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Holmes explained his reasoning insisting it was not worthy of the praise Watson bestowed.

The size of the hat had suggested to Holmes that the owner must have a large brain, and the quality of the item betrayed the wearer’s one-time wealth. With the hat being so old, the wearer could clearly no longer afford to replace it and had therefore experienced a change of fortune.

“But his wife?” asked Watson, “you said that she had ceased to love him.”

“This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week’s accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife’s affection.”

“But he might be a bachelor.”

“Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird’s leg.”

“You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?”

“One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow. He walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas jet.”

Watson was delighted by these explanations. His friend’s unusual mind was both fascinating and entertaining. How funny it seemed to a conventional man like himself that someone should spend most of Christmas Day consumed with the analysis of an old hat, as Holmes clearly had done. What a pointless waste of energy as no crime had even been committed.

Watson did not understand the comfort Holmes gained from being able to channel and focus his frantic mind into something as precise as the observation of a lost hat.

Sometimes Holmes wanted to confide in his only friend about the complexities which dominated his existence, but he was afraid to. He experienced difficulty finding the words and preferred the unquestioning respect which Watson afforded him. He would have found a normal friendship of equals impossible.

Holmes did try to work out how he might explain everything to Watson should he ever feel able; his choice of career, his need to observe and analyse whenever possible and his use of drugs when he had nothing on which to focus. He likened his mind to finding a wild horse thrashing and bucking out of control.

“What do you do?” he would say, “do you shoot it dead, do you watch it to ensure that it does not damage anything or harm itself, or do you jump on its back and try to tame it, break it in and channel its strength and power into something useful? That’s what I have tried to do with my mind, to harness and control its wild thrashings.”

But, he knew Watson would never understand. And in a strange way, he loved him for it, for his simplicity. He envied him that most of all. For Holmes, life was never simple.

Peterson, the commissionaire, suddenly rushed into the room before Watson had chance to recover from Holmes’ brilliant observations. His face was flushed and he looked as one who had just made a most shocking discovery.

When he had called upon Holmes that very morning to enquire about his progress, it was decided that he should take home the goose as it would not stay edible much longer. But, as the Peterson family readied themselves to tuck into a delicious roast goose for lunch, a rather startling discovery was made.

“The goose, Mr Holmes! The goose sir!” Peterson gasped to Holmes as he entered the room, ignoring Watson completely. This was something which Watson had become rather accustomed to when in the presence of his great friend.

“Eh? What of it then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?”

“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!”

He held out his hand to show a most brilliant, sparkling blue gemstone.

“Not the countess of Morcar’s blue carbuncle!” exclaimed Watson, who knew of the theft from the many reports in the papers. “It was lost, if I remember, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan.” He looked to Holmes for confirmation.

“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes.”

It was as Holmes described. The diamond had been stolen from the countess on the 22nd, but not by John Horner.

I had secured work as the countess’s maid, a role I utterly hated. After she left her hotel room on the 22nd I managed to cause a little damage which would require a plumber. I rushed to Mr Ryder, the upper attendant at the hotel and John Horner’s brother-in-law, for help. I implored him to send for an excellent plumber as soon as possible before her ladyship returned. As I had hoped, he called for Horner.

I stayed out of site until the work was finished. Then, as soon as Horner left, I stole the stone and her ladyship’s purse. I made sure Mr Ryder was in ear-shot and screamed for help. He rushed to the room and I showed him that the items were missing.

Due to Horner’s previous conviction and Ryder’s general dislike of him for being unsuitable for his sister, the innocent man was quickly condemned. I pretended to faint with distress when the countess returned and she kindly told me to return to my family for a few days rest. This gave me the perfect excuse to slip away and take up Lenny on his offer of his parents’ shed.

After such genius, the following fiasco was a huge disappointment and obviously led to the owner of Holmes’ old hat acquiring the most valuable goose in the world.

After Peterson’s revelation it was decided that an advertisement would be placed in the papers to see if the man, Henry Baker, would come forward. In the advert, Holmes asked him to present himself at 6.30 that very evening if he wished to have the bird returned.

But it was clear from early on after his arrival that night at 221B that Mr Baker knew nothing of the blue carbuncle. Holmes explained that the goose had been eaten and the man jumped from his chair with anxiety, but when Holmes informed him that he had got a fresh bird as a replacement, Mr Baker was most satisfied.

He happily declined an offer of the feathers, legs and crop of the old bird and was delighted to take away his new goose. He was completely innocent, but also helpful as he explained to Holmes that he had bought the bird from the landlord of a certain public house, The Alpha Inn.

Holmes and Watson set off that night to find out more and were told by the landlord that the goose had come from Breckinridge of Covent Garden.

They went to the market but Mr Breckinridge would not say where he obtained the geese sold to the landlord of the Alpha Inn. I had already pestered him relentlessly for days, pleading to be told where the birds from Mrs Oakshott had gone.

He was grumpy and resolutely none-committal. But, Holmes cleverly managed to pry from him details of Mrs Oakshott.

Holmes and Watson had just started their trek for Oakshott’s when raised voices erupted behind them. They turned to see me shouting at Breckinridge and begging him to tell me who had bought Mrs Oakshott’s geese.

I was yelling with frustration, shaking my fists, but to no avail. The harassed dealer simply turned me away and returned to his work. I stood for a few moments unsure what to do next. Then, with a heavy heart, I admitted defeat and retreated.

