Mycroft Holmes had not slept with me for a long time. Since the conclusion of the case of the Three Suicides it had become increasingly rare for him even to join me for dinner in the rooms I occupied opposite my former abode in the Diogenes Club.

For several months I had harboured thoughts that he was tired of my company, but I could not believe that he would betray me and start an affaire with Lady Bywell. I could not rid myself of the idea that our relationship had changed. There was no solid evidence for my fears, for I had merely seen him talking with Emmeline in the summer, but the doubts lingered and I was unable to dismiss them entirely from my mind. After all, I had that summer learned of his earlier affaire with Lucy Alnford-Ross, the shock of which had taken ages to subside.

In this agitated state I took myself and Marie from St James's to Liberty's, one afternoon in late October, intent on raising my spirits by the purchase of some new clothes, or for that matter anything that took my fancy. 1

The Oriental style fashions in Liberty's were extremely interesting, and we animatedly discussed them in the four-wheeler on the way to our destination. As we alighted outside the store I was hailed by Stephen Mandeville, now Lord Bywell and heir to the Earldom of Morpeth in Northumberland.

It was to prove a momentous occasion in my life.

Stephen and I first met the previous year during the case of the Hanover Square murder. After his marriage, we had met again at the grand St George's Day ball at his new house at Richmond. There, he had invited me to lead the dancing, for Emmeline, now Lady Bywell, was expecting her first child and in no condition to take the floor. We had rencountered in Ireland, during the case in which I shot and killed the odious Colonel von Frimmersdorf.

I must admit that my interest in Stephen had never simply been professional. He was one of England's premier sportsmen: a marvellous athlete, a gifted speaker and a keen campaigner for the rights of the less privileged of our nation, including my own sex. In short, Lord Bywell was the most perfect flowering of English manhood it had been my good fortune to meet. My feelings towards him were anything but platonic, for after the Irish case I was besotted by him, especially now that I had reason to suspect Mycroft's fidelity to me. But I dared not give away the slightest suspicion that Stephen's own wife might in her turn be planning to betray him with Mycroft.

"My dear Anna, what a coincidence meeting you again. How do you do?"

The voice was rich and rounded, his diction clear without that lazy drawl affected by so many of his contemporaries. My heart raced, my knees wobbled, and I'm sure Marie saw my blush, for, always the well-trained lady's maid, she smiled and politely turned away.

"Good morning, Stephen - my lord," I replied, curtseying slightly to him, for I was conscious that we were in a crowded thoroughfare. Even though we were on familiar terms, I was not sure of the proprieties on such an occasion. He laughed and shook my hand.

"What brings you here, Miss Weybridge, if I may enquire?"

"Simply window-shopping, or rather some early Christmas shopping."

"Shall we do that together, as Emmeline is otherwise occupied today?" His tone conveyed to me an air of disconsolate resignation. He smiled wanly. "Another of her days with a good cause: the Mission for Fallen Women at Blackwall."

"In that case let's not waste time talking. Let's view this extraordinary store!"

I linked my arm through his, as had been my habit with acquaintances across the Atlantic. If he was surprised by the forwardness of my behaviour, he possibly put it down to my unorthodox upbringing in the United States, and the fact that we had danced together more than once at that ball. He showed no hesitation in leading me into the shop.

We spent most of the day exploring every part of the store, from the Eastern Bazaar in the basement to the highest floor with its selection of exotic garments from around the world. In my excitement at being once again with Stephen, at times I quite forgot poor little Marie, who tottered behind us under an ever-growing pile of my parcels.

It was late afternoon before our exploration was complete, the October sun was sinking, and I saw no reason not to invite him to join me for tea at a nearby hotel. Although a blatant breach of propriety, my invitation was eagerly accepted with a joke about New Women. He hailed a four-wheeler and we set off. Marie went back to St James's with the shopping in another cab.

