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That is not to say that my good friend was not given to displays of impetuosity. Indeed, he had proven to me on many occasions that he was the very soul of immediacy. It was as though he were cognizant of his own mortality. Sometimes, I even thought that he was frightened of idleness, though he was not a man prone to fear or cowardice. Rather it was, or so it seemed, the prospect of inaction that presented the most serious affront to his sense of being. Action, or “the game” as he liked to regard the often heinous crimes whose unravelling he was frequently called upon to master, was what he was here to do. It was for this singular reason that I so welcomed the prospect.

For myself, however, the approach was entirely different. Somewhat in contradiction to the cautious and even begrudging excitement I have already mentioned, it was my custom to regard the prospect of further nefarious activities with some apprehension. On the occasion in question, this feeling was particularly pronounced.

“Might I at least remove my topcoat?” I enquired.

“No time for that, old fellow,” Holmes blustered. “We are to leave within the hour. Here.” He held out to me a single sheet of paper and the envelope in which it had arrived.

Affixing my reading spectacles, I glanced at the letter and its careful and practised copperplate hand. “Read it aloud, old fellow,” Holmes proclaimed with a pride that suggested he himself as the missive’s author.

“ ‘My Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ it begins,” I said. “ ‘Please forgive the brevity of this note and its undoubted intrusion on your privacy but I am in dire need of advice and assistance on a matter of grave importance.’ ”

“ ‘Grave importance’, ” Holmes said, turning his back to the fire crackling in the grate. “Capital!” He glanced across at me and waved a dismissive hand. “Do continue, Watson.”

I returned my attention to the letter.

“ ‘A situation has arisen,’ ” I resumed, “ ‘here in Harrogate which, I feel, requires a level of experience and a depth of knowledge that I am in all honesty quite unqualified to provide, despite some thirty years with the Force.’ ”

“Force?” I enquired of Holmes. “The sender is a policeman?”

“Read on, read on,” Holmes instructed, and he walked to the window and stared into the street.

I returned to the letter. “ ‘We are plagued with a villain the likes of what I have never encountered,’ ” I read, “ ‘a madman in whose wake we now have three deaths and little or no explanation as to the reason behind them. It would be not proper for me to outline the manner of these inhuman atrocities in this letter but I feel sure that they will be of sufficient interest to warrant your visiting us at your earliest availability.’ ”

The letter closed with the writer’s assurance that, in the event of our accepting his invitation, rooms would be arranged for us on our behalf at a nearby hostelry, and at no cost to ourselves. It was signed Gerald John Makinson, Inspector of the North Yorkshire Police.

“What do you say to that, Watson?” Holmes said, warming himself against the fire, his back arched like that of a cat.

I did not know quite what to make of it, save that the Inspector’s grasp of the King’s English was somewhat lacking and I told my friend as much. “For that matter,” I added, “who is this Makinson fellow?”

“I was introduced to him by our very own Lestrade, last June as I recall. The fellow was down in London to attend a series of presentations on the increasing use of behavioural science in law enforcement. His address was most enlightening.”

“Apparently the meeting made something of an impression,” I observed.

“And one beside that of simple grammatical impropriety,” said Holmes. He stepped away from the fire and rubbed his hands gleefully before removing his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat. He glanced at the timepiece. “Almost five and twenty past seven, Watson.” He returned the watch and smiled, his eyes narrowing. “There is a milk train which leaves King’s Cross station at four minutes