Although the account of the following adventure cannot be published either in Holmes’ lifetime or mine and may, indeed, never see the light of day, I have nevertheless decided to commit it to paper and to deposit it among my other unpublished records rather than allow it to pass into oblivion, in the hope that in the far distant future some editor of the exploits of my old friend, the great consulting detective, might see fit to print it.

As far as the present situation is concerned, Holmes is quite adamant; the case must not be made public. It is his unshakeable resolve that the confidences of certain persons of exalted rank who have sought his services in private must be preserved at all costs and must not be referred to, even in passing.* I have given Holmes my word on this. Therefore no mention of the inquiry will be found anywhere in the published chronicles.

I must confess, however, that my decision to make my own record of the case is due in part measure to the role I played in it, as well as to the unusual circumstances which surrounded it.

The adventure began at the time after my marriage when, my wife having gone to Sussex to nurse her elderly aunt, I had moved back temporarily to my old lodgings at 221B Baker Street which, in my bachelor days, I had shared with Holmes.

It was one of those foggy mornings in late November when it was almost impossible to see across the street to the houses opposite, while the passing cabs and pedestrians loomed suddenly into sight before vanishing once again into the thick, ochre-coloured mist like so many spectres.

The weather had an adverse effect on Holmes’ spirits. He was in a sombre mood, sent his breakfast away almost untouched and retired to the sofa, where he lay smoking and staring up silently at the ceiling.

Even the arrival of the morning’s post failed to rouse him.

‘You open it, Watson,’ he told me. ‘It is bound to be nothing but bills. It is too much to expect such a wretched day to produce anything of interest.’

The first two were indeed bills, one from his tailor and one from his bookseller, which I propped up on the mantelpiece until he should find the strength of mind to deal with them. But the third was a different matter altogether.

‘It is from a Mrs Mary Woods, requesting an interview,’ I said, opening the envelope and glancing at the sheet of paper it contained.

‘What does she require of me? To find her lost pet dog?’ Holmes inquired in a bored manner.

‘There is no mention of any dog. On the contrary, the lady writes that the matter is of extreme urgency and delicacy.’

I saw a spark of interest show in Holmes’ deep-set eyes but he merely said with the same indifferent air, ‘Be a good fellow and read it out loud to me. I really cannot summon up the energy to bestir myself.’

Having cleared my throat, I did as he requested.

‘“Dear Mr Holmes, I understand you are a gentleman in whom one may place one’s trust. I have a matter of extreme urgency and delicacy which I should be most grateful to discuss with you in complete confidence. I therefore request an interview with you at three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.” Why, that’s today, Holmes!’ I broke off to exclaim. ‘The letter is signed Mary Woods, Mrs. There is, by the way, no address although it carries yesterday’s date.’

‘And what other deductions have you made about the letter?’ Holmes inquired.

‘Well,’ I began, hesitating a little for, knowing Holmes’ own detective skills, I have never felt confident about putting forward my own opinions. ‘The paper the letter is written on is of an excellent quality; most expensive, I should say, and possibly hand-made. It is strange, therefore, that there is no engraved address at the top of the sheet. More remarkable still, the envelope does not match the writing-paper. It is white and of a much inferior quality.’

‘What do you deduce from that?’

‘That Mrs Woods may have run out of matching envelopes?’

‘Hum!’ Holmes exclaimed in a sceptical tone. ‘But pray go on, Watson. What can you tell me about the lady’s handwriting?’

‘The style is distinctive, educated and well formed on the whole although there is an irregularity in some places which suggests the writer was under considerable emotional strain. This is particularly evident in the signature.’

Without speaking, Holmes held out a languid hand and I passed the letter to him to read, eagerly waiting to hear how far my own deductions were correct. I was gratified to see that, after only a few seconds’ perusal, he sat up, suddenly alert, his aquiline features assuming an expression of keen attention.

‘You are quite right about the quality of the paper,’ he remarked. ‘It is indeed hand-made and is sold exclusively by Threadwell and Barnet, the Bond Street stationers. I have spent several years studying different types of paper, both their manufacture and their chemical and organic components, with the idea of writing a monograph on the subject. As for the absence of an address at the top, that is easily accounted for. Our correspondent has been careful to use a plain continuation sheet which carries no engraved heading. You are also correct, my dear fellow, in discerning that the handwriting shows signs of stress although you failed to notice that it is a young woman’s. Take my word for it. I have also made a study of handwriting styles and how they relate to the correspondent’s age. But you were wrong on two particular points.’

‘Was I, Holmes?’ I asked, a little crestfallen. ‘What were they?’

‘Firstly, the envelope. It is highly unlikely that a young lady who can afford such expensive writing-paper should be forced to use an inferior envelope merely because, as you suggested, she has run out of supplies of any others. It is much more probable that she has chosen the white envelope deliberately because those which matched the paper bore some distinguishing mark such as a family crest or a coat of arms. As for the signature, while it indeed bears signs of stress, it demonstrates something much more interesting – an attempt to cover up her real identity. If you look more closely at it, Watson, you will see that the “y” on the end of “Mary” is almost closed and resembles a letter “g”. I believe that our correspondent, no doubt under emotional strain as you rightly observed, began to write her correct name which is Margaret and then, realising  her mistake, left that part of her signature incomplete, hoping it would be read as “Mary”.’

‘So she is really Mrs Margaret Woods?’

‘I doubt that very much. If we accept that her Christian name is false, I think we may safely assume that her surname is also part of a nom de plume. Now from past experience, I have noticed that those who wish to hide their identity under an alias, whether for innocent or guilty purposes, usually choose one which approximates to their real name. It is more easily remembered and saves the embarrassment of hesitation when one is unexpectedly asked to use it or respond to it. Remember Harry Johnson, the notorious confidence-trickster? His aliases were Sir Henry St John-Smythe, Lieutenant-Colonel Jonathan Harrison and Jan Henrikson, the South African diamond millionaire. But to return to our correspondent who signs herself as Mrs Mary Woods. Woods, Watson! Mark that fact. Mark also the other deductions I have drawn from the letter, including her real Christian name, Margaret, the expensive quality of the paper, the handwriting style, the lack of address at the top of the letter and the use of the plain white envelope. Taken all together, I think we may safely assume that our prospective client is a young, wealthy and titled lady whose correct name, address and coat of arms would immediately identify her.’

