The rain of 1895 left Baker Street shining. When Watson opened the door, the fire was only a thin red line. Holmes did not look up. He slid across a card softened by water. There was no name on it, only a pencil line: at eleven tonight, the river will bring the answer back.
"The client is already dead," Holmes said. "So this is not a commission. It is a relic."
On the back of the card Watson found a grey fibre, as if torn from a sail. A cab hissed through the puddles outside, and inside the room was quiet enough to hear the clock. Holmes looked up at last. "Leave your revolver at home. Where we are going, a gun is more dangerous than silence."
❦ To be continued.
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