‘And you tried to tell her this, while still supporting her independence, Holmes. You did the right thing.’

‘No young woman deserves such a fate!’ he cried and released my arms. I almost fell backwards into the refuse.

‘Careful, Holmes. We are out of our element here. And you do not have a client, remember.’

‘Dillie. The late Odelia Wyndham is my client,’ said he. ‘And I will find her murderer.’ We stood, but he yanked me back down when he spotted two policemen running in the direction of the river. After a minute, he peeked out. ‘It’s clear, Watson. We must do our work before the police. Tell me of the post-mortem along the way.’

I did so as Holmes and I hurried down side streets and ducked into alleys. Holmes’s plan was to visit each of Dillie’s beaus in turn, as quickly as possible. It would require a fair amount of luck, but there was no dissuading him. He knew the Cambridge police were not up to the case. I had to agree.

Our first stop was Trinity College, and the rooms of Freddie Eden-Summers. Perhaps the missing engagement ring meant Dillie had broken off her engagement with this young man. And Eden-Summers was fit and strong enough to overcome the girl. Perhaps he had torn his ring from her finger.

If luck was with us, we could question him and be gone before the police arrived to pursue the matter themselves.

Minutes later, we found ourselves facing his elegant student lodgings in one of the more beautiful courts in Cambridge. Upon entering the foyer, the heat faded instantly to a delicious coolness. The Wyndham name gave us immediate cachet, and a porter led us to Mr Eden-Summers’ room without hesitation.

We followed him up a spiralling staircase to the third floor. As we passed each door in the stairwell, I took in muffled laughter, the sound of a tennis ball hitting the wall, and when both inner and outer doors were open, caught glimpses of young men lounging, studying, smoking. There was a distinct aura of sports, coffee, whisky, cigarette smoke and sweat, with an occasional waft of expensive cologne. It was the beginning of term, and studies not much in evidence, at least here.

I was struck intensely by the difference between this renowned institution and my own less prestigious alma mater. The outer door to Frederick Eden-Summers’ room was open, indicating he was in. The porter gave a short knock on the inner door and called out, ‘Mr Eden-Summers. You have visitors!’ There was no reply. ‘Be patient. He is there,’ said the porter. ‘I shall return with coffee.’ He left us.

Coffee, rather than a key, I wondered. The urgency of our mission tightened my chest as several loud knocks on the door went unanswered.