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“To the point, Sir George. I believe this loyal and faithful retainer of yours to be dead these fourteen years,” Holmes said, displaying some impatience.

Sir George bowed his head in slight amusement, despite his obvious anxiety. “As always you are correct, Mr Holmes. He died in one of Lady X’s larger country residences and afterwards his effects were naturally returned to his family in Scotland. He left no will, and her ladyship made the request of his appointed executor that such correspondence as had passed between them, on matters concerning the estate and so forth – should be extracted and returned to her. This was done, or so it was believed.”

“Believed?”

“We have reason to believe that one letter never reached the security of Lady X’s archives. The librarian keeps the correspondence under lock and key, not to mention his own coded system. He is positive it has not been touched since it entered his possession. I need hardly say he himself is above suspicion. Yet this morning, Mr Holmes, I received an unsigned letter informing me that the writer had in his possession a letter from Lady X to her retainer and was prepared to part with it for a suitable sum.”

“On a matter concerning the estate?” Holmes queried politely.

Sir George hesitated, and Robert Mannering after a nod from Lord Bellinger replied for him. “We must rely on your complete discretion, Mr Holmes, Mr Watson.”

“You may be assured of it,” my friend replied coldly.

“This letter, a copy of which was enclosed, was written during the retainer’s last illness, which was a highly infectious one precluding any visits by Lady X to his bedside. It was a letter of warmth, full of affection and gratitude for the years of devoted service and friendship that he had given her.”

“Come, come, Mr Mannering. We trifle.”

“By an enemy,” Robert Mannering continued steadily, “that letter, assuming it to be no forgery, might be capable of grievous misinterpretation by those who seek an opportunity for mischief.”

“If that is the case,” I said eagerly, “why has nothing been heard of it for fourteen years?”

“Good, Watson,” Holmes cried. “However, an event is to take place this summer which must surely rank above all others in placing Lady X at the forefront of world attention. At such a time the letter, if it fell into the wrong hands, might well be used to devastating effect.”

“To ruin her reputation?”

“Worse, Watson. To besmirch not only England, but the Empire itself, if I am not mistaken. Why else should the Premier’s Adviser on European Affairs be with us today?”

“You are not mistaken, Mr Holmes.” Lord Bellinger spoke gravely. “We must buy that letter back.”

“Pray let me see the copy, and the letter to you, Sir George.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sir George handed both to him. “It will tell you nothing. It came by hand from an unknown messenger.”

“Nothing in itself inevitably conveys information,” Holmes remarked, scanning the contents. Both were penned in a bold black copperplate, and the letter to Sir George was brief: “The writer is prepared to part with the original of the enclosed letter for a sum to be arranged. The crest will prove its provenance. The personal columns of the daily newspapers will convey my next instruction.”

“They are written by hand,” Holmes observed to his brother.

Mycroft chuckled. “I can supply names, Sherlock.”

I was bewildered at this exchange, and indeed I was only now appreciating the gravity of the whole affair. Holmes did not pursue the subject.

“We would ask you to carry out the negotiation on our behalf, Mr Holmes,” Sir George said.

“I believe my services may be required for more than mere barter,” Holmes replied quietly, “or Mycroft alone would be handling this affair.”

“Why, Holmes?” I was startled, but the expression on Lord Bellinger’s face confirmed it.

“Ten years ago this month, Watson, there was another occasion of equal importance to Lady X yet nothing was heard of this letter then. Does that not suggest that the writer