“Look we’ve got all the records for the other prisons in the province,” the officer in the front office explained. “I’m telling you we ain’t got any Edward Hopkins in any jail here right now. Now if it were 1885, that’d be a different story.”

“What happened in 1885?” Crabtree asked.

“We had an inmate here for six months, this says: Hopkins, Edward. Robbery.”

“And did he have a cell mate?” Crabtree asked.

“Good thinking, Constable,” Sherlock said. “When one’s in prison one’s cell mates are the type likely to rob an armoured carriage.”

“Sure did, we don’t give out singles unless they’re too dangerous to be with the other prisoners,” the guard confirmed. “Even got a photo here.”

He turned the log book towards us, indicating a photo of a mean looking man in his 40s with pale hair. “His name is–“

“Sebastian Moran!” Sherlock interjected.

“That’s him,” the guard agreed. “He’s an expert on using nitroglycerin to blow open safes.”

“Or armoured carriages,” Sherlock added.