In the crowded lounge Stephen and I talked of many things, jumping from topic to topic. He pressed me to tell him everything of my adventures in Switzerland, although I had regaled him with them that evening months ago at the Folies, while Mycroft and Emmeline sat talking in low voices near us. I added to them the ordeal Marie and I had suffered at the hands of the evil Haynes, which shocked him profoundly.

At length we touched on the subject of shooting. Here, we talked of the differences between attitudes in England and the United States. I regaled him with tales of my formative years and how Annie Oakley taught me to shoot.

As I concluded my story of meeting the great Colonel Cody, and my adventure at Earl's Court arena in the Queen's Golden Jubilee year, Stephen grasped my hand and said, "Why don't you join father and me for a few days shooting in Northumberland? Do say yes."

How could I refuse this most glorious of men? I agreed with alacrity, though I was unaware of the danger that would arise from accepting the invitation.

"I'll arrange with father that you receive a formal invitation to join the family at next month's shoot."

My heart sank. So Emmeline and the baby would be there too. In an instant my dream of being alone on a deserted moor with Stephen had been dashed like an untasted cup from my lips. I could not retract my acceptance without causing offence, therefore I must go through with it.

In the following days I spent many hours imagining myself alone with Stephen; the touch of his hand on mine, the very scent of his being was recalled. I knew that my days with Mycroft Holmes were drawing to a close. This conclusion seemed to chase my fears that I was the one to be deserted, and I now felt the guilt of the deserter. To that was added the guilt of planning to betray Emmeline and ruining their marriage.

Yet, strangely, the guilt soon melted away like mist under the sun. For although my head told me that what I was planning was wrong, my heart was filled with a joy that I could never have imagined, and my head also told me that Stephen and I would be together for the rest of our lives. I did not know how this would come about, only that it was certain to happen.

For several days following my meeting with Stephen, I waited anxiously for the invitation, and one morning when Marie brought in the post one envelope bore a heavily embossed crest. I freely admit that my heart missed a beat as I recognised the crest as that of Viscount Bywell. I tore it open and eagerly took out the message that it contained. My mind and heart raced as I read the contents inviting me to stay at Gowanburn Grange, Northumberland, from Monday November 11th.

As I looked at the message I could hardly contain my joy, yet as I turned the card over in my hand I was delighted to see a personal note. It read as follows,

My Dearest Anna,

Please, accept the invitation to come shooting. If possible come early rather than later. E will be remaining in town until Friday; I am travelling north on the Monday. 10 o'clock from King's Cross. I trust that you will be able to travel on the same service.

Kindest Regards, S.

That evening I replied to both the formal and informal invitations. To Stephen the Viscount I was polite and deferential. To Stephen the man I was more personal and much less formal.

There were two weeks before I was to travel north and I used them fully. First, Marie and I selected and then discarded several outfits which I might have taken. We spent several merry days shopping along Oxford Street, Bond Street and Knightsbridge. In those expeditions I acquired sufficient outfits and accessories to allow me to join all the possible activities which could take place at Gowanburn Grange.

Then I began to consider the question of shooting. The shotguns favoured by the aristocracy were heavy and inaccurate. Stephen would have drawn a flattering picture to persuade his father to invite me. If I failed to live up to it, then my opportunities of meeting Stephen in the future would be few indeed.

The problem which faced me was that I knew no one in London who could provide me with a weapon of the type I sought. Therefore, whom could I turn to? Mycroft? Not without alerting his suspicions. Sherlock? Not without his sharp mind questioning my reasons. Yet in the instant of dismissing the Holmes brothers I realised that there was one person who would help me without question: John H Watson, M D. The good doctor, on first discovering that my disguise of W. H. Dalziel concealed a young woman, had shown more than a passing or professional interest in me. Although he was now the suitor of my maid, I chose to exploit his affection for me. I therefore determined to speak to him at the earliest opportunity, which presented itself the very next day. I was in St James's Park when whom should I spy striding manfully towards me in the November sunshine but the doctor? As ever he hailed me with genuine affection, as much for his remembrance of Dalziel as for myself. Having exchanged pleasantries I took him by the arm and said, "John, I am in need of your assistance."

