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It was in the spring of 1901, while Holmes and I were investigating the disappearance of the Priory School student and the murder of his bicycling German master in the north of England, that we learned of the death of Reginald Musgrave. The newspaper’s account was terse: Sir Reginald, member of parliament for Hurlstone, West Sussex and squire of its Manor House and estates, had been tragically killed in a shooting mishap on Monday May 13th. A verdict of accidental death had been returned at the inquest; a memorial service was to be held at the village church and the estates were to be maintained by the deceased’s next of kin, his cousin Nathaniel Musgrave.

“Is it not an irony,” said Holmes, his distress obvious as we surveyed this brief announcement, “that we learn of the death of Musgrave, who inherited his estates from his father but died a bachelor, just as we make clear that the Holdernesse family has one son too many? The sibling Saltire is lured away, like young Copperfield to Dover, on the promise of a maternal affection which is not to be found at home, by a treacherous elder brother whose only aim is his destruction. Which is the better, to father two sons and such a misery or, like Musgrave, none at all?”

“That must be decided by each man for himself, Holmes. Opportunity travels always with risk as its companion.”

“Just so, Watson, but I regret that Musgrave’s sudden end has denied him the chance of an heir,” replied Holmes thoughtfully “and also the pleasure of taking his own son through the family ritual. And what means ‘shooting mishap’? One would expect from the press less reticence and more clarity. The coroner however has evidently found nothing amiss so, unless the fates decree that I am consulted in the matter, nothing appears to be done save to bid a silent ave atque vale to my erstwhile university friend and early client.”

The fates were so to decree but, perversely, they stayed their hand for nearly two months; it was then their sister Atropos they sent. She came to us in the thin disguise of our landlady, bearing the morning’s tray of correspondence and requests for appointments, medical for me, criminal and otherwise for Holmes. Her rap at our door, thus effected, was so gentle, and her tap so faint, that we were unaware she had entered our chamber. She gave no warning of the remarkable train of events, of the brazen attempt at an audacious new crime – and delayed retribution for a hideous old one – that would ensue; nor was I prepared for the demonstrations of my friend’s amazing powers of observation, deduction and inference, of the quick workings of his intellect and of his astonishing ability to create and test hypotheses until the truth was revealed as clearly as are the pure golden tailings and nuggets in the pan of the prospector.

Thus it was that ten days ago Sherlock Holmes and I were visited by the eminent London publisher Garrison Bolt. He wished, he had said in his letter requesting the appointment, to consult Holmes about a matter arising from his business. On the grounds that this might involve my role of chronicler Holmes had asked me, despite a period of considerable activity in my medical practice, to be present. The shrewd, scholarly face of the bookman was known to us, although we had not met for some years. It was with the house of Bolt that I had negotiated publication of my account of one of our earliest cases. I remembered very well the hard bargain he had struck and admit to harbouring some resentment as a result, a resentment heightened by the contrasting generosity of the public, whose approval of my later efforts stood in such sharp contrast to Mr Bolt’s parsimony. Despite the numerous reprints of my work, from which Mr Bolt’s firm reaped a considerable income, nary a penny was paid over the modest sum agreed, a circumstance which directed me to other, more generous publishers. But a bargain is a bargain and neither Holmes nor I had ever allowed ourselves