I caught up with Holmes just outside of the Church of Our Lady of the Roses. The rain continued to beat a tattoo on the stone pavers and the garden soil. A small lantern high on the stone church wall sent a faint glow out over the rose garden, where the delicate flowers danced and vibrated under the heavy downfall, some knocked from their fragile stems into the growing puddles of water.

As we passed the church en route to the outer building which housed the two clergymen, I could see glowing lights coming from the basement clerestory windows and heard the sounds of banging and a few shouts. Two men ran past us with ropes and buckets. A rubber hose extended out of one of the windows, spewing water into the already soaked and pooling flowerbeds.

‘Where are Father Lamb and Deacon Buttons?’ shouted Holmes to one of them.

‘The father is down below, no idea about Buttons!’ cried one.

I glanced at my watch. It was two-thirty in the morning.

‘Picked a fine time to disappear!’ shouted another. ‘And with the father gone to London yesterday! We’ve a flood on our hands!’

‘We’ll send for help,’ said Holmes. He grabbed my arm and whispered, ‘Quick, to Buttons’ room!’

Shortly we stood dripping at the entry to his small quarters. We knocked on the door and it swung open. Empty. I started to step inside, but Holmes blocked my entry.

‘Wait, Watson. We must disturb nothing. Go and fetch some candles, please. A lantern. As much light as you can gather.’

I scavenged quickly, returning with several candles I discovered in Lamb’s spartan room down the hall, and two more from a niche nearby. Holmes had lit the paraffin light on Buttons’ desk, then quickly lit all the candles and placed them around the room. One near the window guttered and went out. I noticed the window was open a crack and the rising storm was seeping into the room.

‘Holmes, shall I close the window?’

‘No! And keep back – out of the room.’ I paused at the threshold. Holmes ran to the window, and noting something on the sill, said, ‘Stay there, in the hall, Watson.’ He left the room and returned after five very long minutes. I waited nervously, hoping that Father Lamb would not appear to confront us.

Buttons’ quarters, at first glance, were unremarkable. All seemed to be in order. The bed had been made to near military perfection. Clothes hung neatly in the open armoire, shoes aligned below it. Holmes would learn nothing here, I feared.

My friend returned shortly, his knees muddied, boots caked with mud. ‘Find anything?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Stay in the doorway. Touch nothing.’