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turned and walked away, leaving Holmes behind me to catch up.

CHAPTER FIVE
    I came downstairs the next morning to find Holmes sitting in my favourite armchair, poring over the documents we had taken from the War Office the previous day. They were scattered all about him on the floor, many of them covered in pencil marks and scrawled notes. The fire was burning in the grate, despite the clement weather outside. Three teacups were abandoned on the hearth, beside the remains of my crumpets from the previous day. I grimaced at the sight of them.
    Holmes glanced up momentarily as I came into the room. “Morning, Watson,” he pronounced. He returned to his reading without waiting for my acknowledgement.
    “Haven’t you slept, Holmes?” I asked.
    “A little,” he replied.
    “Really, Holmes. At our age…”
    I saw him grind his teeth, measuring his response. “Old habits die hard, Watson. Particularly when there’s a case to be solved. You know my methods.”
    “Mmmm,” I murmured disapprovingly in reply. In truth, I had not slept well myself. Images of the burnt-out motorcar and the remains of that poor young man had haunted me every time I closed my eyes. I was plagued by the look of sheer, unadulterated terror on his face.
    I felt as if I should have done something. I should have considered him, alone out there in the street, instead of cowering inside the building, thinking only of myself. Perhaps if Holmes and I had got to him earlier… He couldn’t have been more than – what – twenty years old? It was no age to die. Yet, I reflected, his story was no different to the thousands whose lives were being forfeited in the trenches every day. Just like my nephew, Joseph. The war itself was the real culprit here. We had invited death into our lives, and now it was wreaking chaos.
    The journey home from Grange’s house had proved increasingly harrowing, following the trail of destruction left behind by the Kaiser’s zeppelins, not to mention the ever-present threat of more incendiary devices tumbling from the skies above. It was a simple matter to map the route of the bombers across the city, following the guttering fires, the crumbling buildings, and the screams. Black smoke had formed a pall across the rooftops, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air.
    I had tried to help, offering my medical services to the fire crews who had scrambled to attend to the bombsites, but there was little I could do. Those who had been caught in the blasts were already dead, and I was grateful to discover that many had escaped with their lives, if not their possessions. They would be moved on to shelters elsewhere in the city, distraught but grateful for their lives.
    With little else to be done, Holmes and I had struck out towards Ealing on foot, and had been forced to walk some miles before finally picking up a cab.
    As a consequence I was bone tired, and felt a dark shadow of depression threatening to overwhelm me. Left to my own devices, I was sure that I might sink into a well of grief and self-pity, and the very notion appalled me, bucking me up. I made a conscious decision to banish such black thoughts. There was a case to be solved. There was work to be done.
    Holmes was still intent on the papers upon his knee. “Have you discovered anything?” I asked, as I collected the detritus from the fireplace.
    Holmes sniffed. He shook his head. “Nothing of consequence,” he replied. “At least, not yet. I need those other transcripts. There is a pattern here, I’m sure of it. It’s simply that I cannot yet discern it. The picture remains incomplete. Additionally, without my index the work is much more difficult. Many of these names are familiar to me; minor criminals, petty thieves, that sort of thing, but I fear I’m going to have to rely on Inspector Foulkes to confirm it.”
    I could see his frustration in the set of his jaw. He must have been at it for hours. There were dark bruises beneath his eyes from lack of