“Well, if Descartes knew of the money as you suggest and had come to Trimingham because of it, he missed an obvious opportunity. All of us can see that theft was clearly not his game plan, as the money is still in the safe.”

Holmes was quick to chide the officer. “What we see and what we deduce from those observations are two different matters. I am convinced that Descartes was motivated to take only a proportion of the money - possibly an amount that he had been told was his or that he believed he was entitled to. Either way, he took £40,000 in cash, no more, no less.”

PC Curtis let out a whistle. “That’s a tidy sum, I’d say, Mr Holmes. But how do you know how much he took?”

“He took exactly half of what was in the safe. If you examine each of the bundles of banknotes, you will see that the individual serial numbers run in a consecutive sequence, indicating that they were withdrawn in one batch as brand new currency. Luckily for us, Descartes drew his share from half of what was in the safe, ignoring those notes which Henshaw had already placed in the briefcase. In effect, he took a portion of banknotes from the middle of the consecutive sequence. Taking the first serial number - which is in one of the bundles in the case - and the last, which still sits in the safe, we can calculate that the total haul was worth £80,000. Counting up what is in the safe and the briefcase indicates that just half of that amount remains. A simple matter of mathematics.”

Wattisfield looked impressed at last. “Mr Holmes, my apologies. I knew that you would be the man for this job. That is a very neat piece of deduction, I must say.”

Holmes swept aside the compliment. “We still have a few dots to join up I fear. Would it now be possible to have a look at Heinz Descartes’ room?”

“Certainly, Mr Holmes. Perhaps I can ask PC Curtis to take you up there this instant. Not that you’ll see much - Descartes has very few possessions and clearly brought little with him when he travelled to England. You must excuse me for a few moments. I have to put in a quick telephone call to Scotland Yard to check on progress elsewhere.”

We were led up the grand stairway of the manor house and into the rooms and chambers of the first floor, where Heinz Descartes’ bedroom was situated towards the back of the house. Entering the room, I could see that it was indeed sparsely furnished. In addition to a small single bed, table and armoire, I could see only one other piece of furniture - a small walnut bureau decorated with scarlet and gilt inlays.

Holmes headed immediately for the piece without even bothering to check the drawer of the table or corner armoire. I recognised the gleam in his eye, the traditional fervour and thrill of the chase that he had always displayed on our earlier Baker Street adventures. Seconds later, he was lifting the box, examining its sides, checking for drawers and probing its operation. With two faint clicks, he had removed an interior veneered panel to reveal a hidden recess from which he pulled a folded document. PC Curtis and I looked on in astonishment.

“By God, Holmes!” I gasped. “How could you possibly have known that you would find that?”

“A hunch, my dear Watson, but a strong one. I was always convinced that Descartes came here with the knowledge that some money awaited him. There had to be some documentary evidence for that, something he could refer to, to prove his claim. A document that he would, quite naturally, wish to keep hidden, until asked to verify the claim. Where better to hide such a document than in this - what looks like his only personal possession. And one which he had no opportunity to retrieve this morning in his haste to escape from the manor after his altercation with Henshaw.”

He opened out the papers onto his lap and scanned the first and last page of the document. His facial expression remained unchanged, giving little away. In fact, the absence of any reaction meant that I was unprepared for what he then went on to reveal. A moment later, he observed, rather casually: “This appears to be a letter from David Harker to Heinz Descartes, written from this manor in the summer of 1921, just after Harker had moved into his new home. Out of courtesy, we will await the return of Chief Inspector Wattisfield. We should then be ready to hear what brought Mr Descartes to these rural shires.”

Wattisfield did not keep us waiting long, but the anticipation of what we might find had Curtis and I speculating wildly about the contents of the letter. As ever, Holmes remained impassive and impervious to our banter.

“Gentlemen, you must forgive me,” exclaimed the Chief Inspector, on entering the room, “but I have good news! The pathologist has confirmed that the cause of death was indeed the blow to the head - the trauma of which is consistent with a fall against something like a mantelpiece. He could find no other significant marks on the body to indicate that an assault had taken place, so we may be looking at a case of manslaughter rather than murder. But the real news is that Heinz Descartes has been arrested this afternoon at a boarding house in Poole. He is being held overnight at a local police station in the town. It should therefore be only a small matter of time before we can put our questions directly to him, Mr Holmes, and resolve this matter once and for all.”

Holmes was quick to praise the police effort. “My dear fellow, that is tremendous news. Let us hope that Descartes is forthcoming in his answers. While you were making your calls, we were also making very good progress,” said he, holding up the letter with just a hint of glee. “It appears that we may already have some answers within this document, which was secreted within Descartes’ bonheur-du-jour.”

The Chief Inspector could hardly contain his joy. “Perhaps then, we should retire to the drawing room, gentlemen. And I will see if I can prevail on the goodly Mrs Dawson to provide us with a small brandy or whisky to accompany your recitation, Mr Holmes.”

***

Some ten minutes later, we were all seated in the dining room, with glasses and cigars to hand. Holmes then read the letter as follows:

Trimingham Manor

Guildford

Surrey

England

18th August, 1921

Dear Heinrich,

You will have to forgive me for the fact that I am communicating with you by letter rather than face to face. I am also very sorry to have to write this to you in English, but whilst I have some mastery of both the French and Dutch languages, I cannot claim to be fluent in German. All will become clearer as I proceed.

This is not an easy letter for me to write. It concerns both of our pasts and, significantly, our futures too . I have thought long and hard about how I would set the facts down on paper and have concluded that I can but tell the truth as I see it. There appears to be no other way. As such, this letter is as much a confession on my part as it is an explanation to you. When you have read this, you will know more about my past than any other person alive, including those nearest and dearest to me. I hope that the facts will remain known only to the two of us.

I will try not to bore you with irrelevancies, but do need to delve sometime back into the past.

I was born in the English village of Cratfield in Suffolk in the early winter of 1900, one of two brothers from an established farming family. From an early age I think I knew that my destiny would have little to do with the family business. In any case, my brother, Tom Coleman, being the eldest by one year, was set to inherit the farm and all of our land, so there was always a general expectation that I, Peter Coleman, would have to make a life of my own . From an early age I read and dreamt of travelling and was hungry to learn more about the world outside of our small village.