Sherlock Holmes by James Lovegrove

such. Inconceivable…”
    Holmes did not emerge from his room for the rest of that day. Several times I knocked on the door, either receiving no response at all or else a curt cry of “Whoever you are, go away!” I even tried the handle once, only to find the door locked.
    “Holmes, old man,” I said through the panels. “Let me in. We should talk.”
    He, however, seemed in no mood for discussion of anything. I was minded to beg the key off the duty manager and force an entry thus, but elected to give my friend the solitude he craved. If past experience had taught me anything, his funk would run its course eventually. Tomlinson was right in as much as Holmes had not been bested in quite this way before. The circumstances were unique, and the blow to his ego had to be devastating. I remained confident, nonetheless, that he would see reason soon enough. The world had not ended just because the Thinking Engine had arrived in it.
    The next morning, Holmes came down to breakfast as though nothing untoward had happened. Helping himself to a generous portion of brawn slices and bacon-wrapped oysters, he engaged in airy conversation on such topics as the Dreyfus Affair and the critical reception for Oscar Wilde’s latest play
The Importance of Being Earnest
, which most of the reviewers had deemed hilarious but heartless. I dared not raise the subject of the Thinking Engine lest it mar his mood. It seemed we were sweeping the whole episode under the carpet and moving on.
    Then Inspector Tomlinson appeared.
    “Ever so sorry to interrupt your meal, gents, but I felt I ought to bring you the news in person. I’d rather have you hear it from me than some other source.”
    “No apology necessary, inspector. Enlighten us.”
    “It’s just that there’s been a discovery, Mr Holmes. Down in Port Meadow. That’s a patch of common land running between Jericho and Wolvercote, next to the river.”
    “A discovery?”
    “In the water, snagged on reeds.”
    “Ah. A body. That of Nahum Grainger, I’ll be bound.”
    “You don’t seem surprised.”
    “He hardly ever is,” I said, thinking that yesterday had been one of those rare occasions when he was.
    “It was altogether too likely,” Holmes said. “You would only have come to tell me about something, inspector, if it was connected with either the Jericho killings or the Thinking Engine or both. A leading player in the drama has not been seen for five days. Grainger turning up dead could not be discounted as a potential by-product of his crime.”
    “You reckon it is suicide, then? He was driven to kill himself through remorse?”
    “I cannot say anything with any certainty unless I am permitted to view the body. Is it still
in situ
?”
    “Just about. My men have dragged it up onto the bank and are awaiting a cart to come and take it to the mortuary.”
    “Then we must hurry.”
    Leaving our breakfast unfinished, we donned coats and boots and made our way north along Walton Street, past Jericho, thence cutting down across the railway line onto a broad spread of unploughed pastureland where several herds of cattle and a scattering of horses grazed somnolently. We waded shin-deep through grass, ragwort and plume thistle, following the meandering course of the river which, though the Thames, is known as the Isis where it flows through Oxford. Mist was still lifting off its turbid brown surface, like steam rising from milky tea. Geese and ducks dabbled, unconcerned.
    Two uniformed policemen stood on the bank, at their feet a slumped heap of wet rags which proved to be the corpse. Nearby, an angler sat dazedly on his heels, clutching his fishing rod as though barely aware of it. He, it transpired, had spotted the body just as he was about to cast his first fly of the day. Having recovered from the shock sufficiently to fetch help, he had since lapsed back into a traumatised, uncommunicative state.
    Holmes and I both knelt by Nahum Grainger’s mortal remains.
    “It is