The good doctor looked at me with a somewhat quizzical expression, an eyebrow raised.

"My dear doctor, I don't wish to consult you on medical matters but rather on a matter of ballistics."

"Ballistics?"

"I've been invited to a shoot in Northumberland by Viscount Bywell. And I want to know where I might purchase a pair of shotguns. They must be lighter and more accurate than those dreadful pieces that are usually used in the country."

Watson smiled both with relief and amusement at my request.

"I know just the man, Anna. His workmanship is superb. He's quite talented in many directions. I have made use of him on occasion. For instance, there was a patient who had, for surgical reasons, to be fitted with an anatomical frame."

He smiled at my puzzled look.

"The patient was sadly crippled and deformed. He underwent a series of operations to straighten out his poor, crippled body. Being a wealthy man, he could well afford it. Although the operations were performed at Bart's, he was originally my patient, and I had the task, during his convalescence, of seeking out someone who could make a frame which he could wear under his clothing. He - "

He gripped my arm.

"Look, Anna. You see that fellow striding across the park? That is the patient. That is he. Would you believe me if I told you that six months ago he was a crippled hunchback? Under his suit he wears the frame I mentioned just now."

I regarded a tall, well-made but elderly man walking at a distance from us with a light, firm spring which made him seem younger than his white hair revealed him to be.

"The gunsmith I have in mind fitted him out with the frame. It gives him a degree of mobility which he could not have dreamed of six months ago. Now, if you want a pair of fine guns, my talented friend is the man to apply to."

"But will they not take months to make?"

"Not at all. He keeps a range of patterns, barrels, and stocks. The adjustment needed to fit his customers is capable of being made in a matter of days. There is another point in his favour. If you ever need an unusual gun, then he is the man to see. I shall take you to his shop, if you like."

Watson lost no time. He had an appointment later that day, but he insisted on taking me by cab to a narrow back street in the neighbourhood of King's Cross. There I was ushered into a small dark shop, half workshop and half storeroom. The proprietor was an enormous man with florid, curling moustaches and a strong German accent. He seemed to fill his tiny shop so that Watson and I had to make way for him continuously as he showed me various stocks and barrels.

"If you would be kind enough to allow me to measure your reach, madam. Thank you. And now if you would bring up this template stock to your shoulder. So. Now, this barrel is to your taste, yes? Good. Here is a stock which almost fits you. Would you swing the stock as if bringing up a gun to the target? Yes. Good. If I may make another measurement. And again. If you are happy with the pattern, madam, I can have this pair ready for you by Thursday."

The procedure took less than half an hour. I had always believed that it took weeks to fit a pair of guns to a customer, and that the cost was outside my reach. Yet enquiries about prices convinced me that a pair of guns by Herr Ritter was well within the scope of my purse. As we left the shop and boarded a cab I leaned over and planted a smacking kiss on Watson's cheek. To my surprise, he blushed.

The gun maker was as good as his word. In a matter of days I took delivery of a fine pair of light shotguns. With some trepidation I took the train to Surrey where I tested them on a clay pigeon range, where a powerful spring catapult whirled clay discs into the air for me to blow to pieces. The guns were well-balanced, snug-fitting and, above all, accurate. At last I felt that I should acquit myself well in front of the old Earl, Stephen's father.

On the morning of the eleventh I boarded the express at King's Cross, where Stephen met me and conducted me to an empty compartment. Marie chaperoned me, for Stephen's manservant was presumably in second or third class and we were otherwise alone. Marie read while Stephen and I chatted politely and enjoyed each other's company. I was glad that Marie was with me, for had I been alone with him for the many hours of the journey, not only would that have been scandalous in itself, but something untoward might well have occurred. His interest in me was evident, and I had to remind myself constantly that I was in the company of a married man, and a peer of the realm at that. Knowing that Marie would miss nothing, despite her apparent absorption in her book, I confined my talk to shooting and questions about the district to which we were going.

