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Carnacki’s face broke into a grin. “I don’t know which surprises me more — meeting the famous Mr. Holmes here of all places, or having a demonstration of your equally famous deductive powers. What gave me away, may I ask?”

“Your history as a sailor and photographer are readily available to anyone who knows where to look,” Holmes replied. “You have had a tattoo of an anchor removed from the back of your hand, but a trace remains. Also you have a discoloration on your hand that is peculiar to the chemicals used in the photographer’s dark room. Finally, there is a certain esoteric value in this case which I am sure would attract a person in your dubious ‘profession.’”

“Holmes!” I expostulated.

“It’s quite all right, Dr. Watson,” said Carnacki. “When I took up this line of work I quickly learnt to tolerate sneers and suspicion.” He nodded to Holmes. “Might I be so forward as to ask why you are here?”

“Probably for the very same reason that you are, to investigate the probable theft of an ancient manuscript.”

“My God!” Carnacki exclaimed, then muttered something that sounded like, “Is that what he was trying to tell me?”

“Mr. Carnacki,” said I, “just what does an ‘Occult Detective’ do?”

Carnacki smiled, a little self-deprecatingly, seeming to recover himself. “Mostly I investigate hauntings — both hoaxes and those which might not be hoaxes. Recently I have been exposing fraudulent mediums. Was it Mrs. Westen who called you both in?”

“It was. And yourself — are you here as a family friend or in your ‘official’ capacity?”

“Probably a bit of both. It was during the course of investigating a séance that I learned of trouble at the Abbey. Professor Westen came to me in astral form. He was holding a particular scroll and appeared very distressed, so I knew I had to come.”

“Interesting,” said Holmes silkily, though I had noticed his lips purse at Carnacki’s mention of astral travelling. “But we should not linger here talking while there is work to be done. We can all sit fairly comfortably in the trap, although I fear Watson here has grown a little stout of late.”

I was a little hurt by this remark, but Holmes is often careless of people’s feelings and I did not take it to heart. I was more concerned for Carnacki and felt a pang of sympathy for him. Holmes could be intimidating, and he had obviously taken against the young man.

We boarded accordingly; the driver flicked his whip, and off we lurched in the direction of Grantchester Abbey.

A short while later we passed a picturesque ruined pile showing little evidence of the substantial edifice it must have been, save for the remains of a Gothic arch. Behind it, hedged by yews, stood a sturdy grey church with a solid-looking tower from which the sound of bells was pealing. Carnacki, who had been silent for the course of our journey, indicated the ruin with a wave of his hand.

“Grantchester Abbey,” he said, somewhat superfluously. “And that,” he continued, pointing to the end house of a row of cottages, “is where Professor Westen lives.”

“What on earth is going on?” I exclaimed, for an extraordinary commotion was centered upon this house. A middle-aged woman in housekeeper’s dress was apparently having a bout of hysterics in the middle of the front lawn, while a younger lady, presumably Mrs. Westen herself, was endeavouring to calm her down; around them a small terrier was tearing, barking furiously and pursued, with little success, by a red-faced maidservant.

There was an element of farce about the scene; but I could not fault Carnacki’s reaction. He sprang to the ground, vaulting over the side of the trap, and sprinted towards the ladies, stooping to gather up the dog en route. I seized my medical bag and followed more sedately, having at least smelling-salts to offer.

Carnacki was now hesitating, the squirming terrier in his hands. I turned to the maid, who was nearest. “You seem a sensible girl — what’s your name?”

“Susan, sir.”

“Take the dog, Susan,” I said. “That will