“Simply astonishing!” she uttered, a broad smile now covering her face. “So, vanity was my undoing, yet again. And you are quite correct about the content of the telegram. I had not heard one word from Roger Morton since the night of the fire and believed that he had no further hold on me with the destruction of the canvas. The telegram came as a complete shock.”

“It would be helpful to see the precise wording of the message,” said Holmes.

She rose from her chair and passed the telegram to my colleague. He looked it over for some minutes and then read aloud: ‘More to come on Cheddington scandal…a photograph... will prevent marriage = M.’ Very interesting - it seems that Mr Morton is determined to scupper your wedding plans, Mrs Aston-Cowper, and is prepared to go to great lengths to do so. That recent announcement in The Times has clearly been picked up by our man in America who now plans to travel back to England to sow the seeds of your undoing.”

I then interposed. “Why do you say that, Holmes?”

“Well, he has no way of knowing that Mrs Aston-Cowper has already told your nephew about the canvas and photograph so is labouring under the delusion that his disclosure of the latter would prevent the wedding. That said, if the photograph were to fall into the wrong hands, it could still be tremendously damaging to both their reputations. And yet, Morton clings to some hope that he can negotiate a deal. If that were not the case, he would already have exposed the photograph to the American press, who would no doubt relish a story about the fall from grace of a British Lady. The telegram was sent from New York yesterday evening by the Western Union Telegraph Company. It seems to me that Morton despatched it before boarding a passenger liner for the transatlantic passage to Liverpool.”

With that, he leapt from his seat and began to rummage through a pile of loose folders in a corner of the room. Mrs Aston-Cowper looked on with some consternation. When he returned to his seat a minute or two later, Holmes was waving a bright-coloured pamphlet.

“Here it is - a brochure for the British and North American Royal Mail Steam-Packet Company. The passenger liner Scotia was due to set off yesterday for the eastbound crossing. This is the oceangoing steamer that won the Blue Riband for the westbound passage three years ago. The voyage is estimated to take between ten and fourteen days, which should mean that Roger Morton will be docking at Liverpool in early September.”

Mrs Aston-Cowper continued to look confused. “And what happens then?”

“Why, it should be a simple matter of greeting him at the port and persuading him to hand over the photograph,” Holmes retorted. “That is a task you can leave to the inestimable talents of Dr Watson here.”

I was flattered by Holmes faith in me, but not a little disturbed at the thought that the social standing of both my nephew and his bride to be might depend on my success in completing the mission. Mrs Aston-Cowper seemed delighted by the plan, rising from her chair to come and shake me warmly by the hand, before offering some words of encouragement.

“Doctor, I will forever be in your debt if you can manage to resolve this issue. It is more than I could have hoped for in coming here today, when my principal objective was to persuade you to attend a wedding! And I will be eternally grateful for the professional assistance you have offered, Mr Holmes. You have a rare set of talents. I must now take my leave. And while I am loath to keep anything from Christopher - as I hinted at earlier - I do believe it would be better for all concerned, if nothing more was said about our meeting today.”

“That would be best for us all,” agreed Holmes, with a mischievous smile. “Without any disrespect to you, Mrs Aston-Cowper, I would not wish it to be known by my colleagues at Scotland Yard that I am now providing guidance on marital matters.”

Our client left us in good humour and I looked forward to meeting her again at the wedding that October. For the next week or so, I sought regular updates from the steamship company on the likely progress of the Scotia and made plans to travel up to the Port of Liverpool to greet the arrival of the passenger liner. When it berthed at the Albert Dock on Monday, 3rd September, I was more than prepared for the encounter with Roger Morton.

He emerged from the dock office in the company of a porter who was pulling a hand trolley on which sat a large cabin trunk. Morton was well over six-feet tall and solidly built. He was dressed in a knee-length tweed frock coat, a white shirt and wide dark-red necktie. On his head sat a tall top hat. He looked every part the English aristocrat.

As I stepped forward, he pre-empted my challenge. “Dr Watson, I take it? I understand that you are here to collect this from me,” said he, thrusting a large envelope into my hand. There was no warmth in his tone and his dark brown eyes fixed on mine with a degree of menace. Not to be intimidated, I continued to hold his stare and then turned my attention to the envelope. As I opened it, I could see that it contained the salacious image of the young Virginia Melrose.

“Our business is concluded then, Mr Morton,” I said, turning briskly and walking away to be bemused looks of the porter.

It was clear that Morton felt he had to have the last word. “For what it’s worth, you can tell her that she was never a great beauty!” His words echoed around the dock office. I carried on walking.

When I arrived back at Baker Street a couple of days later, Holmes was waiting for me with a stiff glass of brandy. “Warm yourself up with this, Watson, it is unseasonably cold today.”

I could not resist chiding him for the unnecessary display. “Holmes, I have known you too long to be fooled by any of this. You knew full well that Morton could be persuaded to hand over the letter. When I met him at the docks he already knew who is was. So, how did you do it?”

Holmes smirked, knowing that I was more relieved than upset by his intervention. “My dear fellow, I could not send you into battle without providing you with reinforcements. A quick visit to my brother Mycroft was all that was required. Having heard the story, he travelled up to Liverpool ahead of you and arranged to be taken out by tug to the Scotia as the liner began its entry to the port. When he tracked Morton down on board the ship, he made it clear that if the rogue did not hand the photograph to you at the dockside, both he and his father, the Duke of Buckland, would be blackballed in every gentleman’s club in London. Furthermore, the Duke’s loans on the current refurbishment of his Highland estates would be called in, rendering the family bankrupt. I suspect that was sufficient to seal the matter.”

I was warmed by the subterfuge. “Then that is an end to the matter, Holmes. A job well done - I have destroyed the photograph, Mrs Aston-Cowper can rest easy, and we can all enjoy the wedding. Let’s drink to that!”

2. The Curious Matter of the Missing Pearmain

“Splendid!” exclaimed Holmes suddenly, looking over a piece that had caught his eye in the Daily Telegraph. It was a chilly, yet bright, early morning in December 1894. My colleague had asked me to call on him first thing, as he said he had a new case that required my assistance. On arriving at Baker Street, I had been offered one of Mrs Hudson’s marvellous cooked breakfasts and when seated upstairs beside my colleague, had eagerly partaken of the thickly-sliced bacon, fried egg, tomatoes and kedgeree that had been presented to me. In contrast, Holmes had contented himself with a single piece of toast and a strong black coffee and had remained largely uncommunicative beyond his initial greeting when I first entered the room.