At Newcastle upon Tyne we changed trains for the line that took us into the wild hinterland of Northumberland. The weather had continued fine throughout our journey, but here the sky began to curdle with white haze which gradually developed into magnificent clouds marching low over the distant hills. The watery sun lay low over the open but bleak scenery, the hills, the woods and the bare brown fields. We reached the village of Bellingham and journeyed on to the hamlet of Plashetts where a brougham was waiting for us. There was a two or three mile trip in the late winter afternoon, with a chill wind keening about our ears and rain threatening on the Cheviot Hills only a few miles to the north-west, where England and Scotland meet. 2

The rain held off until we reached Gowanburn Grange, a rambling old manor house with six-foot thick walls. Arrow slits pierced those walls on all sides, for although there were modern additions, the kernel of the house had been built in the centuries of Border warfare when no man could lay down his head at night and be sure that it would still be on his shoulders in the morning.

"It's a brooding, haunted place, I always think," said Stephen to me as the servants took our luggage indoors.

"Thanks," I said, "I shall lock my door at night and leave a light burning."

He laughed.

"I didn't mean haunted in that sense, Anna. I mean the whole area is - well, soaked with a sense of the past. Look at those hills. What hopes and fears, what plans and ambitions, must have echoed and re-echoed among them down the centuries. What words of love must have been whispered under those trees. And how much blood must have run into the water of the burn over there! Holmes would probably be able to tell us much about this place if we let him loose in it."

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft, when he comes."

"Mycroft? Coming here?"

"Oh yes. On Friday. In fact, I think he'll be on the same train as Emmeline. Ah, here's father."

The old Earl came out, full of apologies.

"Miss Weybridge, is it? Wasn't expecting you for another half hour. Looked at the clock and found it had stopped. Stephen tells me you can shoot. That right?"

"With rifle, pistol and shotgun, my lord," I said.

His eyes widened.

"Really? You must show me."

"Miss Weybridge was taught by Annie Oakley, dad," said Stephen.

"Who?" asked the Earl.

We went indoors, Stephen volubly explaining about Annie Oakley and me. The Earl gave me quizzical glances from under a pair of fine white eyebrows. He was a handsome old man, probably not much over sixty-five, but a little slow because of rheumatism or gout.

The hallway that we entered was enormous, two stories high. A gallery ran completely round it at first floor level, and in the centre of the ceiling hung a huge chandelier.

"Now, Miss Weybridge," said the Earl, "see here. Here's my old Army revolver in this drawer."

He took an ancient revolver out of the hall table and hefted it before handing it to me. It was an Umberti black powder and ball .36 American Navy model. The old boy had probably bought it for service in the Crimea. It weighed about a ton but, although old and obsolete, it had been well looked after.

"Now then, let's see how well you handle a pistol. But not that one. Try this."

From the same drawer he took a lady's revolver with pearl-faced grip. It was a .22 calibre and much more up to date than the weapon which I handed back to him. He smiled and handed me a box of cartridges.

"Let's go out to the forty-acre and set up a couple of targets. I'll use my old barker, and you use that. It belonged to my late wife. A guinea on the outcome? What do you say?"

Stephen looked horrified and tried to protest, but his father shook him off.

"Nonsense, my boy. Miss Weybridge is like Emmeline, a modern sporting young woman. Anyone can see that. Look at the way she handles your mother's pistol. Loading it like an expert. Come on, Miss Weybridge. Jarkins!"

This last was directed at his valet, who appeared from nowhere and accompanied us to the forty-acre meadow behind the house. There Jarkins set up two targets, one at fifteen yards for the Earl, the other at ten for me. The Earl wanted mine nearer, but I insisted on a hard shot for myself. The gun, a little Webley, was snug in my hand and well-maintained. Whether the late countess had actually used it, I decided not to ask until later, but the Earl himself supplied the information.

"Margaret never fired it, you know. I gave it to her when we did the grand tour of Europe. Never know who you might meet when you get among Johnny Foreigners. Now then, let me go first and I'll show you what you have to beat."

