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We were seated before an open fire one winter’s evening, my wife and I, when Boscombe, our maid, brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

WATSON -(STOP)- NEED URGENT ASSISTANCE -(STOP)- MEET ME ASAP AT TUDOR MANSION, PRATT STREET, WADDINGTON -(STOP)- BRING CARVING FORK -(END)-

BAKER STREET 9.15 PM

‘Tudor Mansion?’ my wife said. ‘Doesn’t your esteemed colleague Dr Cluedo Black live there?’

‘Indeed, he does, my dear,’ I said. ‘Will you forgive me for abandoning you and the comfort of our fire to attend to Sherlock’s request?’

‘Certainly, but on one condition.’

‘One?’

‘That when you return to our marital bed, you keep your icy feet to yourself.’

I chuckled as I rang the bell, and Boscombe re-entered the room.

‘Boscombe, kindly bring me the Sheffield carving fork.’

Ten minutes later, I boarded a hansom cab, which then set forth towards Waddington in haste. The raw chill of the London evening bit at my face, and my mind was as foggy to the mystery of Holmes’s telegram as the mist that hung low about the gas-lit, cobbled streets.

When I arrived at Tudor Mansion and paid my fare, I disembarked, only to be greeted by a distressed Holmes rushing towards me.

‘Quick, Watson,’ he said. ‘The carving fork.’

‘And a good evening to you, too, Sherlock,’ I said as I removed the fork from my bag.

Holmes snatched the fork from my grasp and, with the dexterity of a contortionist, applied a vigorous scratching to the middle of his back.

‘Ahhh!’ he said. ‘That’s better. Thank you. I apologise for my incivility, Watson. I’ll have you know I’ve had that blessed itch ever since the messenger delivered Inspector Lestrade’s telegram earlier this evening.’ He contorted and scratched again for a full minute, before straightening, pocketing the fork and saying, ‘Come, Watson, let us enter the fray without any further delay.’

We walked over to the front door, where a tall, puffy man with a huge moustache stood.

‘Good evening, Inspector Lestrade,’ Holmes said.

‘Evening, sir.’

‘You know my learned colleague Dr Watson?’

We doffed our hats to each other.

‘Right, Inspector,’ Holmes said, ‘to the case at hand.’

The inspector opened a notebook and said, ‘Murder, sir. Murder most foul.’

‘The victim?’

‘A Doctor Cluedo Black, sir.’

I gasped.

‘Steady, Watson,’ Holmes said. ‘We’ll need clear heads this evening.’

‘Pardon me,’ I said.

‘Where is the victim, Inspector?’

‘In the cellar, sir.’

‘Witnesses?’

‘None, sir. Though there was to be a dinner party at the premises earlier this evening. Five guests. All heard the cook’s scream when she discovered the body.’

‘And where are they now?’

‘Assembled in the lounge, awaiting questioning, sir.’

‘Good man. But let us examine the victim first. After you, Inspector.’

The inspector led us inside and down a hallway bordered on one side by a grand staircase, under which stood a large door. As we passed the lounge, I spied the assembled guests and the cook, all sitting on the edge of their seats and with agitated looks. Holmes gave them a cursory glance, and we followed the inspector down another set of stairs, darker and narrower, until we arrived in a musty, cobwebbed cellar.

A police constable stood beside a prone body. It was Doctor Black! I recognised his harlequin dinner jacket, for Mary and I had gifted it to him last Christmas. Holmes removed a magnifying glass from his pocket and squatted and examined the body. He swept the glass up and down the corpse and took an inordinate amount of time checking under the deceased doctor’s collar and raising his trouser cuffs and examining his calves.

Holmes rose and said, ‘As I suspected. A crime solved.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Solved already?’

‘It’s all elementary, my dear Watson. Murderer, weapon and location. All I need to confirm is the motive.’

I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘But how?’

‘Later, my friend. Now I think we should turn the body over and see what surprises await. Inspector, if you would.’

The inspector and the constable stepped forward and rolled Dr Black’s body over.

‘Good God!’ the inspector said. The constable fell to his knees and gagged, for there before us lay a most gruesome sight. The good doctor’s face and hands were burnt red and blistered. But that was not the worst of it. The poor chap had a bullet hole between his eyebrows, a dagger plunged into his chest, a rope throttling his neck, a lead pipe inserted into his right eye socket, a wrench embedded in his cranium and a candlestick holder lodged down his throat. But strangest of all, the cupped left hand of the mutilated doctor grasped a zested orange.

‘By Jove, Holmes,’ I said. ‘Has any being ever met so foul an end?’

‘Ah, yes,’ Holmes said as he inspected each of the murder weapons with his magnifying glass, ‘just as I suspected. This confirms murderer, location and murder weapon.’

‘Weapon?’ I said. ‘But surely, Holmes, all these weapons contributed to the dastardly death of this poor man.’

‘No, Watson. There is only one weapon in this room that killed the doctor.’

‘Which one?’

‘Patience, Watson.’ Holmes removed his notebook from his coat pocket and scribbled a long note. He ripped the top sheet out and handed it to the inspector. ‘Time to interrogate the doctor’s guests and his employee. Inspector, if you would be so kind as to escort each of them to the rooms specified in the list I have handed you. Tell them we will be with them shortly.’

‘That I will, sir,’ Inspector Lestrade said, and he and the constable departed the room.

As we went to exit the cellar, Holmes paused, bent down, removed an envelope from Doctor Black’s jacket pocket and handed it to me.

‘Before we start, Watson, my good man, if you would be so kind as to pocket this envelope and guard it with your life. Let no one open it until I say so.’

I placed the envelope in my inside jacket pocket and tapped it twice to confirm the envelope’s safekeeping.

‘Right, Watson,’ Holmes said, ‘let us make our way to the conservatory.’