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“You will be most welcome,” I said warmly. “By then, I shall have read your manuscript. It really is good of you to afford me the opportunity in advance of publication.”

Holmes was quiet throughout our journey home and once we had arrived, he sank into a meditative trance. I sensed that he was disturbed by the day’s events, but knew better than to trouble him with questions or idle conversation. After dealing with certain correspondence, I decided to amuse myself by turning to the first chapter of Hugh Abergavenny’s novel and devoured it within minutes.

“By Jove, Holmes, this is splendid stuff!” Such was my pleasure in the tale that I could not help disturbing his reverie. “It is almost unbearable that I cannot continue reading. The description of the hero’s visit to a warehouse in the East End and what he finds there – but no, I must not spoil the story. You must read it for yourself.”

Holmes opened his eyes and said languidly, “I am afraid I do not count myself amongst Hugh Abergavenny’s devoted admirers. His early books were lively enough, but compared to Collins or even Conway, he seems to favour contrivance ahead of the creation of plausible characters. The later stories are so dependent upon coincidence as to make it impossible to suspend disbelief. As for his hero, I fear that Alec Salisbury makes even Lecoq appear to be a master detective.”

“You need not worry,” I said, rather stiffly. “As we were told, Salisbury does not appear in this book. It really is rather fine, Holmes. Don’t allow your prejudices to cause you to ignore it.”

“You are the one who should have taken up the law,” my friend remarked. “You are a persuasive spokesman. Very well, pass me the chapter.”

He read the first pages of the book in silence and then, before I could ask his reaction, lapsed back into his dream-like state. Suddenly he sat bolt upright.

“I have been obtuse, Watson! Quick, we need to call on the younger Abergavenny at once!”

“But Holmes, what can we hope to achieve that his brother cannot?”

His strong-set features were twisted with pain. “We must strive to prevent a terrible crime. Yet I fear that already we may be too late.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What crime are you talking about?”

“The murder”, he said bitterly, “of John Abergavenny.”

We hailed a cab and asked the driver to take us to the tailor’s shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street. When we reached our destination, I saw that a small crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the door beside the entrance to the shop. As we dismounted, two familiar figures emerged from the doorway.

“As I feared,” my friend muttered under his breath. “We have been out-foxed.”

“Mr Holmes!” cried Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. “Were your ears burning? We have just been talking about you.”

He indicated Matthew Dowling, who stood by his side. The old solicitor’s face was grey and drawn.

“How is John Abergavenny?” demanded my friend.

“He was taken to hospital less than a quarter of an hour ago. He is in a coma.”

“Not dead, then?” A flame of hope flickered in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

“Not expected to live, though,” said Lestrade. “Seems that after marching out of his office, he came home and took a massive overdose of chloral hydrate. There’s a half-empty jar of the stuff on his sideboard.”

Holmes’s shoulders sagged and so did mine. We both knew the power of the notorious sedative. Many East End publicans, to my knowledge, still kept a jar of chloral hydrate underneath their counter so that they could slip one or two knock-out drops into the drink of any customer who started spoiling for a fight. A highly effective remedy for trouble-makers, perhaps, but if administered in excess it was lethal.

“Apparently the fellow’s been behaving oddly,” Lestrade continued. “Mr Dowling here and his brother have explained to me his peculiar actions of the last few days.”

“Hugh Abergavenny is present also?”

“Not now,” said Dowling. “He arrived here a few minutes after I did. I had become increasingly concerned about John