“Did I not hear you say at dinner that we would return to London by the morning train?”

Sherlock Holmes smiled enigmatically through the gauzy veil of pipe smoke which had gradually enveloped his armchair. “You refer to my remarking that you and I would be far more productive in the city than here in Herefordshire. So we shall be. There are three cases of variable interest awaiting us in London.”

“But the missing diamond?”

“I have solved it.”

“My dear Holmes!” I exclaimed. “I congratulate you. But where is it, then? Have you advised Lord Ramsden of its whereabouts? And have you sent word to Inspector Gregson at the inn?”

“I said I had solved it, not resolved it, my dear fellow.” Holmes laughed, rising from the damask chair in our elegant guest sitting room to knock his pipe against the grate. “That work lies ahead of us. As for the case, it was never a very mysterious business, for all that our friend from the Yard appears to remain bewildered.”

“I find it just as inexplicable,” I admitted. “The ring stolen from a private vault, the absurd missing patch of lawn from the southern part of the grounds, the Baron’s own tragic past…”

“You have a talent of a sort, my dear Watson, though you make shockingly little use of it. You’ve just identified the most telling points in the whole affair.”

“Nevertheless, I confess myself all in the dark. Do you intend this evening to confront the criminal?”

“As it happens, no actual lawbreaking has yet been committed. However, you and I shall tonight don as much wool as we can lay our fingers on in order to witness a crime in action.”

“In action! Holmes, what crime can you mean?”

“Grave robbing, if I have not lost all my senses. Meet me upon the grounds at close upon one o’clock, if convenient—the staff will be largely abed by that time. I would not be seen exiting the house, if I were you. Needless delay could prove very unfortunate indeed.”

And with that, he disappeared into his bedroom.

At ten to one I quit the manor warmly bundled, for the night was bitter indeed, and the stars were mirrored by frozen moisture upon the grass. I spotted my friend with ease as he wandered down a stately path groomed with an almost Continental exactitude, apparently engrossed by the prospect of Nature’s constellations strewn across the sky with perfect clarity. I cleared my throat, and Holmes, with a nod, advanced in my direction.

“My dear Watson!” he said quietly. “So you too would prefer to risk a chill than to miss the Malvern Hills by night? Or so the housekeeper must assume?”

“I do not believe Mrs. Jeavons is awake to assume anything of the kind.”

“Marvelous. Let us see, then, what a brisk walk can do to combat this frigid weather.”

We followed a path which at first pointed toward the gardens but soon banked to trace the curvature of the nearby bluffs. It was not long before Holmes led us through a hinged gate of moss-covered wood, and we left the grounds of Blackheath House behind us. Feeling at a severe disadvantage regarding our intentions, I could not help but inquire, “You have somehow connected grave robbery with a recently stolen heirloom?”

“Why recently? Remember, we have very little evidence as to when it disappeared.”

I considered this, my breath forming ghostly miasmas before my eyes. “Granted. But if there is any question of grave robbery, should we not prevent rather than discover it?”

“I hardly think so.”

Though I was entirely inured to Holmes’s adoration of secrecy at the closing moments of a case, on occasion his dictatorial glibness grated upon my nerves. “No doubt you will soon make clear what a bizarre act of groundskeeping vandalism has to do with the defilement of a sacred resting place.”

Holmes glanced at me. “How long do you suppose it would take you to dig a grave?”

“Alone? I could not say. Given few other constraints upon my time, a day perhaps.”

“And if you required utter secrecy?”

“Several more, I should think,” I replied slowly.

“I imagine it would take you nearly as long to undig a grave, were the need to arise. And if it were imperative that no one discover your project, I presume your native cunning would suggest a way of hiding it from public view.”

“Holmes,” I gasped, the answer suddenly clear to me, “do you mean to tell me that the missing patch of sod—”

“Hsst!” he whispered. “There. You see?” We had crested the top of a wooded ridge perhaps half a mile from the estate and now peered down into the rough depression forming one of the boundaries of the nearby town. Holmes pointed a slender finger. “Observe the church.”

In the vibrant moonlight, I could just make out through the trees of the cemetery the stooped figure of a man laying the final clods of dirt upon a grave graced with a diminutive white headstone. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and started directly for us.

“It is Lord Ramsden himself,” I murmured.

“Back below the crest of the ridge,” said Holmes, and we retreated into the copse.

“He is nearly finished,” my companion observed. “I confess, Watson, that my sympathies in this matter lie squarely upon the side of the criminal, but you shall remain behind this outcropping and judge for yourself. I intend to confront the Baron alone, and if he proves reasonable, so much the better. If he does not—but quick, now! Duck down, and be as silent as you can.”

Settling onto a stone, I lightly grasped my revolver within the pocket of my greatcoat. I had just registered the hiss of a vesta being struck and caught a whiff of Holmes’s cigarette when muffled footsteps all at once thudded against the incline. I found that Holmes had chosen my hiding place with great care, for though I was concealed in the lee of the rock, a crack between it and the adjacent boulder afforded me a contracted view of the scene.

The Baron came into sight as he crested the ridge, perspiring visibly even in the frosty air, drawing his breath in great gasps. Glancing up into the woods before him, he stopped in horror and drew a pistol from his fur-lined cloak.

“Who goes there?” he demanded in a rasping voice.

“It is Sherlock Holmes, Lord Ramsden. It is imperative that I speak with you.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” he cried. “What are you doing about at this hour?”

“I might say the same to you, my lord.”

“It is hardly any business of yours,” the Baron retorted, but his words were brittle with panic. “I have paid a visit. A friend—”

Holmes sighed. “My lord, I cannot allow you to perjure yourself in this manner, for I know your errand tonight dealt not with the living but with the dead.”

“How could you know that?” asked the Baron.

“All is known to me, my lord.”

“So you have discovered her gravesite, then!” His hand wildly trembling, he waved his pistol at the ground in small circles as if unsure of its purpose.

“I paid it a brief visit this morning,” Holmes acknowledged gently. “I knew you, upon your own confession, to have loved Elenora Rowley. There you thought yourself wise, for you reasoned that too many trysts and too much correspondence had occurred between you for utter secrecy to be maintained after her death.”

“I did—and so I told you all!”

“From the instant your family realized the ring was missing, you have played the game masterfully,” Holmes continued, never moving his hypnotic grey eyes from the Baron’s face, though I knew his attention as well as my own was firmly fixed upon the pistol. “You summoned Dr. Watson and myself to aid the police; you even insisted we remain at Blackheath House until all was settled. I extend my compliments to your very workmanlike effort.”

The Baron’s eyes narrowed in fury. “I was forthright with you. I showed you and your friend every imaginable courtesy. So why, then, did you do it? Why would you ever have visited her grave?”