The door flew open and Colangelo peered out at me. ‘Ah, Dr Watson! That fourth observation? Correct, as were the others. You did not see the expression on Mr Holmes’s face when I struck you on the side of the head.’

He slammed the door shut.

Presumptuous fellow, I thought. Utterly ridiculous.

I turned to say something to Holmes, but he was already at the end of the hall, disappearing down the stairwell.

‘Holmes!’ I called and dashed after him.

CHAPTER 22

Danger in the Doldrums

Upon returning to Baker Street, Holmes informed Madame Borelli via a brief letter that Santo Colangelo may have mangled his own finger accidentally, although Dario Borelli was not entirely in the clear. Colangelo had not engineered her husband’s near drowning, however, neither was he jealous (having two paramours himself) nor handy enough. Holmes suggested the culprit in Borelli’s accident was closer to home, naming both Falco Fricano, the stagehand, and Borelli himself as the likely culprits. In this missive, he offered to continue along those paths in the investigation, should she wish.

By return post, and within the hour, Madame curtly dismissed both the theory and Holmes from the case. The letter enclosed a cheque for a modest sum.

‘And that is the end of that saga,’ he remarked wryly. ‘I think it most likely to be her husband, and by now she has figured it out.’

‘Well, that is her problem then, isn’t it?’ I was secretly sorry, as the arcane elements and the colourful client herself were at least a welcome distraction.

Holmes retired to his bedroom with a book about physics, closed the door and did not emerge for supper.

Three days passed. We heard nothing from Cambridge, and neither Dillie nor her parents communicated with Holmes. Holmes cabled once or twice to Inspector Hadley, but, receiving no response there, was forced to let that case moulder as well.

Two fascinating cases, at least to my mind, had stagnated. What I did not realize at the time was that both were sleeping monsters. But of course I was keenly aware that another danger lurked in our very rooms. Torpor bred peril of its own kind for my friend.

While London continued to suffer under relentless, oppressive heat, no fresh cases presented themselves. For days he never once left our rooms, nor did he dress, but spent hour after hour sprawled on our sofa in his white cotton nightclothes. The blue dressing gown he often wore had been discarded in the heat, and it was like having some great white ghost lying in sullen stillness in the centre of our sitting-room.

From time to time Holmes arose, sawed tunelessly on the violin, then sank back down again. He would not eat and refused the cooling beverages Mrs Hudson offered to him.