Authors' Note (in brief): This is just to remind all that for the next three chapters we are presenting a short mystery, and as such we are again delving back into the voice and style of Dr. John Watson. That said...enjoy!




Chapter Five: The Lucifer Hunt – Part One


Extracted from the Private Memoirs of J.Watson, M.D.

London, 1901

During the course of my long and, I hope, fruitful association with the remarkable consulting detective and man who is my colleague and closest friend, there have been a great many events that I have not yet transcribed and offered for public consumption.

The vast preponderance of these omissions can be, quite simply, attributed to a singular lack of time on my part. My work with Holmes, coupled with the running of my own practice, has not always afforded sufficient occasion for literary pursuits, nor indeed have those periods of married life that I have enjoyed. For what wife, as good hearted, understanding, and long suffering as she may be, could sit easily by while her husband plays both doctor and detective, working and traipsing around the country and beyond, only to find him finally returned to her in order to spend his free time at the writing desk?

No, most certainly a paucity of time has been the largest obstacle to my work as a chronicler but not, I must confess, the only one.

For there have been cases that Holmes and I have agreed I should not write of. Cases of such unspeakable evil and horror that to submit them to the public domain could, we feel, do nothing but cause great distress and harm to the society we live in. Still others I have written of, but for good or ill have been forced to withhold from publication due to the application of outside pressure.

And finally there are those that by particular request of my partner I have never referred to beyond the private and personal memoirs that you now peruse - the memoirs I have crafted precisely to contain the cases that Holmes strongly feels have aspects in them of which the wider world has no business knowing.

But while the wider world must remain ignorant, to our minds there is a small and highly exclusive audience who deserves to know of these events, holding as these pages do information of particular import to them. In my opinion, it would be a shame indeed if records such as these should not be passed on to them, for a new generation should always know as much as it can about the one that preceded it.

The retelling of these cases as they arise, therefore, is dedicated to that audience, and to the dear personage whose appearance within them is their common thread.





The true beginning of the incidents archived in these memoirs occurs some five months before I start my narration of the events that unfolded on the Lynley Estate in Exmoor in February of 1889. For they truthfully begin with a tragic case that is numbered amongst those I cannot publish due to external pressures, but which is completed and safely stored amongst other such works in my private safe under the case entitled “The Forfeit Daughter.”

It was this case that first introduced us to a lady who, unbeknownst to both Holmes and myself, would come to have a significant impact on both our lives.

Following the resolution in August of 1888 of this case, Miss Helen Thurlow, an unmarried lady of twenty and five who had impressed both Holmes and I with her fortitude, poise, and resilience under the most trying of circumstances, and now an heiress of no little fortune, moved to the outskirts of St. Albans in Hertfordshire. In doing so, she took with her her two young half-brothers, to whom she was now guardian, as well as her mother, a gentlewoman of good family currently in recovery from a longstanding malady of the mind that is now referred to as depression, the family taking up residence at The Twin Birches, the manor home left to them by her late father.

During the course of the next few months, thanks to my continued association with her as a consultant physician to her mother, Mrs. Alice Thurlow, as well as through the honoured trust invested in me by the newly wealthy Miss Thurlow with regards to worldly advice, I, and by extension Holmes, had the rare experience of a continued acquaintance with a person concerned with one of our cases.

On many of these occasions, I was accompanied by Miss Mary Morstan, who was only my fiancée at that time, as well as being one of the few others we had prolonged contact with following a case, and together, we met with Miss Thurlow several times, the result of which being my Mary and Miss Thurlow rapidly becoming the fastest and most devoted of friends. Holmes too, though not meeting with her as frequently as Mary and I, conversed with her on several occasions both at Baker Street when she came to visit me or at those rare social events into which I was able to wrangle him into attending.

During the course of these few encounters, both my fiancée and I noted that Miss Thurlow had, over the course of time, been accorded by Holmes not only the toleration of her prolonged presence around him but the occasional private expression of approval at her level of intellect, uncommon and remarkable honours both, especially for a person of her gender.

While my fiancée was immediately given, as women often are, to thoughts erring towards romance and the making of a match, I, for my part, cautioned her greatly, and warned that as much as I would wish to see Holmes develop such a human attachment, the man showed no signs of any proclivity towards romance with any woman, never mind her dear friend.

However, Mary would not be so easily dissuaded, her earnest desire to see Holmes find comfort in something other than the sterility of work admirable but farfetched in my view. Still, the encounters among Miss Thurlow, Holmes, and I continued at the rate of at least two a month when she came to London on business and would drop by for her customary chat with me.

It was during the course of one of these chats that she revealed to us that she was, though still in the period of deepest mourning for her father, to accept the invitation of Lady Margaret Sotherby, one of her dearest childhood friends, to accompany her in the absence of her husband to the estate of Viscount Maxwell Lynley in Exmoor, Somerset for the famed Lucifer Hunt and the Hunt Ball that followed it.

Needless to say, the unusual name immediately intrigued Holmes, who had heard of neither hunt nor ball, not being an aficionado in anyway of either fox hunting or dances.

Miss Thurlow explained to him, having made enquiries herself about it, that the hunt was so named because in the hills and valleys of Exmoor on the Viscount’s Estate, there was a particularly dangerous and dense stretch of rocky woodland called ‘Lucifer’s Playground’ through which only the most experienced of riders or those seeking to earn their hunt collar would go.

Though she herself would not be riding, she thought it would be, at the very least, a unique spectacle as the hunt was widely famed, and was greatly looking forward to spending time with her old friend and attending the lavish ball, as she had not been present at a social event since Christmas in keeping with the restrictions she was under whilst still in mourning.

In any event, we wished her well of it, and said our goodbyes as she made her way home again to St. Albans.

It was with some surprise then that on a dreary Friday morning in late February, the skies outside leaden grey and oppressive as we lazed by the fire after breakfast discussing my upcoming nuptials and Holmes’s duties as my best man, that Mrs. Hudson arrived to collect our breakfast dishes, and carrying a newly delivered telegram to me from the lady in question.

My surprise obviously registered sufficiently upon my features for Holmes, who was quietly packing his clay pipe with his shag tobacco, to comment upon it, querying what was could possibly be contained within the small, yellow envelope to cause me such a reaction.

“It’s Miss Thurlow, Holmes,” said I in response. “She has asked me to intercede with you in the hope that you might travel to the Lynley Estate in Exmoor to join her in a matter of some urgency.”

With a strike of his match, Holmes lit his pipe. “Indeed?” he intoned quite calmly, drawing upon the pipe in an attempt to coax his tobacco to life, though his eyes remained firmly fixed upon me. “Is she in difficulty?”

