'What a touching theory.' Detective Martin's tone was disparaging. 'How very sentimental. But you'll excuse me for searching every building in the area in case Slaney's hiding Mrs Cubitt and your mystery woman in a pigsty. Stay here. The real detectives are going to do some work.' He strode out of the room with a swing in his step, leaving Sherlock to stare fixedly into the swimming pool.

John took a while to smooth the smile off his face. 'So – do you fancy a swim?'

'No. Let's have tea at Elridge's.'

Enquiries with reception revealed that the other hotel was walking distance away but was a filthy hovel compared to Riding Thorpe Manor Hotel. At Elridge's the sheets were never changed, the staff were always rude and guests complained vociferously and didn't go back. It also had slightly better reviews on TripAdvisor, according to John. They walked as the afternoon light grew misty and dim and Sherlock pawed at regular intervals through the bushes.

'There she is again, look. Heel marks.'

'Elsie Cubitt?'

'No, no, the other one. She keeps walking in mud while the other two are on the path. It must be deliberate.'

'She's leaving a trail. She knows the police will be following her.'

'I doubt it. The police aren't following her, are they? Or at least, not in any useful sense. I don't know what she's doing.'

Elridge's was a much smaller and older structure than Riding Thorpe Manor, a Tudor era mansion complete with herringbone brickwork and weathered beams, with a thatched roof and roses around the door. Where Mr Cubitt's hotel was full of high ceilinged, light filled Victorian order, this place was a rustic, higgledy piggledy collection of small rooms and log burning fireplaces with large dogs sprawled in front of them. There were no scented candles. But a candle of a different kind appeared on Sherlock's phone while John was buying drinks.

It was a video call, but there wasn't anyone on the other end, and the volume was off so the only clue he had was a live stream of a lit candle, in extreme close up, sitting in a saucer on a dark oak table. There was something wrong with it as well, the wax was too yellow and it didn't melt much like ordinary wax did. It oozed rather than dribbling down the tallow in an unctuous slide and the flame didn't seem to be consuming so much as caressing it.

He put his hand out to John and clicked his fingers, finding a pint glass placed in it instead. 'No, phone.'

'What for? Where's yours?'

Sherlock placed his on the table, finding it hard not to watch the slow ripple of the wax onto the plate.

'Is that live?' asked John after a few seconds.

'It appears so.'

'You're having a conversation with a candle? Can it answer back? What does it say?'

'Concentrate, John. Are there any restaurants in the world which serve edible candles?'

'Edible – oh, yes, there's that new one in London, Story. The candles are made of beef dripping, you're supposed to dip bread into them and they do edible coal. You can eat the spoons as well, I think. Expensive, gets good reviews.' He frowned at the screen for a little while. 'You're being propositioned.'

'Yes. But very ineffectively. She's in London and I'm in the middle of nowhere.'

'And are you going?'

Sherlock cut the call, threw the phone back in his pocket. 'No. I'm working. I expect I'm supposed to arrive before the candle goes out. I'd never make it.'

'You could try.'

'I'd fail, and the outcome would be the same as if I'd never tried at all. In a minute, you and I need to have a loud conversation about going back to our rooms and then we need to search the corridors.'

'What are we looking for?'

'Muddy stilettos. There can't be too many of them around. Look for the marks on the carpet.'

While John searched the first floor Sherlock quickly picked up a trail along the ground floor corridor, coming in through a fire exit and leading up the back stairs and into a secluded suite on the second floor. The muddy squares on the on the carpet became progressively harder to see and he paused outside the door for some time, listening, to be sure there was movement within. Then he texted John for back up and prepared for action.

'You be room service,' John hissed from the other side of the door frame as they prepared to barge into the bedroom and confront an armed kidnapper and his hostage. 'It's your turn.'

'No, you be room service. You're always room service – you enjoy it.'

John shot him a black look, but knocked on the door. 'Room service,' he called.

A female voice from inside answered without hesitation. 'We didn't order any room service.'

John shrugged at Sherlock. 'Um. Its complimentary. Free champagne to celebrate getting top spot on TripAdvisor. I can take it away if you like.'

'Top spot?' Footsteps trotted across the carpet and the latch clicked open.

Sherlock put his shoulder to the gap and barged it wide, tumbling into the room ready to take on a dangerous, gun toting, American bad guy and finding a small brunette female instead.