Seeing by my puzzled expression that I had not yet grasped the significance of his remarks, he leaned forward and, taking down from the bookcase volume ‘W’ in his encyclopedia of reference, he turned to a page before silently handing the book to me.

The entry read:

‘Good Lord, Holmes!’

‘Exactly,’ said he. ‘You now see, I assume, the significance of the surname “Woods”?’

‘Yes, of course. But why should the Duchess of Welbourne wish to consult you under conditions of such secrecy?’

‘Is not that obvious, my dear fellow? The matter of extreme urgency and delicacy to which she refers in her letter can only involve some indiscreet action on her part. If it were merely the theft of her jewels, she would not describe it in those terms. I strongly suspect that she has been indulging in some romantic liaison and is now being blackmailed.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘If the affair were still undiscovered, she would hardly need to confide in me. In my experience, ladies of her rank and distinction do not usually consult private detective agents unless there is a threat of scandal. Besides, consider the lady’s situation. She is young and beautiful …’

‘Yes, indeed, she is!’ I agreed warmly. ‘I saw the pictures of her in the illustrated papers at the time of her marriage to the Duke.’

I did not add, being a little sensitive about Holmes’ reaction, that I had cut out one particular illustration of the wedding which I had kept in my desk for several weeks. In it, the Duke and Duchess were seen emerging from St Margaret’s, Westminster, she with her bridal veil thrown back, revealing the delicate beauty of her features and her large, brilliant eyes, the richness of her dark hair enhanced by the Welbourne diamond tiara. In comparison with her radiant youth, the Duke seemed taciturn in appearance with a proud, austere profile.

‘And married’, Holmes continued, ignoring my interruption, ‘to a man much older than herself who is more interested in his country estates than accompanying his young wife to those social functions which her charitable activities as well as her position in society oblige her to attend. However, we shall know if my deductions are correct when the lady in question arrives this afternoon at three o’clock. If she is indeed who I think she is, she will not come in her own coach which is emblazoned with the ducal coat of arms but in an ordinary cab, her features hidden under a thick veil. But no covering can entirely disguise her appearance. The Duchess is distinguished by her height and her grace of carriage. She has also, I understand, a remarkably beautiful voice which is low and musical. But we shall see, Watson. We shall see.’

It was with considerable impatience that I waited for three o’clock, eager to discover if Holmes had been right in his predictions and whether his prospective client answered his description and was indeed the Duchess of Welbourne.

Holmes himself seemed unmoved by any such emotions and spent the intervening hours smoking and lounging on the sofa.

Shortly before the appointed time, I rose from my chair by the fire, where I had been reading in a desultory fashion, and took up a position by the window which overlooked the street. As I arranged the curtains to make sure they concealed me from view, I was somewhat disconcerted to hear Holmes give a sardonic chuckle behind me although, as the clock struck three and the sound of wheels was heard approaching through the fog, his own curiosity finally overcame him and he joined me at my vantage point in time to witness the arrival of a four-wheeler which drew up outside the house.

‘You see, Watson,’ he remarked with evident satisfaction as the door of the cab opened and a tall, graceful figure alighted, dressed in a long black cloak, her face and shoulders covered by a thick veil.

Moments later, we heard light footsteps mounting the stairs and Holmes, crossing to the door, ushered in his client. I, meanwhile, had hastily resumed my place by the hearth where I remained standing, in readiness to be introduced and in some trepidation at meeting so exalted a person.

‘Mrs Woods?’ Holmes inquired. ‘Pray come in and be seated.’

She accepted the invitation without speaking, merely giving a small bow of acknowledgement before taking her seat in the armchair which Holmes had indicated, at the same time glancing in my direction as if to inquire into my presence in the room.

‘This is Dr Watson, my colleague,’ Holmes informed her. ‘I can assure you, madame,’ pronouncing the word with a French inflection, ‘that he is totally trustworthy and that whatever you choose to say in his hearing, as well as mine, will be treated in the utmost confidence.’

Another slight inclination of her head indicated that she accepted Holmes’ explanation and, as he and I seated ourselves in preparation for the interview, I took the opportunity to glance at her surreptitiously.

Despite the thick cloak and veil, neither of which she made any attempt to remove and which effectively hid her form and features, it was still possible to discern by the graceful manner in which she sat, her slender back held very erect, the head poised at an elegant angle, that the Duchess of Welbourne was both young and beautiful.

Remembering the picture of her in the illustrated paper, I fancied, as I took my seat, that I caught a gleam of that rich dark hair and a faint outline of those exquisite features under the heavy veil but I fear my imagination may have been too eager to supply these details.

She remained silent, as if reluctant to open the interview, and, after a few moments, Holmes addressed her directly, his manner grave and courteous.

‘You mentioned in your letter, madame, that the matter on which you wished to consult me was one of great urgency and delicacy. May I suggest that it might concern an affaire de coeur which you are anxious should remain secret?’

She was too well-bred to show any overt emotional response although I noticed that her black-gloved hands stirred momentarily in her lap.

‘You are quite correct, Mr Holmes, although I cannot possibly imagine how you came to such a conclusion,’ she replied.

If I had any lingering doubts about her real identity, they were entirely banished when I heard her speak. Her voice, as Holmes had predicted, was low and musical, perfectly controlled like a well-modulated instrument and yet with a faint suggestion of vibrato on the lower notes which hinted at the emotional stress from which she was suffering.

‘Although,’ she continued, ‘I should explain that the relationship was indiscreet; nothing more. However, as I am a married woman and my husband prizes his own and his family honour most highly, any breath of scandal could have the most dire consequences. I dread to think of my husband’s reactions should any word of my imprudence reach his ears.’

At this point, the tremulous note in her voice became more pronounced and Holmes and I waited in silence until, with a proud lift of her veiled head, she indicated that she had regained her composure and could continue the interview.