“No,” I replied with a shake of my head and no little relief, as I read on, fleshing out the typically sparse, urgent wording of the telegram as best I could. “She is asking not on behalf of herself but on the part of the Viscount who knows she is acquainted with us. Apparently there was a theft last night,” I glanced up from the wire to him, “of some of the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth’s jewels.”

Holmes slid forward in his seat; while he had no knowledge of hunts and society balls, he was fully aware of all the most prominent collections of jewellery in the country, natural targets for criminal minds as they were, and the Duchess of Monmouth’s collection was amongst the most celebrated.

Pursing his lips around his pipe, my friend’s look turned thoughtful, before he sat back slowly. “The local constabulary will no doubt pursue the matter vigorously.”

“Perhaps,” I said, somewhat perturbed by his relaxed attitude, “but Miss Thurlow intimates that there are some complexities involved. Though,” I frowned as I glanced over the telegram once more, “she does not say what they are.”

For his part, Holmes merely stretched out his long legs, and puffed silently on his pipe.

“Holmes!” I cried out after a full minute of his silence. “Surely you cannot mean to ignore her request? Whatever about the validity or interest of the case for you, it is clear she has been pressed to this by her host, the Viscount. We cannot embarrass Miss Thurlow by failing to respond. Think how foolish it would make her look!”

My friend’s eyes turned slowly in my direction, an amused countenance wreathing his face as he observed my agitation. “My dear Watson…” he voiced with a chuckle, “do you see so little of the gallant in me that I would leave a lady, especially one whose acquaintance with us has deepened, in so precarious a position?” On seeing my confusion and quizzical expression as to his actions, he merely smiled and explained, “I was simply trying to decide which gentleman’s outfitters could best provide me with a comfortable new pair of gaiters without delaying our journey to Paddington to catch the train to Taunton, which if memory serves…” he paused, glancing over at the clock, “departs at eleven fifteen.”

Rising to his feet, he emptied his pipe into the fire and gazed at me. “I am dreadfully in need of a new pair of gaiters, especially with the weather and terrain that we can expect. But as we must change at Taunton for Barnstaple and from there travel to the Lynley Estate, in order for us to make good time we should be delayed as little as possible, don’t you agree?”

I nodded mutely, stunned that he had the times and route so readily to hand.

“Splendid!” he exclaimed at my silent agreement, striding towards his room to pack. “Then I believe Charles Baker & Company will be our best bet en route to the station.”

“Holmes…” I began, rising from my seat to quiz him as to his knowledge.

“The Duchess of Monmouth’s attendance at the hunt was reported some days ago in the papers, Watson,” he answered before the question was even out of my mouth. “I always keep track of the movement of great collections of jewellery…” There was a pause before, calling back to me from his room, he added, “And that of friends.”




So after packing quickly, and asking Mrs. Hudson to be so good as to send a return telegram to inform Miss Thurlow of our travelling on the eleven fifteen train, we arrived at Paddington with a new pair of gaiters safely packed away in Holmes’s bag.

The journey to the South West coast was not an unattractive one, the landscape in that part of the world always soothing to the soul. This I have found especially so in the counties of Devon and Somerset, the countryside of the latter having a particular timeless quality that reminds one of how people have worked and lived upon the land for countless generations.

The weather improved noticeably upon our travels, and by the time we had switched at Taunton for Barnstaple, the clouds had cleared from the skies. While it remained a cool day, the sun illuminated all around us, and all though we were bound for a case, I found my spirits quite lifted by the peaceful beauty of the rolling fields, hills, and forests.

It was a nineteen mile journey, Holmes informed me, from Barnstaple to Lynton and Lynmouth at the North West tip of Exmoor upon the coast, and Viscount Lynley’s home lay some three miles closer inland, though his vast estate swept right up to the sea. With some distance to go yet after we disembarked at Barnstaple, it was with some relief that we found the Viscount had provided transportation for us the rest of the way in the form of a large and well appointed dog cart.

My relief however turned to bemusement when the ruddy cheeked, rather wild haired man of middle years in a patched up groundskeepers suit, who had arrived with the dog cart, approached us to verify our identities. On doing so, he spat upon the ground nearby, as his mouth was packed with chewing tobacco, while silently tugging at his forelock, and then without a by your leave, he grabbed and unceremoniously dumped our bags into the cart, before climbing back up and into the driver’s seat, staring at us expectantly until we clambered aboard.

Holmes, needless to say, was vastly impressed.

Not overly concerned with niceties or social standing, the man whose name we discerned after some translation to be ‘Cuddy’ was, however, blessed with the thickest and most impenetrable Somerset accent I had ever encountered in my life. He was made no easier to understand by that wad of tobacco perpetually located in his cheek, the juice of which he expectorated freely and with remarkably accuracy at several targets along the road. More often then not on the course of this final leg of our journey, it took me several attempts to decipher precisely what it was he was saying, if I managed it at all.

Holmes, naturally, seemed to have no such difficulty, as his ear for accents, which he used to great advantage in his disguises, was well honed, and he seemed to take some great amusement in my perpetually confused reactions to our talkative guide’s utterances.

While he undertook some translation for me over the course of the hour or so of our journey, there inevitably came a point where my friend began to quiz the man on the events of the last few days. With his mind focused only on the collection of facts, all other concerns were secondary and the translation abruptly ceased, so while receiving long and involved answers to his questions, I was privy to understanding only less than half of what was said. The most I could distinguish was that he was absolutely adamant and vociferous on the fact that he was certain that the man accused of the theft of the Duchess’s jewels, though I could not make out who that might be, was innocent.

While he and Holmes conversed at length, I contented myself with taking in the surrounding scenery once again, and discovered that while Somerset itself was a county of notable beauty and serenity, the area of Exmoor was one of quite breathtaking almost mystical loveliness, and nowhere more so then that area that marked the estate of Viscount Maxwell Hector Alfred George Lynley.

As the sun began its descent on this short February day, its light became increasingly golden in colour, as Somerset sunsets were famed to do, spreading an ethereal glow across the world, and it came as no surprise to me then in that almost empyrean radiance, that it was to here that many modern minds turned when thinking on the tales of Arthur and his Round Table that had so caught the nation’s imagination these past years. For here was the kind of landscape to inspire a man to dwell on the wonders of heaven and earth, to love his land, and to inspire him to make it great.

After a time, we crested a long incline to the top of a ridge of hills, causing me to inhale at the sight laid out before me from on high. Virtually all of Exmoor was spread around us bathed in the honeyed sun and clean air. Green field farms and heather clad moors lay alongside ancient forests, backed by rolling hills which dived into deep valleys cut through by sparkling rivers. The land was speckled here and there across the wide expanse by pretty villages, and beyond, in the distance, lay the dramatic cut of the coastline, the sea sparkling azure even in the cold February sun.

