Vitale was lodged in the second court at St Cedd’s not far from the Cavendish Laboratory. At the entrance to this large court, in which several buildings faced a plain green, we were confronted by a porter. A small, grizzled man, his upturned nose and large teeth putting me in mind of a hungry squirrel, he sat in a cubbyhole off the arched stone entrance. The porter set down the Illustrated Police News to demand our business. Intuiting instantly that the Wyndham name would not impress this man, Holmes mentioned that he was investigating an exciting murder, and time was of the essence! He explained that a young woman had been killed, implying that he was an official on the case, and that he needed to speak to Leo Vitale urgently.

‘Murder, you say! Well, that is fascinating. Leo Vitale! Now there’s a strange fellow. Well, these scientists are a queer lot. They are all clustered in staircase K and L, across the green there. Do you suspect him?’

‘No, but he may be a witness. Our business is urgent, sir! His room, please?’ said Holmes.

‘Odd, folks, these science fellows, I tell you. Strange smells. They set their rooms afire – exploding things. And always wanting coffee, coffee, coffee.’

‘His room, please?’ I said, before Holmes lost his temper.

‘Room Five. Top of staircase K. You’ll tell me what you find, then? So’s I can be prepared?’

‘Certainly,’ lied Holmes.

We found K and were up the stairs in a trice. By contrast to those of Eden-Summers’ lodgings, this staircase was dark and shabby, the wooden treads deeply scuffed, and the outer doors to all the rooms were all pockmarked and firmly closed. As we ascended, the heat grew oppressive.

The outer door to Room Five was ajar. We were in luck – Vitale, too, was in. Holmes knocked and opened the inner door to discover a single room, low ceilinged and dark.

Leo Vitale was seated at a desk, sweltering under the eaves, once again poring over a single sheet of paper, his head in his hands. He did not look up. Stacks of books, papers, and the odd bit of laboratory paraphernalia were piled high on every available surface. Two valises with a jumble of clothing and linens poked out from under the narrow bed, and the young man’s student gown, jacket and hat were hung from pegs all over the room. Even within the hallowed halls of Cambridge, our British class system made itself precisely known. Vitale looked up at us, his face devoid of expression. I noted dark circles under his eyes and a kind of sadness reflected there.

‘Mr Vitale,’ said Holmes. ‘Forgive the interruption. We are here on a matter of utmost urgency.’

The young scientist inhaled and sat up straight. ‘You again. What is this about now?’

‘A crime has been committed against a certain young lady. The police will be arriving shortly to question you,’ said Holmes.