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“There is only one pair of muddy footprints, though I heard two people enter. Mr Muddy Shoes would have taken a cab here, since the act of walking would have knocked most of the mud away.”
“So Mr Muddy Shoes was a man?”
“Oh, undoubtedly – look at the prints! Size twelve or thirteen, unless I’m mistaken.”
“I’m quite sure you are not.”
“Now, Mr Clean Shoes went up first—”
“First?”
“Yes, had Mr Muddy Shoes gone first, the mud would have been smeared.”
“Brilliant!”
“We’ll just follow them up the stairs – don’t step on the mud now, you’ll grind it into the carpet – and you’ll see how they continue through the door without so much as a pause. Mr Clean Shoes had a key, thus allowing immediate access. And if we open the door, we shall see – ah-ha!”
“Ah-ha?”
“The footprints continue through the kitchen, and here is one shoe, lying on its side, and here is a clean shoe, with its partner two paces further in.”
“But the last muddy shoe, Mrs Hudson?”
“In your bedroom, Sherlock Holmes, exactly where you toed it off before having your way with your husband. Now go back downstairs and clean up that mud, and next time, leave your muddy shoes by the door.”
“Of course, Mrs Hudson. I’ll just fetch the broom.”