Even as I write these words, I am still subject to spells of uncontrollable shivering - this despite the fact that I am sitting in a window where I can enjoy the autumn sunlight in a warm room. Now poor Marie has just come in from the kitchen, red-faced and tearful because she has smashed the best teapot in a recurrence of the nervous trembling which at times robs us of even elementary control of our movements.

Mycroft once told me that the follies of middle age give us harder knocks than our youthful indiscretions. Well, Marie and I certainly got some pretty hard knocks from Mycroft's middle-aged folly. If he had remembered his own words of wisdom and not made a fool of himself, he might have better protected us from having our minds almost destroyed along with our bodies. But before my story runs away with me, let me arrange the events in their correct order.

At the end of August we returned from Switzerland, where I had escaped being murdered and Lucy Alnford-Ross was nearly sold into a Levantine harem. Poor Lucy was a changed woman from that time, and not long after we got home she was taken to Galway by her sister Stella and lodged in the parsonage at Inishclaymore with Stella and her husband, the Reverend Sebastian Cabot Winstanley. Shortly afterwards her other sister, Joanna, brought the news we had feared: Lucy was expecting the Baron's child.

I recalled the sneering laugh of Baron Grüner's nephew, Karl-Gustav, as he told me that his uncle had used Lucy in every way as a wife, although she had been tricked into marrying him, Karl-Gustav. The poor, silly, empty-headed woman had learned a dreadful lesson, and the Winstanleys were distraught.

Yet it was not Lucy's fate that frightened me, but something that concerned me more nearly, for that summer I had a front-row view of Mycroft's folly as it developed. We broke our return journey in Paris, and I took Mycroft to the Folies Bergere, where we had first met in the summer of 1886. There, we found Lord and Lady Bywell. Emmeline, Lady Bywell, had recently given birth to a son, and her husband had brought her to Paris for a holiday. Stephen, Lord Bywell, invited Mycroft and me to their table, where he was very cordial. But Emmeline had always disliked me and made no secret of it. At first I had believed that it was because I was merely an actress and Mycroft's mistress, but Joanna Winstanley had corrected me. She had warned me that the beautiful Emmeline hated me as a rival for the love of Mycroft. How I hoped that Joanna was wrong, but that night my rising fears were strengthened.

It was obvious to me, and I think also to Lord Bywell, that Mycroft and Emmeline were too close to remain merely friends. Stephen, as he made me call him, was too much the gentleman to say anything, but as we talked at the table his gaze constantly shifted to his wife, whose eyes never left Mycroft's face. At one point she actually stroked his hand, which he did not withdraw. Stephen noticed and our own talk faltered. Mycroft, in his turn, looked at no-one else all night, hardly speaking to me and remaining silent in the cab to our hotel. That night I lay alone, weeping into my pillow.

When we got to London worse happened. Emmeline actually called at the Diogenes. Marie, who was cleaning our windows, drew my attention to her. Together we watched. Old Dinwoodie, the Senior Servant, and Harris, the under-porter, appeared in the doorway and appeared to be entreating Emmeline to leave, as the club rules made no place for women visitors. Occasionally a woman got into the Strangers' Room, but more women explorers penetrated the depths of Africa with considerably less trouble.

At length Mycroft came out with Emmeline on his arm, and held a long conversation with her on the very steps of the club. Eventually he seemed to persuade her to leave. He walked down the steps with her and she stretched up and kissed him on the lips, there, in full view of all Pall Mall! No wonder the flow of pedestrians halted for a moment, all eyes on the shameless spectacle. Dinwoodie staggered and had to be helped inside by Harris, while Emmeline turned and lithely entered her carriage, giving Mycroft a farewell wave as though nothing had happened. Afterwards there was a concerted effort throughout St James's to hush up the scandal, but the Press sniffed it in the wind and one of Mr Stead's reporters hung about outside the club for days. 1

Joanna Winstanley called to warn me and console me. She had herself been the mistress of Mycroft some years before I met him, and she scented danger. She repeated her warning about Emmeline, and how Mycroft always preferred young women with sylph-like figures.