'Hello,' she greeted him brightly. 'You must be Sherlock.' In her hands she held an automatic weapon as casually as if it were a nail file, and on the bed, bound and gagged, was a very large man dressed head to toe in black, who was glaring across the room and wriggling ineffectually.

'Elsie Cubitt?' John recovered quickly.

'I am,' she said. 'And how is my husband?'

Sherlock opened his mouth but John got in first. 'He's out of surgery. He's injured, but I don't think it's life threatening.'

The tension ran out of Elise Cubitt on the back of a tremendous sigh and she passed John the gun before collapsing into a chair. 'I've been so worried, I wanted to go to the hospital but I couldn't leave him.' She gestured towards the bed. 'What took you so long to find us, you should have been here hours ago? Where are the police?'

John took out his mobile immediately and placed a call to Detective Martin while Sherlock examined Abe Slaney's bonds, finding the knots secure and likely to get tighter if he struggled.

'Why don't you start from the beginning, Mrs Cubitt,' he asked. 'Pretend I have no idea what's going on.'

Elsie shot him a confused look, a frown pulling together carefully curated eyebrows. 'She said you knew everything,' she complained. 'You're the famous detective in the funny hat.'

'Pardon?'

'Well I'm not famous and I don't have a hat,' John cut in. 'And I was told Abe Slaney had kidnapped you, not the other way around. What's going on Mrs Cubitt?'

She sighed, relaxed in the chair. 'I wasn't always Mrs Cubitt. And I wasn't always Elsie either. Before I married I was a stripper in Las Vegas, maybe my husband told you? He does tend to tell everyone. Anyways, I was having trouble with a client.' She jerked her head.

'Him over there. He wouldn't leave me alone. Turned up at every show, began writing me these little notes all in code - stick figures like the ones back at the hotel. He showed me how to read it, told me they were our secret, a way to communicate without my employer noticing. I wrote notes back using the stick men to tell him to go away. He turned up at my condo, threatened my flatmate with a gun, started trailing me everywhere I went, telling me how much he loved me. I was scared. I had to get away. So I came over to London to see a friend. She wasn't a stripper but we were in the same line of work and we'd met a couple of times in the US. That's when I met Henry.' She took a deep breath.

'He was in London and we were staying in the same hotel – it was love at first sight for both of us. We married quickly and I never went back home. But pretty soon afterwards I heard that Abe was looking for me and I knew he wouldn't stop so I asked my friend for help. I couldn't tell Henry what was going on, and I didn't want him getting involved, he has the reputation of the hotel to think of. My friend came up with a plan. The police don't take stalking seriously over here, you see. They'd let Abe carry on for years until he killed me, so the only way to get him locked up or deported was to trick him into doing something worse. '

'When the first messages arrived I left them round the house for Henry to see. I read bits from your blog out loud over dinner, Doctor Watson. I pretended to be scared – it wasn't much of a stretch. I followed the plan. Eventually, Henry went running off to fetch you. My friend said you'd crack the code, you'd realise I was in danger and you'd come out here to save me and convince the police Abe was dangerous. But you took such a long time we had to start without you. My friend was very cross, she went back to London to leave you a message, she said. I was supposed to let Abe kidnap me and then you were supposed to come in and rescue me. But it all went wrong. Henry woke up early and Abe shot him and I was kidnapped anyway. My friend had to deal with Abe herself. He'll be put in prison, won't he? It'll be stalking, kidnapping and attempted murder – he won't bother me again?'

John looked to Sherlock, but he was too busy thinking to reply. 'I'd expect so Mrs Cubitt. Elsie. I'm sorry, can we go back a step – are you saying that you set all this up? This is a trap to catch Abe Slaney?'

Elsie Cubitt sat forward. 'Catch him? Yes. I want him out of my life for good. The police needed to know he was a real threat, and my friend said that if the great Sherlock Holmes was involved in solving the crime, it would get so much publicity that they'd have no choice but to put Abe away for a really long time. Now can I go and see my husband? He needs me.'

Sherlock raised a hand. 'If you answer two questions. First – how long ago was it that you came to stay with your friend in London? And second, did she really say 'great'?'

Elsie Cubitt frowned, shrugged her coat back on and headed for the door. 'A year ago and yes, she called you great. Although lately she's called you a lot of other things as well. Goodbye.' She strode into the corridor and Sherlock was about two seconds behind her.

'And where are you going?' John yelled after his departing back.

'Maybe the candle hasn't gone out.'

My historical romance novel, The Postman's Daughter is available now on Amazon.