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“You know, Watson,” said Holmes the following morning on our return to Baker Street, “in reading your accounts of some of the adventures we have shared over the years I have felt that, on occasion, I have behaved towards you in a cavalier fashion. It is easy to commit the crime of taking good friends for granted and I fear I am guilty of it.”

“I have never taken the least offence,” I assured him, not altogether truthfully. “There have been times, it is true, when I have been oppressed with a sense of the slowness of my wits compared to yours, but I can hardly blame you for that!”

“Well, you have other qualities, doctor. Do not underrate yourself; it is as much an offence as its reverse. Wisdom and common sense have a higher value than mere quick wits. To me you are a brother-in-arms. Besides, this proposed visit to British Columbia gives me an opportunity to show some long overdue appreciation. I of course insist that the expedition shall be at my expense,” he continued. “The new Holdernesse fund is more than able to meet the cost. I can think of no finer way of putting it to use!” Holmes lit a cigarette and we sat in silence, wrapped in our own thoughts, as befits good friends who anticipate the pleasures of a new adventure.

“Holmes,” I interrupted, as the thought struck me, “you have not yet explained how you were able to predict precisely what we would find when we opened the second linen bag in the Hurlstone tomb. How you did so is more than I can fathom. You also explained that our discovery of the orb and sceptre completed the reunion of the ancient jewels with their Stuart Crown. But how did – or indeed how do – you know this? In my account of the Musgrave Ritual I reported, I believe accurately, your comment that there could be little doubt that the diadem once encircled the brows of the Royal Stuarts. You now clearly have no such doubts.”

Sherlock Holmes smiled. “I am glad,” he said, “that you have raised these points, Watson, for we are dealing here with history itself. It is fitting that your account should close with that degree of certainty that leaves no room for dispute or conjecture, Proof you ask for and – if you will accompany me as dangerously far into the outside world as the nether regions of West Central, proof you shall have!”

Half an hour later we stood at the entrance to the National Portrait Gallery in St Martin’s Place.

“Follow me, Watson!”

We ascended the stairways to the upper floor, where Holmes led the way to a spacious, high, rectangular gallery. Turning into it, he led me to the foot of a life-size portrait depicting a young man, magnificently apparelled, the whiteness of his face, lace collar and buff thigh-boots in sharp contrast to the sombre tones of his livery, standing next a table draped with deep crimson velvet. On it lay a magnificent crown and its regalia. The caption made me gasp: Portrait of Charles I by Daniel Mytens it read. The Tudor Imperial Crown of State and the State Sceptre and Orb can be seen in the picture.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “The crown! The jewels! They are the very ones! These are indeed the Hurlstone treasures!”

“Yes,” he replied, “they are. And this portrait was painted from life! We can take pride in having restored to the light this ancient finery which has lain in a dungeon crypt for centuries. As to my prediction of the bag’s contents,” he continued, as though turning to a subject of more interest, “the explanation is a simple one. I had the advantage of having seen this portrait before.”

“How so?”

“As part of an official group assembled to satisfy the authorities of the rightful claim of the Musgraves to the Hurlstone Crown. Reginald Musgrave was here, too. It was his solicitor, I recall, who pointed out that our discovery of the crown provided clear evidence of the success of the Stuart sympathizers in thwarting Cromwell’s edict ordering the destruction of the regalia following the execution of Charles. I was thus able to astonish you, and the current custodian