‘About six months ago, I had reason to attend a charity concert alone – that is, apart from my companion who usually accompanies me on such occasions. My husband’s business affairs frequently take him out of town for long periods and, besides, he does not much enjoy social functions. At the concert, I was introduced to a young man, unmarried and of good family connections. In the course of our conversation during the interval, we discovered we had many interests in common, among them music and literature. He had in his possession, he told me, an 1863 first edition of the poems of Verlaine and when I expressed a desire to see it, he promised to send it to me. The volume duly arrived with an accompanying letter and on returning the book I, in turn, wrote him a short letter of thanks. A little later, he wrote to me again, enclosing a donation to a charity with which I am connected and to which I replied, expressing my gratitude.

‘You may imagine for yourself what subsequently occurred. The correspondence continued and grew more warm and intimate although it never transgressed the boundaries of friendship and we never met privately, only in public at certain social occasions attended by mutual friends and acquaintances. Innocent though these meetings were, they had the effect of deepening our regard for one another and I fear this warmth of feeling was expressed in our correspondence. However, Mr Holmes, in the wrong hands, those letters could be misinterpreted as evidence of an adulterous affair and could be used by my husband, if he ever learned of their existence, as grounds for a legal separation or even a petition for divorce, should he be so minded.’

‘And you have been threatened with exposure of the letters?’ Holmes asked. ‘By whom?’

‘That is the baffling part of it, Mr Holmes. I neither know the identity of the person who has written to me, threatening to reveal the correspondence, nor how my letters could have come into that person’s possession. Apart from the first two exchanges of correspondence which were dictated to my secretary and transcribed by her on to the typewriting machine, and neither of which contained any expression open to misinterpretation, all other letters have been written by me in private in my own handwriting and no one, not even my secretary, can know that we have continued the correspondence.’

‘Could they have been intercepted between the time you wrote them and they were posted?’

‘That is not possible, Mr Holmes. I wrote the letters in the evening alone in my study, after my secretary had left the house. She does not live in but comes daily to deal mostly with the correspondence arising out of the charitable work with which I am associated. As soon as the letters were completed, I took them upstairs to my bedroom where they were locked away in a bureau to which only I have the key. They were never left lying about. The following day they were posted.’

‘By whom?’

‘By my companion.’

‘Could she have had access to them?’

‘No, Mr Holmes. Although most of the post is left in the hall for a manservant to handle, as I have a great deal of correspondence to attend to regarding the charities, some of which is urgent, I quite often arrange for my letters to be dealt with separately in order to catch an earlier collection. This is always done when I am taking an afternoon drive or visiting an acquaintance. The carriage is stopped at a convenient postbox, my companion then alights and places the letters inside it. I was most careful when the correspondence contained a letter to the gentleman to make sure that it was placed in the centre of the bundle and that I watched from the carriage to see that none of the letters was inadvertently dropped or held back; not that I have any reason to mistrust my companion. She is my former governess and a highly respectable person.’

‘Who has access to your study?’

‘Only my secretary and the housemaids.’

‘And to your bedroom where the bureau is kept?’

‘Again the housemaids. Also my companion. But none of them has a key to the bureau. The lock is a strong one and has never shown signs of having been forced.’

I thought Holmes put the next point with extreme delicacy.

‘Is it possible that the gentleman could be involved – indirectly, of course; I imply nothing more – perhaps by being careless in leaving your letters lying about where a servant or casual visitor might have access to them?’

Even so, despite Holmes’ discretion, the lady for the first time showed a strong response. Clearly angered, she lifted her chin below her veil and I swear I saw the glitter of her dark eyes.

‘That is entirely out of the question, Mr Holmes! He is a gentleman of honour, utterly trustworthy and anxious to preserve his good name as well as mine. Any scandal would be as damaging to him as to me. It would not only destroy his standing in society but his regi …’

She broke off at this point, aware that her warmth of feeling might have betrayed her into revealing too much about the gentleman’s identity. Then, recovering her self-control, she resumed her account.

‘Since I received the letters threatening exposure, I have spoken to him and he has assured me that as soon as he had received and read my letters, they were locked up in his writing-box, to which only he has a key. The box has not been tampered with. I was as scrupulous with his, making sure that they were read in private and were immediately placed inside my bureau. In addition, both of us were most careful to mark our letters ‘Private’ so that they would not be opened by anyone except ourselves although it would appear that only my letters to him have been intercepted. However that has been achieved, I can assure you that there was no opportunity for an inquisitive servant to gain access to them. I need hardly add that, since I have received the first threatening letter, I have ceased all contact with the gentleman and all correspondence between us has been destroyed, together with the blackmailer’s.’

‘That is a great pity,’ Holmes remarked. ‘The blackmail letters might have contained many useful clues as to the writer’s identity.’

‘I did not dare keep them in case they, too, fell into the wrong hands,’ the lady replied. ‘Besides,’ and here the slender shoulders made an involuntary movement suggesting a shudder of revulsion, ‘I felt too contaminated by them to wish to preserve them. However, I can describe the letters to you. There were three in all, and I received them at intervals over the past few weeks. They were written in capitals in a hand I did not recognise on cheap paper, demanding that certain sums of money be sent to a Mr P. Smith, care of the Coventry Hotel, Newton Street in Bayswater. If I failed to do so, the writer would inform my husband of my relationship and exchange of correspondence with the gentleman.’

‘Could the handwriting have been disguised?’

‘That is possible. The capital letters were awkwardly formed as if written with the left hand although the style of the contents was fluent. The postmarks were always WC1.’

‘Were there any spelling mistakes?’

The lady seemed surprised at the question.

‘No, Mr Holmes. In fact, I should say that the letters displayed a good level of education.’

‘And how were the threats carried out? Did the blackmailer, for example, enclose a copy of your letters? That is often the case in these situations.’

‘Not in this instance. The writer merely quoted certain words and phrases I had used in my correspondence with the gentleman, placing them between inverted commas to show that they were direct references.’

‘Indeed!’ Holmes remarked, as if he found this significant. However, he made no further comment, merely continuing with his questioning. ‘What sums of money were demanded?’

‘The first was for twenty guineas, the second for fifty. I complied with the instructions and sent the money to the address I had been given. The third demand, which I received yesterday and which prompted me to write to you, requesting your assistance, was not for money this time but for a pair of pearl earrings. I do not know what to do, Mr Holmes! The earrings are not only extremely valuable but they are a family heirloom and, should I part with them, my husband is almost certain to notice their absence. He is due to return from the country next week for an important social function at which I shall be expected to wear them. How am I to explain what has happened to them and what am I to do in the future to protect myself against these demands and the continuing threat of exposure?’

