Mr. Holmes suddenly hurled the rest of his paperwork toward the Doctor's desk and pounced on the coffee-pot.
Judging from the gleam in his eyes, I doubted he needed the drink, but who was I to question the man? Only the Doctor was brave enough to try that particular suicide-attempt.
"Lestrade, do hurry; I must see the missing-person records for the last week," the amateur growled snappishly round his cup, beckoning royally with his hand. Insufferable fellow.
"Why missing persons?" Cummings asked timidly.
"The young man in the morgue was healing from a bullet-wound, though drowning was the cause of death, according to your report," Mr. Holmes replied. "I am of the theory that he was a member of this gang, as no mere pickpocket would be recovering from that sort of wound. Either his drowning was an accident – a monstrous coincidence – or else he was murdered. Watson's wallet in his pocket was either left as a warning, or they did not check his pockets." He paused to inhale the remainder of his coffee. "I've given Shinwell Johnson his description, but it would expedite things if I had a name to attach to it. Now do hurry!"
Before I could ask who the devil this Johnson fellow was, Mr. Holmes had hopped over the nearest chair and darted into his bedroom.