"Emmeline is a very beautiful girl, you know, Anna," she said. "Now that her figure is restored, she is more his type than ever. She's matured since her marriage and is no longer the wide-eyed innocent that she was at Girton."

She lowered her voice.

"Anna, I must speak frankly. I think her husband might not satisfy her - you know what I mean - for I believe his experience of women to have been severely limited. And you and I both know how well Mycroft can satisfy a woman in that way."

She reddened and looked as uncomfortable as I felt in talking so frankly over private matters. Mycroft, despite his huge corpulent body, was one of the most expert and agile of lovers. He had learned much from his first mistress, Sarah Bernhardt, the leading French actress, and he had taught me things which I would not have believed possible. He also introduced me to the delights of a little-known Indian work named the Kama Sutra, of which he had a clandestine copy. Mme Bernhardt's teachings, combined with those of the old Hindu author, enabled him to give me pleasures in bed such as few Englishwomen had known. How the Kama Sutra saved his life I have described in the story that follows this.

Apart from his pursuit of Emmeline, there were other reasons for a cooling in my relations with Mr Holmes. For instance, he never once asked after my health, despite the nervous strain I had been through. What with being kidnapped, dosed with morphine, and nearly hurled bodily over a cliff, I should have thought an occasional enquiry about my well-being would have been in order. Yet not once did he ask me how I did. Consequently, I decided to send him to Coventry - an expression which I had to explain to Marie.

Mycroft, however, appeared to have sent me to Coventry. He stayed away from me, and I became restless and agitated. Dr Watson prescribed rest, and I followed his advice. Yet although I could rest my body, I could not stop my mind from running on like a mill wheel, which it did for a fortnight, keeping me awake at nights. In an attempt to purge my mind of anxiety I took to setting down more of my experiences, delving into my past adventures with Mycroft in an attempt to exorcise the demons of disquiet that plagued me.

I wrote up the case of the green-painted door, which took place in 1888, but which I have placed after this one for reasons which I shall explain there. The trouble was that when I wrote of my escapades with Mycroft, the fun we had shared came to life again. Many a night I put down my pen and went to bed, only to lie weeping quietly as I reviewed the happier times. I did not manage to calm myself until I had put down on paper the adventure of the Five Fingers. Only then did the full horror of what I had endured begin to leave me. Little did I guess of the horror that was about to begin.

One afternoon I went to lie down in my room with my eyes closed for an hour or so, but before I managed to doze off, Marie brought in a letter from the afternoon delivery. It was from Superintendent Straightfellow, and read:

"Monday 9th September

Dear Miss Weybridge,

I trust you will have no objection to a visit from Inspector Stanley Hopkins of Scotland Yard, who wishes to make some inquiries of you regarding a case of suicide. The person involved was a Miss Daisy Melville, an actress late of London, who died recently in South Africa. Insp. Hopkins will call this evening if it is not inconvenient.

Yours etc."

"When he calls shall I tell him you are not at home, mam'selle?" asked Marie.

"No, I'll see him. But why is he writing to me? The police never do that. They just call."

"Ah, but you see, mam'selle, it is in the hope that Mr 'Olmes he will also be here, non? I think perhaps you should let me say that you are not at home."

"No, Marie. I'll see this inspector and if necessary redirect him to the Diogenes. Daisy Melville. That name strikes a chord with me. Did I know her, I wonder?"

Marie's hand flew to her mouth, and her eyes opened wide.

"Mam'selle! One moment, please."

She hurried out and returned with a copy of Reynolds's News for the previous day, rather sensational in its content. She turned to a particular page.

"The Suicide Season is the headline, and - alors! I knew I had seen the name myself. Listen, mam'selle! 'London Actress's Suicide. It is reported that a London actress - a member of the company that went to South Africa to play The Gaiety Girl under the management of Mr Luscombe Scarelle - has committed suicide.

"'The young lady's name was Miss Daisy Melville, the daughter of most respectable parents, living in London. The affair is still wrapped in mystery, for no details have yet arrived to throw any light on the motive of the poor girl's action.