Off to our right, moving up from one of the deep cut valleys a herd of Exmoor ponies wandered to higher ground, and in the distance, I could see a group of red deer grazing freely by a copse of trees. Cuddy, our driver, stopped the horse at my drawing of breath and held us there, gazing around himself before turning his eyes to me.

“Aarr, Docker,” he addressed me with an approving nod at my reaction. “Dang I if it don’t allus send a bibber down I back ‘n all come dimpsey. Puts a gurt big dollop ‘n yer drawt, don’t it?”

I opened my mouth to respond, instinctively guessing what he meant, but glanced at Holmes for aid just in case.

“Always sends a shiver down my back at half light, and puts a lump in your throat,” he told me with a small smile, as even his eyes, normally far more appreciative of the city, enjoyed the spectacle. I nodded slowly, before returning my attention to the scenery.

“Yes indeed, Mr. Cuddy,” I replied. “It most certainly does send a bibber down my back.”

Chuckling heartily, the man clucked the horses onwards. “Twoant be long nah, genlmen. The maisters home is jis oer yonder.”

True to his word, the ancient home that was the seat of the Lynley family hove into view as he moved the horse along the ridge. The thirty acres or so of woodland that lay so close to it below and herby obscuring it from our sight, shifted in our viewpoint as we moved, revealing us the great serpentine lake that lay before the massive stately home and its beautifully landscaped gardens designed by the inimitable Lancelot ‘Capability’ Brown.

Pendragon House, as it was known, was massive and Georgian in style, having been rebuilt from the Tudor in the late 1700’s. Cuddy, via Holmes, informed me that its three storied granite grandeur boasted rooms for seventy guests, servant quarters, two ballrooms, music rooms, games rooms, drawing rooms, and a long gallery full of an acclaimed art collection, as well as an extensive library. There were also exceptionally large stables and quarters for the hounds, and, all told, everything that the plentiful guests and riders of the hunt could want.

“And the hunt?” I asked. “What route does it take?”

“Aar…whirr be she go vrom?” Our driver nodded, repeating the question to himself and pursing his lips, before driving the horse further along the road that transversed the ridge of hills until we could see its end. “Thur!” he pointed out.

Following his finger, we watched as he pointed towards the stable grounds at the back of the house, which we could now see from our vantage point, before moving it through the beautiful parkland for some distance until it grew closer to the ridge we were on and out into more open country and fields, rounding the ridge to our right and down into another deep valley below.

My eyes, and that of Holmes, stopped at precisely the same point as they fell upon what was the most incongruous of sights amidst all the surrounding beauty. Something our driver was quick to note. The tobacco juice that struck a marker did so this time with a tinge of viciousness. “Aah…” he said quietly, “thur be a turbul accursed place ‘n no mistake.”

Looking down, both I and my friend took in the central part of the valley below, a stretch of wood that ran three quarters of the half mile length of the sharp valley, but unlike the woodland we had passed and could see still around us, this forestry bore no resemblance at all to the great oak woods.

Instead, the densely packed trees of many varieties seemed gnarled and horribly twisted, growing in on top of each other with their branches intertwined to such an extent that even without the full flush of foliage, they appeared to form a dense impenetrable canopy above the ground. That ground, all around and surely within, was made up of brambles, jagged granite rocks, and black earth so dark it looked almost scorched in nature. The uneasy picture was added to by the sight of buzzards soaring overhead circling, as they sensed carrion below. The shiver that went through me this time was not a pleasant one.

“Lucifer’s Playground, I presume,” Holmes stated, leaning over to take a closer look.

“It’s like God himself has blasted the earth,” I murmured, still staring at the dark scar of land that ran through the otherwise verdant valley.

“And it’s through this the riders will go when the hunt passes?” my friend asked, his eyes wandering the place that was as fey in appearance as the rest of the land was fair.

“Foxes do oftern run thur when chased, but only tha hounds, huntsman ‘n those seekin’ ter garn therselves a hunt collar follerin,” Cuddy replied with a frown. “Or those puggle ‘eaded or rampin ernuff ter show orf. Others’ll hed around.”

“Puggle ‘eaded or rampin?” I inquired, turning back to him.

“Aar, thees know, Docker,” his brow creased as he tried to explain, “those as cidered up…or…tetched!”

“Ah, drunk or insane,” I agreed with a smile and chuckle, and received a yellowish toothy grin in reply as Cuddy reached into his age shined coat and pulled out a tin which he opened and offered to me.

“’Baccy?” he asked.

I gazed at the shag tobacco I was more normally used to seeing fill Holmes’s pipes, and shook my head. “No, Cuddy, but thank you all the same.”

“Um does say thik place is Hag-rod, fuller hunky punks, gallybeggars, and ghostisiz. It’s fuddled the noggin o manys the rider. Manys come a cropper thur.” He popped some more of the tobacco into his mouth, while I, utterly stumped by his utterances, turned my eyes to Holmes, who glanced at me with an understanding smile.

“They say the place is bewitched,” he translated quietly. “Full of will o’ the wisps, hobgoblins, and ghosts. It’s confused many the rider and quite a few have come to grief.” His volume grew as he sat up. “Sounds fascinating, Cuddy.”

“Aar…well…” The driver nodded, less than convinced of such a description as he picked up the reins. “Yer skews I, genlmen, but ifee doan mine I gotster getz yiz ter Pendragon. Light’s fading and Maister’ll be speckin yiz.”

With another cluck of his tongue, we drove off again, this time moving down the ridge to the lower ground that swept majestically towards Pendragon House. The magnificent landscape was even more admirable as we grew closer and travelled over it during the last ten minutes of our journey. Closing on the house itself and moving past the man-made lake, Holmes tapped me on the shoulder and nodded towards the expanse of lawn that swept up from the waters to the front of the great house.

Following his gaze, my eyes fell on a lone figure, a woman dressed in black, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her head bowed over a book as she walked slowly back towards the stately home, her auburn hair catching the golden twilight most fetchingly.

“Miss Thurlow,” I said with a smile, and looked at Holmes, who was still watching her as she moved.

“Indeed,” he agreed in an almost thoughtful tone, before finally turning his eyes back towards the house, his manner instantly all business. “Now perhaps we shall discover precisely why our presence is required.”

Nodding, my smile grew wider as Miss Thurlow raised her head on hearing the approach of the cart, and after a moment waved towards us happily, before closing her book, and hastening across the lawn to meet us in front of the entrance.

The cart drew up outside the wide granite staircase at the front door and halted, just as the young woman reached the same spot.

