‘Sir,’ I said, ‘if it is Miss Wyndham and there is foul play, Mr Sherlock Holmes can prove invaluable. Might you not free him to join us?’

‘No, Dr Watson. Follow me.’

I would have to stand in for my friend. As we hurried to the river, I could not help but wonder how the body could have been spotted but not removed until recently. I was soon to learn the awful reason why.

The Jesus Lock was surrounded by some twenty or thirty eager townspeople who crowded the banks, craning necks and whispering in excitement. On the bank of the lock, near the eastern end, lay what looked like a mound of clothing on the grassy slope.

As we drew closer, I could see it was a body, the head protruding. The face had been covered by two white handkerchiefs which clung to the damp features, creating a ghostly visage. The rest of the corpse was concealed by layers of summer jackets and shawls. Two delicate white feet extended out the other end of this motley pile.

Her shoes must have come off in the lock.

Five or six policemen attempted to discourage the crowd, waving hands and admonishing the gawkers. The public’s response to horrible deaths never failed to disturb me. Two constables stood directly over the corpse, attempting to act as human screens.

‘Pickering! The cloth!’ barked Hadley and indicated that the younger man should hold up the fabric to keep the crowd from seeing the body. Even as he did so, I could see running towards us a newsman and his assistant carrying photographic equipment. Pickering held up his fabric shield just in time.

Hadley and I kneeled by the body. He nodded to me, and I peeled back the handkerchiefs.

‘Dear God,’ I said. The face was indeed Dillie Wyndham’s, her blue eyes half-lidded and lips parted. She looked peaceful, but I could tell in an instant that her end had been anything but calm. A bruise above her left eye was telling. One hand was visible at the edge of the coverings, and I looked closely at it.

‘Blood under her fingernails,’ I said. ‘Clearly not a suicide.’

‘Not with that bruise,’ agreed Hadley.

I started to pull back one of the coats covering the body but Hadley stopped me with a hand on the arm. ‘Not here.’ He looked up at one of his men. ‘A full post-mortem. Inform the coroner.’

Pickering, who had the knack of insinuating himself into every discussion, had handed off the fabric screen, and was now kneeling beside us. ‘But sir, perhaps the family would prefer—’ he began.

‘No. This is my responsibility,’ said the senior man, gruffly. ‘Summon Dr Caswell. And cover the face. Now.’

Pickering hesitated.

‘Do it!’