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“As a novelist, I cannot imagine a worthier aim or a better fault.”

Holmes indicated the papers on the desk. “Your current work-in-progress?”

Abergavenny hesitated for a moment before a slow grin spread across his face. “Your legendary powers do not let you down, Mr Holmes. Yes, this is my latest novel. I put it into the hands of my literary agent this very week.”

“Splendid!” I cried. “I am one of your most faithful readers and it is far too long since you published The Hangman’s Cellar. I must confess that I have been hoping that your next book would continue the adventures of your character Alec Salisbury.”

The author smiled but shook his head. “I am afraid that Alec was getting a little long in the tooth, which is why I felt the need to try something different. You are too polite to say that my last novel did not set your pulse racing, but the critics were not so diplomatic. The reason for my silence since then is that I have been endeavouring to come up with a story that would keep them, as well as my publishers, happy. It is difficult for a man to judge his own work, but I think I can promise that neither they nor you will be disappointed by The Accusing Skeleton.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” I said, unable to resist a covetous look at the sheets on the desk. “May I say also, that if by some chance you were willing to let me have an early opportunity to satisfy my hunger for your work, I would be forever in your debt.”

He laughed rather nervously and said, “Well, like most authors I am rather superstitious and it is not my normal practice to show my work to third parties until it has finally been accepted for publication. Your words are very kind, though, and I am not immune to compliments, especially from such a quarter. I would be willing to loan you the first chapter for, say, twenty four hours if you wish to see whether it whets your appetite.”

“You are most generous!” I said as he gathered a dozen sheets together and passed them to me.

“It is a pleasure to have such a celebrated reader. I await your verdict with bated breath. In the meantime, gentlemen, to what do I owe the privilege of this visit?”

As Holmes outlined the sequence of events that had brought us to the chambers, the smile faded from Hugh Abergavenny’s face. He kept shaking his head and when he heard of the incident on Blackfriars Bridge he muttered, “Oh no.” By the time Holmes had recounted our brief meeting with John at the office in Essex Street, it was clear that Hugh was deeply moved.

“It is as I feared,” he said. “His mental state is severely disturbed.”

“I wondered,” I said, “about the part that drink may have played in your brother’s apparent breakdown.”

“You are an acute observer, Dr Watson. I have often suspected that modesty has prevented you from revealing in your narratives the extent to which you have yourself developed a detective’s flair.” Hugh cast his eyes down for a moment. “John has always had a weakness for alcohol. It can change him into a different person, aggressive, irrational and despondent by turns. His appalling behaviour whilst drunk was the main cause of the estrangement between us, a breach which I have lately been striving to repair. I had heard good reports of him in recent times and they led me to hope that he had turned the corner after accepting the offer of partnership in a sound practice. Sadly, it seems that my optimism was premature.”

He shook his head. “Gentlemen, on any other day I would value the chance to spend a few hours in your company and perhaps to persuade you to discuss some of your unrecorded cases. Who knows? Possibly I could seek to dress them up in the guise of fiction. However, my immediate priorities lie elsewhere. I must try to find John, even if it means trawling through every drinking den in London, and see if I can make him see reason. I owe our late mother nothing less. When I have more news, I shall let Maxwell Dowling and your good selves know. Perhaps I could call at Baker