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“We were passing your door and hoped you would not mind us calling in with this little token of gratitude for your hospitality.” He produced the bottle with a flourish.

Charles was suitably gratified and bade us sit in the small salon while he rang for tea.

“May we enquire about Mrs Abernetty’s health?” Holmes was all solicitude.

Charles studied him in silence for several minutes before he spoke. “You know, I do believe Mother would like you as much as we do. Would you like to meet her?”

“Very much,” declared Holmes.

“I’ll go and see that all is in readiness. She’s very vain despite her advancing years.”

He left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. I glanced quizzically at my friend, but he was frowning into the fire.

“Let’s just give Mother half an hour, shall we?” Charles said on his return. “I warn you, you’ll find her in a darkened room. She dislikes the light, even on a wintry day such as this. Invalids do have their little fancies, as the good doctor here will know.”

Charles Abernetty’s manner seemed both excited and nervous. He kept rubbing his hands together and smiling, not at his new acquaintances but inwardly as if silently congratulating himself.

“I can’t think what’s keeping Minter with the tea,” he complained. “Shall we have cognac instead?”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” said Holmes, hastily. “Tell me, have you quite recovered from your indisposition of yesterday.”

Abernetty’s smile faded. In fact, he looked annoyed at the reminder. “Quite. A trifling matter. Shall we go up to Mother? I’ll just ring the bell to let her know we are coming.”

He led the way up a balustraded staircase to the next floor and along an unlit carpeted passage. Away from the snug salon the air was chill, the passage gloomy and the carpet thin and worn under our feet.

“This is Mother’s room,” he said with his hand on the knob. “Do speak softly. She dislikes loud noises.”

He flung open the door. “Mother, I’ve brought two gentlemen to see you.”

The room was indeed dark, unlit by fire or lamp and with the curtains drawn. In a large old-fashioned fourposter bed lay the shadowy form of an elderly woman whose features could just be made out within the frill of a large nightcap. Her eyes were closed and we could hear her stertorous breathing.

“Oh, bother,” said Charles, in vexation. “She’s dropped off.”

“Charles, what are you doing?”There was a piercing whisper from the passage behind us.

Sabina Abernetty had arrived home. The violence of the weather was evident in her pink cheeks and disordered hair. She had apparently just come in and discarded her coat and hat downstairs.

“Ah, Miss Abernetty, again a pleasure,” drawled Holmes.

She ignored him and continued to address her brother indignantly. “You know how perverse Mother can be. She might have had one of her tirades.”

“As it turns out, she’s asleep,” said Charles, sulkily.

“Which is as well. Do forgive my brother,” she turned to us, summoning a smile. “He means well.”

“No harm done. I’m sorry we missed the pleasure of meeting your mother,” replied Holmes, cheerfully. “We must take our leave, but look forward with pleasure to our game on Sunday afternoon. Come, Watson.”

Outside in the square we had to hold our hats against the blustering wind. We trudged in silence for several minutes.

“What did you make of that melodrama?” enquired Holmes, presently.

“Decidedly odd. But at least we know Lady Abernetty is alive and can set Mrs Bertram’s fears at rest.”

My companion snorted. “Did anything strike you about the sickroom?”

“I thought it uncommonly cold.”

“It was as chill as a morgue. No fire, no steam kettle, both of which I’m sure would be recommended for a patient suffering from congestion of the lungs.”

“Indeed. Are you suggesting neglect?”

“What else struck you? Come, man, you must have been in dozens of sickrooms. That slight odour common to all …”

“… was missing. You’re right, Holmes. Not even a whiff of carbolic. What does that imply?