He slowly turned to regard us, with his head tilted backwards, managing to look down his long nose at us, even from a seated position.

‘That was prescient of you, Hadley. An “esteemed” man, you say? Are you out of your depth already?’ he drawled. Echoes of Eton and years in the Ivory Tower coloured his speech. He turned to my companion and eyed him slowly from head to toe. ‘Sherlock Holmes? Never heard of you.’

‘It is well you have not had the occasion, sir,’ said Holmes, more respectfully than his usual manner with such pedants. ‘My trade is a sad and difficult one.’

‘He is a private detective, sir,’ said Hadley, somewhat more stiffly. ‘Something of a London legend,’ he added.

‘Consulting detective,’ said Holmes, amiably.

Before the don could reply, Holmes turned smoothly to Mrs Wyndham, a wan creature of fifty or so who sat stiffly on a velvet chair nearby, holding the doll at arm’s length, with tears coursing down her pale face. I noted she was wearing what appeared to be expensive lace bedclothes. A maid had rushed over to her to hand her a fresh handkerchief and to place a towel under the object, still damp from its immersion in the River Cam.

Mrs Wyndham handed the doll to the maid and dabbed at her tears.

‘Madam,’ said Holmes, ‘if I may be so forward with you. Can you confirm that the doll is your daughter Odelia’s?’

The lady looked up at Holmes. She glanced quickly at her husband, then replied, ‘Yes. It is Dillie’s. I had it made to resemble her.’ Her voice was a mere whisper. I wondered if she was ill, and if so, with what. She was pale but did not look emaciated or jaundiced. And although she was crying, her breathing did not have the sound of the consumptive’s.

‘At what time was the doll discovered missing?’

Mrs Wyndham began to respond but her husband overrode her. ‘Ten-thirty last night. We were all abed!’ he said in disgust.

‘Is your daughter in the habit of disappearing from time to time?’ asked Holmes.

Again, Mrs Wyndham started to speak but her husband cleared his throat loudly. She seemed to shrink in her chair.

‘Odelia is incorrigible. Yes, she is in the habit,’ Wyndham said.

‘Then you are perhaps less worried than you might be, sir?’ asked Holmes.

‘I was not worried, particularly,’ said the supercilious father. ‘But in the matter of this doll, I suppose one must take note.’

‘Do you know where she has gone on the other occasions, by chance?’