"Dr. Watson! Mr. Holmes!" she greeted us as we stopped, her smile wide if a little apologetic. "It was so good of you to come...and so quickly!"

"We made the soonest possible haste the moment we got your telegram," I replied, opening the door of the cart and descending to the gravel drive below.

"Yes..." my companion added as he followed down. "The urgency was clear in your wire. But I wonder, Miss Thurlow," he said, getting right to the point as he looked around the Pendragon estate, "whether you might be able to tell us whether there is in fact a case for us at the end of this jaunt or not?” He levelled his gaze back upon her. “Mr. Cuddy here informed me during our trip here that while there was a theft as you indicated, the culprit has already been apprehended and indeed the jewels returned to their rightful owner. Have we come here for naught?" There was no denying the rather sharp edge in his voice.

She shook her head somewhat helplessly with a sigh. "It is rather a long story, and I am afraid that my rather over active tongue is the reason for you being brought here. Perhaps we should go inside, so that I may impart to you the series of events?"

"I think perhaps you'd better inform us now," my colleague said, moving his evaluative eyes over the house. "There is little point in invading this place and entangling ourselves with its denizens if we are not required and could be put to better use elsewhere." The growing trace of irritation was most evident in his voice. "Why are we here, Miss Thurlow? And is there a case for us to investigate?"

She swallowed and cast her eyes down for a moment, her fingers fumbling with her book, before with a great sigh, she raised them to meet mine and my companion's. "Yes and no, Mr. Holmes,” she replied, receiving an arched eyebrow and a penetrating stare as Holmes’s eyes fixed upon her once more. Our friend’s nerves were not improved by the look, and she composed herself with a deep intake of breath before answering his very pointed unspoken question.

“Very well…this is how it is, sir. As you are aware, not long after I last saw you both at Baker Street, I accompanied my dear friend, Lady Margaret Sotherby, here in place of her absent husband to attend the hunt. She is a most accomplished and avid rider, and was most keen to exercise her skills that have stagnated as of late, being London based as she is.

"It was during our trip here on the train that we began the pleasant process of catching up, as we had not seen each other properly since the funeral of my father, and I informed her that Dr. Watson was being a profound help to me and acting as my advisor. She inquired if it was the same Dr. Watson that worked with Sherlock Holmes, and when I confirmed it was so and that I had indeed met Mr. Holmes as well, she, rather gleefully I'm afraid, began asking me all sorts of questions on how we met, what were you both like, and so forth."

She gave us both a very regretful, weak, little smile, before continuing, "I'm afraid I was rather caught up with her enthusiasm and answered her questions to the best of my ability...though took great pains to not disclose too much either, for I value my friendship with you both and would not dream of revealing anything remotely personal or beyond the basics. I also took great care to avoid mention of my father's case, so as not to jeopardize any confidences...personal or enforced." The last word was said with a rather bitter tone. "However, I digress. That night, after we arrived, we were having dinner with Viscount Lynley, who was a dear friend of Maggie's late father, and she proceeded to mention my acquaintance with you both." A faint pink tone spread over her ivory cheeks. "Needless to say, I was most embarrassed and rather mortified that she did so. For not only did she summarize all that I had told her, but added to it so as to make it sound as though you, Mr. Holmes and you, Doctor, and I were the closest of friends.”

There was no denying the embarrassment she now laboured under as she continued to recount her tale, her eyes refusing to settle fully on either of us as she spoke. “So, not only was I heavily chastising myself for ever mentioning the fact I knew either of you at all, but now I was being pressed for information by His Lordship, his family, and other guests for any information I ever had on either of you at all. I kept only to the facts though, I am pleased to say. I mentioned your upcoming marriage, Doctor, and Mr. Holmes's hobbies of fencing, boxing, violin playing, and some riding. He asked if you, Mr. Holmes, were keen on hunting, and I replied I did not believe you were, as you mentioned before I left that you did not keep up on such things." As she paused to take another large breath, I noticed her hands were still continuing to fiddle nervously with the book they were holding.

I could not help but be a little amused at her slight blunder in mentioning her association with Holmes, and could not blame her for it in the slightest. For like making mention of the fact I am a medical doctor and immediately receiving ten requests for a free diagnosis, mentioning an association with Holmes and being bombarded with questions was a mistake I often made myself, so, after laying a hand on her arm so as to reassure her, I bade her to continue.

Bestowing me with a most grateful look, she carried on, "Embarrassing as it was, nothing was mentioned of it again after that time, so I put it down to a learning experience. However, shortly thereafter the theft happened." She shook her head with a sigh. "The police were brought, rooms were searched, and in the end they arrested His Lordship’s valet.”

“Pearson, yes,” Holmes interjected, the tip of his cane flicking idly at the gravel at his feet. “They found the necklace on his person, I hear, in the innermost breast pocket of his uniform jacket, mere hours after it was reported missing. A novel hiding place for a thief,” he commented with a hint of a smile. “As a sneak thief, the man appears to be either uniquely stupid, remarkably forgetful…or innocent.” He uttered the last with an enquiring gaze at her, and I began to see the answer to her rather enigmatic answer over whether there was a case or not. Miss Thurlow nodded vigorously, relieved that Holmes was ahead of the game.

“Yes! He declares his absolute innocence in the crime, and claims no knowledge whatsoever of how the Duchess’s necklace came to reside there. And the Viscount not only believes him, but holds firm to the fact his most trusted servant could never have done such a thing. So much so that he prevailed on me that night most pressingly to telegram my ‘dear and close friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’” her face flushed at that, “to come straight away to help on this matter.”

She paused and gazed at him with abject apology. “Please believe me, Mr. Holmes, normally, I would have tried to dissuade him from this course of action, for if he wished to commission your services, he should write to you himself...however, I feel his concerns for his valet's innocence may be valid, and I could not bear an innocent man to be imprisoned...so I did as he asked...and here you are.”

“You have cause to believe his story?” Holmes asked quickly.

"Yes," she replied with a nod, her expression one of light puzzlement. "To steal such a prize and then leave it on your person does not as you say seem at all clever. And Mr. Pearson, like so many gentlemen’s gentlemen struck me, from what little I saw of him, as a great deal more intelligent then those he serves.” She flushed a little at her left handed criticism of her host’s faculties. “According to His Lordship, he has been with the Viscount for over twenty years as both valet and unofficial advisor, and is fiercely loyal to him. And that loyalty is quite strong in reverse.” She paused for a moment, considering her words carefully. “However, there is more to my belief then mere personal history, for shortly before the alarm was raised, he attended quite calmly on His Lordship in the sitting room with all of us in plain sight. After which, he departed through the French windows, where a minute or two later I am sure that I witnessed him heading out into the gardens for a cigarette. And as you can see…" she gestured around the great expanse of landscaped gardens, “there would have been ample time to dispose of the jewels in any number of invisible locations.”

