tents went vacant, of course—persons whose homes were in areas less prosperous than Pacific Heights.” She laughed suddenly, her eyes sparkling. “I remember when a bevy of ladies of the evening from the Tenderloin arrived and began to set up . . . Well, they were not made welcome by the local residents, and were sent on their way. A pity, really, they were much more cheerful than my neighbours by that point.”

“Miss Adderley, do you recall any incident in particular, involving a strange man coming to the Russell tent?”

“There may have been any number—my tent was in a different area of the park, and after the first days I spent most of my time down in neighbourhoods that needed help, serving soup and distributing bread.”

“I understand,” he said, taking care not to show disappointment. However, she was not finished.