"'The last letter received by her mother gave no sign of any unhappiness or coming trouble. On the contrary, she wrote that she was "just the same as ever she was", and that she had been the recipient of many kindnesses and presents. Miss Melville was only eighteen years of age, attractive in appearance, and of engaging manner.'"

"Daisy Melville?" I asked. "In The Gaiety Girl? Yes, I think I do know who it is, Marie. Poor little thing: I wonder what drove her to it."

"Who knows, mam'selle? It was one of many reported here."

"Is that page all about suicides?"

"It is all deaths and morbidité. The actress, a doctor, a lunatic, and many more."

"How strange! Read on, Marie."

"But mam'selle, it will do you no good to hear it."

"Don't argue, Marie."

"Very well."

She lifted a mildly reproachful eyebrow, settled herself into the chair, and began.

"Here is another. 'Suicide of a Doctor. Dr. Hodges, a medical man with a large practice at Leicester, formerly house surgeon at the infirmary and a specialist in eye diseases, committed suicide yesterday by hanging himself from a bannister in his house with the cord of his dressing gown. He had suffered from nervous depression for some months, and returned from a holiday last week little or no better for the change.' Pouf! If the doctor cannot cure himself, what hope is there for the rest of us?"

She read on. As she had predicted, the page was rather depressing, death following death. The last story was the shortest. It was headed "Suicide at an Infirmary".

"'A man jumped out of a lavatory window at Bethnal Green Infirmary on Friday night and was killed. This is the second suicide which has happened recently at the institution.' It is a lunatic asylum? I still do not think these stories will do you much good, mam'selle." 2

"On the contrary, Marie," I replied, getting up, "they've done me the world of good. They've given me something to take my mind off - off things at present. I'm sorry for the doctor and the poor lunatic and all the others, but that young actress was murdered, I'm sure of it."

"Murdered?"

Marie's eyes were her finest feature, large, brown and bright, and now they doubled in size.

"But, mam'selle, how can you know? It is the sort of thing Mr 'Olmes would say and if he did you would believe it at once, but - but - "

She floundered into silence. Mycroft was a subject we did not raise at present.

"I just know, Marie. Call it the intuition of our sex, but there is something strange about that story. You see, in the case of the doctor, for instance, there was his nervous depression. The infirmary patient was presumably of unsound mind. But in the case of Daisy Melville there's nothing to suggest any reason for suicide."

Marie brushed down my skirt and handed it to me, for I had lain in my petticoat.

"All the same, mam'selle, it happened in South Africa and how could anyone investigate it from here? Even if Scotland Yard sent out a detective, the clues they would long be disappeared before he got there, non?"

"I suppose so," I replied, drawing on my skirt, "and it's a great pity that we have no way of investigating it ourselves."

"Ourselves? You flatter me, mam'selle. I am no detective, to crawl about the floor with a great glass to my eye. Observation is not my forte. The skirt is not hanging right, mam'selle. Permit me. There!" She raised an eyebrow and folded her arms, looking straight at me. "This death, if it is a murder, it is a case for Scotland Yard or Mr Sherlock and Dr Watson, rather than Miss Anna Weybridge and her maid."

Why I had raised the issue of investigating the case ourselves I could not say. Normally I would have brought it up with Mycroft, but at present that was out of the question. His continued absence and silence suggested that he was up to something with Emmeline. Surely, though, Stephen must know what was going on and must have said something to his wife. And what sort of woman could she be who had just given birth to her husband's child, and yet was entangling herself with another man, so openly too?

"In addition, mam'selle," continued Marie, "why should you interest yourself in a suicide or murder, or whatever it may be, on the other side of the world? This Daisy Melville, you knew her?"

"I think I met her once, but I don't recall her very well. Blonde, I think."

"Once! You think? But - " She ended with a shrug which spoke a volume of questions.

"Well, Marie, as I said, it's just a case of feminine intuition. I know one or two people at the Gaiety who'll probably be quite upset about Daisy, and really the business should be investigated properly. If it is murder, then the culprit must be found, don't you agree?"

