“And what of the trophy now?” I asked; keen to know if Walcott had recovered the stolen item, given that he seemed to know so much about what had occurred.

“No luck there, I’m afraid, Doctor. My hunch is that the Delaney Gang have already melted it down and knocked out a hundred or more counterfeit half-crowns. I’m not so much bothered about that given recent events. You see, four nights ago a more serious crime was committed and it seems the Delaneys had a hand in it.” A further cough followed, after which Walcott drained the last of his whisky. Holmes rose quietly and refilled the glass as our guest then carried on.

“For seven years, we have had a Detective Sergeant by the name of Clive Delamare working for the Birmingham City force. A quiet man in his late-fifties, whom I always saw as a capable and trustworthy officer. I now have reason to believe that his real name was, in fact, Clive Delaney and in serving with the City Police he has operated very cleverly to prevent us from dealing effectively with the threats posed by the criminal gang to which he was related. The gang has always managed to stay one step ahead of us, whenever we attempted to investigate their activities or disrupt their counterfeiting operations. Clive Delaney was one of their own and while he has proved to be a diligent officer in bringing to book scores of felons from the city’s underworld, he has acted to shield his family from the official exposure they deserve. And yet, on Monday evening, he appears to have been shot by his own gang members in a flagrant and bloody murder on one of Birmingham’s main thoroughfares.”

I was intrigued to hear this. “And do you know how and why he was killed, Inspector?” I enquired.

“Well, that’s where it begins to get more complicated. Sergeant Delamare, as we knew him, had just finished a long shift a few minutes after ten o’clock that evening. As he stepped outside the main door of the Steelhouse Lane police station, he was approached by three men in long, dark frock coats, one of whom drew a revolver and pointed it directly at him. We have three witnesses to what then occurred. There was some arguing between the gunman and Delamare, although all of the men were clearly trying to keep their voices down and avoid attracting attention. The witnesses said that Delamare was doing most of the remonstrating and did not look to be intimidated by the men. During the exchange, one man was heard to say ‘It’s a question of family honour’, to which Delamare replied ‘Go to Hell! I’m your father - don’t you dare talk to me about honour!’”

“So, a distinct family connection with the gang!” observed my colleague.

“Certainly, Mr Holmes,” wheezed Walcott, pausing for a couple of seconds. “Immediately after that, there was a loud bang - the result of a single shot from the revolver - and Sergeant Delamare collapsed onto the cobbles, having been fatally shot through the chest. The three men then ran off, dodging into a passageway off Steelhouse Lane. Rather fortuitously for us, they could not have picked a worse escape route. It was a narrow lane, at the top end of which were stationed two uniformed constables who had just heard the shot. They tackled the men they came face to face with and during the struggle managed to floor two of them, who were then arrested. One was found to be carrying a revolver. The third man, who had remained at the edge of the affray, managed to escape and is still at large.”

“Were the officers able to get a good look at the third man?” Holmes enquired keenly.

“No. And the two men we arrested have steadfastly refused to say anything about him.” He passed Holmes some photographs of the men in custody. “I thought you might like these. Frank Delaney is the taller of the two, with the distinct jet-black hair.”

This time it was I who quizzed the inspector. “You hinted earlier that there were some complications. So far, it all seems fairly straightforward to me. Sergeant Delamare has been living a double life and is a father to one of the gang. Clearly he has done something in his role as a police officer which has undermined or threatened his family in some way, and the son has attempted to warn him off. Faced with the uncompromising attitude of his father, he has then shot the officer in a fit of rage.”

“Bravo, Watson! A very plausible explanation. And one that I am sure is very close to the truth. But the complication to which the inspector refers is not around why the crime was commissioned.”

“That is correct,” chimed Walcott. “One of the men in custody is Thomas Logan, a heavy for the gang, who has made certain distinct noises, no doubt seeking some leniency for himself. He has hinted that Delamare was about to tip us off about the theft of the stolen trophy, as the operation to dispossess the London men of the booty had not been officially authorised by the hierarchy of the Delaney Gang. It seems that the three men were tasked with warning Delamare, but exceeded their brief. Logan has made it plain that he had nothing to do with the shooting and the murder weapon looks to be the gun that his colleague was arrested with.”

“And who is the other man in custody?” I asked.

“His name is Frank Delaney, and Logan has confirmed that he is indeed Clive Delamare’s son. The twenty-nine year old was previously unknown to us. He has said only that he arrived in this country from Ireland a month ago. He also said that the gun is his and Logan did not fire it. Until yesterday, I believed we had a rock solid case against the man. Each witness picked him out of the identity parade we held at the Steelhouse Lane station. And all three were certain that he was the man they saw holding and firing the gun.”

“So, how can you possibly doubt that Frank Delaney is the culprit?” I countered, astounded that there could be any degree of uncertainty.

“Well, two things, Doctor; Firstly, the fingerprints on the revolver. I know the science is still rudimentary, but the prints we observed on the handle and trigger of the weapon do not match those of the suspect. His prints are on the gun, but only along the barrel, which suggests that one of the others passed the gun to him and he held it that way before placing it inside his frock coat, where we later recovered it. The other reason I now entertain some doubts, is because of the arrival of this.” He held within his coarse, plump fingers a small white envelope.

“The letter arrived by post yesterday, addressed to me. I was about to pass it to Mr Holmes when you arrived, Dr Watson. I will do so now, and the two of you can make of it what you will. Certainly it is a very ambiguous note, but does make me wonder if we have arrested the right man.”

The letter was handed across to Holmes, who immediately took up his magnifying glass and began to inspect both the envelope and its contents in his usual meticulous fashion. He examined every inch of the document, holding it up to the light at one point and smelling the paper for any trace of evidence that might be discernible. Inspector Walcott looked on incredulously.

When at last Holmes had completed his scrutiny, he passed across to me the typewritten note and its envelope. It read as follows:

My dearest Inspector Walcott,

No doubt you are well immersed in your investigations into the disappearance of the FA Challenge Cup. The case has attracted lots of press attention, so I am used to seeing your face in the newspapers. The fact that you haven’t found it is testimony indeed to the efficiency of the counterfeiting empire which a certain criminal family seem to operate with relative impunity in your expanding city. I know this because some of those close to me had a hand in taking the trophy and were duped by the Delaneys, an act that will have continuing repercussions.

Detective Sergeant Clive Delamare had for some time been a close ally of mine and I was happy to pay him handsomely for the titbits of information he was able to pass to me about particular felons or police officers that I might have an interest in, as my associates have begun to extend their operations outside of the capital . However, the one crucial fact he chose not to share with me was his familial connection to the Delaneys - something, I imagine, you were also unaware of.