In which we enter the Diogenes Club, Mycroft's friend and colleague springs a surprise on us, and Queen Victoria is saved from an Awful Embarrassment

A fortnight ago Sherlock Holmes horrified his friends, and delighted the criminal fraternity, by plunging to his death down the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Apart from his faithful friend Watson, no man has been more deeply affected by Sherlock's disappearance than his brother Mycroft. 1

I have known Mycroft for five years. He works in Whitehall, where he is employed in the office of the Government Solicitor. As a founder member of the Diogenes Club, he has the privilege of living in an apartment on the top floor. I shared rooms there with him until a few days ago, and became involved in many of his unofficial cases, such as his latest, which I call the Adventure of the Royal Revelations.

It began late on Friday April 24th. I was gazing idly from the window of the club library when I noted Mycroft's corpulent figure lumbering hastily across the street to a set of rooms which he owns. He was looking warily about him, and, as he reached the door of the block, he spent some time carefully gazing up and down Pall Mall before disappearing into the building. Those rooms of his are fitted out as offices, and I discovered later that his brother had been hiding there from Professor Moriarty. On Saturday morning Mycroft rushed from the club without touching an excellent breakfast.

I learned later that he had driven Dr Watson to Victoria for the boat train. He returned that afternoon, said nothing, and disappeared into his room. Within minutes the rumbling of his tuba came from behind the closed door. Where Sherlock was a master of his instrument, the violin, Mycroft could best be described as not quite a master of his.

Sharing rooms with a man who plays the tuba badly is not something I would recommend. He spared me the full horrors of his performances by shutting himself in his bedroom of an evening. At times he would concentrate on scales, the false notes dumping down like suet puddings. At other times he would work on his compositions. When he felt light-hearted, his little tunes would bubble forth with a suet pudding every so often. When he was melancholy, he would rumble in the cellarage of his instrument. Sometimes he would soar to the very top of its register until the notes split and drove me to clap on my hat, struggle into my coat, and flee down the stairs into the street, where passers-by stared about them in bewilderment at the distant bull-bellowings.

For several evenings I was constrained to go strolling, Harris, the under-porter, nodding sympathetically as I hurried out. I would return late, glancing up at Mycroft's bedroom window to ascertain whether the torment had stopped.

On Wednesday April 29th, as I returned at dusk, I almost walked into a heavily-built man, swathed in overcoat and silk scarf, lounging on the pavement with his back to me. As I side-stepped and entered the lobby of the Diogenes, Dinwoodie, the aged Senior Servant, shuffled forward.

"Mr Dalziel, sir," he quavered, "Mr Holmes has a visitor in the Strangers' Room. Will you join him, sir?"

The Strangers' Room, where visitors to the Diogenes were received, was a typical club room with well-appointed leather chairs, a fine mahogany bookcase and occasional tables of polished rosewood. As he saw me, Mycroft, filling an armchair, waved a languid hand at a gentleman occupying another.

"Come and join us, Dalziel."

Only one table lamp was lit so that the firelight flickered on Mycroft's heavy but handsome face while nothing but the ticking of the case clock disturbed the silence. Because the club was founded for the most unsociable men in London, no refreshments were served to visitors, so that our guest had to content himself with a cigar. He was a small and stocky man, who rose and shook my hand cordially. He wore a trim beard and moustache, and even in the softened light of the shaded lamp I marked his sunburnt face.

"Sir Marcus," said Mycroft, "may I present Mr Warren Hastings Dalziel, my invaluable friend and colleague. Dalziel, this gentleman is Sir Marcus de Groot, equerry to the Prince of Wales. Sir Marcus has news with the gravest implications for our country and the monarchy. It concerns theft."

"And murder, Mr Holmes!"

The voice came from the doorway where stood a top-hatted man, the muffled-up man who had been lounging outside. Sir Marcus did not move, but Mycroft rose and clumsily bowed.

"If Your Royal Highness wishes to remain incognito," he replied, "it would still give me the greatest pleasure and honour to act for you."

"Damn me!" said our visitor.

He threw off his silk hat, scarf and coat to reveal himself as the Prince of Wales. His figure was as portly as Mycroft's, but he was bearded where Mycroft was clean-shaven, and a good few inches shorter.

