Holmes withdrew his lockpick kit, and we were soon inside. The room was enormous for a student accommodation, larger than our sitting-room in Baker Street. It was nicely appointed with a wide bed, a number of quality bookcases and an intricately carved armoire. Linen curtains billowed in the hot afternoon breeze. The moth-eaten rug on the floor must once have cost a king’s ransom. Hung on one wall was a magnificent longbow, the patina of its glorious wooden limbs gleaming in the morning sunlight. I remembered Atalanta mentioning ‘Freddie’s’ passion for archery. And there, to the right, at one end of the spacious room, was a most curious sight.

It was an antique card table, littered with bottles of ale at each corner, around which were three empty chairs, two turned over on their sides, and numerous discarded bottles. Cards were spread across the table in a jumble, as were various coins and numerous crumpled white fivers. Everything spoke of casual wealth.

Two young men were still at the table, although this was not exactly accurate. The feet of one were up on the table, the rest of him lying down on the floor face up, dead to the world. And seated but draped across the table, head facing away from us, was Freddie Eden-Summers.

His tousled mop of golden-brown hair was instantly recognizable, with the familiar tennis sweater clothing his torso. But his lower half sported only undergarments, feet bare. Both arms were outstretched on the table, one hand on a stack of five-pound notes, the other grasping a bottle. Just as I had begun to worry that we’d come upon a second murder scene, a loud snore emanated from this partially clothed figure.

‘Mr Eden-Summers,’ said Holmes, the sharpness of his tone intending to cut through the torpor of the room’s denizens. There was no response.

Holmes shook his head. He moved to the bed, pulled off one blanket from the jumble that was upon it, and placed it on the table next to the slumbering golden-haired boy. At the washbasin he filled a small drinking glass and then returned to the table, where he poured it over the head of Frederick Eden-Summers.

The young man sprang awake with a snort. ‘Wha – wha—?’ He coughed.

‘Mr Eden-Summers!’ Holmes said. The boy nodded, then in a series of moves worthy of a pantomime actor he stood, took us in, noticed his lack of trousers, looked about in confusion for something with which to cover himself, grabbed the blanket Holmes had placed next to him, and wrapped it around himself to cover everything from the waist down. He then turned to face us blearily, but with a certain pluck.