‘Or murderer,’ said Holmes.

There was the sound of loud knocking downstairs. Who might it be at this hour?

I answered, not wishing to disturb our dedicated landlady. To my great surprise it was Deacon Buttons, returned with a large canvas sack and looking much the worse for wear. His clothes were damp and wrinkled, his hair plastered to his head, his face white, eyes distended in panic. He looked as if he had been dunked in a river before running directly onto a train to London. As it turned out, that was almost exactly what had happened.

‘Calm down, Deacon, and begin again,’ said Holmes in a soothing tone, once the young man was seated before us, panting slightly from exertion and the heat. I handed him a whisky. The fellow took a big gulp, then choked and began coughing violently, his face going bright red.

‘Watson, perhaps some soda, if you would?’ said Holmes.

After a minute or two, the young man had gathered his wits enough to speak.

‘Please, Mr Holmes. It is dire. Dillie … she is in trouble. In danger, I am sure of it. I was walking along … along the river tonight …’

‘Near the Wyndhams’ home, then?’

The young man flushed. ‘Well, yes, actually …’

‘Something you do regularly?’

‘Mr Holmes, please! I was walking along the river. I passed the Jesus Lock and I saw something white floating in the water.’

My stomach lurched.

‘Here it is!’ From his canvas satchel, he pulled a bedraggled object, a lace dress, a tiny hand, a—

‘A baby doll,’ said Holmes. ‘And—?’

‘This is Dillie’s doll. It was specially made to look like her. It normally sits on her bed!’

Holmes’s eyebrow lifted slightly at this, and my own suspicions followed. Had this deacon been in her bedroom?

‘Give it to me,’ said Holmes.

But the deacon clutched it to his chest. ‘The arm is missing,’ he said.

‘May I?’ I asked calmly. ‘It is late.’

Reluctantly, the young man let go of the soggy object. It was twisted, all in a tangle. The head, right arm and legs were hard, the body soft and limp. The doll’s long blonde hair was wet and matted, the head askew.

I handed it to Holmes, who drew a light closer and wiggled the remaining arm. He stared at the doll, intrigued.

Holmes lifted the white lace dress and there on the cloth body was a large stain of dark, purplish blue, spread out from the centre and lighter on the edges. Holmes brought his magnifying glass to the stain. ‘Something has been written here,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, not in waterproof ink. Too bad. This perpetrator, whomever he might be, is lacking in finesse. Six lines of similar length, aligned on the left but not the right. A poem, perhaps. I can make out only two words on the right. One is either “word” or “Lord”. The other is “page” or perhaps “rage”.’