At this appeal, spoken from the heart, Holmes rose from his chair and paced up and down the room silently for a few moments, deep in thought. All the while, the lady’s veiled face was turned towards him, waiting with evident anxiety for his reply.

Then, as abruptly as he had risen, Holmes resumed his seat and, leaning forward, began to address her with great earnestness.

‘The case has many extraordinary features, madame, but I believe it can be solved if you trust me and carry out my instructions without question. First, send the earrings as you have been instructed. No! No!’ he insisted as she began to protest. ‘It is essential that you do so otherwise the blackmailer will be forewarned and may be forced into taking more extreme action. See that they are posted off today without fail. I can guarantee that the earrings will be returned to you before your husband’s arrival next week.

‘Secondly, make sure that you are absent from home on Thursday afternoon between the hours of two and four. Can you arrange that?’

‘Certainly, I can. But I do not see …’

‘Without question!’ Holmes reminded her.

She acquiesced with a gesture of one black-gloved hand.

‘Excellent! Then, madame, if you care to return here on Friday afternoon at the same hour, I believe I shall have good news for you.’

‘Can you guarantee the return of the earrings, Holmes?’ I asked when he returned to the room after having escorted the lady downstairs to her waiting cab. ‘Isn’t that promising rather too much so early in the case?’

‘I think not,’ he replied.

‘But that surely implies that you already know the identity of the blackmailer?’

‘I am almost certain although I shall be quite positive of that by tomorrow.’

‘I do not see how,’ I persisted, a little exasperated by his self-assurance. There were times when I found Holmes overconfident of his own abilities.

‘From the evidence, my dear fellow.’

‘What evidence? You have not even examined the blackmail letters. I cannot possibly see what evidence you are referring to.’

‘Then allow me to recapitulate the facts for your benefit. The Duchess of Welbourne, alias Mrs Woods, enters into an indiscreet correspondence with a gentleman. The letters are written by her in private in her own handwriting, posted under her supervision and kept locked up by him in a box which shows no sign of having been tampered with. There would appear to be no means by which her letters could have been intercepted. And yet an anonymous blackmailer has managed to gain access to her correspondence and to threaten our client with exposure, quoting certain words and phrases from the lady’s letters. Note that particular fact, Watson. “Certain words and phrases”. It is not without relevance to the inquiry.

‘As to the blackmailer, we can deduce certain irrefutable evidence concerning his or her identity. Much of it is, I admit, negative but it has always been one of my most firmly held maxims that, in the process of deduction, negative evidence can be as useful as the positive sort. Given that tenet, what do we know that the blackmailer is not which can be advantageous to the inquiry?’

‘I really cannot say, Holmes,’ I replied, surprised by this novel approach to the investigation.

‘Oh, come, my dear Watson! Is it not obvious? The person who is threatening our client is not an expert although, when I first read her letter and deduced she was being blackmailed, I assumed that some professsional extortionist was behind it who makes his living from preying on wealthy victims. But, having heard the lady’s account, I am now convinced that this is not so in her case. The sums of money involved are too small. The man I have in mind* would expect to milk his clients of several thousand pounds, not a few guineas. And he would certainly not demand jewellery as part of his payment. Jewels are too difficult to dispose of. It would involve a receiver of stolen property, which would lead to complications and the introduction into the transaction of a third party who might betray him or resort to blackmail himself. No; the man I was thinking of deals strictly in cash and keeps his business entirely in his own hands.

‘Then there is the question of the earrings themselves. Knowing as we do the real identity of Mrs Woods, I assume that the family heirlooms to which she referred are the Welbourne pearls, a pair of perfectly-matched, pear-shaped drops, quite flawless and of a rare rosé colour, famous for their translucency and orient, as the surface lustre is known in the jewellery trade. What possible reason would a professional blackmailer have for acquiring them? They are too well-known for any receiver to dare to handle them and they cannot be broken up. Had the blackmailer demanded the Welbourne diamonds, which could have been sold on as separate stones, I might have been persuaded that the extortionist knew exactly what he or she was doing. And that raises the whole question of the motive behind the threats. However, there is not time to discuss that particular aspect of the case for the present. Fetch your hat and coat, Watson. We are going out.’

‘Where to?’ I asked.

‘To the Coventry Hotel in Newton Street,’ he replied. ‘I wish to test out a theory.’

It would have been quicker to walk to Newton Street. The journey by hansom through the fog was painfully slow, the cabby not daring to urge the horse into anything faster than a walk and, at some of the busier crossroads, we came to a complete standstill while the driver listened for approaching vehicles before venturing forward.

Holmes fretted at the delay but there was nothing he could do to hasten the journey and it was almost an hour before we alighted outside the Coventry Hotel.

It was a small establishment, intended for the use of clients of modest means who could not afford more luxurious accommodation. The foyer was shabbily furnished and the only person on duty was an elderly clerk behind the reception desk who seemed to be slightly deaf, for he leaned forward to catch Holmes’ request.

‘I have come to collect some correspondence which has been forwarded to me here. The name is Sanderson.’

‘Sanderson?’ repeated the man, cupping a hand round one ear. ‘There ain’t bin nothin’ delivered ’ere for anyone of that name.’

‘You must be mistaken, my man. I can quite clearly see some packets in the pigeonhole marked “S” behind you,’ Holmes insisted, pointing to a rack on the wall for the storage of residents’ post. ‘Would you kindly check that neither of those is for me?’

The clerk removed the packets and placed them on the counter, announcing as he did so, ‘There you are! They’re addressed to a Mr P. Smith, not Sanderson.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Holmes apologised and, handing over a shilling, he took me by the arm and drew me away from the counter, commenting loudly as he did so on the unreliability of the postal service.

Once outside the hotel, however, he gave a gratified chuckle.

‘Just as I thought, Watson! The money has not been collected; another piece of negative evidence to add to what we already know about the identity of the blackmailer. I am now in possession of nearly all the data I need. All that remains is to collect the final facts which will lead to the unmasking. I believe you will be returning home tomorrow? I remember your telling me that you expected Mrs Watson to arrive at Victoria on the 10.15 train on Wednesday.’

