his half-smoked cigarette into the embers. “If we can’t stop Grandmama pinching the stuff, at least this will keep it quiet.”
“Hilary!” Denbeigh appeared scandalised. He turned to my friend. “Very well, Mr Holmes. Although I have reservations, we shall try your suggestion.”
Holmes coughed gently. “Matters are already arranged at Carrington’s. All that remains to be done is to make similar agreements with the other shops your mother patronises. Would you care for me to undertake this task?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr Holmes,” said Denbeigh stiffly. “I shall take responsibility for this matter myself.”
Dropping onto a chair, Sheppington crossed his legs at the ankle and leaned back. “I only wish that since Grandmama’s so free and easy with other people’s belongings, she’d loosen up the money bags for me a little. I’m stone broke. And Uncle, I know you’ve lost a bundle—”
“We will not discuss that at present, Hilary.” Denbeigh glanced at Holmes. “Do you have further advice regarding my mother’s affliction?”
“Not at present.”
“Then we shall bid you good day. Come, Hilary.”
Sheppington heaved a sigh as he rose. “Of course. Goodbye, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson.”
Holmes turned to the window, while I saw His Lordship and his nephew to the door.
“Do you believe Denbeigh will follow your suggestion and contact the shopkeepers?” I returned to my chair. “He did not seem especially taken with the idea.”
“Very true. You noticed that he did not mention the ball or the emeralds?”
“Why would—” I stopped, suddenly struck by Holmes’s implication. “Do you believe that omission to be suspicious?”
“Possibly so.” Holmes’s shrug was positively Gallic. “Another possibility exits, however. If Denbeigh knows the emeralds are well protected, and that his mother would have little chance to pilfer them, he would have no cause for concern.”
“So, we shall spend tomorrow evening observing Her Grace,” I said. “I can only hope it is less arduous than our afternoon trailing her about the shops.”
“I suspect that observing Her Grace will be the least interesting portion of our evening,” said Holmes with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“You heard Her Grace, Watson. This will be the first time the von Kratzov emeralds will be on display outside Poland, and not only will they be an object of interest to members of society, but they will attract the attention of every jewel thief in Europe.”
“Good God, do you think so?”
“I do indeed.” Holmes’s eyes sparkled. “In fact, I will be very much surprised if we do not encounter several notorious thieves during the course of the evening.”
“But Holmes! Should we not inform Scotland Yard of your suspicions?”
“I am certain that the count has taken every precaution,” he replied. “But it is a clear day, if a trifle chill. I suggest we take the air now, for I shall be occupied later this afternoon.”
I rose and followed him. We donned our coats and gloves, and as we stepped onto the pavement, Holmes reached into his pocket and froze.
“Holmes!” I exclaimed, gazing at his countenance in alarm. “What is wrong? Are you ill?”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, threw his head back, and emitted a bark of laughter that would have frightened me if he hadn’t immediately calmed.
“I am well, Watson.” His dark eyes flashed as he withdrew his hand from his pocket. He opened his fingers, and laying on the kidskin was the jade dragon.
“Bless me!” I stared at the bauble.
“Indeed.” Holmes chuckled and returned the dragon to his pocket. “This is becoming quite a pretty puzzle, my dear chap. Who is returning the stolen articles? The thief, for some unknown reason? Or another party who wishes to prevent a scandal?” He clapped on his hat. “Come, Watson.”
I followed him, still overcome with astonishment. If Holmes was correct regarding the interest generated by the jewels, as he almost invariably was about these things, tomorrow evening would test our abilities. The combination of the finest emeralds in Europe and Her Grace could only mean trouble.
* * * *
After luncheon, Holmes remarked that he would be absent from our chambers for some time, since he would be occupied with certain investigations.
I spent a quiet afternoon and evening alone, perusing the newspapers and other publications for any hint of gossip or innuendo regarding Her Grace and her family. Apart from His Lordship frequenting the races, however, they garnered no mention in the press.
I was not unduly concerned by Holmes’s absence; he occasionally disappeared for hours or days at a time when immersed in an investigation. He did not return to our chambers that night, or if he had, he arrived late and departed before I awoke. Our invitations to Count von Kratzov’s ball that evening arrived before luncheon; however, I had seen nothing of Holmes throughout the day, nor received word of his whereabouts.
The sky was darkening into dusk when I rose to dress. I glanced at the clock; Holmes was deucedly late. Had he forgotten our promise to Her Grace and Lord Maurice to attend the ball?
At that moment, a flurry of knocks sounded from the front door, followed by raised voices. My chamber door was flung open, and a man dressed in soiled work clothes, clutching a flat cap hurried in, followed by Mrs Hudson.
“Oh, Doctor!” she cried. “He would not wait—”
“I should hope not.” The man spoke with familiar voice. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”
I started. “Holmes?”
With a sigh, Mrs Hudson left. Holmes removed the putty that had altered the contours of his nose and smiled.
“Good afternoon, Watson. I hope you are preparing to dress for—”
“Really, Holmes.” I gazed at his grimy clothing and shook my head. “You are absolutely disgusting.”
“My dear fellow, the disguise was necessary,” he said, eyes twinkling. “It enabled me to acquire information regarding Her Grace. Let us change our clothing, and I shall tell you in the cab on the way to Count von Kratzov’s.”
* * * *
The evening gloom had fallen by the time we finished dressing and descended the stair. Mrs Hudson stood before the door, holding Holmes’s hat.
“I have brushed it as best I can, Mr Holmes,” she said, as he donned his coat and scarf and pulled on his gloves. “I really don’t know how you manage to get so filthy.”
“As I said at the time, it was not my fault, Mrs Hudson. Blame Red O’Toole, the bare knuckle fighter, and his
