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Holmes laid the letter down on the table, and we all bent over it. He automatically noted the more obvious characteristics.

"Woman's hand, fussy. Dated Wednesday, would have arrived yesterday. Not old enough to be from the mother, who must be in her nineties. Perhaps a sister."

We read:

Dear Dorothy,

It was so very lovely to see you over the weekend. It made a deep impression on Mama (you may not be able to tell, but I can). I hope you can return before you have to leave, though I will understand if you cannot.

I am writing because shortly after you left, two gentlemen came here looking for you, something regarding a donation to your project in the Holy Land. They told me their names, but I'm afraid I can't remember them, as they were very long and foreign. Perhaps I should have written them down, but I was a bit flustered and could hear Mama calling from upstairs. But you must know them, as they knew you. They were both very dark and tall and looked a bit like the photographs you sent of the people who worked on your excavations, those same sharp noses. Very proper, though— educated gentlemen in proper suits. One of them had a name that sounded something like mud. At any rate, I wanted you to know in case they hadn't reached you. They seemed particularly anxious to see you before you left and seemed disappointed they had missed you. I told them that you were going down to Sussex to see Mr Holmes and his wife and that a telephone call there might be possible. I also told them the address of your hotel in London.

I'm afraid I gave them rather short shrift, as Mama was waiting for her bath. I hope they didn't think me rude, and I hope they give you lots of money, which they obviously have, as they drove off in an enormous shiny black saloon car, complete with uniformed driver.

Please write to tell me what the Holmeses were like. I imagine an extraordinary couple. But then, we may see you on Saturday, with any luck.

Your loving sister,

Erica

"Oh God, Holmes, I can't bear the thought of telling that woman that her sister was— that her sister is dead. Isn't it time to turn this over to the police?"

However, Holmes was not listening. He frowned over the pages in his hand, then thrust them at his brother.

"What do you make of the writing, Mycroft?"

"I admit that you are my superior in graphological analysis, Sherlock, but this is not exactly what I might have expected, either from the contents of the letter or from a sister of the woman you described. The lack of education in words and writing indicates only that Miss Ruskin achieved what she did through the sheer force of her mind, but still, I should have expected a greater degree of intelligence and independence here."

"But she's clever— look at those overstrokes!"

"Clever, yes, but with an undercurrent of anger that wells up in the full stops."

"And the hooks on the t-bars, why, I don't believe I've seen such tenacity since the time—"

"Holmes!"

"Yes, Russell?"

"We have to give this to the police. To Scotland Yard."

"She's quite right, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "Much as it goes against your grain, it is their job, and they might take it amiss were you to withhold it from them. They have become quite competent at legwork, you know. I can also make enquiries over the weekend. Fellow at the club knows everything and everyone in the Middle East. He may have some idea of what's going on."

I was tempted to ask how a fellow member of a club dedicated to noncommunication and misanthropy had managed to make known his peculiar talents, but I was distracted by Holmes, who had risen and was pawing vigorously through a desk drawer, finally to emerge with paper, pen, and a pot of glue. He shrugged as he bent to daub the flap of the envelope.

"Very well, if two minds greater than mine own agree, I can only plead force majeure. Russell, would you be so good as to write a note to Lestrade to accompany this virtuously unopened letter?" He paused to examine his handiwork, then bent to