The market was abuzz with colour and activity, the air sharp and bracing. I pushed through the busy crowds believing that the whole episode had now come to a close.

I didn’t spot Holmes until he walked behind me and touched me on the shoulder. I spun around and peered into his striking face, illuminated by the gas-light above. I gasped with shock at seeing him again. Doctor Watson stood at his side, his eyes watering with the cold.

I hadn’t seen Holmes since entering his home disguised as a boy, but I had thought of him often. It was my wish to see him again and now here he was, hand still resting upon my shoulder, so close I could feel his warm breath drifting across my face.

My eyes grew wide with excitement, as bright and icy as the winter air. I knew instinctively that he remembered me. I glared at him before finally composing myself and muttering:

“What do you want?”

“I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you.”

“You? How could you know anything of the matter?”

“It is my business to know what other people don’t know.”

“But you can know nothing of this.”

“Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs Oakshott of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge.”

I was stunned into silence and stammered slightly, unsure of what to say. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath to steady myself. How could he possibly know so much about the matter, and did he know it all?

He was very much taller than me. I had to hold my head up high to peer into his eyes. I actually felt small in those moments and brushed his hand from my shoulder. His eyes were alert and intense, alive with fire and spirit. He was a most absorbing man. I wondered how he could possibly help me, did he have the goose and not realise what was inside?

I flicked my hair from my face and forced a confident smile. I held out my hand in a business-like fashion but couldn’t disguise the fact that it was trembling. I grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty shake.

“Well then, as you seem to know so much, I would be delighted to accept your offer of assistance Mr Holmes. If you could just explain to me where the geese are and then I’ll be on my way.”

“In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market place. But pray tell me, before we go any further, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting?”

I hesitated and felt like he knew far too much about me already.

“Little Red Riding Hood.”

“No, no; the real name,” said Holmes, rather sweetly, “it is always awkward doing business with an alias.”

He was actually smiling, and it softened his whole face.

“Very well then,” I said, his hand still in my own and a flush creeping across my cheeks, “just call me Red.”

Holmes hailed a four-wheeler and the three of us were soon rattling along the cobbles on our way to Baker Street. A slight smile continued to play at the corners of his thin lips.

I could tell that he found me intriguing. We travelled together in silence but Watson ignored me. He clearly regarded me as generally distasteful.

It felt strange to be back inside the cosy and chaotic sitting room at 221B. I had pictured it in my head so many times, trying to recall every detail. A fire burned in the grate and the room felt warm and inviting.

“You look cold Miss Riding-Hood. Pray take the basket chair. Now, you want to know what became of those geese?”

“I do.”

“Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine, in which you were interested; white, with a black bar across the tail.”

I shook with emotion, not sure whether I was about to become very rich or found very guilty.

“Well, I can tell you that it actually came here.”

“What!” I exclaimed, jumping out of my chair.

“Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don’t wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead; the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum.”

Holmes unlocked his strong box and held up the diamond. I held onto the chair to steady myself.

“The game is up, Miss Red.”

I decided that compliance was my only defence; my jangled emotions were too fragile for anything else. I felt paralysed by him and exposed, as if he had seen into my mind.

It seemed pointless now to try to hide my feelings, my fear, shock, infatuation. No point in acting tough or complacent, he could see right through me anyway. My infatuation engulfed me, a wave of teenage emotion threatening to drown me.

I was too young and lacked the sophistication to do anything other than throw myself at him. Nor was the brandy I had consumed before setting off to the market of much help. I flung my arms around his neck and hung on tightly as he gently tried to pull me away.

“Please,” I begged, “have mercy. I’m just a petty thief, and clearly a bad one. I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Send your friend away and when we are alone I can show you how grateful I can be.”

I saw panic flicker through his eyes, as if my touch both excited and repelled him in equal measure.

“Get away from me,” he commanded as I held his face in my hands.

“I have always wanted you. I would change for you, let you change me. Please, don’t tell the police. I don’t deserve to die in jail. I haven’t even starting living yet.”

“Watson, please!” Holmes shouted, urging his friend to help release my grip. Watson pulled at my hands, which were now clasped back behind Holmes’ neck, and parted them. I was frightened, feeling as if I was a wild animal ensnared in a trap. I spun around and slapped him hard across the face.

“Take your hands off me, how dare you touch me!”

Watson stepped back in shock, his eyes watering with an angry red mark spreading across his cheek. We three stood silently for a few moments, all panting slightly and unsure how to proceed.

Finally Homes broke the silence. “Get back in your chair. It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing. It seems to me that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man, Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest more heavily upon him. What did you do then? You made some small job in my lady’s room and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then...”

Despite all the trouble I was in, I simply couldn’t help but react to that final comment.

“Unfortunate! Poor unfortunate Mr Horner! Was he unfortunate when he did this to me?”

I tore off the upper part of my dress to reveal my neck and décolleté still covered in bruises. I lifted my tangled mass of hair to show the marks on my throat and shoulders where he had tried to strangle me. Even the memory of it made me shudder.

“Somewhere out there is a girl not quite so able to look after herself as me, and one night with John Horner will be the end of her. I know all too well. I was close enough to the end myself. Perhaps I have saved her, perhaps many, who knows? It’s not my position to make decisions about who lives and dies in this world Mr Holmes, but I do truly believe that some people don’t deserve to live. I hope he hangs. I’m not a victim Mr Holmes, I made my choices, but not all girls are as strong as me.”