Carrying on through the town, we discovered we were lost. A student then misdirected us, but we eventually found the place we were seeking.

The address belonged to a lodging house behind a brewery on the eastern edge of the town. A small pub fronted the building, The Cross and Anchor. We walked into the low-beamed, darkened interior, and Holmes introduced himself and asked to see the owner. As he did so, I eyed some tempting ham sandwiches on the counter. But Holmes was not to be delayed.

The Wyndham name and a half sovereign were sufficient to induce the owner, a surly elf of a man, to cooperate, and he unlocked a door to a stairway leading to several lodging rooms above.

Holmes asked whether he had seen Miss Odelia Wyndham of late.

‘You won’t hear that name from me,’ said the man. The fellow gestured to the stairs. ‘Two flights up. Room Three.’

We were up the narrow, worn stairs in a rush and then encountered the door marked ‘Three’. We knocked. There was no reply. Holmes tried the knob. It was locked. He put his ear to the door and listened, shook his head.

‘It appears no one is home,’ he whispered.

He then withdrew a familiar small leather kit from his frock coat and opened it to reveal an array of precise metal instruments. Holmes had the door unlocked in what seemed mere seconds, and in complete silence. His timing had improved since I had witnessed a similar display in an earlier case.

We opened the door to a surprising sight. It was a large room painted in white, as Dillie’s bedroom had been, with a large double bed in one corner, long blue curtains with sheer panels flapping in the breeze from an open window, and a long blue velvet sofa, on which sat a poised young woman. She was motionless, calm, and obviously expecting us.

Miss Odelia Wyndham, or Dillie, lounged in a curiously studied pose in the centre of this sofa, her arms extending along the back of it, head tilted back, replicating the arrogant yet languid bearing of her father, Richard Wyndham.

She took us in haughtily – two strange men who had unlocked the door to her private sanctuary – but said nothing. Her position and attitude struck me as odd in the extreme, given the circumstances.

‘Miss Odelia Wyndham, I presume,’ said Holmes, formally.

‘Mr Sherlock Holmes, I presume,’ said the lady. Clearly her father’s daughter, she managed to be dismissive and wry at the same time. It was a peculiar effect coming from an eighteen-year-old.