That afternoon, Sherlock Holmes spent his time rummaging in files of old daily papers and his own personal indices of people and events which he had amassed over the years. By the end of two hours, our sitting room was littered with discarded papers and memoranda which he had tossed aside. Finally, with a sharp and sudden exclamation of satisfaction, he leapt to his feet, clutching to his breast a page torn from a newspaper.
‘I have it, Watson! A quick telegram to Lestrade with final instructions and we can lay the dragon of Lea Lane to rest!’
It was late afternoon, the light slowly fading under the onset of an autumn evening sky, when we found ourselves in Lea Lane once more. In the impending darkness, I had a growing sense of excitement as we walked up to the front door of the house, c
