No key was included. I tried opening it, pressing and tugging here and there in case the keyhole was a ruse. Perhaps the box was locked in some way which could be released by pressing the right spot. But the lock and the metal banding did not move.

A second wave of sadness swept over me. Many miles had passed under my feet since my mother’s tragic and puzzling drowning. Suicide? Accident? But she had been a stable and formidable woman, and a good swimmer. Painful ruminations tormented me in my youth, but medical school, my war experiences and my exciting life with Holmes had eventually rendered my childhood grief a pale and distant thing. I had successfully pushed the mystery of my mother’s death from my mind.

Until today.

Here, in my hands, was a word from beyond the grave. Once again, I fingered the metal bands.

‘Leave it,’ came a sharp voice behind me.

I turned to see that Sherlock Holmes had soundlessly entered the room. He was pale and drenched with sweat, his dark hair damp and awry.

‘Put it down, I say!’ he cried.

CHAPTER 2

Thwarted

‘What?’ I asked. ‘Why should I leave it?’

‘Why are you sitting in the dark? The sun is past our windows now!’ said Holmes. He peeled off his frock coat and crossed to the window, throwing aside the heavy curtains. He opened the window wider to let in a draft. ‘Ah, air!’ he said. ‘A breeze at last!’

‘Holmes? Why should I leave it?’

‘Do you know who sent it?’

‘Yes. An aunt.’

He turned to face me, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

‘You don’t have an aunt. As I recollect, you had no one when you returned to London after the war.’

‘Well, I didn’t know I had this one.’

He tossed his waistcoat onto a chair. ‘Then you do not know the sender. It could be anyone.’

He approached me and glanced down at the silver box, undoing his tie. His face was shiny with sweat. ‘Ah, it is a bonny little thing. Careful, Watson.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged, moving back to the window. Throwing his tie onto the table, he unbuttoned his collar and began splashing water from a carafe onto the front of his shirt. The back was already drenched in perspiration.

‘There’s a letter which explains—’ I began.

‘You do not know the person who sent this. Instinct tells me you should leave it.’

I shook my head. ‘What on earth are you worried about, Holmes?’

He ignored the question, then rolled up his shirtsleeves, pulled back the sheer lace curtains and opened the window even wider, standing now quite exposed, his shirt soaked and clinging to his bony frame.

I felt a faint breeze move languidly into the room. Holmes untucked his shirt and was now preposterously flapping its soggy front in the stifling air to cool himself.

‘Holmes!’