Lossop took the envelope and opened it. It was the photograph of a beautiful young woman, a photograph that Holmes had taken in payment on a case which I had not yet published at that time. Remarkably, as it had seemed at the time so out of character, Holmes once said of the lady, ‘She had a face a man might die for.’ His feelings for this woman remained a mystery, as did much about my friend.

‘And who is this?’ asked Lossop, savouring the image like a gourmand contemplating a mound of expensive pâté.

‘An opera singer,’ said Holmes simply. ‘I am a music lover. I would like it back when you are finished with it.’

‘Music lover, eh? You know I do not give these things back.’

‘Ah, but you will to me. You will require my services one day, Mr Lossop, and perhaps soon. There are certain people in Norway, and one in London, who wish to see you dead.’

Lossop backed away from Holmes in surprise. He attempted to hide his reaction, but his face had gone white with fear.

‘I alone will be able to help you,’ Holmes continued. ‘You can confirm this, I think. And when you do ask me for this help, the return of this photograph will be my payment.’

Lossop swallowed. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a Webley, not unlike my own gun. He placed the gun on the counter, between us.

‘I can protect myself quite well, Mr Holmes,’ said he.

‘Against most, I do not doubt it,’ said Holmes. ‘But the man in London is far more than your match. I think you have already begun to realize that. He has employed you twice. Now, will you help my friend Dr Watson and unlock the box for him?’

Lossop put the gun down and looked at the box resting on the counter. He took up Holmes’s small, precious envelope and placed it in his own pocket, patting it gently. ‘I will. And I will look after this lady, do not fear.’ His broad smile revealed two or three teeth missing.

‘221B Baker Street. When you are successful, let us know,’ said Holmes.

But Lossop had picked up the box and was already engaged in the task, breathing heavily, and turning the mysterious object over and over in his skeletal hands.

As we exited into the summer sunlight, I breathed a sigh of relief in leaving this dark and decidedly strange place. I wondered who the man in London might be, who had struck such terror into the locksmith, and from whom my friend offered protection.

But that fearsome identity would remain only as a flickering shadow until several years later.

CHAPTER 24

Two for One