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I was about to protest, fully realizing that it would be to no avail, when Holmes turned around and strode purposefully from the room. “Might I rely on you to pack some suitable clothes, old fellow?” he requested over his shoulder. “And please do bear in mind that Yorkshire is not a county renowned for the clemency of its weather, particularly at this time of the year.” With that, he slammed his bedroom door.

I glanced down at the single sheet of paper in my hand. It never ceased to amaze me at how little it took to propel my friend to levels of great excitement, and at how quickly those levels could be so attained. It was a trait that was at once both enviable and despairing to behold, for these high moods when he was absorbed in a case were countered by depths of depression when he was not. It was at times such as this that Sherlock Holmes reminded me not so much of a sleuth as of a young schoolboy, so pure were his beliefs and motivations.

I set to preparing overnight bags for the two of us, including sufficient clothes for a few days’ stay, and, when Holmes reappeared, we left our rooms and, without further conversation, ventured out into the cold evening.

We boarded the train at five minutes to ten o’clock and made our way immediately to our sleeping compartments. At the prescribed time, the train departed King’s Cross and headed for Yorkshire. As the gently rocking motion of the carriage lulled me towards sleep, I watched the dark countryside pass by the window, noting somewhat ominously that the fog was growing seemingly thicker with each yard we travelled northwards.

We arrived in Leeds at a little after a quarter past six on the following morning.

I had had a reasonable enough night’s sleep, the rocking of the carriage keeping me quite comforted. Holmes, however, appeared not to have fared so well and, when I first saw him in the corridor, he looked pale and drawn, his eyes pouched and discoloured. He was fully dressed and clearly ready to disembark and begin the next stage of our journey.

“Sleep well, old fellow?” he enquired in a tone that suggested the answer was less important than the fact that, in his opinion, he had been waiting too long to pose it.

“I did indeed,” I replied. “And you?”

He gave a slight grimace and adjusted his gloves. “As you know, I dislike periods of enforced inaction. Periods during which there is little to demand my attention.” He clapped his hands together and his face beamed beneath his ear-flapped travelling-cap. “However, we are but some fifteen miles from our destination. There is a train leaving on the half-hour.” With that, he lifted his bag and walked along the corridor to the door.

Harrogate is a delightful town, a criss-cross of busy streets and thoroughfares surrounded by an interlocking grid of cultivated grassland called “The Two Hundred Acres” or, more commonly, “The Stray”, which we had seen in all of its early-morning, mist-enshrouded finery as we approached the station.

A brisk walk ensued and we arrived at the police station as a distant clock chimed ten, to be greeted by a tall, burly, uniformed sergeant whose face displayed a florid expression and the most singularly inquisitive eyes.

“Now then, gentlemen,” he boomed, “and what can we be doing for you this fine morning?”

It transpired that my friend had telegraphed Inspector Gerald John Makinson the previous afternoon, informing him of our intended arrival time. “So you’re Mr Sherlock Holmes, then?” the officer enquired.

Holmes set down his bag on the station steps, removed the glove from his right hand and held it out. “I am he,” he said.

The officer gave, I thought, a somewhat forced smile and shook the proffered hand once. “And you must be Mr Watson,” he said turning to me.

“I am, indeed, Doctor Watson,” I said, accepting the hand. The shake was as brusque as his manner.

“I’m Sergeant Hewitt. Come on inside,” he said, lifting both of our overnight bags. “There’s a fresh pot of tea made and it’ll take but a minute to do you some toast. Inspector