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'Stolen books,' Holmes said succinctly.

'We have a small section on bibliographic theft, sir, including a treatise which casts an intriguing new light upon the fire which consumed the library at Alexandria in the sixth century.'

We both stared at him.

'My little joke,' he said quietly. 'Please follow me.'

We followed him to a little nook, where we both signed an ancient tome as thick as a large loaf and were issued with small slips of card with our names on them. He then led the way along the corridor and up two flights of stairs which groaned under the weight of the books piled upon them. His robes made no sound as he walked, and in the silence I was aware of the swish that our morning clothes made. Three rooms led off each landing, so thickly lined with laden shelves that the walls themselves were not visible. I glanced in one of them and saw a small man sitting at a desk and reading a book. His face was morose, an impression aided by his heavy eyebrows, and he looked as if he had selected his clothes in the dark from a wardrobe of remnants from the Eastcheap markets. His lightweight linen jacket was inappropriate for the time of year, the time of day and the occasion; his white trousers were baggy; his embroidered silk waistcoat belonged to another ensemble entirely. A paisley cravat was loosely knotted at his throat, and a battered fedora was crammed upon his head.

'Excuse me,' I said, and made as if to leave.

'Were you looking for anything in particular?' he asked.

'I'm not sure'.

He smiled cheerfully.

'I hope you find it,' he said. 'I myself am in search of universal peace, an end to strife and unlimited custard for all, but I have a feeling I'm looking in the wrong place.'

'Might I ask what you are reading?'

He held the book up so that I could see the title: Adventures Amongst the Abominable Snowmen by Redvers Fenn-Cooper. As a child I had doted on the adventures of the famous explorer. I remember the sense of loss I had experienced when reading about his disappearance, a decade or more ago.

'Are you interested in his work?' I asked.

'I'm searching for the man,' he replied.

'He vanished, did he not? Are you intending to set out on an expedition to look for him?'

'Oh I know where he is. I meant it metaphorically.'

'I see.' I began to withdraw. 'I hope that you find him.'

'Most kind,' his voice rang out as I ran to catch up with Holmes and our guide.

We turned left and walked for a few yards, passing another two such rooms, descended another flight of stairs and turned back on ourselves.

We followed this curiously winding path in silence for some ten minutes or more, passing innumerable rooms, each containing innumerable books, folders and pamphlets. By the end of it, I estimated that we were in a cellar area a hundred yards or so deeper into the building and had passed more books than were in the possession of the British Library. In all that time, I had seen nobody but the small man with the lunatic grin.

As we turned a sharp corner and descended a ramp to a lower level, I heard a noise behind me. Turning, I caught sight of a robed and hooded figure, reminiscent of a monk, hobbling across the corridor behind me. It stopped at an ornately carved door and produced a small key. Before opening the door, the figure paused and glanced at me. I could not distinguish any features within the shadow of the hood. Conscious that I was staring, I turned and walked on.

After a few more minutes walk, our guide gestured for us to enter a room of bare, undecorated walls. A second man, also swathed in black robes, also thin, rose to greet us from behind a bare desk.

'Gentlemen,' he whispered. 'Are you looking for anything in particular?'

I looked around for our guide, but he had vanished.

'I have been retained,' said Holmes, moving forward, 'by Pope Leo XIII to investigate the theft of certain documents from this library. My time is short, and I would request your cooperation.'

'Of course,' the man whispered.