Holmes, without turning, waved to me to answer her, and continued his inspection of the missing girl’s shoes. Atalanta Wyndham’s smile faded instantly at this rudeness.

I stepped forward. ‘No, Miss Wyndham, not the police,’ I said. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. I am his colleague, Dr John Watson. We have come up from London in the matter of your missing sister.’

‘Well that was certainly quick.’ She paused, staring at Holmes. ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, you say?’ Still he did not respond. ‘Mr Holmes, do they not teach you manners in London?’

Not deigning to answer, Holmes stood and returned to the dressing table. He ran his hand underneath it. With the merest glance at the older sister, he asked. ‘Did you notice your sister’s doll missing yesterday?’

‘No.’ Atalanta Wyndham’s expression had turned icy. ‘I rarely come in here. It was the maid.’ She turned to Polly. ‘Leave us, Polly,’ she said sharply. ‘Shoo!’

Polly melted from the room.

‘Means well, but really a rather stupid girl,’ the young woman said to me. ‘I can’t help you. My sister is incorrigible.’

Holmes stood up from the dressing table and turned to face the sister. As his eyes took her in, he appeared to be abruptly taken by her beauty. ‘Miss Wyndham, please forgive me,’ he said in a curiously mollifying tone as if he had suddenly been presented a rare prize. ‘I am easily distracted when on a case.’ He crossed over to her and took her right hand in his and gently kissed it. As he raised it to his lips, her lacy sleeve fell back once again. All this was grossly out of character, and I wondered at his purpose.

‘Miss Wyndham. Author of Faded Blossoms!’ said Holmes.

I was startled but endeavoured to hide it. This must be the book from her shelf that he had pocketed! Atalanta Wyndham looked pleased and strangely triumphant.

‘How did you hear of that, pray tell? I am published, but not widely.’

Holmes danced on. ‘“December Roses”. A perfect sonnet of the Shakespearean type. You show great feeling.’

To my knowledge, Holmes had little use for poetry. The young woman smiled warmly at Holmes. ‘Do you like poetry, Mr Holmes?’

He said nothing but smiled.

‘When did you have occasion to read my work?’

‘I will be honest with you, Miss Wyndham. Just now,’ said Holmes pleasantly, nodding to her sister’s bookcase. He removed the book from his pocket, waved it at her and replaced it. The man could charm when he wanted to.

Atalanta Wyndham was clearly entranced, as would be any author whose work garners appreciation, even if just in the moment. She laughed. ‘You thought to fool me!’