‘The question is, did he confess to killing Odelia Wyndham before jumping?’ Hadley smoothed his rumpled hair self-consciously. I wondered how often the inspector was pulled from his bed in this sleepy town.

‘Not exactly,’ said I. ‘But Deacon Buttons expressed some kind of guilt. I am sure Mr Holmes has more to tell you.’

‘I will hear it at the station,’ said Hadley, brusquely.

Once there, Holmes and Buttons were placed in separate cells, and I was not allowed to see either, at least not right away. The early morning temperature had dropped from the night storm, and in spite of the humidity, a fire had been lit in the reception area. I shivered in front of it. It was nearly six a.m. and I had not eaten in over twenty-four hours. Seeing my distress, the second young officer from the rescue team, a dark-haired, handsome man with a luxurious moustache, brought me a coffee and a sandwich, and attempted to make me comfortable.

‘I’m Wright,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘Close call out there.’

‘Is someone seeing to Mr Holmes?’ I asked him, thinking that if anyone needed to eat, it was my friend.

Wright leaned in close as he placed my food on a nearby table. ‘He is fine, sir. More angry than distressed.’

‘He needs food. Coffee. Brandy perhaps.’

‘I will get something to him.’

I waited, growing more impatient by the minute. I felt strongly the need to check on Holmes, and also Buttons. Yet still I waited. The clock above the police intake desk struck seven. At last I was ushered into Hadley’s office, annoyed to see the older man must have returned home to shave and freshen himself, despite the urgency and gravity of the case. In contrast to my own muddy disarray, his well-dressed hair gleamed and his shoes were shined to match.

At his questions, I related succinctly what Holmes had discovered at Piotr Flan’s pawnshop, and what he had revealed to me about Buttons’ room at the rectory. To his credit, Hadley listened carefully, and then called in young Wright, directing him to see to Holmes and get his notes, and then follow up with his own investigation.

After a few more minutes in which I repeated the story of what Holmes and I had done the night before, I was made to wait, and then finally released to see my friend. I was hot, exhausted, sticky, damp and irritable beyond reckoning. Sherlock Holmes must only have felt worse.