“No, sir, but she gave hard cash, and plenty of it. A quarter’s rent right down on the table in advance and no arguing about terms. In these times a poor woman like me can’t afford to turn down a chance like that.”

“Did she give any reason for choosing your house?”

“Mine stands well back from the road and is more private than most. Then, again, I only take the one, and I have no family of my own. I reckon she had tried others and found that mine suited her best. It’s privacy she is after, and she is ready to pay for it.”

“You say that she never showed her face from first to last save on the one accidental occasion. Well, it is a very remarkable story, most remarkable, and I don’t wonder that you want it examined.”

“I don’t, Mr. Holmes. I am quite satisfied so long as I get my rent. You could not have a quieter lodger, or one who gives less trouble.”

“Then what has brought matters to a head?”

“Her health, Mr. Holmes. She seems to be wasting away. And there’s something terrible on her mind. ‘Murder!’ she cries. ‘Murder!’ And once I heard her: ‘You cruel beast! You monster!’ she cried. It was in the night, and it fair rang through the house and sent the shivers through me. So I went to her in the morning. ‘Mrs. Ronder,’ I says, ‘if you have anything that is troubling your soul, there’s the clergy,’ I says, ‘and there’s the police. Between them you should get some help.’ ‘For God’s sake, not the police!’ says she, ‘and the clergy can’t change what is past. And yet,’ she says, ‘it would ease my mind if someone knew the truth before I died.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘if you won’t have the regulars, there is this detective man what we read about’ - beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Holmes. And she, she fair jumped at it. ‘That’s the man,’ says she. ‘I wonder I never thought of it before. Bring him here, Mrs. Merrilow, and if he won’t come, tell him I am the wife of Ronder’s wild beast show. Say that, and give him the name Abbas Parva. Here it is as she wrote it, Abbas Parva. ‘That will bring him if he’s the man I think he is.’ ”

“And it will, too,” remarked Holmes. “Very good, Mrs. Merrilow. I should like to have a little chat with Dr. Watson. That will carry us till lunch-time. About three o’clock you may expect to see us at your house in Brixton.”

Our visitor had no sooner waddled out of the room - no other verb can describe Mrs. Merrilow’s method of progression - than Sherlock Holmes threw himself with fierce energy upon the pile of commonplace books in the corner. For a few minutes there was a constant swish of the leaves, and then with a grunt of satisfaction he came upon what he sought. So excited was he that he did not rise, but sat upon the floor like some strange Buddha, with crossed legs, the huge books all round him, and one open upon his knees.

“The case worried me at the time, Watson. Here are my marginal notes to prove it. I confess that I could make nothing of it. And yet I was convinced that the coroner was wrong. Have you no recollection of the Abbas Parva tragedy?”

“None, Holmes.”

“And yet you were with me then. But certainly my own impression was very superficial. For there was nothing to go by, and none of the parties had engaged my services. Perhaps you would care to read the papers?”

“Could you not give me the points?”