"The Gaiety? It is a theatre?"

"Yes. Mr Edwardes, the manager, will be quite affected by the news, I should imagine."

There was another reason for my interest, and my mind began to formulate the thoughts into a coherent argument. An investigation would do two things for me. Firstly, it would take my mind off Mycroft's conduct. Secondly, it would let me "larn" him. Although neither Marie nor I could conduct a proper and thorough investigation into what I suspected was a murder, if I could interest Scotland Yard, perhaps Superintendent Straightfellow would order something to be done. After all, it was his note that had started off my train of thought, and I would like that train to touch off a glow of self-respect. It was vital that I should be able to emerge from the pit of despondency in which I currently found myself.

As we lit the lamps that evening Straightfellow arrived with a young man of about my own age in a quiet tweed suit. He was introduced as Inspector Stanley Hopkins. I called back Marie as she made to leave the room.

"I hope you won't mind my keeping my maid here, Superintendent," I said. "Marie is as interested in this case as I am, and may be able to remind me of one or two points as we discuss matters."

That was gammon, of course, considering what Marie had said about how the story of Daisy's death would affect me. But I wanted her to become interested in the case as part of my stratagem to take my mind off Mycroft. Straightfellow looked at Hopkins.

"You don't mind the lady's maid, Inspector?"

"Not at all, sir," grinned Hopkins, giving Marie an approving up-and-down glance which resulted in her putting her nose ever so slightly in the air.

"Very irregular for me to be here in any case, Miss Weybridge," explained the Superintendent. "I've been transferred to C Division, covering this area, and I should really be behind my desk, but when 'Opkins told me he was investigating a particular case, I thought we might come and see you. It's very good of you to make yourself available. You see, miss, as I said in my note, it involves the suicide of a young actress." 3

"Daisy Melville, Superintendent?" I picked up the copy of Reynolds's News. "It's all in here. But how can it have anything to do with me?"

Hopkins smiled.

"Well, ma'am," he said, "the Super here says you might know Miss Melville, having the background yourself and knowing Sir Henry Irving and Miss Terry and people like that."

"It was just on the off-chance, Miss Weybridge," added Straightfellow, stroking his blue-shaven chin. "The South African authorities and the unfortunate young lady's parents have asked us to investigate. There's little we can do, for even if the Yard sent 'Opkins out to Cape Town there'd be nothing to go on by now. But we must go through the motions."

"You're not here on the off-chance, Superintendent. Do you suspect murder?"

Straightfellow smiled.

"I told you, 'Opkins, didn't I? No flies on our Miss Weybridge. You know, of course, that she's accompanied Mr Mycroft 'Olmes on some of his most trying cases? The Cambridge vampire, the Irish gun-running affair, the white slaver business in Switzerland recently - where Mademoiselle here also went along and, as I understand, actually dispatched one of the villains. So we're not dealing with a couple of helpless women here, 'Opkins. Oh, and there was the Lyceum murder and the Flame of Natal case back in the eighties. That was when we first met, Miss Weybridge and me."

Hopkins showed a new respect in his expression.

"You've certainly had an adventurous life, ma'am. So you were in the Flame of Natal affair?"

"I didn't know you knew about that case, 'Opkins. It was all 'ushed up because of who was involved in it. But Miss Weybridge is a relative of young Mr Dalziel. I've spoken of him before, surely?"

"The crack shot chap, sir? Yes, you have mentioned him."

"Thought so. But to answer your question, Miss Weybridge, yes, I do suspect murder. The interesting thing is, how comes it that you do?"

We discussed the case over a cup of tea. I told them that it was merely intuition on my part, for I could see no reason why a young person like Miss Melville should make away with herself.

"She was just beginning her career, you see, and this tour would be a big opportunity for her."

Straightfellow nodded.

"That's what I thought. Why end it all when you've got the prospect of a glittering career. Eh, 'Opkins?"

The inspector agreed, and had a question of his own.

"South Africa's the place to be for theatre folk, is it, ma'am?"

