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“Until that time I’d ignored all his earlier letters demanding sponsorship. On that occasion I reported the matter to the police.”

“And?”

“They attempted to locate Dr Columbine, but by that time, yet unknown to me and my brethren, the man was penniless and all but resided in the gin shops of Whitechapel.”

“The police failed to find him?”

“On the contrary, three months later a corpse was pulled from the Thames. It had been in the water so long its identity could only be discerned by the laundry label in the coat, giving the owner’s name; oh! and there was also an inscribed pocket watch.”

“Which, I take it,” said Holmes blowing out a cloud of cigar smoke above his head, “gave every indication that the poor wretch found drowned in the Thames was none other than Dr Columbine?”

“Quite. The police were satisfied as to the identity of the body, which was later buried in a pauper’s grave in Greenwich.”

“And the threatening letters ceased to arrive. And no one saw hide nor hair of Dr Columbine?”

“Naturally, the man was dead.”

“So the police surmised.”

“Yes. What doubt could there be?”

“Every doubt. There’s a gardener trimming your hedge wearing a pair of your boots. If he turned up in the Thames wearing those boots, and unrecognizable by any other evidence might not the police surmise that man was you, Professor?”

“Yes … well of course, such a mistake might be made … but … good heavens how do you know the man is wearing a pair of my boots?”

Professor Hardcastle, eyes wide with astonishment behind the lenses of the pince-nez, turned to stare out of the window at the gardener, a man of around fifty years, who was scrupulously trimming privet just half a dozen yards beyond the window.

“Your gardener,” continued Holmes, fingers lightly pressed together, “is recently married to a good woman of a character similar to his own, that is both are hard working and anxious to please. Both love each other dearly. Moreover, the man wears a pair of boots once owned by yourself.”

Hardcastle squinted through his pince-nez at the boots. “Why? Yes. Yes. Those are – were my old boots. My wife, rather than throwing them out, would have seen that they were offered to Clarkson. And, yes, I found the man very eager to please, indeed anxious to give satisfaction for his wages, but how could you know that?”

Holmes smiled. “Gardeners don’t wear such expensive boots while they work. If he could have afforded such a pair he would have saved them for ‘Sunday best.’ Also from the way the man hobbles quite painfully, they are far too small for him. Indeed they would, sir, fit someone with your size feet. A size seven.”

“Ah, size eight.”

“I think you’ll find a trifle smaller. Nevertheless, the boots you gave him are too small, but rather than appearing ungrateful he makes a point of wearing them when you will notice.”

“That is why he’s wearing the boots so near the window?”

“Indeed so, and vigorously trimming a hedge that visibly requires no trimming. But he’s keen to create a good impression. I dare say you’ll find his more comfortable workboots concealed behind some nearby bush which he will change into once he’s demonstrated his gratitude to you.”

“And recently married?”

“Have you seen many a gardener with clothes so clean and trousers so carefully pressed? The wife is eager to please, too. And, he, in love with his wife, is so closely shaven that he has nicked his face four, five times. Now!” Holmes briskly rose from the chair and paced the room. As he did so, he appraised, with those two keen eyes of his, certain areas of the carpet, and paid particular attention to the crystal wine decanters on the table. Holmes continued, “My example of the gardener and his wearing another man’s boots disposes, I believe, with the apparently insoluble problem of Dr Columbine returning from the dead to plague you. Evidently, another man wore his coat and possessed his watch when he unfortunately fell in the Thames. Either stolen or purchased from the Doctor.”

“Then Columbine