He blasted off three rounds at his target, hitting the bull twice and the inner with his third shot. For all his eccentric behaviour, the old fellow knew what he was doing. I took careful aim at my own target and squeezed off three shots.

"Three bulls!" exclaimed the Earl. "Try again."

I did so and scored the same. The Earl fired next and scored three inners, almost vanishing in the white smoke of his powder. We reloaded and I decided to add some interest to our contest.

"Would you mind if I tried a shot or two with your pistol, my lord?" I asked, taking out a penny as the Earl handed me his pistol.

"Be careful," he said. "It's heavy."

Throwing up the penny, I fired four quick rounds two-handed at it as it spun against the fading light of the sky. Three hit, and the coin flew far over the field. The Earl threw back his splendid head and roared with laughter. He then pulled a sovereign and a shilling from his pocket.

"By Jove! By Jove! Never saw the like. Your name's Anna, isn't it? You must call me Freddie. Well done, Anna. Jolly well done! A guinea, wasn't it? Worth ten."

He offered me his hand and gave me a gruff, whiskery kiss, for he had a splendid white moustache. Stephen, who had accompanied us but had said nothing during the shooting, squeezed my arm.

"Excellent, Anna," he whispered as the Earl retrieved his target. "You're one of us now."

We returned to the hallway of the house where a footman was pressing an electric switch on the wall. Immediately the chandelier, far above us, blazed into light. I gasped in admiration, for it threw a brilliant light into every corner of the hall. It hung high above the gallery, and looked enormously heavy. I expressed my delight at seeing the most modern lighting equipment in so wild and remote a part of rural England.

"My son had that electrolier installed," said the Earl. "We often hold the Hunt Ball here, and this hallway doubles as a splendid ballroom. I was always content with the old chandelier, so we kept the glassware of it and added the wiring, electric sockets and Swan bulbs."

"It weighs a quarter of a ton," said Stephen, "but it is held in place very securely with four coach bolts in a joist of the ceiling. The power comes from a small hydroelectric generator on the banks of the burn outside."

"Is the whole house electrified?" I asked.

"No," smiled Stephen, "only the hall. Everywhere else it's candles or oil lamps. Shall we go for tea? How the days darken early at this time of year."

"Stephen tells me, Anna, that you made a career on the London stage?" said Freddie, as he made me call him, over tea.

"Yes," I replied. "But not in shooting displays."

I told him of my time with Irving and Terry. He listened fascinated, and I even told him of the murder at the Lyceum Theatre, when I had been wrongly implicated. A fair-sized party gathered during tea, but my apprehension had evaporated. Freddie had told everyone of my feat of the afternoon, and, being all sporting types, they received me warmly.

We dined at eight sharp. There were twelve of us present, but Mycroft had not turned up and an empty seat was left opposite me. That would make thirteen, an unlucky number at table. I knew no-one apart from Stephen, but I was glad to see a couple of ladies. There was a clergyman and an Army officer, while the rest looked like an assortment of country society. I was glad that I had made such a good impression, for the impending arrival of Emmeline cast a shadow over my enjoyment of being with Stephen.

Emmeline and I did not like each other. When she first learned that I was the mistress of Mycroft Holmes, her attitude to me became one of undisguised hostility. She had gone after Mycroft quite shamelessly not long after her marriage to Stephen. I began to wish that I had declined the invitation. My only hope was to ingratiate myself with the Earl and his friends. Stephen would protect me from Emmeline as far as he could, at least I assumed so, but if I got the Earl on my side too it would at least keep me out of trouble with his daughter-in-law.

The butler showed in Mycroft. He was immaculate in evening dress and he lowered himself into his seat opposite me with an easy, confident apology to the Earl. His train had been derailed. 3

"Anyone hurt?" asked the Earl.

"No-one, my lord," replied Mycroft, helping himself to a large slice of fish, for we had finished the soup. "I had to wait for a farmer to bring me in a trap."

"That would be Farmer Maddison," continued the Earl, with a smile.

Mycroft smiled back.

"He being the only farmer, my lord, with a trap big enough for me. I was advised of that fact by the guard."

He nodded an acknowledgement to the smiles and chuckles that flitted round the table.

"Good evening, Anna," he continued, as a piece of fish fell inside his waistcoat. "I had not expected to find you here."

"I heard you were coming," I replied. "I didn't know you shot."

"I don't. I was invited for other purposes."

More than that I could not get out of him. He talked on topics from Northumbrian ballads to Pinero's plays, from the Venezuelan border dispute to the Mongol empire, and amused, informed and entertained the others, including the Earl and Stephen. We all went to bed early, as the first day's shooting was to be on the morrow.

Tuesday dawned fair but overcast, and I wrapped up warmly and ate a heartier breakfast than usual. We went by brake to the butts where I was assigned a place with the clergyman's sisters, the Misses Ross-Lewin. Their brother was a canon in a vicarage some fifty miles to the south. They were jolly persons, and we soon struck up a friendship. The other ladies watched, and I had made an excuse to bring Marie, who looked after my cloak and hat. My loader was a boy, and the Misses Ross-Lewin and I had the worst place, but we still managed to bag a few brace and acquitted ourselves well at the end of the day.

However, an accident occurred to spoil our return. Our shooting brake, that is, the one we ladies were in, was well behind the others when we ran into a ditch. We were unhurt, and scrambled out quickly, but the other brakes were out of sight in a dip. We resigned ourselves to walking back to the house, but were saved by the appearance of Mycroft and two other guests.

They had not been with us, and I was surprised to see them equipped for rough walking. The others were Herr Anders and Herr Roskilde, foreigners whom I assumed to be Germans. They had said little at dinner the previous night, and had evidently spent the day walking on the moors. Knowing how ill-disposed Mycroft was to such exercise, I found it strange that he should have accompanied them.

In moments Herr Roskilde, a huge and muscular man, helped the driver to heave the brake out and set it right. We were so close to the house that I decided to continue walking in the company of the men.

"We've just been discussing Hamlet, Anna," said Mycroft, while Herr Roskilde wiped his broad red face with a bright silk handkerchief the same yellow as his hair.

"Miss Weybridge here was on stage some years ago," Mycroft continued to the two foreigners, "and has played Ophelia. Herr Anders and Herr Roskilde are Danes," he said to me, "and we were discussing the murder in the play and whether it could actually be done."

"Which murder?" I asked. "The old King's?"

"Yes," said Herr Anders. "We wondered what sort of poison would penetrate a man's ears and kill him. Roskilde here thought nitric acid, but Holmes thought it would merely cause horrible injuries and disfigurement. Perhaps his brother would have been the man to see. After all, Mr Holmes has told us of his brother's miraculous return from the dead last year."

He smiled in his neat, pointed beard and his glasses flashed as he looked up at Mycroft. The three went into the house. Another guest, Sir Geoffrey Carpentier of the Diplomatic Service, came up to me.

"So you were on stage, Miss Weybridge? Lord Bywell says you acted with Sir Henry and Miss Terry."

In my turn, I found something to talk about as we went in to change for tea. The conversation with Sir Geoffrey continued through tea, while Mycroft kept the two Danes entertained with stories of his brother. Stephen and his father joined Sir Geoffrey and me, the Earl kindly bringing in the Ross-Lewin sisters and praising us for our "bag" that day.

"We'll give you a better place tomorrow, ladies," he promised. "And what about you three gentlemen?" turning to Mycroft and his party.

"Unfortunately, my lord," said Herr Anders, "I cannot shoot. My eyes are not so good, you see. But I did enjoy the wild countryside today. The air here is so bracing, is it not?"

"Try it in the depths of winter," chuckled Stephen. "I'd call it cold."

I discovered that the taciturn Herr Roskilde was something in the Danish Foreign Office. Herr Anders was a naturalist who had travelled to Northumberland to study certain flora found in the hills.