"Not really, Inspector, but the experience would stand her in good stead when she came back. The people out there see very little of really professional theatre such as we are used to. The company would get a tremendous reception, I should imagine, and - well, applause is meat and drink to stage people. More than that, however, I cannot tell you. I didn't know Miss Melville more than in passing."

The doorbell rang and Marie hurried out. Hopkins looked at me shrewdly.

"Going back to what you said about Miss Melville, ma'am, you mean she had everything to live for?"

"So I would have thought, Inspector. I can't understand why she should wish to kill herself."

Hopkins turned to Straightfellow.

"Exactly what we've said, sir. Interesting that you think along the same lines, Miss Weybridge."

"Well, then," I replied, "there you are. It needs to be investigated. You should really see Mr Holmes - Sherlock, I mean."

Straightfellow looked a little uncomfortable.

"We did, miss. He was busy, he said, and sent us on to his brother."

I feigned surprise.

"You didn't expect to find Mr Holmes here?"

"I did think he might have been visiting, miss," said Straightfellow tactfully. He knew perfectly well that Mycroft often spent the night with me, but I hoped that Hopkins did not.

"The Diogenes is where you will normally find him, Superintendent," I said.

Hopkins grinned, caught my eye, reddened and looked away. I knew then that he knew, or had deduced for himself, why Straightfellow had come straight to my flat. I blushed in turn, but the awkward moment was saved as Marie came in with a worried expression on her face.

"Mam'selle, it is Mr 'Olmes."

"Mr Mycroft?" asked Straightfellow, brightening.

"Yes, Surintendant. Mam'selle, shall I say you are not at home?"

I was about to say yes, when Straightfellow interrupted.

"If I may request, Miss Weybridge, could you possibly invite Mr 'Olmes up? You see, from what you've just said about this Daisy Melville, I reckon he'll be interested in hearing it himself. Unless you've already discussed it with him, of course."

"I have discussed nothing with Mr Holmes, Superintendent," I replied stiffly. In front of company I could not bring myself to say that I did not wish to see Mycroft, so I nodded at Marie, who showed him in.

When Mycroft entered he took one look at me, then looked away, the lamplight betraying his flushed face. I felt myself to be sitting as though the poker was up my back, and I think that Straightfellow sensed awkwardness in our manner, for he seemed to become uneasy. Hopkins seemed to notice that.

Mycroft cleared his throat, bowed to me and sat in the chair which I silently indicated to him, indicating also to Marie that she should remain. She stood beside my own chair.

"Anna, I hope you will excuse this interruption, but from the Diogenes I saw the Superintendent and the Inspector call here. I knew that they had come to enquire about Miss Melville, and I seized the opportunity to discuss a new theory."

Mycroft apparently expected me to believe that his call was unplanned, but if he had recognised the detectives in the evening darkness he had obviously expected them. Had Sherlock let him know of Straightfellow's visit? He had waited long enough for them to have told me about the case. He said he knew they had called about Miss Melville. How did he know? I asked him that.

"Quite simple, really. I saw the account in Reynolds's News and immediately suspected murder. Then Sherlock wired me that he had sent Straightfellow on to this address."

Hopkins looked sharply at him.

"He was expecting me to be calling here for tea, as is often my custom, gentlemen. Tea followed by a game of chess, which my dear friend Miss Weybridge plays extremely well. However, tonight I had other business to attend to."

"I trust it kept you occupied in the Diogenes," I said tartly.

I scrutinised his impassive face. His call was planned, but why? Did he want to meet me in conditions that would not allow me to shut the door in his face? Was he hoping to stay after the policemen had left? Or had his brain really been turned by Emmeline so that he was making fundamental errors of judgement? Mycroft did not reply to my sharp remark, but turned to Straightfellow.

"I now suspect, Straightfellow, that not only was the actress murdered, but that the death of the lunatic at Bethnal Green on Friday would bear investigation."

Hopkins picked up the newspaper.

