At the sound of a musical flourish from a small band on the right side of the stage, the lights dimmed. Followed by a spotlight, the Borellis appeared from behind the curtain. Tall, dark-skinned, with the pointed beard and trimmed moustache of Renaissance portraits, the Great Borelli boasted an athletic physique and the light-footed movements of a sportsman in his youthful prime.

Madame Borelli was glamorous far beyond her already striking appearance at Baker Street earlier in the day. A red silk gown draped over her statuesque figure like molten lava, adorned with red and black sequins that seemed to give off sparks from the limelights at the front of the stage.

The act proceeded with a fast-paced series of magic tricks, most employing lavishly decorated pieces of equipment, including a gold filigreed coffin-like box into which Madame Borelli was locked, her head and feet sticking out of either end, promptly followed by Borelli piercing the coffin with swords. Holmes leaned in to whisper, ‘Either careful choreography, and Madame is a contortionist, or trick swords which fold in on themselves.’

I nodded. ‘Shhh.’

Holmes leaned in again. ‘Those feet sticking out are false feet. Look, the soles are unworn!’ whispered the spoilsport.

‘Let me enjoy this!’ I hissed back.

Borelli flung a red satin drape over the whole thing, intoned incantations, then tossed it away with bravado, revealing Madame Borelli standing intact next to the gold coffin. The audience erupted in applause.

More tricks followed, in which the magician seemed to be in flirtatious competition with his mischievous wife. The charming Ilaria threatened to upstage him at every turn, but he won the day by making a variety of objects – including a teacup apparently filled with liquid, and a small, live rabbit – appear and disappear into his hat.

‘Fabric pocket at the edge of the table. See there, he drops the rabbit in while you are watching the scarf, it never goes in the hat,’ said my companion. ‘And there is no liquid—’

‘Oh, Holmes,’ I groaned.

A woman in front of us turned to look at us. ‘Yes, go home, you rude man!’

Holmes chuckled, but for the next several illusions did manage to hold his tongue.

After more remarkable hat tricks, the audience exploded into enthusiastic applause. I leaned over and said, ‘Now that was well done, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?’

‘Mmph. Sleight of hand. Misdirection. Pre-rigged table and hat,’ came the reply. ‘This is not what I came for.’

But the music started up again, and the stage lights dimmed. The table was whisked away and a large tank was rolled in, some six feet high and four feet square. A spotlight followed it in. It was filled to the brim with water, which sloshed over the edges as the thing was wheeled to the centre of the stage. Lowered from above was a large clock, with a vivid second hand slowly ticking round.