The City Records Office had been tucked away in the basement of a squat building along Queen’s Park. The majority of the space was filled with tall filing cabinets, a maze of organized chaos. At the far end of the space, a paunchy, balding man with round glasses sat at a desk covered in papers.

“A file from the Asylum?” the man asked, blinking owlishly.

“Likely somewhere between 5 and 7 years ago,” we guesstimated based on Sherlock’s apparent age. Though he had claimed to Dr. Ogden to be 40, his youthful visage gave him away. “A patient who believes himself to be Sherlock Holmes.”

The clerk tapped his fingers along the desk. “Wait here.”

After quite some time, he returned, dustier but no worse for wear. “This may be the case,” he said, handing over a file. “David Kingsley, a patient of Dr. Roberts, now retired. They institutionalized him for a number of years by request of his uncle, Oscar Kingsley.”

“His Uncle?” Crabtree asked. “Not his father?”

The clerk shook his head. “His father and mother died in 1878 and 1879 respectively, and his adoptive father died in late summer, 1890. See for yourself.”

Circle the letter U.

“While we’re here,” Crabtree continued, “Do you also happen to have records of prisoners in the Ontario system?”

The clerk sighed. “I do, but it’s in a completely different section.”

“We’ll wait. We’re looking for a man named Edward Hopkins and any of his cell-mates.”

Eventually the man returned. “Edward Hopkins was a prisoner six months in 1885 for robbery. His cell-mate was a man named Sebastian Moran, serving a year. Apparently his specialty is using explosives to blow open safes.” He frowned. “Will that be all?”