Holmes did not flinch but smiled warmly. ‘Ah, are you Inspector George Hadley, then? I have heard of you, sir! You solved the case of the stolen artefacts intended for the new Fitzwilliam Museum. A matched pair of Roman vases worth an untold fortune, if I remember correctly. A puzzle and great distress for the donor’s family – but brilliantly handled.’

Hadley melted visibly at the flattery. ‘Indeed, I did,’ said he. ‘It made the London papers, did it?’

I remembered nothing of this, but Holmes smoothly replied, ‘I make it a point to keep up on excellent policework. You, sir, are well thought of in London.’ While this clearly soothed the senior officer, the disagreeable young Pickering reappeared behind him and stared at us with obvious suspicion.

‘I will admit to having heard your name before,’ said Hadley. ‘I am friends with Jones and Lestrade up in London. All right then, come in, meet the family.’ He turned and went into the house.

Holmes followed him, but the younger policeman barred me at the door. ‘Wait right here, mister,’ said he. ‘We don’t need all manner of people disturbing the Wyndhams.’

Holmes appeared over his shoulder in an instant. ‘Mr Pickering, this is Dr John Watson. He is my colleague and assists me in my work. It is both or none.’

The officious fellow paused, his lip curling in distaste. He stifled himself, however, and stepped aside. As Buttons attempted to follow, Pickering put up a hand. ‘Not you. Go back to your church. The police will summon you if needed.’

Buttons hesitated.

‘Go. That is an order,’ said Pickering.

Professor and Mrs Wyndham awaited us in a grand but slightly shabby salon littered with papers, books, and notable for an enormous marble head, an ancient Greek goddess perhaps. She appeared to be glowering at the gathering from a stand in one corner with those ghostly, vacant eyes possessed by all old statues.

‘Professor Wyndham,’ said Hadley, deferentially. ‘I have brought in the esteemed London detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes. And his, er …’

‘—colleague, Dr John Watson,’ said Holmes smoothly.

Professor Richard Anderson Wyndham, an enormous, muscular and handsome man of about sixty, leaned back on a red velvet sofa, relaxed as though he were passing a normal Sunday afternoon in anticipation of a good roast. En route Holmes had mentioned another fact about the fellow. Despite his esteemed academic credentials, Wyndham was known by his students as ‘the Blustering Berry Bulwark’ for his red-faced temper tantrums while teaching. But at this moment the don reclined languidly, his arms spread wide along the back of the sofa, appearing not the least bit worried. As he turned away from us to snap his fingers at a maid hovering in the doorway, he revealed his long white hair brushed into a plume at the back of his head like the bottom of a duck.