Santo Colangelo’s lodgings were in The Blackbird Arms, on a dingy side street off the Strand. As we stood outside the door to his rooms, the strong smell of onion soup filled the shabby, dimly lit hallway. Holmes admonished me to say little. I wondered what story he had concocted for the man to receive us.

Santo Colangelo opened the door and I was struck by his strong resemblance to the Great Borelli. Tall, dark-complexioned, and with some heaviness about the middle, he sported the same pointed beard and moustache, making him appear like an older, less athletic brother of the more famous man. There was something softer about him, rounder, less aggressive, but still quite handsome. Like Borelli, he had a thatch of thick, shiny black hair, worn long, but groomed back from his face.

Madame must have a particular kind of man who attracted her, I thought. I wondered if her new love, the professor, also fit the mould.

Colangelo was dressed in threadbare street clothes, over which he had thrown a once expensive but equally worn Chinese silk dressing gown. In the room behind him, I could make out a massive clutter of books, papers and magic paraphernalia. A crystal ball glinted in the sun from an open window, and decks of cards spilled onto the floor. Various other items which I did not recognize, decorated imaginatively with glittering stars and symbols, were strewn about the room. No fewer than four cats were draped on the backs of chairs, the sofa and a table. They appeared to be asleep and I hoped they remained so. I disliked cats for their sudden surprises.

The man fingered a coin in his left hand which he made dance between his fingers, right to left, then left to right. I noticed his right hand stayed in the pocket of his dressing gown.

‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ said Colangelo, greeting us with a certain chilly reserve. ‘Ilaria sent word you were coming. I would otherwise have turned down your request, Mr Holmes. If you will forgive me, I no longer shake hands. Enter.’

Something strange glinted in his mouth as he spoke.

We stepped into a large room which served as both a sitting-room and bedroom in this hotel. A small double bed was tucked into a corner and two large armoires were cracked slightly open, revealing a jumble of items and what I presumed was the man’s entire wardrobe, including some rather garish velvet jackets. Several tables were about, including one containing foodstuffs and a heating device not unlike Holmes’s Bunsen burner, and another that served as a dressing table. A sink sat in one corner; piled in it were several cheap dishes encrusted with food. A makeshift living arrangement, I thought, poor, yet infinitely better than those of the many vagrants who littered the parks and alleyways of London.