“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.”

“That won't be necessary; I have a taxicab waiting for me. I think.”

Still, his sense of responsibility demanded that he arrange for an escort, who proved to be the secretary occupying the desk outside of his office door. The woman was at least sixty and so thin she might have snapped in two had I leant on her firmly, but fortunately that did not prove necessary: The tonic of leaving the confines of the hospital restored me to a degree of normalcy. Once outside of the doors, I thanked her, and even remembered to give her my various addresses for the information she would be unearthing for me.

The taxi pulled up, and as I climbed in, I told my faithful driver that I wished to return to the hotel.

I believe he chatted at me the whole way back; I heard not a word.

And it never occurred to me to look around for a gunman.