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“The game is afoot, Watson.”

The hoarse whisper as the ticket collector bent down to retrieve a fallen coin startled me. But why should I have been surprised to see Sherlock Holmes himself, presently the most unremarkable ticket collector the Royal Parks had ever boasted? He passed on, exchanging a few gallant remarks with the young lady next to me, which made me wonder if my friend had not courted more young ladies than he acknowledged, whether in pursuance of his profession or otherwise.

Of course. A brass band concert. Holmes was expecting Meyer himself to be in the audience, and for von Holbach to join him. But when? The concert proceeded without incident, though I was scarcely in a mood now to appreciate it. A rousing selection of Gilbert and Sullivan choruses concluded the concert, and the audience rose for the National Anthem, sung with deep feeling and solemnity on this opening day to the week’s festivities. I was in great anxiety. Holmes had vanished, the band was packing its instruments, and the audience was drifting away. Now was the time and yet I could see no one amongst the groups of lingering spectators to answer Holmes’s description of Meyer.

At last I spotted Holmes, on the platform, and hurried as unobtrusively as I could to be at hand. He was busy helping the band with their instruments and the music stands, no doubt to gain a vantage point over the audience. A few people had mounted the bandstand to congratulate the players, and I watched an insignificant man in mackintosh and Homburg hat approach the tuba player to shake his hand, though a less musical instrument I have yet to hear.

“Watson!”

Holmes’s shout sent me running for the steps to his aid, as unbelievably he hurled himself between the two men. Amid the general alarm, the tuba player recovered his balance and aimed a vicious blow to Holmes’s body sending him staggering back. I caught a glimpse of the most malevolent eyes I have ever seen, and then he was pinioned, by myself and, I recognized with relief, Lestrade. I had not recognized him, in his guise as ice-cream vendor. His whistle was even now summoning his constables.

“Herr Meyer, we meet again. I trust you enjoyed the sea air at Broadstairs.” Holmes addressed the handcuffed Meyer. “And now the letter, if you please.”

“Too late,” he cried in triumph.

Horrified, I remembered the other man. There was no sign of him.

“Holmes, von Holbach has gone,” I groaned, blaming myself.

“That is only to be expected, Watson. He is a diplomat.”

“You are remarkably cool, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade said. “I take it this letter is of little importance then?”

“On the contrary, it is perhaps the most vital instrument for the maintenance of peace in Europe since the Treaty of London guaranteeing Belgium’s neutrality in “thirty-nine.”

An evil smile came to Meyer’s lips as he saw Holmes examining the music stand. “The peace is lost, Holmes,” he chuckled, as Lestrade finished a fruitless search of his pockets, hat and shoes.

“Do not be so sure, Meyer,” my friend said quietly, his lean figure bending down to pick up Meyer’s tuba.

It was from there, deep and safe within the confines of the bell, that he plucked a sheet of paper. I caught a brief glimpse of a familiar and illustrious crest before Holmes whisked it from our sight. “It is Sunday, Watson. But somehow I think Sir George will forgive us if two informally dressed visitors call upon him at his home.”

Jubilee Day promised little sunshine as Holmes and I took our places in the seats reserved for us at a window in Whitehall. The grey old road, however, was ablaze with colour, both from the decorations and the scarlet coats of the soldiers lining the route.

“You have not explained, Holmes, how it was you picked upon the very place where the fateful meeting was to take place.”

“A matter of deduction, my dear fellow. Meyer could not be found in London. Constabularies the country over had been instructed to watch for him. Useless. He could not appear there or in London in his own guise.”

“But he made no