"My little charade is ended, Marcus," said the Prince. He turned to Mycroft. "You possess uncanny powers of perception, Mr Holmes. I was sure I should be unrecognised."

"If you did not wish to be recognised, sir," said Mycroft, "you should not have travelled in your own carriage."

"But I did not," replied the Prince. "I engaged a plain and unprepossessing conveyance."

"Yes sir," smiled Mycroft, "but you should also have engaged a team of indifferent hacks, and a slovenly and careless driver to complete the ensemble. I was in the lobby when your equipage drew up. Your own horses and footmen betrayed you before I ever looked out. Your team are distinguished by their precise and disciplined manner, and your footmen have a certain brisk efficiency which quite gives them away to the attentive observer. There is also the question of the horse-shoes."

"Yes, Mr Holmes?"

"Nickel steel shoes have a distinctive ring, and the hoof beats suggested a team of the size and weight of Cleveland bays. Before you alighted from the carriage I was more than half certain of your identity. Once I saw you under the street lamp, your disguise was transparent."

A study in amazement, the Prince took the seat that Mycroft offered. I was presented, made a bow and began to leave, but the Prince stopped me.

"Any man who enjoys the confidence of Mycroft Holmes shall enjoy mine," he said, whereupon I sat down in the background while our new guest lit a cigar. He seemed to be on edge, and Mycroft nodded in approval as I stayed at a respectful distance.

"Mr Holmes," began the Prince, "as Sir Marcus has told you, there is at present a great danger to the throne, and at the heart of the matter lies my mama's personal diary. I intended to remain outside and let Sir Marcus explain everything, but my anxieties became too great."

"Sir Marcus was beginning to recount the details to me, sir," said Mycroft. "But he did not mention murder."

The Prince drew heavily on his cigar before resuming.

"Since my father's death thirty years ago, it has been my mother's practice to enter long and detailed confidences in her personal diary. She summarises policies, and writes her private opinions of Cabinet ministers. Half a dozen foreign powers would give anything to lay their hands on even a single page of that diary."

Mycroft leaned forward eagerly, his keen grey eyes glittering.

"So I understand from Sir Marcus, sir. And I also understand that the diary has disappeared."

"It has, Mr Holmes," replied the Prince grimly. "At the weekend, my wife and I stayed with Mama at Sandringham. At some time between Sunday evening and lunch on Monday someone stole her current diary."

"So much Sir Marcus told me before your arrival. And the murder?"

"One of my equerries, Sir Charles Quincanneaux, was stabbed to death in the room from which the diary was stolen."

"Can you give me more details?"

"Sir Marcus!" commanded the Prince.

"The body was found at Monday lunchtime, Mr Holmes," said Sir Marcus, "in the upstairs room where the diary was kept in a locked cabinet. Sir Charles was lying on the floor with an assegai buried in his back."

"An assegai!"

"The weapon had been torn down from a wall mounting. The door of the room was locked, and the key was in the keyhole on the inside. The doctor said that Sir Charles had been dead since the previous night."

"The window?"

"Closed and fastened, Mr Holmes."

"Who had the key to the cabinet?"

The Prince answered: "My mother had one, and the other was in the possession of Sir Charles. It was found in his pocket."

"When was the body found, and by whom?"

"Two footmen found it at about one fifteen on Monday afternoon," said Sir Marcus. "The evening before, Her Majesty gave Sir Charles the volume to be locked away. He went to do that after dinner. By Monday lunchtime, no-one had seen him and we undertook a search. Eventually the room was broken into and the body discovered. Shortly afterwards the diary was known to be missing."

"May I ask, since this is now Wednesday, why you did not seek immediate assistance?"

"We had to make certain that the diary was indeed missing and not mislaid, Mr Holmes. We had to be discreet, since the fewer who know about this, the better."

"Quite so. I imagine that the missing volume could only aggravate the situation in Southern Africa, and seriously affect our relations with France."

The Prince nodded.

"It is my belief, Mr Holmes," he said, "that the diary was stolen on the orders of my royal nephew, Wilhelm."