“Agreed, but how will you work against him? I imagine that Halvergate - like Moriarty before him - is rarely at the scene of a crime or directly involved in any of the nefarious activities he commissions.”

Holmes nodded. “That is correct. But like his predecessor, it will be his hubris, his fatal pride, which will bring his downfall. Halvergate is clever, and certainly ambitious, but he is no Moriarty. He is constantly risking exposure and relying on criminal associates who show him no loyalty. And he has not been Machiavellian enough to rule as the Professor did. It will only be a matter of time before he slips again, and when he does, I shall be waiting.”

With that, Holmes refused to elaborate any further on the exploits of Edwin Halvergate. We moved on to talk about the audacious crime that had taken place two days before, which was still dominating the headlines of most provincial newspapers. Namely, the theft of the Football Association Challenge Cup - an expensive silver trophy which had been taken from a shop window display in Birmingham and, for which, the police had offered a £10 reward. Holmes told me in confidence that he had already offered his services in the pursuit of the thief or thieves, and had yet to hear from the Birmingham City Police who had, thus far, chosen to pursue the case on their own.

***

It was in early December of that same year that Edwin Halvergate was to occupy Holmes’ thoughts once more. And, ironically, it was the still missing FA Cup that was to have a bearing on the events that followed.

I had just returned home one Friday from a visit to an elderly patient in Kensington whose neuralgia I had been treating for the previous six months. As I put my key into the lock of the door, I was greeted by a short telegram boy who had just arrived by bicycle. Having established that I was the intended recipient, he thrust a telegram into my hand and asked me to sign his log book to confirm that the message had been delivered. When I had stepped inside and relieved myself of my heavy medical bag, I opened the telegram. It read: ‘Impending visit from Birmingham Police... come to BS immediately = SH.’

I smirked at Holmes’ brevity. In his customary manner, he had shown little regard for the fact that I had a business to run and patients to attend. Fortuitously, I had no other calls of an urgent nature, so acceded to his request that afternoon and hailed a cab a short while later. When I reached Baker Street, Mrs Hudson greeted me warmly and relieved me of my coat, hat and scarf before whispering that an ‘Inspector Walcott’ had arrived not twenty minutes earlier and was already seated with Holmes. I smiled and nodded my thanks.

When I entered the study, Inspector Walcott rose from his seat and extended me a very cordial welcome. He was a thickset man in his late-forties, with thinning hair and bushy grey whiskers and sideburns, and wore a loose-fitting tweed suit with brown ankle boots. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes bright and alert. A broad smile was etched across his craggy features and a large, bulbous nose hinted at his inclination towards strong liquor. I could see that Holmes had already drawn the same conclusion, for a large whisky glass sat on the small chestnut table to our guest’s side. Holmes, I noted, had not joined him in partaking of the single malt.

Walcott’s accent was as distinct as it was deep. There was no mistaking his Black Country inflection, but the intonation was but a low growl, accentuated by a wheezy breathlessness which forced him to clear his throat or cough every three or four sentences. He was clearly not a man in the best of health, but seemed unconcerned and certainly jovial enough.

With the introductions concluded, Holmes offered to provide me with a short précis of the reason for Walcott’s visit: “Watson, the good inspector has brought us some interesting news. You will recall our earlier deliberations over the criminal aspirations of a certain Edwin Halvergate, the would-be gang master and one-time poet?”

“Yes, indeed,” I replied, noting that Walcott had raised an eyebrow at the mention of Halvergate’s poetic inclinations.

“Well, I have reason to believe that Halvergate has been trying to extend his influence beyond the capital and into the heart of the country’s second city. Inspector Walcott is the officer in charge of the investigations into the disappearance of the FA Cup. His contacts in the Birmingham underworld have suggested that the crime was perpetrated by a criminal gang from the Seven Dials area of London. They apparently planned the robbery to prove a point - that they are capable of carrying out a daring theft, in the full glare of publicity, and in an area outside of their usual domain. I have been telling the inspector all about Halvergate’s felonious proclivities. That he lives in a very considerable town house in the heart of the Seven Dials, close to Convent Garden, cannot be a coincidence.”

On hearing this, I could not disguise my general annoyance at the extraordinary efforts that appeared to be in hand to locate a single sports trophy and Holmes’ insistence that I drop everything and race across to Baker Street. Granted, the FA Cup was a hugely symbolic piece of silverware to football fanatics across the country, but did it really warrant the attention of the world’s first consulting detective? My irritation must have shown, for Walcott clearly felt he had interject, to explain the more significant part of the story, which involved a crime more serious than the initial robbery.

“Doctor Watson, I apologise, for you did not get to hear my full account of what we have been faced with in conducting our enquiries around the missing trophy,” said Walcott, reaching for a grubby handkerchief, into which he coughed a couple of times. “If Mr Holmes will forgive the interruption, I will acquaint you with the basic facts.”

A frown flashed briefly across Holmes’ face, before he smiled and then nodded for Walcott to continue.

“At first, we imagined this was an opportunist robbery carried out by some near-do-well with an eye for the scrap value of the silver. And yet, none of the local characters who might ordinarily be in the market for disposing of such an item knew anything about the theft. It was only when we did the rounds of our small band of informants - mainly the cabbies and ladies of the night that operate around the Bull Ring - and offered up the inducement of a few free shillings, that tongues began to wag. While no one knew their names, it seemed to be common knowledge that two Londoners had appeared in the city, visiting local silversmiths and asking about who might be in possession of the FA Cup. The day after the robbery, the two men had checked out of their expensive hotel rooms and caught a cab to Birmingham New Street. The cabbie that had driven them to the railway station heard them talking about ‘getting back to business in the Seven Dials.’”

After clearing his throat and taking a couple of large gulps from the whisky glass, Walcott resumed his narrative. “On visiting the hotel concerned, we learned that the pair had used false names in checking in to their rooms and coming and going for the four nights of their stay. But it appears that their arrival in the city had not gone unnoticed by our large fraternity of Irish felons. What the men didn’t know was that their movements, in staking out the Newton Row shop of Mr William Shillcock in Aston, where the trophy was on temporary display, were being shadowed by the Delaney Gang from the Snow Hill district of Birmingham.

“The Delaneys are best known for their coining operations and strong arm tactics in keeping rival gangs out of the city. They appear to have taken umbrage that the Londoners should encroach on their turf and attempt to steal the trophy. But they acted cleverly in responding to the challenge. The word of one or two of our other informants is that they allowed the theft to take place, and then intercepted the two after the robbery and quietly, but firmly, relieved them of the stolen trophy. Outnumbered and outgunned, there was little the pair could do but return to their hotel and then travel back to London the following day - no doubt with their tails between their legs.”