Holmes eyes narrowed, as his gloved finger came to his lips and tapped there as he regarded her. "And yet he did not…to be so calm after a theft, and not to do the most simple of things does strike one as highly improbable.”

She sighed and shook her head, before her gaze turned a little tentative. "There are one or two other things I think you should hear, but I do know the Viscount is inside, and most keen for any aid you can offer," she said, turning her head to the door, and holding out her hand to indicate the way. "I am sure he’s very eager to tell you everything."

Cuddy's short, sharp, barking laugh disrupted whatever it was Holmes was set to ask next, and before we knew it our bags had sailed once more through the air and settled with a thump at the gravel underfoot.

"Ahr..." he exclaimed with a nod, and picked up the reins of the cart, "the maister be good at tellin’ yez things…" Another arc of tobacco juice sailed through the air. "And gas baggin' and meanderin'," he muttered in a startling show of joyful disrespect for his employer, all before the juice landed on the ground by the lawn as he clicked the horse onward and away from the door, leaving me staring at him as he went.

"What a delightfully refreshing man," Holmes said, shaking his head and with a genuine smile on his face.

For her part, Miss Thurlow merely shook her head, and I can see she was trying to hide a grin of her own. "Yes...he is quite something," she agreed. “He is very loyal to the family, I’m told, but you would have a hard time maintaining airs and graces around him. Maggie is not quite recovered from our journey with him yet.”

I shook my head in amazement. "It's a wonder the man keeps his job!" I breathed, bending and retrieving my case. "I've never heard a servant be so boldly denigrating about..."

"AHHH!!" a man's voice of discovery sailed across the early evening air behind us and cut through my comment. As one all three of us turned to see the front door open, and the butler emerge along with the man I had just been about to mention.

Viscount Maxwell Lynley was not what you'd call an imposing man.

In fact, he was decidedly short, rather round of stomach, and decidedly bowlegged, something not helped by his penchant for wearing jodhpurs and riding boots. He was grey haired with a slight recede, which was worn in a style of some twenty years previously, and from which he had obviously never been disloyal. His eyes were blue but somewhat piggish, as they were set deep into his face, which was almost as perfectly round as a full moon. In fact, he reminded one of nothing less then a 'man in the moon' like figure as he rolled down the steps.

The only thing that could be construed impressive about him was the huge moustache he wore and the excessive mutton chops of yesteryear on either cheek, but even such an excess of facial hair could not cast an air of imposition upon the little man...some five feet two inches in height.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume!" he called, stopping half way down the steps, while flexing a riding crop, which we were soon to discover, never left his hands.

"You assume correctly, my Lord," Holmes replied with an incline of his head. "And this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson."

"Your Lordship." I tipped my hat to him.

The Viscount bounced on his toes a little, his agitation and nervous energy clear though his face stayed calm, as he turned his gaze to our friend. "Well done, Miss Thurlow...well done. Now maybe Pearson will be exonerated."

"Viscount Lynley,” Holmes said without standing on further ceremony, "I have been informed of the circumstances and the doubts surrounding the arrest of your valet, Pearson, and I find myself wondering whether you would not be better off in the hiring of a good defence attorney for your man to absolve him, rather than calling on myself?"

The riding crop struck Lynley's thigh and boot. "Indeed not, man!" he exclaimed, staring at him. "For to do so would be to give the police's claims credence, and I refuse to do so!" he said arrogantly. "I say they have found the wrong man...and if that is the case then the true culprit is still at large and there is a case for you to investigate." His whip pointed at both of us in turn. "Besides..." he sniffed, "if I go for a lawyer then the matter will be heard in court...and I have no wish to be without my valet while he languishes in jail for months until he's cleared. Lawyers are so damnably slow."

Holmes arched an eyebrow, as did I, at the Viscount's 'selflessness.'

The Viscount looked up at the fading half light. "Anyway in you come and get settled...Williams here," he announced, gesturing at his butler, "will see you organised. I will see you both in my study as soon as is convenient...and we shall talk this all through in detail." And with that, he turned and walked back inside without even an attempt to shake our hands in greeting.

"This way, gentleman," Williams intoned, before following his master inside.

"Charming man," I said sotto voce to Holmes as footmen emerged to collect our belongings.

Miss Thurlow, however, coughed lightly into her hand, and smiled at us both. "Rather like Mr. Cuddy, he takes some getting used to," she admitted to us softly.

Holmes picked up his bag and moved up the steps. "Then let us see how long that takes, shall we?" His one statement allowed us both to understand that the case had sufficient apparent value for him to stay and put his mind to it.

Moving inside into the grandeur of the house, which was just as opulent inside as it appeared from outside with grand Georgian detail peering at us from every corner, Williams soon had Holmes and I settled in the guest wing where several others were seconded we were told, before leading us back to the main foyer and Miss Thurlow, who was seated there. Pointing out the study across the way, Williams led all three of us, into the bright wood lined room, which was decorated with a large Persian rug and a number of leather couches and chairs, a large polished oak desk with the Lynley crest upon it, and a small fire burning in the carved granite hearth.

Seated in two chairs by that fire were Viscount Lynley and an elderly and immensely aristocratic looking lady, as tall and slender as our host was short and round, and who turned her head in slow scrutiny of our arrival. Though I would estimate her age to have been around seventy, her bearing was erect and full of life, her eyes were a vibrant startlingly pale green, and her piercing gaze over the pince-nez poised upon her Romanesque nose rather making me feel as if I had returned to the classroom once more and was decidedly late for my lessons.

At her feet lay an old Jack Russell Terrier whose brown eyes as he remained head on paws quite still were only slightly less penetrative then their mistresses.

The lady, whom I correctly deduced to be the Dowager Duchess of Monmouth and the owner of the temporarily purloined necklace, swept her eyes over Miss Thurlow and myself before she and Holmes locked eyes and there commenced such a battle of gazes as to preclude the existence of all others in the room, leaving the three remaining to glance at each other with a mixture of nervousness and amusement.

After a moment, the two individuals both seemed to smile a little as one, as some kind of mutual respect passed between them, and Holmes bowed a little. “Your Grace,” he said quietly, and upon his utterance I did likewise with a similar bow.

“Mr. Holmes…a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she replied in a tone of voice that reeked of authority. “And you must be the good Dr. Watson…I have read your work my good man.” Her brow creased in an expression of annoyance. “My grandchildren will insist on bringing those magazine things into my home. It’s a little over emotive for my tastes but I’ve read worse,” she pronounced, quite taking my breath away and before I could phrase a polite response to her decidedly muted compliments, she raised one regal finger and directed us to the couch nearby. “Sit, gentlemen, sit!” she ordered.