"Here it is, Miss Weybridge. This story about a lunatic at Bethnal Green - oh, you've read it, you say? Well, we're looking into that one too, but as far as we can see the poor chap took it into his head to jump out of the window on Friday night when the balance of his mind was disturbed, which is what the coroner will say."

Mycroft smiled grimly and shook his massive head.

"It was murder, Hopkins. I am sure of it."

Hopkins whistled.

"Well, Mr Holmes, if you're sure, we can make immediate enquiries."

"No need, Inspector. I have already done so."

"What did you find, sir? Did someone push him out?"

"I think not, but what I discovered leads me to believe that the death was suspicious, to say the least. I cannot account for it other than by postulating murder."

Despite myself, I felt the old tingle of excitement run through me as Mycroft leaned forward to enumerate his points on his fingers.

"First, the victim was a Chancery lunatic."

Straightfellow nodded, Hopkins looked slightly puzzled, and I shook my head, remembering too late that I was supposed to be ignoring Mycroft. He smiled again.

"A Chancery lunatic is someone who has been found by a court to be insane. In due legal process under the Lunacy Act, a writ de lunatico inquirendo is issued. The suspected lunatic is investigated by a committee, and, if the patient is declared insane, then the committee is given charge of the lunatic's property. Am I correct so far, Straightfellow?"

"Yes, sir. But don't forget that the Master in Lunacy orders two committees."

"Master in Lunacy?" I repeated. "Is that the asylum keeper?"

"No, Anna," said Mycroft, "he is a judge. As the Superintendent points out, there are two committees, one for the Chancery lunatic's property, the other to look after his person."

"The whole point being to protect the patient, eh, sir?" said Hopkins.

Mycroft nodded, and I realised that, despite my efforts, I had just slipped into the old relationship as if nothing had gone wrong. As for him, he was impassive. Although his face had flushed on first meeting me, he had quickly regained control of himself. I tightened my mouth and determined to say no more to him. He certainly was not going to get round me. He was speaking again.

"It has been made as difficult as possible to commit someone to an asylum. The reasons are obvious: there are those who would take advantage of more lenient law. Yet in the case of Mr Josiah Rippingill - for that was the name of the deceased patient - I fear that some ingenious criminal mind worked its way round the law."

"You mean the chap was locked up against his will, sir?"

"It is a possibility, Inspector."

"Ah!" said Straightfellow. "So he could have taken his life in despair, eh, Mr 'Olmes?"

"I do not know for certain yet, Straightfellow. He may have taken his own life, he may have been trying to escape, but I suspect murder."

Hopkins by now had his notebook out and was scribbling notes, with Straightfellow looking over his shoulder. Mycroft shifted in his chair and put together the tips of his fingers, looking very smug. Marie was as enthralled as I was. The two detectives were quietly muttering over Hopkins's notes, and I heard Straightfellow say something about the Lunacy Act. Twice I nodded to Marie, in an effort to get her to ask Mycroft a question, but she said nothing. Finally I could hold back no longer.

"Why should anyone do that, Mr Holmes?" I asked. "Murder this poor man, I mean."

"There will be money involved, Anna."

Damn his insouciance! He'd made as much response to the "Mr Holmes" as a stone statue. He leaned back and continued calmly.

"A will is sure to be at the bottom of it, one made before he was committed, I should think, for a lunatic cannot make or revise a will."

Straightfellow looked up and nodded.

"Easy enough to follow that line of inquiry, sir. I suppose the Infirmary has records of the deceased's relatives?"

"That was my first question to the staff. A Mr Ronald Franklin, supposed nephew of the deceased, took out the writ. I went to the address given in the Infirmary records, but it turned out to be that of a warehouse by the docks."

Hopkins noted that down.

"False address. Seems to support your theory to some degree, Mr Holmes."

"Wasn't Rippingill ever visited in the Infirmary?" asked the Superintendent.

"Not by anyone who could be identified. Someone - a clergyman - called and gave him a potted plant, apparently, which was kept in his room. Not long after, the records show that he was taken ill. He recovered after a few days. The symptoms, abdominal pain and so forth, led me to suspect poison."

"But if that's the case, who administered the poison, Mr 'Olmes?"

