“That is surely almost certain,” I agreed.

“And the link between the two events seems most likely to be the wife. She believes that her husband will not be returning for another twenty-four hours, she is in complete control of the house in his absence: surely it must be she who has arranged for these strangers and their servants to be there.”

“Perhaps so; but for what purpose? It seems such a very strange and inexplicable thing to have happened that I am not really surprised that Mr Claydon felt he was going mad. What can any of those involved hope to achieve?”

Holmes shook his head. “We are certainly in the dark at present,” said he, “and there is little point in speculating. However, I am hopeful that we shall understand the matter a little better before the evening is done. In the meantime we must endeavour to keep my client’s spirits buoyed up. I am concerned that his grip on his mental faculties may still be but fragile, and that further shocks may loosen it again. But here is Mr Claydon now, as neat as a new pin, and with an appearance of resolve upon his features that suggests he is ready to step once more into the fray! Your hat, Watson! We leave at once!”

In a minute the three of us were in a growler, and making our way across the centre of town in the evening sunshine.

“Pray, tell me something of your family,” said Holmes to his client as we rattled along. “Do they all still reside in Northampton?”

“Yes. My mother and father still live in the house in which I grew up. I have one brother, who is a commercial traveller in the shoe trade. He and his wife live just five minutes’ walk from my parents’ house, near where I lived when I was first married.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Two years this month.”

“And your wife, I believe you said, is also from Northampton?”

Claydon nodded. “It is there that we were married.”

“Had you known her for very long before your marriage?”

“Several years.”

“You will be familiar, then, with her family?”

“Indeed I am. I know them almost as well as I know my own family. Her father has a position of some importance with one of the shoe manufacturers in the town. She also has a brother and sister. The sister, Joan, is several years younger, and is away at boarding school. The brother, Leonard, is just a couple of years younger than Lucy. Eighteen months ago he took himself off to America, rather against his parents’ wishes, I might say. We did not hear anything from him for a long time after that and feared that he had come to grief, but he appears to be established now, for the last we heard of him, he was living in New York, and studying law.”

“I see,” said Holmes, nodding his head. “I think that that gives us a clear enough picture of your immediate relations. Your domestic staff, now: what servants do you keep at Kendal Terrace?”

“Just two. We have an excellent cook, Rosemary Quinn, who also acts as housekeeper and helps my wife with sundry matters. She is very experienced and a particularly good pastry cook. Our only other servant is a young girl, Susan Townley. She is a local girl – her parents live at Battersea – and it is her first position. Susan is in many ways the opposite of Rosemary: she is very inexperienced and sometimes seems to know nothing about anything, but she is a sweet-natured girl and very willing to learn, so we are quite satisfied with her.”

We had crossed Westminster Bridge while they had been speaking and passed down the Kennington Road towards Brixton. The traffic in the streets had thinned a little as we left the centre of town behind, but the fine weather seemed to have encouraged half of London to leave their houses and take the air, for the pavements were crowded with all manner of folk, strolling along arm in arm in the evening sunshine, or standing in small groups at street corners, gossiping. There was evidently some sporting event taking place at the Oval, for a sizeable crowd was milling about there, spilling from the pavements onto the road. Past this crowd we rattled, and on down the Brixton Road, and I found myself thinking how incongruous it was that on this beautiful evening, we should be journeying to investigate such a strange and mysterious business.

We soon reached Brixton Police Station, where Claydon and I remained in the cab while Holmes went inside. In less than five minutes he was back out again, accompanied by a large, broad-chested man in a braided uniform.

“This is Inspector Spencer, Mr Claydon,” said Holmes. “He and two of his men will follow us in their own vehicle. I have given him an outline of the matter, and am confident that with his help it will soon be resolved.”

As he spoke, a police van drawn by two black horses emerged with a clatter from a yard to the side of the police station.

“Right-ho, Mr Holmes,” said the inspector. “Lead on and we shall follow!”

When we turned into Kendal Terrace a few minutes later, the evening sun was slanting into the street from the far end, casting a golden glow upon the houses. There was no one about save a small group of men at the corner, standing in idle conversation. They glanced at us with little curiosity as we passed, but looked round with somewhat keener interest at the police van that followed us into the street.

Kendal Terrace consisted of two identical rows of flat-fronted, pleasantly proportioned houses, which faced each other across the dusty street. We pulled up before a house about halfway along on the right-hand side. A short flight of steps led up to the front door, and affixed to the wall immediately to the right of the door was the small wooden sign that identified it as Worthing Villa. Claydon waited until our party was assembled on the pavement, then led the way up the steps. Having reached the front door, however, he seemed hesitant of proceeding.

“Try your key in the lock,” prompted Holmes in an encouraging tone.

“It did not work last time,” returned Claydon dubiously, fishing the key from his pocket, and slipping it into the lock. Next moment, however, the key had turned and the door had opened without difficulty. With an expression of surprise upon his face, Claydon led the way into the hall. “Everything appears in order,” said he, looking about him. For a moment, he stood at the foot of the stairs and called, “Hello!” very loudly, but no answer came and the house had that air of complete silence, which unoccupied buildings always possess.

“I am a busy man,” declared Inspector Spencer in a loud voice, standing in the hall and peering up the stairs. “I must say I have never known you to waste police time before, Mr Holmes, but it is clear that nothing is amiss here. Perhaps your client has been suffering from a mental delusion of some kind.”

“One moment, Spencer,” returned Holmes. “Let us take a quick look about, before we reach any conclusions!” He pushed open a door on the right of the hall and we entered a neat and pleasant sitting room. Through the window, which overlooked the street outside, I could see that the crowd of loafers had followed us along the street and were now standing outside the window, staring in at us. I glanced about. The room was well furnished, with comfortable-looking sofas and chairs. Against the wall opposite the window was a piano, on the top of which was a photograph of a child in a silver frame. On a small table beside one of the chairs a tray had been set with tea things. There was a teapot on the tray and two cups, which were both half full of tea. Beside the tray on the table was a large glass vase containing some pink flowers. In the alcove to the right of the fireplace was a highly polished tallboy, and in the alcove on the left was a bureau, above which, on a shelf, was a pretty little brass clock. There was another, larger clock made of some dark wood on the mantelpiece. Beside this clock were numerous small ornaments, and above it, on the chimney breast, hung a large framed print of a church.