Holmes and I dutifully made our way to the leather settee only for the Duchess to raise her hand again as Miss Thurlow followed. “Not you, my dear…you shall sit here by me,” she instructed, patting the arm of the chair beside her. With a somewhat sheepish look and a quick curtsey as befitting the Duchess’s rank, Miss Thurlow made her way quickly to the chair and sat down, only to give a little oh of surprise as the Duchess’s dog decided that her lap would be more comfortable than the floor and jumped up to curl itself up into a white and black ball. The older woman merely patted the dog, oblivious of any discomfort to her young neighbour, and smiled. “Good boy, Prince. He likes you, Miss Thurlow.”

“Ah.” The young woman nodded a little awkwardly, and while patting the pampered pet gingerly. “How nice.”

The Duchess turned back and gazed around the room, which was silent, with Holmes hiding his amusement by tracking the back on one finger over his lips as he leaned on the arm of the couch. As the silence continued, the formidable woman turned her eyes to the Viscount. “Well Maxwell?” she demanded. “Are we going to sit here in silence all afternoon admiring one another? You’re the host. You brought Mr. Holmes down here on your hunch…let’s be having you, man!”

The Viscount sprang immediately to his feet. “Ah…yes…quite, thank you, Aunt Evangeline,” he stammered with a nod, the bullish little man obviously quite cowed by the older woman. “Right…Mr. Holmes. I take it Miss Thurlow has informed you of the details?”

“Only so far as to tell me of your conviction as to the innocence of your long serving Valet and his arrest…as well as his actions in the immediate period before the discovery of the missing necklace,” Holmes told him before his eyes moved to the Duchess. “I presume it was you who discovered the item gone from your rooms, Your Grace?” he enquired.

“You presume correctly, sir,” she replied instantly, and I couldn’t help but notice the gleam in her eyes as we began. I had seen that gleam many times before in the eyes of aspiring amateur detectives and aficionados of Holmes’s work. It appeared that even the higher echelons of the nobility were not impervious to the lure of a possible mystery. “Dinner was over, and the gentlemen had just joined the ladies once more after their cigars. The men were being their usual braggart selves boasting over their prowess as horsemen, until I took the time to remind them that my late husband, Mortimer, could have ridden them all into the ground…” She paused, her eyes momentarily misty. “Such a man.” She sighed, and then coughed. “At which point, I decided to retire for the night. Upon doing so, I went to take off the few pieces of jewellery I had worn that evening, and gave them to my maid, who promptly let out a squeal…foolish flighty girl…and came rushing back from the powder room adjoining my suite to tell me that the small safe in which I carry my jewels had been uncovered and opened.”

“Was your maid in your rooms the entire time?” Holmes queried, leaning forward.

“Bar a short time,” the Duchess replied. “When she went to her room.”

“What for?” he asked immediately.

“She says to fetch a fresh handkerchief,” the older woman answered, wrinkling her nose. “She does have the most irritatingly constant sniffle.”

My colleague nodded, before inquiring, “Was there anything taken apart from the necklace?”

“Merely the necklace. This one, given to me by late husband as was all my jewellery. He was a generous man,” she said, and drew from her pocket a most magnificent sapphire collar, which I could see was worth a small fortune, before Holmes took it and began evaluating it.

“Just this one piece was taken even though you had others there?” he asked.

“Only that,” she agreed with a nod.

“Curious,” I said, looking closely at the French style Empire piece. “Why would a valet with such treasures laid in front of him, choose to steal only this one piece…and make no attempt to either hide it or abscond?”

“Even more curious,” Holmes added, handing the Duchess her back her jewels, “how did a valet manage to open your safe? Was it forced?”

“No…merely opened, the combination discovered,” she replied. “I believe the arresting Inspector used the term ‘cracked.’”

“A cracksman.” My friend sat back, and turned his attention to the Viscount. “Does your valet have such a talented background?”

The older man appeared most uncomfortable. “He may have had some trouble in the past yes…but that was twenty odd years ago when he was in his early twenties!”

“What kind of trouble? Pray be frank with me, Your Lordship,” Holmes stressed, but there was a moment's silence before a response was forthcoming.

“He was arrested for burglary,” the Viscount muttered, and with that, I glanced at my companion, the idea that perhaps the man had been falsely accused wavering somewhat at that news.

“But dammit, man!” His Lordship burst out on seeing the look I gave my colleague. “That was entirely different circumstances. He fell into debt and bad company. I came across him after he served his time, and he helped me when I was waylaid by ruffians on my way through London’s streets one night. He told me his story, and I gave him a chance. He started as an underfoot man here and worked his way up. It’s been twenty years that he’s been in my service, and he’s been nothing but honest and loyal!” he insisted, his red face becoming even more scarlet. “My entire family would vouch for it!”

“Calm yourself, Your Lordship.” Holmes rose to his feet, and moved a little through the room. “The news that your valet has some background in these dealings just convinces me further that you and Miss Thurlow have been correct in your estimation of the situation. It is doubtful in the extreme that he is the perpetrator of this short term theft. A man with a background in burglary would not have been foolish enough to plot such a robbery, steal only one item, and then parade around with it in his jacket pocket while the police were called. It seems quite clear that the item was placed there to incriminate him.”

“But by who?” the Duchess exclaimed, removing her glasses. “Who would want to incriminate a valet?”

“Someone with a grudge against him?” I ventured. “Someone from his past?”

“Or someone merely attempting to avoid incrimination themselves,” Holmes added, crossing over to the window, before turning to look back at the Viscount. “Is your valet involved with any of the serving girls in the house?” he asked.

The older man blinked. “Pearson? No…I believe he has an understanding with a young widow in Lynmouth…why do you ask?”

“If he himself did not place the jewellery there, someone had to have had opportunity to do so. The most obvious time would be when he was off duty and…” His lips tugged upwards slightly in a wry smile. “Out of his uniform jacket.”

“Perhaps…” I suggested slowly, glancing over at Miss Thurlow, “when you saw Pearson heading into the gardens, it was not merely for the taking of a cigarette?”

The young woman flushed and nodded. “Perhaps not,” she murmured.

“An illicit assignation?” the Duchess declared. “Maxwell what kind of a house are you running here?” she demanded. “Thievery! Debauchery!” she berated him, though again I could not help but notice the spark of enjoyment in her eyes.

“Aunt Evangeline, please,” the little nobleman pleaded with his more illustrious relative, before turning his attention back to us. “Why would he not mention an assignation?”

