The detective shifted uneasily in the face of Holmes’ barbed compliment, and returned to his notebook. “The manner of the death seems straightforward enough. Henshaw was well dressed in a tightly-cut tweed suit, white shirt and yellow tie. He appears to have cracked the back of his head on the fireplace as he fell. I travelled out to Trimingham with one of our pathologists, who insisted on having the body removed for further forensic examination. He persuaded the ambulance crew, who were still at the scene, to take him and the body back to London, although he did say he was fairly certain that it was the knock to the head which had killed Henshaw, rather than the blood loss. I can only apologise, Mr Holmes - I know that you would have preferred to see the body in situ.”

I smiled instantly at the Chief Inspector’s presumption that Holmes was likely to want to visit the scene any time soon.

“And we have still to ascertain whether he just fell in some way or was pushed. There were no obvious or visible signs of any assault on the body other than the head injury, so I retain an open mind on that one. But alongside the mystery of the locked door, we now come to the other fact which is baffling me, Mr Holmes. Prior to his death, Henshaw appeared to have been in the process of emptying a large quantity of cash from a hidden safe on the wall. Some of the money had been placed inside Henshaw’s briefcase, which lay on the floor close to the desk, while the remainder lay in neat bundles within the safe. We have not, as yet, attempted to move or count the money, but I would say that it amounts to many thousands of pounds.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Holmes. “At last we are getting to the heart of this particular conundrum.” His outburst surprised the Chief Inspector, who was momentarily lost for words.

“Does that mean you will be happy to assist us in our enquiries then, Mr Holmes? I confess to being at a loss to know how to proceed on this one. I feel certain that we can apprehend Mr Descartes at some point, but until we are able to question him, I fear we have little to go on.”

Holmes was emphatic in his response. “Why yes - we would both be happy to take a trip across to the manor this afternoon, would we not, Watson? And as for further clues, I anticipate that we will discover lots more before we get any closer to finding the enigmatic Heinz Descartes. Time is of the essence, my good man, I have just to shut up my chickens and we can then make the trip to Trimingham.”

***

As had happened so often in the past, Holmes had managed to get me embroiled in one of his cases against my better judgement. My plans to return to London that evening for a piano recital in Peckham were shelved instantly and I found myself wedged into the back seat of the police car, hurtling along tiny country lanes, listening to Holmes expound the virtues of home-reared pork over intensively-farmed pig meat. But it felt great to be back in his company on an active case which had so clearly stimulated his interest. After an hour or so, we were driving up the half-mile track which led us to Trimingham Manor.

The house itself was bigger than I imagined. Originally a Jacobean hall, Trimingham had been remodelled into a fine Edwardian-style property with attractive carved stonework, large family rooms and interior wood panelling. It was clear that David Harker had spent a lot of money restoring the home.

We had no sooner climbed from Wattisfield’s vehicle when Holmes sprang to his feet, magnifying glass in hand, and proceeded to do a quick tour of the outside of the manor, pausing for some minutes to examine the two window frames of the study which was easily recognised, being the only downstairs room with its curtains drawn. Some five minutes later, Holmes returned to the bemused Chief Inspector and I, evidently pleased with what he had discovered.

“Worth a check - but I would say with some confidence, Wattisfield, that no one entered the study from outside the house, which suggests that if Henshaw had been attacked, his assailant had certainly been in the room before he arrived or had entered as Henshaw began to withdraw the cash from the safe.”

After some introductions, we were admitted through the front door by the kindly Mrs Dawson. She had a warm, but commanding presence, and wore her dark grey hair up in a small bun. I imagined the housekeeper to be a resourceful woman perfectly suited to the role, although she looked as if the day’s events had weighed heavily upon her mind. She was clearly tired and disconsolate and explained that her husband had returned, having been contacted by the police during the boarding school visit. In the circumstances, he had arranged for Gerald to stay overnight at the school. She went on to say that the gardener was currently tending to a broken fence at the back of the estate but could join us later if required.

Holmes looked particularly pleased to hear all of this and thanked her for the information. And as we continued to stand inside the large entrance hall, he asked a very direct question: “Mrs Dawson, what did you know about the Harker’s financial affairs?”

The housekeeper seemed comfortable to answer openly, without hesitation. “Mr Harker was a cautious, but generous man, Mr Holmes. He was comfortable to spend money where it was required, on his family, the estate or any of the numerous charities he supported. He never talked to us about how he made his money and Reggie and I were never rude enough to ask him. He looked after us good and proper and made some specific provisions for us in his will. In short, we are to stay on in this house as paid employees until such a time as the Good Lord takes us.”

“That is most gratifying to hear, Mrs Dawson. And was it Mr Henshaw who read the will?” asked Holmes.

“Yes. It was about a week or so after we learned about the death of Mr and Mrs Harker. And it was the last time that any of us set foot inside Mr Harker’s study. Mr Henshaw called the two of us together with young Gerald and arranged some chairs around the desk, before announcing that he would read through the Harker’s will. Insensitive man, he was. The mere mention of Gerald’s parents brought the boy to tears, but Mr Henshaw just carried on in his usual abrupt manner.”

“I see,” said Holmes, “and what were the provisions of the will?”

“Well, beyond the bits that concerned the two of us, they were really quite simple. All of the estate and the Harkers’ possessions were to pass to Gerald when he reached the age of eighteen. Nothing could be sold until such a time and Mr Henshaw was to act as legal guardian to the boy. A sum of money had been set aside to pay for the upkeep of the manor, Gerald’s education and the recruitment of a personal valet. In total, Mr Henshaw said the estate had been valued at £115,000 and an additional sum of £15,000 had been deposited to cover all of the provisions I just mentioned.”

“And do you know how the £15,000 has been deposited?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes. Mr Henshaw opened up a bank account for the money, which my husband and I control. It also receives deposits from some of the Harkers’ other business interests and investments.”

“That is very helpful - thank you, Mrs Dawson,” Holmes said. The housekeeper looked relieved to be released from our scrutiny and headed off towards the back of the house, where I imagined the kitchen to be. The three of us then made our way across the large hall towards the open entrance of the study, the original door of which now lay propped up against a wall to the right. As we approached, a young police officer jumped up from a chair that had been placed to the left of the doorframe.

“PC Curtis, gentlemen,” said the officer, standing to attention. His eyes darted from face to face, before settling on the famous consulting detective. “Very happy to be at your service, Mr Holmes,” he said, “this is indeed an honour.”