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My earlier intuition, alas, proved of little use when we were confronted with a locked door. There were no servants at Molinet’s Belgrave Square address, no-one to answer our persistent knocking.

“Our first broken thread, Watson,” Holmes noted, and though there was no malice in his tone, I could not help but redden with shame at the thought of a wasted journey taken at my suggestion.

“You’ll find no-one at home, I’m afraid,” a strident female voice called to us. We looked about, and saw that the voice belonged to the occupant of the house next door. Though not born to the purple, she gave an excellent imitation, save for the fact that she had chosen to lean out of her window in order to address two perfect strangers.

“Anwar’s nephew gave the servants notice as soon as he heard. The place has been locked up ever since. You’re Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, aren’t you? You’re not unlike your pictures, if I might say so.”

I raised my hat. “Madam, you were a friend of Mr. Molinet?”

“An acquaintance would be the better term,” she simpered. “Neighbor, really. The last time I saw him was at the auction. Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. What on Earth would my husband have said? Mrs. Serracoult is my name. Actually, would you care to come inside? Susan was about to prepare tea.”

I accepted cheerfully. Holmes, whose mistrust of the fair sex seemed to increase in direct proportion to their ebullience, murmured: “Watson, I leave this interview entirely in your hands.”

In an experience of women which extends over many nations and across several continents, I have met none so flighty as Mrs. Serracoult. She rushed about her sitting-room as though in a constant panic, half-remembering some errand before forgetting it once again.

Holmes emitted several loud groans at this very feminine behavior, but our host was far too preoccupied with at least half a dozen things simultaneously, and I am relieved to say she never noticed.

“Mrs. Serracoult,” I said eventually, having sat through several tedious anecdotes regarding her late husband’s social connections, “you mentioned that the last time you saw Mr. Molinet was at an auction?”

“At the Tuttman Gallery, that’s right, Doctor. Which reminds me, I’ve been suffering from an unpleasant burning sensation recently, right here.”

“I’d be happy to examine you, dear lady, but I regret I left my stethoscope at home.” I turned my hat in my hand as I spoke, hoping to conceal the bulge made by the instrument. “Now, this auction..?”

“At the Tuttman Gallery, yes. Do you know the Tuttman Gallery?” I shook my head. “They’re very particular about their customers — perhaps I could put in a good word for you both, next time I’m there. Anyway, there was rather a fierce bidding war over a Redfern.”

Holmes, who had the crudest notions regarding art, raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Redfern is a painter?” he asked.

“One of London’s most exciting new talents, Mr. Holmes.” Without warning, she shot from her chair, rattling the tea things as she raced to a handsome landscape upon the wall. I knew that my companion could have no appreciation of its excellence, or of the artist’s choice of subject, for the appreciation of nature found no place among his many gifts. “Rather marvellous, isn’t it?” our host enthused. “And hideously expensive, of course. But that fact seems to make the very owning of it even more exciting. And I do so long for excitement. Curious, isn’t it, Doctor, how one can be very, very bored and very, very busy at the same time?”

Despite never having experienced this condition, I expressed my sympathy. I was in the middle of lamenting the state of a society in which such a complaint could be allowed to arise, when Mrs. Serracoult let out what I can only describe as a strangled shriek, and collapsed back into her chair. I did not even have the chance to enquire as to the cause of her distress, before she regained her composure and desire to speak.

“Goodness! It just occurred to me, Dr. Watson — the last time I saw Oliver Monckton was also at the Tuttman.”

I had