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somewhat at this backhanded compliment, but was more preoccupied by the pins and needles creeping up my legs, denying them of their ability to hold me upright. I crashed forward, unwittingly toppling the giant, who quickly scrambled to his feet.
    â€˜First class, Watson!’ my friend applauded. ‘A magnificent opening salvo.’ Holmes adopted a stance I had seen before, something he practised during long evenings at 221b Baker Street, especially when we were without a case. His legs were set akimbo, bent at the knees. His left arm was down in anticipation of a blow from the taller man. Above his head, he held a poker, which he had produced seemingly out of nowhere.
    He parried Snitterton’s first blow and then slid lithely beneath him so the man rolled over Holmes’ back, with barely any contact being made. Once more, Snitterton found himself on the floor.
    â€˜Perhaps our friend is unfamiliar with the art of bartitsu,’ Holmes chided. Snitterton growled, again picking himself up before hurling himself at Holmes, this time with a revolver in his hand. In an instant, Holmes had sent his cane spinning like a blurred bicycle wheel, which succeeded in knocking the weapon from Snitterton’s hand and snapping his fingers at the same time. The fiend emitted a howl like a dog whose paw had been caught beneath a shoe and he reeled backwards - far enough for Holmes to place a jab directly onto his jaw. Snitterton’s thoughts now had turned to flight and he glanced at the picture of the Viceroy, clearly aware of what lay behind it.
    â€˜Quick, Watson,’ my friend urged, ‘he’s at the twenty two yard line. Bring him down!’
    I tackled as best I could, but the feeling had still not entirely returned to my legs. We both watched aghast as Snitterton ran at the painting of Warren Hastings and crashed directly through it, leaving the Viceroy in ribbons. We ran to the empty frame and peered beyond as the morning light filled the room. The roof slates reflected the brilliance and we squinted out beyond them and down onto the cobbles. Either he had slipped to his death or else made a miraculous escape across the rooftops. There was the sound of feet coming up the stairs, no doubt Chatburn come to investigate the commotion.
    â€˜I think,’ said Holmes, ‘that we would be wise to follow suit.’ We scrambled through the painting and out, once more into the wilds of London.
    â€˜Three nil!’ Holmes exclaimed. ‘Really my dear Watson, you must do better.’ I glared at the great detective, the lid of a cigar box gripped in my hand, before retrieving the champagne cork that had ricocheted off the table into the corner of the room.
    It was Holmes’ idea to revive our occasional sporting rivalry with a game of ping-pong. We played in the manner my friends and I had pioneered in the officer’s mess in Afghanistan; that it is to say, to line up a pile of cheap novels in the centre of the dining room table and wallop a makeshift cork ball over the top. It was generally first class fun, but of late Holmes’ game had improved no end and I rather suspected that he had been getting in some private practice.
    It was late afternoon by the time Holmes and I had reconvened. After a perilous dash across three rooftops, a leap onto the roof of a Greek restaurant next door and a necessarily speedy descent down the drainpipe at the rear of the premises, we had lost no time returning to 221b Baker Street. After a pair of kippers courtesy of the inestimable Mrs Hudson and a cigar apiece, we found ourselves entirely spent from our morning’s exertions. We had therefore opted to retire to bed for a few hours to recover our wits.
    I served smartly, only to find the cork back on my side courtesy of a deft backhand slice. Holmes let out a snort of triumph. ‘The secret is to examine the behaviour of the ball and in a millisecond, project yourself into the ball’s future.