"I do not know yet, Straightfellow."

Hopkins looked at Mycroft with something like delight in his face.

"If I may say so, sir, this sounds like being a much bigger case than we thought."

"More far-reaching, Inspector. Mr Rippingill was originally a civil servant in the Diplomatic Corps. My brief is to ensure that whoever killed him was not acting on behalf of a foreign power."

"Your brief, sir?" repeated Straightfellow.

Mycroft nodded but did not directly satisfy Straightfellow's curiosity.

"Mr Rippingill held a senior position at one time, and then came into a great deal of wealth. He retired young - for he was only forty-four when he died - and a pertinent question is, where did his wealth come from? That is something the Department wishes to know."

"Not from his salary, I imagine," said Straightfellow. "Even senior civil servants aren't what you'd call wealthy. Do you think he was a paid foreign agent?"

"That is what I must investigate, Straightfellow."

Straightfellow shifted in his seat.

"You say you have a brief, sir. Does that mean that Whitehall has asked you to take up this case?"

"Whitehall in the person of Major Winstanley."

Straightfellow and Hopkins raised eyebrows at each other.

"And the young actress, Mycroft?" I asked. "You said she was murdered too?"

Oh damn! I'd called him Mycroft. I was losing my head; I was no more capable of maintaining a glacier-like front to him than I was of solving this case.

"I think so, Anna. But the deaths will doubtless be unconnected. And, although I believe that the girl was murdered, South Africa is too far away to concern us."

"Pity," said Hopkins. "If you suspect it's a murder case, I wouldn't mind getting my teeth into it. But, as you've said, it's too far away and we can only go through the motions of investigating."

"The Bethnal Green case is more important," rejoined Mycroft, rising to leave.

"No it isn't!" I said warmly. "The parents of that young girl have as much right to expect justice, or at least find out the truth, as the relatives of Mr Rippingill."

"Of course," said Mycroft, as Marie gave him his coat. "But, my dear - South Africa?"

He shrugged on his coat, donned his white silk scarf and took his cane.

"I should be happy to investigate the case if it were nearer home. But the distance makes a journey impossible. Unless you wish to take it up yourself, you and Marie, eh? A pleasant sea voyage, what?"

With a laugh he put on his hat and left. The two policemen followed, and as Marie returned upstairs from the lobby I called her in.

"Well, Marie, you heard what Mr Holmes said. What about it?"

"The lunatic, mam'selle? I am sure that what Mr 'Olmes says is correct. After all, if he thinks there has been a murder then there surely must have been."

"I meant what he said about the other case, the Daisy Melville case."

"South Africa, mam'selle?" The dark brown eyes were wider than I had ever seen them. "You joke! Even though Mr 'Olmes did laugh at us, I think you should forget it."

"No, Marie. This poor girl's death deserves investigation, and if he won't do it, I shall, or rather, we shall. Of course we can't go to South Africa, but the least we can do is investigate here in London. Now, sit down by me and let's think. Suppose Mr Holmes were to undertake this case, what would he do?"

Marie pondered.

"If you do not mind my saying so, mam'selle, first he would ask you if you are really doing this for the sake of the girl."

"What do you mean?"

"Forgive me, mam'selle, but is it not to - how do you say it? - score a try? Score a mark?"

"Score a point?"

"Yes, for laughing at you. And, if I may say so, for other things."

"Nonsense, Marie! No, it's because - well - because - oh, very well! Yes, I wish to get my own back. No, I don't. I wish to show - myself, I suppose, that I can live out of Mr Holmes's shadow and that if - if things change between us, it's not going to be the end of the world for me. There!"

Marie slipped her hand into mine and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"But in any case," I went on, "Daisy Melville deserves better than to be forgotten, poor thing. Now, what would Mr Holmes do?"

"I think he would go round the theatres and enquire of all who knew Daisy Melville. Her habits, her friends and acquaintances, and also her enemies, surely."

"Correct," I said. "First thing tomorrow morning, Marie, we are going out. As Mr Holmes's brother says, the game's afoot."