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Carter might have to abandon his vehicle for the night and join us on foot, at least until we could pick up a hansom.
    And that’s when it dawned on me.
Carter
. He’d been outside in the motorcar during the blast.
    Panicked, I shoved Holmes out of the way – he had come to stand beside me at the window – and rushed to the door. I hurtled along the hallway, flung open the front door and charged down the garden path toward the waiting automobile.
    The sight that greeted me was one that I would never forget.
    The blast had hit the vehicle with such force that it had tipped it over so that it lay on its side, half up on the pavement. The driver’s door was buckled, so that it had pinned Carter in, trapping his legs beneath the steering wheel. The roaring heat of the explosion had scorched the vehicle so comprehensively that the paint had bubbled from the metal panels. The seats were still smouldering where the leather and stuffing had burned. And Carter, that poor, poor boy, had been torched alive.
    The flesh of his face was now a charred and blackened mess, but I could see the fixed expression of horror, the scream of anguish frozen forever in the set of his jaw. I couldn’t help but recall what I had said to him when I’d left him out here by himself, less than an hour earlier: “you’ll catch your death”. It was an old expression, but it had proved horrifyingly prophetic.
    I sank to my knees, tears welling in my eyes. I felt responsible for the lad, as if I’d somehow let him down. I should have pressed him harder to come inside,
demanded
that he did as I said. But it was too late, now. There was nothing to be done. Carter had become another victim of the war.
    I realised Foulkes and Holmes were standing behind me, and felt Holmes’s hand on my shoulder. He helped me up, and the look on his face was one of heartfelt sorrow. “That poor boy,” he said.
    Around us, the ambulances and fire engines had started to arrive on the scene, and the firemen were beginning to round everybody up.
    “You should go,” said Foulkes. “Get home before you become embroiled in all of this.”
    “We can’t!” I said. “I’m a doctor. I could help.”
    Foulkes shook his head. “You’re in no fit state to help, Dr. Watson, and besides, the ambulances are here. There are plenty of doctors and nurses on hand. If anything, you should consider getting
yourself
looked over.”
    “I am quite well,” I said, although in truth, I was wincing with every intake of breath.
    “The Inspector is right, Watson,” said Holmes. “We can be of little use here. We should take our leave and repair to Ealing, where we can recuperate without distraction. We are neither of us as young as we used to be.”
    I glowered at Holmes, but in truth I knew he spoke sense. I noticed he still had the photographs of Grange, tucked under his left arm. “We still have a case to solve, and I am resolved now, more than ever, to see it through,” he said. “That boy gave his life in pursuit of Mycroft’s cause. I shall see the matter resolved.”
    “What of Carter?” I said. “We can’t just leave him here. Who’s going to speak to his mother?”
    “I will remain here and see to the necessary arrangements, Dr. Watson,” said Foulkes. “Rest assured, I won’t leave until the boy has been extracted from the wreckage and taken to the morgue. I will see to it that the family is informed.”
    “Very well,” I said, with a heavy sigh. I could see there was no point arguing, and in truth, my every instinct screamed at me to get as far away from the place as possible.
    “Thank you, Inspector,” said Holmes. “We shall be in touch.”
    “See that you are, Mr. Holmes,” said Foulkes.
    “You’re a good man, Inspector Foulkes,” I said. “Bainbridge would be proud.”
    “Thank you, Dr. Watson. Now go, before that lot rope you in to start answering questions.”
    I nodded, and with one last look at the terrible, charred remains of our driver, I