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While Inspector Makinson and I considered this, my friend continued.

“Inspector, did your men find any traces of blood or tissue … perhaps even bone fragments … on the wall which took the shotgun blast?”

Inspector Makinson’s eyes widened. “Why, I don’t believe we did.”

“Quite, Inspector. That fact and the fact that was little or no evidence of blood around the body, despite the removal of the heart, means that the murder was committed somewhere else and the body carried to the alleyway.

“I sense a confusion of red herrings,” Holmes continued.

“Red herrings?”

“Quite so, Watson,” Holmes said as he got to his feet. “But before we go any further, I think we should see the bodies.”

Without further ado, Inspector Makinson led us out of the room, along a series of corridors and then down a long staircase.

Finally, we arrived at a large oaken door inlaid with sheets of metal and an iron bar manacled through two support frames. The door opened onto a narrow corridor through whose windows we got our first glimpse of the unfortunate victims.

The entrance to the “resting” room was at the far end of the corridor and, as we walked along, I could not help but stare at the series of cots covered over with bottle-green sheets, and at the unmistakable human shapes beneath.

The room itself smelled of death, the familiar aroma – to me, at least – of putrefying flesh, a mixed scent of ruined fruit and stale milk. There is something about dead bodies which causes the living to speak in hushed tones in their presence. Indeed, it was several months of concentrated autopsy work before even I myself could overcome the need to affect some kind of reverence. But a dead body is not a person. This knowledge, too, comes only with practice and repeated exposure.

Makinson walked across to the first cot and crouched down to read the label tied to the support. “This one, Mr Holmes, is – ”

“Could we have them in the order they were murdered, Inspector?” Holmes boomed. “And I don’t think there’s any need to whisper. Nothing we say in here will be any revelation to the victims.”

Makinson stood up, ran a finger across his moustache and coughed loudly. He walked across to the second cot, studied the label and then crossed to the third. “This,” he announced in grand tones, “is Mr Wetherall.”

I followed Holmes across to the cot and watched as Makinson pulled back the sheet.

Decomposition was well underway, despite the cool temperature of the room.

I could see that the man had been in his mid forties although the sunken eyes and hollowing cheeks were giving him a countenance of someone considerably older. A wide ligature around the neck had discoloured to a dull brown shade.

“What do you make of that, Watson?” Holmes said, pointing to the man’s chest.

The wound was extensive, apparently caused by a series of slashes into the flesh, some of which extended vertically from the collarbone almost to the waist while others crossed the sternum either horizontally or diagonally. “These wounds were presumably made to expose the heart,” I concluded, “but it looks like a frenzied attack. Considering that the man would have been dead when these were committed, I can only conclude that the murderer was in a terrible hurry. See here, several sections of flesh appear to have been hacked out.”

Holmes stepped in front of Makinson, who shuffled to one side, and bent over the body. “Did you find these pieces of flesh, Inspector?”

“No. But we had noticed they was missing. We presumed that the killer took them with the heart.”

“By mistake or in haste, you mean?” I shook my head. “That does not make sense. The flesh is entirely separate to the heart. Once exposed – as these wounds would surely have done easily – the heart would be encased within the sternum. You can see where he broke the lower ribs to get at it. Once he had the heart, it would be unlikely that he would take a large piece of flesh with it.”

“Then why would he take it?” said Holmes. He turned to the Inspector who started to shrug. “Let us look at the next one, Inspector, the farmer, I believe.”