‘Yes, Holmes. I was proposing to leave tomorrow morning immediately after breakfast.’

‘A pity. But no doubt Mrs Watson could spare you for a couple of hours after luncheon on Thursday afternoon?’

‘I am sure she would be agreeable.’

‘She is a woman of commendable tolerance,’ Holmes remarked. ‘Then, if you are quite certain she will not object, be good enough to call in at Baker Street promptly at two o’clock. I believe you will find the events that will take place later that afternoon of particular interest.’

He would say nothing more on the subject either on the journey home or during the rest of the evening and, as soon as dinner had been served and cleared away by Mrs Hudson, he retired to his room, on purpose, I suspected, to avoid my questioning, and spent the rest of the intervening hours until bedtime playing the violin, leaving me alone by the fire to ponder over the case.

I confess I could make little of it. The negative evidence which, according to Holmes, pointed to the identity of the blackmailer, remained an enigma. Nor could I see the reason behind the threats of exposure. If monetary gain was not the motive, what possible purpose was served by it?

Holmes was as disinclined to discuss the case the following morning over breakfast and, apart from a brief remark that he was pleased to see that the fog had lifted, he turned his attention to reading the newspapers, making no reference to the case in hand except obliquely when I was about to depart.

‘You have not forgotten, my dear fellow, our arrangements for Thursday afternoon? I can expect you no later than two o’clock?’

‘I shall be here on the hour,’ I assured him.

Despite my pleasure at my wife’s return and the resumption of our domestic life together, I have to admit that it was with considerable impatience that I looked forward to the following afternoon, eager to discover what would be the events to which my old friend had referred and wondering if they involved the unmasking of the blackmailer.

Promptly at two o’clock, as arranged, I again presented myself at 221B Baker Street and, having been admitted by the page-boy, made my way upstairs.

Although the fog had cleared, the weather was still overcast and, in the gloomy light of that November afternoon, the sitting-room was mostly in shadow, apart from the red glow thrown out by the fire which was blazing cheerfully in the grate.

There was no sign of Holmes, the only occupant of the room being an elderly clergyman seated beside the hearth.

I was annoyed at my old friend’s absence. I had hurried over my luncheon in order to be exactly on time to find that not only had he gone out and had not yet returned but there was another client waiting to see him whose business would clearly delay us still further.

‘Good afternoon,’ I said a little sharply, addressing the elderly clergyman and allowing my impatience to show.

“Good afternoon,’ said he, rising to his feet and peering at me myopically.

He was a tall old gentleman, dressed in clerical attire, with thinning white hair and whiskers and very bowed about the shoulders. His age, I estimated, was in the late seventies.

‘You, too, are waiting, I see, for Mr Holmes to return,’ I continued more pleasantly, a little ashamed, in the face of his obvious age and infirmity, of my earlier impatience.

‘Indeed not. I was waiting for your arrival, Watson,’ he replied unexpectedly. As he spoke, he threw back his shoulders and in that instant changed, apart from the outward trappings of his disguise, into the figure of my old friend and companion.

‘Good Lord! Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is most extraordinary! I could have sworn that I had never set eyes on you before.’

‘Then my disguise is obviously successful. But come, Watson,’ he urged. ‘Time is short. You have to change and then we have an appointment to keep at Carlton House Terrace for three o’clock.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ I demanded, bewildered by this turn of events. ‘What appointment? I remember you specifically asked Her Grace, the Duchess, to be absent from home on Thursday afternoon between two and four. And why should I have to change? Into what, my dear fellow?’

‘Into the Reverend James Applewhite. I have the necessary ecclesiastical garb here,’ Holmes replied, reaching behind the armchair and retrieving a large brown-paper parcel. ‘Clerical collar. Black coat and trousers. Black silk stock. While you are making your transformation, I shall give you a full explanation.’

This he did through the half-open door of the bedroom where I scrambled out of my own outer clothing and replaced it with the clergyman’s attire.

‘You and I, Watson, are highly respected members of the Committee for the Relief of Anglican Clergymen’s Orphans and Widows, a most worthy cause, I assure you. In my capacity as Canon Cornelius Blythe-Wilson, chairman of the committee, I have written to a certain titled lady, well known for her benevolence, requesting an interview for three o’clock this afternoon in order to explain our aims and to prevail on her generosity for a donation to our funds. As you pointed out, Her Grace will unfortunately not be at home. However, I have every hope that she has left instructions that we are to be admitted into the house.’

At this point, having put on my black clerical coat and examined myself critically in the cheval glass, I emerged from the bedroom, well pleased with what I had seen, and was further gratified by Holmes’ response.

‘I say, my dear fellow! What a conversion! Had you not chosen medicine, I am sure you would have made an admirable vicar although with low church leanings, I suspect, rather than high Anglican aspirations. However, you make a most convincing-looking member of the clergy; apart, that is, from the broad smile. May I suggest a more serious expression? Ah, that is much better! Do try to remember that philanthropy is a very grave subject, not to be treated with levity. Here is your card, by the way. Pray do not lose it.’

He handed me a small pasteboard oblong which I glanced at quickly before stowing it away safely in an inner pocket. It read:

‘I had my card and yours printed, together with a sheet of the Committee’s headed writing-paper, by a jobbing printer in Clerkenwell, Gill by name,’ Holmes explained. ‘I also spent part of yesterday afternoon undertaking a little research at the offices of the Morning Gazette, a most excellent journal which covers in great detail all important society functions and which also keeps a library of back editions. I am quite sure I have established the identity of the “certain gentleman” whose interest in music and poetry caught the attention of our exalted client. You will no doubt recall, Watson, that “Mrs Woods” told us they first met at a charity concert six months ago? That, I believe, was a recital of chamber music given by Lady Veyse-Chomleigh on May 6th, tickets five guineas each by private subscription only, the proceeds to be donated to the Society for the Promulgation of Bible Studies in Fiji.

‘According to the Morning Gazette, among the distinguished audience were the Duchess of Welbourne and Lord Paxton, heir to the Marquis of Salthurst and an officer in the Buff and Royals, who had recently returned from India, where his regiment had been serving, in order to take up a post as equerry to Her Majesty. You can therefore appreciate, I am sure, Watson, that any scandal concerning him and a married lady with whom he was conducting an imprudent correspondence would have serious repercussions in royal circles.’

The sound of hoofs clattering to a halt was heard at the street door and Holmes broke off to remark, ‘I believe our cab has arrived. I ordered a four-wheeler for half past two in preference to a hansom, which I thought an unsuitable conveyance for two respectable clergymen; far too lightweight and frivolous. And speaking of frivolity, Watson, please remember the expression!’

With that final warning, he preceded me down the stairs, assuming the uncertain gait of an elderly gentleman, while I followed behind him still aghast at the implications of what he had just told me.

A scandal which could involve not only a duchess but an equerry to the Queen!

I could only trust, as I took my seat beside him in the cab and Holmes instructed the driver in a quavering voice, ‘Carlton House Terrace, my man!’ that the expedition on which we were embarking would be successful in revealing the identity of the blackmailer.

These thoughts occupied my mind until our arrival at Carlton House Terrace where we alighted and where Holmes ordered the cabby to wait.

My concern was temporarily forgotten, however, in my admiration for Nash’s magnificent building with its lofty façade and Corinthian columns and, as we mounted the steps to the Duchess of Welbourne’s residence, I felt more than a little awed by its splendour.

On presenting our cards, we were admitted by a liveried footman, who had evidently been told to expect us, into a large entrance hall, hung with family portraits, and from there were conducted up a wide staircase.

Once we had reached the upper gallery, we were shown into a room on the first floor, probably intended, judging by the elegance of its fittings, to serve originally as a small withdrawing-room or a lady’s boudoir but transformed into a well-furnished but practical study. Glass-fronted cabinets containing books and files lined the walls while a rosewood desk with ormolu fittings was placed directly in front of the window which overlooked St James’s Park.

Just inside the door and standing at right angles to it was another plainer and more serviceable desk, equipped with a typewriting machine and other office impedimenta in the way of racks for stationery and receptacles for stamps and india-rubber bands.

A lady, who was seated at this desk engaged in addressing envelopes, rose to her feet as the footman announced us.

In appearance she was as plain and as serviceable-looking as the desk itself, dressed from throat to toes in plain brown holland, its drabness unrelieved by any frill or ornament apart from a pair of gold pince-nez hanging on a chain round her neck, her mouse-coloured hair dragged back into a severe bun.

‘I am Miss Gordon, the Duchess of Welbourne’s private secretary,’ she said, holding out a chilly hand for us to shake. ‘Her Grace very much regrets that she is unable to receive you personally. She has another engagement elsewhere. However, she has instructed me to express her interest in your charitable organization and to pass on to you this donation to assist you in your work.’

At the end of this homily, uttered without a glimmer of benevolence, she picked up an envelope which was lying on her desk and passed it to Holmes who bowed and immediately launched in a reedy old man’s voice into a speech of his own, a little rambling and repetitive, expressing his gratitude not only on behalf of the committee he represented but of the widows and orphans of deceased Anglican clergymen whose burdens would be considerably lightened by Her Grace’s generosity.

At the same time, as if trying to keep Miss Gordon in focus through short-sighted eyes, he took several tottering steps forward at which Miss Gordon promptly retreated, keeping her distance from this elderly, garrulous cleric, until, by the time Holmes had finished speaking, they had advanced into the centre of the room.

Here he paused, blinked all round him and having remarked inconsequentially on the view from the window – ‘How delightful it must be for Her Grace to sit here and look out at God’s creation!’ – he retreated once more towards the door where I was waiting for him, taking care to look suitably grave although I was highly diverted by Holmes’ performance.

We left shortly afterwards, climbing back into the four-wheeler, Holmes instructing the cabby to drive us to the Coventry Hotel.

Once inside the cab, he broke out into a fit of silent laughter and it was several moments before he had sufficiently recovered his composure to inquire, ‘Well, Watson, what did you think of our interview with Miss Gordon?’

‘You were capital, Holmes. You played the part to perfection.’

‘I thought you put on a very good performance yourself, my dear fellow.’

‘Did I? But I cannot see,’ I continued, expressing a doubt which had occurred to me while we had been in the Duchess’s study, ‘what possible use that little charade of ours can be to the investigation.’

Although I would not have dreamed of admitting it to Holmes, I was disappointed at the outcome of the interview. I had secretly hoped for a dramatic scene of confrontation in which Holmes, throwing off his disguise, would point an accusing finger at the culprit, the police would be sent for and the blackmailer would be marched off in handcuffs.

But nothing of the sort had happened.

I could not even be certain that Holmes had found the final piece of evidence which he had assured me would lead to the positive identification of the criminal. Was it Miss Gordon? If so, what had he discovered that proved her guilt? Or was it the footman? Or the housemaid we had passed in the upstairs corridor?

Holmes, meanwhile, seemingly unperturbed by such questions, was getting out his pocketbook.

‘Allow me to give you this,’ he said, handing me the envelope containing the Duchess’s donation. ‘It would appear to contain two guineas which I am sure the inestimable Mrs Watson will be able to give to some worthy cause. May I also ask you to take charge of this for the time being?’

As he spoke, he began removing his clerical neckband which he passed to me, substituting for it a starched collar and a grey silk cravat which he took from his coat pocket. A gold watch and chain looped across his waistcoat front and a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose completed the transformation. In a few seconds, he had thrown off his role of an elderly cleric and had assumed that of a retired clerk or shopkeeper, dressed in old-fashioned black attire.

‘Mr P. Smith, dealer in antiquarian curios, semi-retired and resident in Brighton. As I can only get up to town from time to time, I occasionally ask my clients to forward any items for appraisal to a convenient hotel. It saves the trouble of carrying them up to London on the train. Here is my card,’ he explained, producing it from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I asked Gill to run it off for me yesterday when he printed the other items. And now,’ he continued, as the four-wheeler approached the Coventry Hotel, ‘I shall only be a few moments, Watson, collecting my curios. Wait for me here. We shall take the same cab back to Baker Street.’

He was as good as his word. Within minutes, he had returned, carrying not two but three packets, the third a little larger than the others.

‘The Welbourne pearls,’ he said in a low voice, turning it over in his hands as soon as he had given directions to the driver and the cab had started off. ‘Are you not curious to see them, Watson? I know I am. Although the packet is sealed with wax, I am sure I could open it without arousing the owner’s suspicions.’

‘Now look here, Holmes –!’ I began.

I was not only about to protest at this suggestion, eager though I was to see the famous Welbourne heirlooms, but also to demand a full explanation. It seemed beyond doubt that Holmes had reached a conclusion regarding the identity of the blackmailer, for he clearly intended to return the earrings the following afternoon to his client.

But Holmes forestalled me. Placing a finger against his lips to advise silence, he indicated the cab-driver’s back and, seeing the wisdom of his warning, I was forced to contain my impatience.

Even when we were installed in the privacy of his rooms in Baker Street, Holmes was still not prepared to offer an account.

Without waiting to remove his disguise, he carried the package over to his desk, selected a small scalpel from among his scientific instruments and, with one dexterous movement, sliced through the wax seal. Unfolding the brown paper, he revealed a small jeweller’s box with the ducal coat of arms stamped in gold on the lid. Inside, nestling in a cocoon of quilted satin lay the Welbourne pearl earrings.

At the sight of them, my curiosity overcame me and I pressed forward to look over Holmes’ shoulder at the jewels.

They were exquisite; two perfectly formed, lustrous drops of a delicate rose-pink colour and glowing with such a deep nacreous sheen that they seemed as if they must contain in the hidden heart of them some soft, living radiance of their own.

‘Impressed as I am by their beauty,’ Holmes remarked, ‘as a student of chemistry, I can only wonder that a concretion, largely composed of the common inorganic compound calcium carbonate which has been produced by a seawater mollusc in order to isolate an irritant inadvertently introduced into its shell, should be considered such a valuable rarity. And now,’ he added, more briskly, snapping shut the lid of the box, ‘we have more practical matters to attend to. You, Watson, must change out of your clerical disguise. It might tax Mrs Watson’s tolerance too far if you returned home dressed as you are. I, meanwhile, have a letter to write which must catch this afternoon’s post.’

Even before I had retired to the bedroom to change, he had seated himself at his desk and had commenced writing. By the time I returned, the letter was finished and Holmes was in the act of handing it to Billy, the page-boy, with instructions to run to the nearest postbox in order to catch the five o’clock collection.

The boy in buttons having departed, Holmes turned his chair about to face me.

‘I know what you are waiting for, my old friend, and your patience shall now be rewarded. I propose to reveal to you the identity of the blackmailer and to give you a complete account of how I reached my conclusion.’

‘About time, too, Holmes,’ I remarked, taking a seat by the fire and giving him my full attention.

‘It was quite evident from the interview with our client that someone among her own staff had gained access to her letters,’ Holmes began. ‘Note that fact, Watson. Her letters; not his. That is crucial to the investigation. The question was – who? There seemed to be several possible candidates but I was able to eliminate all but one on the basis of negative evidence, the importance of which I stressed at the beginning of this inquiry.

‘Firstly, it could have been one of the housemaids whose duties took them into both the study and Her Grace’s bedroom where she kept her letters before they were posted. But that seemed unlikely. The letters were securely locked in the bureau and besides, the blackmailer was evidently educated, could spell correctly and could express him or herself with ease. Most ordinary servants have no more than an elementary education.

‘Then there was the footman who, under normal circumstances, would have been responsible for collecting any correspondence and seeing that it was posted. Again, he had to be eliminated. The lady’s letters had not been handed to the footman but had been placed in a postbox by her companion and former governess.

‘What of the lady-companion then? She had accompanied Her Grace to the concert and no doubt to other social functions and could have witnessed our client in conversation with the gentleman, from which she could have deduced that a relationship was forming. She was also asked to post the letters to him and could have read his name and address on the envelopes. But did she have the opportunity? Our client insisted that she placed these letters inside a bundle of other correspondence and her companion had no time to examine the separate items. Besides, like the housemaids, she had no access to the bureau.

‘This left the secretary, Miss Gordon …’

‘Now, wait a moment, Holmes!’ I protested. ‘She, too, can surely be eliminated on the basis of negative evidence? She had no access to the bureau either and I cannot see how she knew that the correspondence had continued.’

Holmes leaned back in his chair, his expression indulgent.

‘Go on, Watson. Pray explain your theory.’

‘Well,’ I began a little hesitantly, struggling to put my argument into a cogent form. ‘The Duchess of Welbourne specifically stated that, apart from the first two letters which Miss Gordon produced on the typewriting machine and which were merely formal, all subsequent correspondence with the gentleman was conducted in private, after Miss Gordon had left the house, and was written in Her Grace’s own hand. The letters were then locked up in the bureau in the bedroom and were subsequently posted by the companion under the Duchess’s supervision. As far as Miss Gordon was concerned, all contact with the gentleman had ceased after the exchange of those first two letters.’

‘A valid objection on the basis of negative evidence and well argued, my dear fellow. My congratulations! But you have failed to take one important factor into account.’

‘And what is that, Holmes?’

‘The fact that the gentleman’s letters were delivered to the house and would have been handled by Miss Gordon in the course of her normal duties. As they were marked “Private”, she would not, of course, have opened them but she would have recognised the handwriting from her previous acquaintance with the first two letters. By that means, she was perfectly well aware that the correspondence had continued.’

‘Oh, yes, I see,’ I said, considerably dashed by this simple explanation. ‘But how could Miss Gordon have known about the contents?’

‘She had no knowledge of the contents of the gentleman’s letters. Remember, Watson, I stressed that point from the beginning. I also stressed that the blackmailer was cognizant of certain words and phrases only from our client’s correspondence. That, too, is vital. Can you offer an explanation for this fact?’

‘I am afraid not, Holmes,’ I confessed. ‘It is quite beyond me.’

‘Then permit me to do so. You may have noticed that, during our interview this afternoon with Miss Gordon, I took care to advance into the room, well beyond the doorway where her desk was placed. This was done with a purpose. I wished to examine the contents of the Duchess of Welbourne’s desk, which was placed by the window and where she had sat in private to write her letters to the gentleman. What I saw laid out on its surface was most revealing. Apart from a solid silver desk-set of rare workmanship and a tray of stationery of the same quality as that on which she wrote her letter to me, there was a large leather-backed blotting-pad of the type which contains several sheets, the topmost of which can be easily removed once it has been used and which it would be Miss Gordon’s duty to replace each morning before Her Grace arrived. All Miss Gordon had to do was to hold up an ordinary looking glass in front of the discarded sheet and any words or phrases which had been written the evening before and had been absorbed into the blotter because the ink on them was still wet, could be easily read.’

‘By Jove, Holmes! The answer is so obvious that I cannot for the life of me think why it didn’t occur to me.’

‘I believe I have remarked to you before that the most puzzling of mysteries usually has the simplest explanation. For that reason, it is often overlooked.’

‘But I still fail to understand the motive. As you yourself pointed out, it cannot have been pecuniary. The sums asked for were too small and, besides, she made no attempt to collect the money. And why demand the earrings? She could not hope to make any money by selling them. They were too easily recognizable as part of the Welbourne family jewels.’

‘Miss Gordon may have started off her blackmailing career with the intention of making money out of it but, when the time came, it is my belief that she was too frightened to go to the hotel to collect it. However, money was not her primary consideration. I think her main motivation arose out of malicious jealousy. That is why she demanded the earrings. They would be missed by the Duke when he returned to town and our client would have had an extremely difficult time explaining what had happened to them, a distress which Miss Gordon would have the pleasure of witnessing. The Germans have a word for it – Schadenfreude, which translated means “pleasure in the misfortune of others”.

‘Servants always know about such family tensions, however exalted the household and however careful the attempts may be to keep such disagreements concealed. And that, I believe, was the real reason behind the blackmail. Miss Gordon is a poor, unattractive spinster; our client a popular society hostess, famous for her beauty and philanthropy and married to a rich and powerful husband. We should perhaps pity the Miss Gordons of this world rather than condemn them. No doubt Miss Gordon considers that Fate has dealt her a very poor hand, as she would describe it. I prefer to regard it as the accident of birth. Perhaps, in all charity, we should consider her action as a protest against the prevailing social inequalities.’

‘But what are you going to do about her, Holmes? Despite what you say, she has broken the law. You can hardly allow her to continue in the Duchess’s employ.’

‘The letter I wrote was to Miss Gordon. She will receive it tomorrow morning by the first delivery. In it, I have laid out the case against her and advised her to retire immediately from her post otherwise I shall be forced to name her as the blackmailer. I have left it to her own good sense to supply an excuse for her resignation. I do not believe that she will ever try blackmail again. She is not by nature a criminal. One has to have some faith in the goodness of mankind, or at least, most members of it, or one would become a mere misanthrope. For the same reasons, I shall leave the decision as to her ultimate future in the hands of our client. It will be interesting to see tomorrow afternoon when the Duchess of Welbourne again calls here exactly what she proposes to do about the sudden departure of her secretary. You will be present, will you not, Watson? I cannot imagine that you would want to miss the opportunity of witnessing the return of the Welbourne pearls and the final act of our little drama?’

‘No, indeed not, Holmes,’ I said warmly.

The appointment was for three o’clock and I returned to Baker Street in good time, well before the arrival of the Duchess.

As on the first occasion our client, heavily cloaked and veiled, arrived in a four-wheeler and was shown upstairs to where Holmes and I were waiting and where the packages were laid out in readiness on the desk, the one containing the pearls so skilfully rewrapped and sealed by Holmes that it was impossible to tell that it had ever been opened.

Holmes handed the three packets to her with a small bow, assuring her as he did so that there would be no further attempts at blackmail.

‘You have my word for that, madame.’

‘I do not know how to express my thanks, Mr Holmes,’ the lady replied. ‘I shall leave here with a happy heart. We did not, by the way, discuss your fees.’

‘Your happiness is sufficient reward,’ Holmes told her with a touch of Gallic gallantry.

‘You are most kind. I shall make sure that the money you have returned to me is donated to some worthwhile charity. Would you agree that the Society for Distressed Gentlewomen might be suitable? Or would you recommend the Committee for the Relief of Anglican Clergymen’s Orphans and Widows?’

The last question took Holmes completely aback and, unusually for him, he was at a loss for words.

‘Perhaps the Society for Distressed Gentlewomen might be more worthy,’ the lady continued, holding out a black-gloved hand to each of us in turn. ‘And speaking of gentlewomen, Mr Holmes, you may be interested to know that my secretary, Miss Gordon, gave in her notice this morning. It appears she received a letter informing her that her mother has suddenly been taken ill. Consequently, she has had to leave my service in order to take care of her. I have arranged for a yearly annuity to be paid to Miss Gordon so that she will not be in any financial hardship and will not therefore be forced to seek a secretarial post elsewhere. On that understanding, I have not given her a reference.’

‘A most generous decision,’ Holmes murmured as he escorted her to the door. ‘And, if I may be allowed to say so, also a wise one under the circumstances.’

A few minutes later, we heard her cab drive away.

There was, however, a small denouement to the case, or drama, as Holmes had described it. To expand on his metaphor, it was in the nature of a curtain call in which he received the well-deserved acclaim for his undoubted skills.

A few days after the Duchess of Welbourne’s final visit, my professional duties took me into the Baker Street area and I called in on my old friend to find him in the act of opening a small parcel which had not long been delivered by the afternoon post.

When the wrapping was removed, a solid silver cigar box was revealed, engraved with his initials on the lid and with a short inscription on the inside.

It read simply:

‘To Mr Sherlock Holmes, Famous Consulting Detective, From a Grateful Client, Mary Woods.’

* Dr John H. Watson refers to Mr Sherlock Holmes’ refusal to allow the publication of cases involving ‘the secrets of private families’ in ‘exalted quarters’ in the opening paragraph of ‘The Problem of Thor Bridge’. (Dr John F. Watson)

* Mr Sherlock Holmes is doubtless referring to Charles Augustus Milverton, ‘the king of all blackmailers’, whose death at the hands of one of his high-born victims is chronicled in ‘The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton’. (Dr John F. Watson)