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“Yes.” Holmes picked the aerolite from the table and held it between forefinger and thumb. “That is, if he were the only man to know that you found The Rye Stone in a patch of thyme?”

“Yes, he was … its place of landing is irrelevant to my experiments. I never once mentioned it to another living soul.”

“But not irrelevant to this case. As you realized, most powerfully, when you saw the sprigs of thyme and the stone together. That little conjunction of herb and stone was nothing less than a message to you, sir, from Dr Columbine, which states plainly: Professor Hardcastle, I am alive. I have not forgotten my threat. I have the ability to come and go into your home at will. Now I am merely biding my time before I strike.”

“My son?”

“Specifically, your son. He will murder your son in his bed within forty-eight hours.”

The man’s face turned white as paper. “Oh, heavens, what a horrible prediction. How can you know that?”

“I will return tomorrow morning whereupon. I will explain everything?”

“But my son is under a sentence of death. What you’ve told me is unspeakably cruel.”

“But necessary. When I return to tomorrow I will do my utmost to save your son – but we are dealing not just with a madman, but a man who is uncommonly intelligent.”

“Please don’t go.”

“I must make some very necessary preparations. But first please pass me the sprig of thyme from the table. Thank you, Professor.”

For a moment we sat there, I upon the sofa, the professor perched unhappily on the edge of the armchair, his wide eyes watching Holmes’s every move.

Holmes, took the sprig of herb to the window where the light was brightest. He gazed at the stem, then the leaves of the plant, in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. “It is Thymus serpyllum, more commonly known as wild thyme, a mat-forming undershrub, prevalent in dry grassy places, particularly heaths; its flowers possessing rounded heads of a reddish-purple.” He lifted the plant to his nostrils. “Quite aromatic.” He looked closely at the plant’s stalk. “Evidently the plant is Dr Columbine’s calling card; he intended it to be so. But let us see if … ah, yes!” said he in a tone suggesting a puzzle solved. “Let us see if the plant tells us a little more than Columbine intended.” Taking one of his own calling cards from his pocket, Holmes placed it face down on a small table by the window. Then quickly drawing a Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket he opened a glittering blade and gently scraped one of the plant’s small leaves.

“Mr Holmes, what is it?” asked the professor, anxiously. “What have you found?”

“Just one moment, sir.”

“You mentioned the plant occurs on heathland. Then the madman must have plucked it from Hampstead Heath which is across the road from my home.”

“Ah, not necessarily, Professor. The plant is yielding a clue to as its origins.”

From what I could see, tiny particles had fallen from the leaf when scraped, which peppered the white calling card with black. Holmes peering at these most closely, carefully drew the flat of his penknife blade from left to right across the card.

“In fact,” said Holmes crisply. “The plant was taken from alongside the railway track that leads into King’s Cross station, which is served by The Great Western Railway company.”

“But how … I don’t understand.” The professor shook his head bemused.

“Professor, you will of course know that locomotives eject not only soot and smoke from the their funnels, but small fragments of unburnt coal. English coal is hard and does not leave any appreciable mark on paper; Welsh coal, however, is quite different. It is very soft and leaves a rich mark when drawn across paper – as richly dark as an artist’s charcoal. Here, I see many grit-like particles of coal adhering to the leaves of this plant. This tells me it was plucked close to a railway line. The coal is indeed Welsh – please note the black marks it has left on my calling card. Therefore, I conclude the plant was picked close to the broad gauge track which serves King’s Cross station. The Great Western