“It is mere supposition, Viscount Lynley,” Holmes replied swiftly. “But there could be any number of reasons…especially if the man had two young ladies engaged without their knowledge of each other…a man’s fear of a woman may often outweigh that of the law.”

I could not help but notice the flicker of the Viscount’s eyes towards his aunt as he answered. “Indeed, sir. Indeed.”

“Nevertheless,” my friend continued, drawing himself up and towering over the tiny aristocrat, “we may well be doing your man a secondary injustice. Tomorrow morning, Watson and I shall travel to where he’s being detained.”

“Lynmouth Police Station,” The Viscount offered, to which Holmes nodded in gratitude.

“Where we shall question him ourselves,” my friend stated, and was about to offer more, when the door the study burst open and a tall, slim, bespectacled, dark haired young man of about twenty or so entered in a rush.

“Father, this is absolutely intolerable you must…” he began, before his words halting dead with his progress. “Oh…” he stumbled, gazing at us, as his blue eyes flinched somewhat, “you have guests. I apologise, Father.”

“As well you should, boy!” The Viscount frowned at him. “Knock, boy! Knock!” he chastised with a sigh. “Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is my younger son, The Honourable Phillip Lynley.”

Young Lynley was a handsome young man whose length of bone and height I could only attribute to his late mother; his blue eyes, though, which lit up on mention of Holmes’s name, were definitely his father’s. “Mr. Holmes, I...” he started only to be stopped by the raising of his father’s riding crop.

“Later, Phillip!” he instructed rather harshly. “You may fawn over our guests at dinner, and indulge that insatiable brain of yours all you like. Now though, you will leave us and where is your brother, George?”

Philip’s face darkened considerably. “With his wife, sir,” he replied. “That is what I wished to discuss with you.”

The Viscount took a step towards him. “And I have discussed that with you enough, sir,” he barked. “I will hear no more of it. I will see you at dinner, Phillip,” he dismissed him summarily, before turning back to his chair. The young man stood his ground for a moment, before with an embarrassed expression, tempered with a deep frustration, he inclined his head in a bow to us all and departed.

“I apologise,” the Viscount said. “Like myself, my sons are headstrong…though Phillip thinks his intellect gives him the right to make pronouncements on the rest of us,” he murmured.

“You are too hard on the boy, Maxwell,” the Duchess told him. “You always have been. Not all of us are cut from the same cloth. Phillip is not George…and frankly there’s no great harm in that.”

Again the older man flinched. “We have guests, Aunt.”

The Duchess merely gazed at him. “Thank you, Maxwell. I was not at all aware of that,” she replied in a pleasantly withering tone.

“Who else was here the night of the robbery?” Holmes cut in suddenly, interrupting the tense family moment, his eyes on the door through which Phillip Lynley had departed. “Apart from the servants, I mean.”

“Myself, Her Grace, my two sons Phillip and George, George’s wife Claire, Miss Thurlow here and Lady Margaret, Miss Alexandra de Courcy, Mr. and Mrs. Martin Yeates, Mr. Jackson Cobb and Mr. Alexander Parry all friends of my son George…oh, and Colonel Hapsworth and his wife, my neighbours.”

“All of them staying in the house?” Holmes asked.

“Except for the Colonel and his lady, yes…” the Viscount agreed with a nod.

“And all were present in the sitting room before Her Grace retired to discover her jewels missing?” my friend enquired.

“All!” the Viscount replied adamantly, as Holmes glanced at Miss Thurlow, who gave a small nod of affirmation.

“I presume there are to be more guests arriving?” he quizzed our host.

“Indeed, we shall have more guests arriving this evening with their horses and entourage. They shall join us for dinner tonight in advance of the hunt tomorrow at noon, and to stay for the Hunt Ball. As well as another hundred guests travelling from around the county on the morning of the hunt to ride with the hounds and to dance later.”

“That will hamper matters considerably. I suppose it would be to no avail for me to ask you to postpone the hunt?” my colleague asked with an air of a man who already knew the answer.

“None!” the Viscount and the Duchess chorused in horror. “The very idea!” Her Grace huffed in indignation. “The hunt is one of the greatest in the Isles, and has never been postponed in over a hundred years, not through war or family bereavement. The idea that it should stop for this…preposterous!”

“I take it you will be riding yourself, Your Grace?” Holmes’s smile was noticeable, and I looked at her in surprise, for she was a woman of advancing years.

“You take it correctly, sir,” she replied proudly. “I have a fine new black Hunter I am chomping at the bit to try.” Her green eyes flashed once more, as she glanced at Miss Thurlow. “And were this young lady not in mourning, I would have insisted she seat herself on my old steady grey to join us.” Miss Thurlow did her best to smile gratefully, but neither myself nor Holmes missed the trace of relief in her eyes. “Still,” the Duchess continued as she rose to her feet, “you shall all join us for dinner this evening…it promises to be an interesting event. Nothing whets the appetite like an impending hunt, and with your presence, Mr. Holmes, there will be much to talk of.”

The Viscount regarded us both. “I must move on with organisations for our later guests and their animals, as well as for dinner…is there anything else you wish to know?”

“Not at the moment, Your Lordship, no,” Holmes replied. “Though I shall seek you out, if you do not mind, should I have more to ask.”

“Of course,” our diminutive host agreed with a nod. “I am at your disposal, sir, and you have my thanks for coming.”

We all stood as the two aristocrats departed, Miss Thurlow having to give ‘Prince’ a gentle nudge to send him from her lap, so content was he, and with a huff remarkably like that of his owner, he followed them out, leaving us three alone.

"Miss Thurlow," said Holmes quickly as soon as they were gone, "now I would like to know what it is you did not tell me outside. That which you said I should hear of…there were other events occurring during your stay that lead you to your own suspicions?”

The young woman's eyes turned down to her shoes, as her cheeks flushed at the question my friend put to her. "It is not my place to mention such suppositions," she replied softly, before finally looking up at Holmes. "However...yes…I have some suspicions...though I have no proof...that his Lordship’s elder son, George, whom you have not yet met, may somehow be involved."

Holmes indicated for her to resume her seat across from him. "Pray continue, and tell me what you know, or believe you know." He folded his arms across his chest as we both sat. "Why would you believe the heir of Pendragon to be the culprit?"

Taking her seat, she chose her words carefully. "Well, I normally do not base my opinions on a person due to the common perception others have on them. However, I must agree with them in this case. George Lynley, at age twenty and three, is rumoured to be, and indeed has proven just that this past week, to be a man of excess. He drinks far more than is healthy, is crass and rude, and is...well...quite horrible to his wife." She paused for a moment, and I could see her struggle to contain her ire at the last part of her remark. My companion’s face darkened at that, as did mine, but he remained silent and nodded for her to continue.

