The clock struck eleven. It was unlike Holmes to sleep in this late.

To distract myself, I returned to the newspaper and came upon an article that thoroughly surprised me. I tore it out in anticipation of showing Holmes, whenever that layabout finally arose.

To my surprise, he entered from the hallway, fully dressed, and somewhat pale from exertion. A large bruise bloomed red and purple on his cheek, and a rim of caked blood was just visible in his left ear.

‘Holmes! I thought you were still abed. Where have you been? And what has happened to you? You are a wreck.’

‘Am I?’ He moved into his bedchamber and I could see him examining himself in the mirror over his washbasin. He began to scrub at his ear.

‘Would you like me to have a look?’

‘No.’ Holmes dried his face gingerly. He would tell me in his own time.

‘Holmes! In the paper today – it seems Gertrude Aufenbach has married!’

‘Who?’

‘That German Soprano. Berlin. Remember, Dario Borelli’s secret lover?’

He stood in the doorway, suddenly all attention. ‘Married? Not to Borelli, then?’

‘No! To some Russian count. Apparently, they had been engaged for two years.’

Holmes entered the room, drying his hands. ‘Let me see.’

He flung the towel back in the general direction of his room, snatched the paper from my hands and spread it on our dining table. While reading, he rummaged absently for leftover toast, and finding nothing but my last crusts, popped them into his mouth.

‘Shall I ring for some more breakfast, Holmes?’

He didn’t answer but tore the article from the broadsheet and laid the clipping on the table. He threw the rest of the paper to the floor.

While staring transfixed at the six lines of text, he felt in his various pockets. From one he removed a small brown envelope, and from another a small package wrapped in dirty paper, both of which he flung on the table in annoyance.

As he did so, I noted his left sleeve and the entire back of his frock coat were streaked with dirt. Even someone of my limited observational abilities could deduce that his nighttime escapade had been tinged with the dramatic. ‘Holmes have you been rolling in the London byways again?’

‘Ah!’ he said, discovering at last what he was seeking in his waistcoat pocket. It was another torn newspaper clipping. He smoothed it out on the table next to the one about Gertrude Auerbach. Trying for some coffee, he discovered the pot was empty and set it down with a clatter. He then stared at the two clippings for a long time.

I cleared my throat to remind him that another human being inhabited the room.

‘Ah, yes, Watson, read,’ he said. ‘I was right! Ha ha!’

I came over to the table and stared down at the second clipping. It was dated a week ago, with the headline ‘Body Fished from Thames’. It read: