"It will help us to get over recent events, my dearest," he remarked, tilting my chin and kissing me fondly as we sat in the privacy of our apartment at the Diogenes.

I was, as usual, dressed in gentleman's evening attire. For Mycroft to demonstrate so much affection even in private was a little unusual, but I had lost my child.

"I know," I sighed, as I packed my box. "But what is to become of me after the child is born? How can I return here and live as W. H. Dalziel?"

"I shall find a way," replied Mycroft.

But he did not, and for two years we lived apart. I resumed my normal identity as a woman, let my hair grow again, and passed myself off as a young widow. Mycroft pretended to be a relative and came to see me quite often.

Eventually William Mycroft Weybridge was born, but the question of making me an honest woman remained as remote as ever. So for a while I moped around in widow's weeds until poor little Willie contracted typhoid and died. I do not wish to dwell upon this subject, so if I hasten us back to the Diogenes it is not through callousness, but merely a desire to forget.

I returned to the Diogenes Club in the autumn of 1893, resuming my masquerade as Mr Warren Hastings Dalziel. Old Dinwoodie greeted me as though I had never been away.

"You look well, Mr Dalziel, sir," he quavered. "A little stouter, if I may say so. Ain't he, Harris?"

As Harris, the under-porter, carried my bags upstairs, a noise like the muted bellowing of a sea-beast rolled down to meet us.

"Mr Holmes is keeping up the tuba, is he?" I asked.

"He certainly is, sir," answered Harris, raising his voice over the strained rumblings that broke out afresh. We were by then on the landing and Harris wedged open the green baize door that led to the passage where our quarters lay.

"The Committee's put a stouter door in here, sir," went on Harris, as he dragged my bags through the doorway, "with thicker baize. It keeps all but the worst efforts quiet."

He knocked at our door and was answered by a new outburst of bellowing.

"Let me," I said, and pushed open the door.

Mycroft was seated in the middle of the sitting-room, his face a polished scarlet, and on his knee an enormous instrument. It was almost as tall as I was, burnished silver bright with the light winking from its labyrinth of pipes and valves. Near it, almost my own height, stood a huge leather case, like an Egyptian mummy's coffin.

"Thank you, Harris," I shouted over the appalling noise coming from the tuba.

Harris gratefully set down my bags and fled. With a final flourish of rumbles, Mycroft put down the tuba and I forestalled his rising by taking its place on his knee and clamping my mouth firmly where the mouthpiece of the tuba had been.

"Ugh! You taste of brass polish," I said when we parted. "But this must be better for you than that dreadful instrument."

He made no reply, but, lifting me with an effort, he carried me to his bedroom where we spent the rest of the afternoon.

When he was not practising his tuba, Mycroft was deep in Government work. As was his custom at such times, he practised celibacy, so apart from the bedroom exertions of my return I found little comfort for many months. When he invited me to the reception I decided to put on a dress and go as myself.

"Very well," said Mycroft. "Use my rooms across the street." 1

On the eve of the ball, Wednesday March 7th, I enjoyed myself enormously in Mycroft's other rooms. I put on a theatrical wig over my mannish crop and changed into a dazzling evening gown, for Mycroft, seeing my melancholy, had not stinted himself in a superb gift.

When he arrived to collect me, he put a finger to his lips in warning. He then stood back to allow a couple to enter the room.

"Mr and Mrs Richard Burton Winstanley," he announced.

It was well that their appearance silenced me with astonishment, for I would have said something to give myself away. It was none other than Richard, or Beefy, as he was known, brother to Tubby Winstanley, and on his arm was the former Lady Bartlett. She was as beautiful as ever, and gave me a conspirator's wink as she greeted me.

"How lovely to see you again, Anna," she said. "Richard, this is Anna Weybridge, a friend of mine."

In a private moment she offered her condolences, for which I thanked her, but my mind was racing. I had not seen or heard of her for two years.

"You married him?" was all I could say.

"I told you I would. But let's go down. Richard knows nothing of your role as Mr Dalziel. He certainly hasn't recognised you. How beautiful you look."

The reception was a kaleidoscope of brilliant ladies and resplendent gentlemen, alive with jewels and medals. Not only did Beefy fail to recognise me as W. H. Dalziel, but he actually lamented the fact that my alter ego was not present, much to the silent amusement of his wife.

"Tell me about Mr Dalziel," she said. "I gather he's a sort of Dr Watson to our Mr Holmes."

Beefy launched into a hymn of praise about Dalziel, his shooting ability in particular, his gallantry and courage. I simply turned scarlet as his wife gazed at me with open admiration. When we were alone for a few minutes she squeezed my arm.

"You're a bit of a tomboy, aren't you?" she laughed. "So you can shoot. Do you ride? We must go out together. And you must come and stay. You can tell me about your adventures. Look out, they're coming back. And who is this with them?"

It was a tall and well-built Indian, plainly but expensively dressed, who was at Mycroft's elbow. Mycroft presented us to the Maharajah of Chandlawallah, and I was glad that for a change I could curtsey gracefully instead of bowing. The Maharajah was looking up a few old Oxford friends while staying in London, in particular one Anthony Maplehurst. When he had left us, the last person I expected to see took his place.

"Inspector Straightfellow!" exclaimed Mycroft.

It was our old friend from the Yard, clad in immaculate evening dress. I had met Straightfellow both in my role as Dalziel and as myself. As ever, I saw no sign that he had finally realised that Miss Anna Weybridge was also Mr W. H. Dalziel.

"Here on duty," he replied to Holmes's enquiry. "I'm seconded pro tem to the Diplomatic Service. Someone has to keep an eye on you chaps."

Mycroft led him and Beefy away.

"No matter how the inspector dresses, he always looks like a policeman," observed Joanna Winstanley as we watched him from across the room. "And there is Mr Maplehurst, I do believe. The Maharajah's found him. Do you know, Anna, the Maharajah's father joined the wrong side in the Mutiny and ended up being blown from the mouth of a cannon. Ah, the inspector's joined them. He's an old India hand, you know. He served in the police there as a young officer."

My friend was as well informed as ever. Her brother-in-law, Henry "Tubby" Winstanley, was a chief of intelligence who used a network of friends and relatives, all constantly exchanging information. Joanna contributed to that network by corresponding with distant relatives.

"Now," she said, "you see that young cavalry officer who's just joined Mycroft and the others? Tim Potter-Cowan, lieutenant, Horse Guards. Involved in a rather tricky liaison with a young married lady, the silly fool."

"A handsome man," I said.

"But rather empty-headed. I don't believe I've had the pleasure."

That was not an assessment of the young lieutenant. It was addressed frostily to a stranger who had interrupted us. He was a tall and powerful-looking man, his face almost hidden beneath a thick black beard. His nose was aquiline, his eyes keen and piercing, and his age I would have put at about forty, a few years junior to Mycroft.

"Lady Bartlett, I believe?" The voice was hoarse, but the bow was elegant. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Phillimore, Sir James Phillimore, and I had the pleasure of your late husband's acquaintance."

"Well, Sir James," replied my friend. "You can have the pleasure of my new husband's acquaintance."

Already Beefy was strolling across, curious about the stranger. I saw Mycroft, too, gazing at him with some interest, as though trying to place him. He joined us and was introduced.

"Not the brother of the famous Sherlock?" said Sir James. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir."

The conversation turned to Sherlock's exploits, and Joanna and I drifted away to other pursuits.

Later, I saw Mycroft, Beefy, Sir James and another man making up a four at whist. It was now my turn to be the oracle, for when Joanna asked about the fourth man, I could not suppress a shudder of disgust.

"His name is Charles Roachbank," I said, "and he is the most heartily disliked member of the Diogenes."

"But, Anna, I thought all the members of the Diogenes disliked one another, except, of course, for Mr Holmes and Mr Dalziel."

Her sally raised a blush to my cheek, but I went on. Roachbank, I explained, was known as a wife-beater and bully. His lovely and delicate wife, who was in a far corner of the room, never wore a backless gown. It was whispered that she bore the marks of a horsewhip. She would give anything to free herself of the tyranny of her husband, but as the divorce laws stood in England, it was impossible.

Roachbank was a gambler, a cheat, and a philanderer, and I hated him. So did Mycroft, who was trying to get him blackballed. Unfortunately the members of the club were so unsociable that meetings were difficult to call.

"I'm surprised that Richard and Mycroft are associating with such a man," remarked Joanna.

"They're probably keeping an eye on Sir James," I answered. "Roachbank is notorious for fleecing. I don't think he'll have much success tonight, though."

We left the men to their devices and joined the dancing. I danced twice with the Maharajah and once with Inspector Straightfellow, who turned out to be surprisingly light on his feet. Although we chatted merrily, the inspector seemed completely unaware that I had many times accompanied him and Mycroft in the interests of justice, and that I could have shot the pips out of one of Sir James Phillimore's cards if I had had my deadly little revolver with me.

At length the ball broke up, we rejoined our menfolk, and Mycroft escorted me to his "other rooms". There I was to change and cross to the Diogenes as Mr W. H. Dalziel. Mycroft was in an ill temper, I realised. He sat silent in the cab and I thought that I had done something to offend him. While I was changing, I asked him what was wrong.

"I've been cheated tonight by an experienced card sharp, Anna. That's what's wrong."

"Roachbank?"

"Phillimore. Sir James Blasted Phillimore. The worst thing about it is that I don't know how he did it. Roachbank's cheating is easy to anticipate and prevent. But that man! There was only one man who could beat me hands down at cards, and that was Sherlock. I dropped two hundred tonight. This Phillimore man is obviously an experienced sharper. Do we know anything about him?"

By now I was wrestling with the braces of my gentleman's trousers.

"Nothing at all," I said. "Even Joanna Winstanley knew nothing of him."

Mycroft grunted, I finished dressing, and we crossed to the club in silence.

The next morning, after another night of celibacy, I was wakened early by Mycroft rushing into my room, his night-shirt flapping about his knees. Ah! I thought, and flung back the sheets, ready to welcome him into my arms.

"No, no, my dear! Look at this morning's paper!"

He thrust the Telegraph at me, pointing out the stop press. Roachbank had been murdered! The body had been discovered in the small hours near a notorious opium house in Blue Gate Fields. A knife of the type used in the Khyber Pass was embedded between the shoulders, and nearby there was a small Hindu idol. Inspector Straightfellow was investigating. 2

"It appears that friend Roachbank included opium smoking in his catalogue of vices," said Mycroft over breakfast, which we had in our rooms, sitting in our shirt sleeves with a roaring fire against the cold of early spring. "It will give his wife a terrible shock."

"Yes, but once she's over it, she can only benefit by being free of such a monster," I replied.

"I'd like to know who did it, of course. And the idol - there's a puzzle Sherlock would have loved. Talking of puzzles -"

He wiped marmalade form his hands, rose, and fetched his tail coat of the previous evening.

"I found this note in the tail pocket. Look."

It read "A paradox, a paradox, a most ingenious paradox."

"Oh, that's from The Pirates of Penzance," I remarked. "But what does it mean?"

"I've no idea. Someone must have put it there last night as a joke, but I fail to see it. I shall investigate, but first I must find out who this Sir James Phillimore is."

"Perhaps he put it there?"

"But why, Anna?"

Mycroft spent a week trying to find out more about Sir James, but he drew a blank. The man seemed to have disappeared. On the following Thursday evening, March 15th, old Dinwoodie tottered into our rooms.

"There is a person downstairs, gentlemen," he quavered. "I believe it to be Inspector Goodfellow. I have put him in the Strangers' Room."

We went down to see him. He rose to greet us, the Welsh lilt as strong as ever.

"Evening Mr 'Olmes, Mr Dalziel. Just wondered if you could give me any information about a Mr Anthony Maplehurst, late of the Home Office."

"Late of the Home Office?" queried Mycroft. "Has he left?"

"Not of his own free will, sir. Somebody did him in last night."

"Murder, Straightfellow? You're sure?"

"Well, Mr 'Olmes, when a bloke's got a ruddy great Indian Khyber knife sticking in his back it's generally because someone's put it there."

"A knife?" Mycroft leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, head pillowed against his clasped hands.

Straightfellow smiled shrewdly and rubbed a hand, covered with black hair like a mitten, over his blue-shaved chin.

"Interested, are we, Mr 'Olmes? Just like the Roachbank case, isn't it? Even down to this."

He began to take something from his pocket.

"Don't tell me," said Mycroft. "A brass idol."

"Correct," said Straightfellow, unwrapping a handkerchief to show the squat little brass shape. "Now can you tell me anything about it?"

"Kali, Hindu representation of evil. Cheap mass manufacture, no intrinsic value. The sort of thing a pedlar might sell. Look at it, Dalziel." He gave it to me. "And this was found near the body?"

"Just like the Roachbank affair," said the inspector. "It was placed on the ground near Maplehurst's head, as if it was looking at him, like. Do you think it means anything?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"Well," continued Straightfellow, "can you tell me how well Maplehurst knew the Maharajah of Chandlawallah? You see, gents, the late Mr Anthony Maplehurst was not averse to a spot of treason."

"Really? My department knows nothing of this."

"He didn't make it public, Mr 'Olmes. But we searched his rooms and found that he was in regular and secret correspondence with agents of foreign powers, notably Germany and Russia. And of course we are aware that the Russians would like us out of India."

"So would everyone else, including many Indians," replied Mycroft. "But apart from the knife and the idol, I see no connection with India or the Maharajah."

"Ah, well, I can see a connection. Last night the Maharajah and Maplehurst spent a long time over dinner talking about Russia and India."

"How do you know?"

"I was there, Mr 'Olmes, at Mr Maplehurst's."

"As a guest, Straightfellow?"

"And why not? I'm an old India hand, you know. The Maharajah and I left late, just before the servants went home. Maplehurst lived entirely alone, you see, so when the Maharajah found he'd forgotten his gloves and we went back, Maplehurst himself opened the door."

"Where was he murdered?"

"In his rooms. Now, Mr 'Olmes, the reason I came here tonight was to ask you if you'd care to involve yourself in this case. You see, the treasonable aspect of it will no doubt interest your department, and to be truthful, it's the sort of thing we'd have asked poor Mr Sherlock about. I'll bet the business of these little idols would have got his brain working."

"Just what you said yourself, Holmes," I said.

"Bless my soul, Mr Dalziel. I quite thought we'd lost you. You've sat there like a mouse in the corner. Now, sir, you'd like to be with us in a case like this, wouldn't you? Look at him, Mr 'Olmes. Getting quite stout through lack of exercise. It'll be a crying shame if poor Mr Dalziel has to run to fat so young because you won't take on an interesting little puzzle like this. Come on, Mr Dalziel, sir. See if you can persuade Mr 'Olmes to take this up."

Mycroft considered. Our eyes met.

"Just the sort of thing we need, Holmes," I said. "We've both been getting bored lately. And as the inspector says, I could do with the exercise."

Under my gaze Mycroft turned pink. I recognised the signs. His animal spirits were beginning to rise. I, too, began to feel excited. If Mycroft would interest himself in the inspector's case, my months of celibacy would be at a welcome end.

"Very well," said Mycroft. "I'll take it on, Straightfellow." He gave me a mischievous smile. "Better prepare yourself for some hard work, Dalziel."

"And you," I said, scarcely able to repress a giggle.

"Just the ticket!" said Straightfellow. He rose. "I'll look forward to seeing you, then. I suppose it's a bit late for you to come down to the Yard?"

"Tomorrow," said Mycroft, ushering the inspector out.

I was tearing off my gentleman's evening wear even as Mycroft locked the door of our apartment. Shedding clothes as I went, I dragged him into my room and tipped him onto the bed. I was undressed long before he was, and incontinently tore off his trousers.