I went to the parlour and searched through the periodicals in the fire bucket. I soon came to the story. The Honourable Archibald Templeford married Miss Rose Nichols after a brief engagement. His mother refused to attend the wedding nuptials on account of Miss Nichols' former profession, namely performing as a songstress in the twice-nightlies, where she was known as "The Deptford Nightingale". Miss Nichols subsequently gave birth to a baby boy named Godwin. I was still reading this item when the door to Mr Holmes' apartment slammed open.

"If you do not help me, I do not know what I shall do," she said loudly enough to wake up the serving girl on the top floor. "I have no-one else to whom I can turn, and need not tell you what this would do to our family should the news be made public." And with that she swept past me once more, almost knocking me flat, her grand exit only marred by her struggle with the front door latch.

"Allow me," I offered, squeezing past to shove the lock, for the wood swells in wet weather, for which help I received a look that could freeze a pond in midsummer.

"The poor lady seemed very distressed," I ventured, wary of my lodger's reluctance to discuss his clients. "I do hope you can help her."

"That remains to be seen," said Mr Holmes, "but it is nothing you should concern yourself with, dear lady," and with that he shut his door in my face. This does not bother me, for I am used to his ways, and I am just the landlady. I open the doors and close them. People pass me by. I stick to my duty, and they to theirs.

The next morning Mr Holmes went out, and did not return until five. He appeared haggard, in low spirits, and I gathered from his mood that the investigation he had undertaken was not going well. I knew he had visited the home of the Honourable Archibald Templeford because I heard him giving the cab driver the address, which was published in my weekly along with a fetching painting of the drive and grounds in Upper Richmond.

"How was your day, Mr Holmes?" I asked, taking his soaking great-coat to hang in the hall.

"Somewhat less productive than I had hoped, Mrs Hudson," he replied, "though I venture to surmise not entirely without purpose." He often speaks like this, saying much but revealing nothing. Most times, I have little interest in my lodger's cases. He does not vouchsafe their details, and wishes to discuss them with no-one but the doctor, but sometimes I glean a sense of their shape and purpose, although I see them through the wrong end of a telescope, as it were, the clients coming and going, the snatches of hurried conversation, the urgent departures late at night, the visits from policemen like Inspector Lestrade, full of cajoling and flattery, and when those tactics fail, threats and warnings. It is like being backstage at some great opera, where one only glimpses the actors and hears snatches of arias, and the setting is all around the wrong way, and one is left to piece together the plot. Like any stagehand I am invisible and unheard, but a necessary requirement in the smooth running of the performance.