"But," he said, "my other interest is in the peat bogs. There are some not too far from here, and I intend to investigate them. You see, Miss Weybridge, in Denmark we occasionally find well-preserved human bodies, thousands of years old, in peat bogs. I know such things are found in Scotland, and I wish to find out whether any such remains can be found in northern England."

"And are you interested in these things, Herr Roskilde?" asked one of the Misses Ross-Lewin. The Ross-Lewin ladies were twins, spinsters of about forty.

Herr Roskilde shook his head.

"My interests, ladies, are with the living, not the dead. I'm here to keep an eye on my friend Anders and ensure he doesn't fall into one of these bogs of his."

"And do you play whist, or bridge, perhaps?"

Now Herr Anders joined in the head-shaking. They were rather like a pair of twins themselves, these two foreign guests. They were rarely or never seen alone, and spent much time conversing earnestly in odd corners.

"I'm afraid not," said Anders. "Actually, I have brought some academic paperwork to look through. That electric chandelier gave me an excellent light to read by last night, although I fear that sitting in the hall on my own will seem a little eccentric."

"And you, Mr Holmes," said the other Ross-Lewin lady. Their names were, I think, Thresse and Annie, but I could never tell them apart.

"Are you a naturalist too?" she continued.

"I'm here to do a little work for my brother, madam," replied Mycroft. "He, like Herr Anders, has an interest in the macabre. He wishes to investigate the preservative properties of peat bogs, but unfortunately his diary is full at present. I, however, have time available and therefore offered to come and do some preparatory work for him."

Roskilde nodded. Mycroft had obviously told him something similar, but to me, who had known him for many years, his story rang false. Mycroft rarely put himself out for Sherlock. He would certainly not travel over three hundred miles into the wildest part of England simply to look at peat bogs for his brother. I felt sure that there was another reason for his presence at Gowanburn Grange, but was equally certain that he would not tell me or anyone else what that reason was. I wondered who had invited him: Stephen, his father, or -

"You won't have much time when my daughter-in-law arrives," said the Earl. "Mr Holmes has offered to teach her to fence," he added, turning to the other ladies. "He fought to the death in some skirmish in Ireland recently, against a gang of gun-runners. Emmeline was so impressed that she implored him to teach her the sabre."

The Ross-Lewins gave gratifying gasps of admiration.

"I always understood that Lady Bywell fenced at Girton," I said.

"With foils," said Stephen. "The sabre apparently demands a more energetic technique. Emmeline is determined to regain her figure after having Nigel."

"She already has regained it," grunted the Earl, pouring himself another cup.

I noticed that Mycroft remained silent throughout that exchange, and said not a word about how, when he was about to be run through, I shot von Frimmersdorf. Emmeline had obviously given the impression that Mycroft had defended himself successfully without help. He avoided my eye and drifted away from our group. Our conversation changed to the day's shooting and eventually we broke up to bath and dress for dinner.

Dinner passed pleasantly that evening, and we repaired to the drawing room for coffee. There Miss Thresse, I think, asked me if I played or sang.

"Miss Weybridge," said Mycroft, who was standing near, "plays well, and was coached in singing by a prima donna, Miss Irene Adler of Warsaw and La Scala."

"Not the Irene Adler?" said Sir Geoffrey Carpentier, who had just come in. "The one who appeared in A Scandal in Bohemia? The one your brother calls the woman?"

This produced a buzz of interest amid which I was shown to the piano, a refusal being out of the question. Not everyone was present by then, for Herr Anders had excused himself in order to read under the chandelier. As I was playing the Major entered and, after listening for a while, asked for a particular piece as an encore. In the middle of it there was a tremendous crash from outside the room which shook the house, stopped me in my tracks and froze everyone still and silent.

Stephen broke the charm by rushing to the door. We all crowded into the hall, and I wished immediately that I hadn't. The huge electrolier had fallen, and one of the Misses Ross-Lewin fainted, her brother the Canon almost doing the same, while a housemaid went into hysterics. From under the ruin of glass and ironwork projected a pair of trousered legs and a hand still holding a reading glass.