"Claire, his wife, is a kind but rather shy young woman, and, I must say, very attractive. But she is denigrated and shamed continuously by her husband. If it were not for his younger brother, Phillip, she would have far more bruises on the outside as she does, I am sure, on the inside. There is no doubt that that is what Phillip was alluding to when he arrived. His father perceives it to be jealousy on Phillip’s part, both of George as the elder and of his marriage to Claire, of whom there can be no doubt Phillip is fond…but George is an extrovert and a well known sportsman while his brother is bookish and quiet…they are in their own way not unlike my own brothers in that regard…but the Viscount is blind to his favoured elder son’s excesses.” Her normally calm grey eyes flashed. “Quite frankly, Mr. Holmes, the man is a horrid, drunken brute!” she exclaimed, her vehemence was rather striking, as I do not think I had ever seen her so enraged before. Struggling to contain herself, she inhaled slowly before continuing, “He has also, in another showing of his complete and utter lack of respect to his wife…brought his mistress here.”

I shifted somewhat in surprise at that.

“She is an older woman, Mr. Holmes, not much older than I, but certainly more than him. Her name, as you have heard the Viscount say, is Alexandra de Courcy, you may have heard of the de Courcy’s, for they have a Baronetcy in Northumbria and are quite wealthy. Alexandra is an only child and an heiress, and, according to Maggie, rumoured to be well…” she paused, her face showing her displeasure at having to speak so of someone else, “a loose woman with a definite history of being…” she shifted slightly and blushed, “driven by her passions.” She cleared her throat, somewhat keen to move on. “Though His Lordship believes her only to be the sister of a friend of his son’s and a keen huntswoman, a story backed up by his friends, Mr. Parry and Mr. Cobb. She is just as unpleasant as he is...and yet...I do not think that all is well between the pair, as Maggie...I mean Lady Margaret...agrees.”

My friend’s head sank to his chest slowly. "And how came you ladies to this supposition?"

Her grey eyes regarded him keenly for a moment, before she turned to me and arched an eyebrow in inquiry at me. I nodded for her to continue, and inwardly lamented at my companion's way of listening.

"There have been a few instances, that seem minor at first look, but when combined do lean towards him," she began. "First of all, there is the fact that the elder Lynley and his brother do not get along, especially over Claire and how he treats her. I have seen the bruises, Mr. Holmes, though the poor woman does try her best to hide them by wearing long gloves. There is also the singular conversation that Miss de Courcy had with Mr. Lynley when she arrived three days ago.

“Lady Margaret was making her way down from her room upstairs when she overheard Miss de Courcy telling him in no uncertain terms that she ‘had had enough and wanted what was due her,’ and if she did not get it that she would ‘take steps.’ We both agreed it sounded ominous at the very least. But the odd behaviour involving George Lynley did not end there, for there is the rather strange relationship that Mr. Lynley has with his so-called best friend, Mr. Martin Yeates.

“On the very night, Maggie heard Miss de Courcy threaten Mr. Lynley, he had made comments for all to hear, to this newly married friend of his, during dinner…comments that dealt with his ‘pre-marital nocturnal activities.’” She sighed and shook her head with an expression of vague disgust. “Mr. Yeates and his new bride, Lavinia, arrived not long after Maggie and I did, and are most charming and affable people, he even entertained us with an evening of jokes, song and prestidigitation after dinner one night. He hails from a good family around these parts, I believe, though much like my mother’s somewhat insolvent. However despite that disadvantage, he managed to maintain a reasonably fashionable lifestyle until recently, when he speculated with some success upon the American stock market and is now comfortable. Neither Maggie nor myself can understand how he could be friends with such a man as Mr. Lynley, but after his comments, we wondered this even more, for Lavinia did not look the slightest bit pleased with such a recounting of her husband’s past peccadilloes.”

"I can well imagine," I said echoing her disgust. "What kind of a man raises a friend’s dalliances with other ladies in front of his wife?"

“The remarks seemed in poor taste but relatively innocuous, I thought, given the excess of George’s alcohol intake. However, later that evening, that is, as I was on my way to my room, I heard Mr. Yeates's voice in a loud whisper near the shadows by the stairs telling someone I could not see, that if 'she found out’ he would ‘lose everything.’ They must have heard me then, for there was silence after. Though what that means, I do not know.” She gazed off into the fire that crackled nearby with a most thoughtful expression on her face. “On talking together in her room later, Maggie and I did, however, suspect he was talking to Mr. Lynley, for there was no one else staying here that he would speak to so candidly, and he does not appear to have much of a relationship with Mr. Cobb or Mr. Parry. In fact, he avoids Mr. Cobb rather noticeably.” Her brow furrowed, as though she was realising that for the first time.

Holmes raised his head as he always did when his font of information had finished providing him with his precious data, his eyes turning to Miss Thurlow as he inhaled slowly. "It could well have been Lynley he was speaking with," he agreed, "there does appear to be much revolving around The Honourable George Lynley that is unhealthy." Rising to his feet, he moved to the fireplace and leaned on the high mantel. "But there is nothing to indicate that he had any particular reason to steal the necklace, let alone incriminate the valet for it...though we must ascertain his precise location during the moments before the discovery of the theft, as must we for all who were there."

"There is also this air around it all that feels as though the root of all these instances is money, Mr. Holmes," Miss Thurlow offered, as she continued to watch his movements. "Getting her due? Losing everything? Those are usually words one uses when there is money involved, are they not?"

He gazed at her and nodded slightly, though he quite surprised me with his next comment. "Or with regards to love affairs, Miss Thurlow."

Inclining her head, she considered that for a brief moment. "Perhaps," she acquiesced. "Though I see no evidence of Mr. Yeates having one currently, for he and his wife appear a most devoted couple."

"Consider though…” Holmes instructed, his finger pointing towards her, “the mistress, older...tired of waiting for 'what is her due'…perhaps an ambition towards the position of mistress of Pendragon one day? As to Mr. Yeates, it need not be a present dalliance we talk of, Miss Thurlow. The past can do as much harm as the present...a scandal...hushed up that only his best friend knows of. Something sinister in his past that if discovered by his wife could irretrievably harm their marriage…an illegitimate child or hasty first wedding."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "I will say this much, Miss Thurlow...whether our Valet proves innocent or guilty, you are quite correct, there is a tangled web to be unravelled here...and one that carries within it the potential to be to be much darker and more destructive then a mere theft." I could see his eyes glint with the thought of discovering what had occurred here over the last few days, and a smile touched his lips as he raised his head to us both.

"I look forward to meeting the dramatis personae you have so ably sketched out, Miss Thurlow," he declared. "Tonight's performance, as the Duchess has said, should be most interesting indeed."
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