I think it's time for another story, but please be warned I'm going to have to fit this round things at home and work, and so it might be a while between Chapter uploads. That's assuming it's worth waiting for....

Disclaimer: usual disclaimers apply, characters other than ACD's are my own invention.

Chapter 1

It was perhaps inevitable that as soon as the story of the disappearance of Lord Falconer's son had been made public knowledge, that Sherlock Holmes would become involved.

The bright May morning sunshine was streaming in through the bay window of the lounge of 221B Baker Street. Watson had recently returned from collecting the morning newspaper from the chirpy vendor stationed on the street corner. He had been reassured to see the story of Benjamin Falconer making the front page, and duly passed the document to Holmes on his arrival.

Matters had been quiet in Holmes' professional life. After a number of high profile cases, it now seemed as though the criminal underworld was is such awe of him that they had reformed, leaving him with little to occupy himself. This had happened before of course; and Watson knew exactly the antidote he needed to overcome the gloom which descended on the bachelors' flat. An interesting case.

"Well?" he said, after allowing a decent time for Holmes to read the article.

"As regards the Falconer case, it is simple. From what is reported, it is obvious that the lad has eloped with the Miss...." He referred to the article for the girl's name. "Miss Needham. I expect there will shortly be a report of their marriage at Gretna."

"Come, I don't think it can be as straightforward as that, surely, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson, somewhat disappointed that the hoped-for case was dissolving before his eyes. "What about the blood?"

"The blood, as you so enthusiastically refer to it, was nothing more than what would result from a small cut. There appears to be reference to the local constabulary finding a broken glass bottle in the driveway leading to the house. Perhaps the young man was getting a bit of 'Dutch courage' before asking the young lady to fall in with him, and in his excitement caused himself this small injury. We are not talking murder, Watson. Not with that amount of blood."

Watson was not to be deterred. "The lad was spending a lot of time on the cliffs, by the ruins of the castle. Two men were seen talking to him most animatedly the day before he disappeared. They, too, are now no-where to be found."

"Well," replied Holmes, "unless you can produce them as hostile witnesses I am very much afraid that all you have to support your case is the lad having a conversation with two other people about something of which we have no knowledge. People can get 'quite animated', Watson, about the most mundane of things." He heaved a sigh, and tossed the newspaper onto the table, where it slid straight across and ended up on the floor. Watson bent down to pick it up and return it to the table, and as he did so the distant ringing of the doorbell came to their ears.

Holmes straightened in his chair, and cast a mischievous smile at his friend. "Who knows, Watson, this could even now be Lord Falconer come to engage me to find his dear son."

They waited a few moments as the front door was opened. A hushed conversation was briefly held with Mrs Hudson, and then footsteps sounded as she and the visitor made their way up the stairs and to the door of the flat.

"Hmmm," mused Holmes. "Male, mid fifties, tall but over-weight, ex-services, limp in left leg." He stopped as if struck by what he had just said, and reached for the paper again. "Oh dear. Lord James Falconer, RN retired ...."

Mrs Hudson knocked the door, and Holmes, turning towards Watson with a look of mild resignation, replied "Come!"

Lord James Falconer entered the room as they stood, a towering presence both physically - he was if anything an inch on Holmes - and with an air of power and authority. Holmes and Watson nodded their greeting to him. "Welcome, Lord Falconer," enthused Holmes, "I have been expecting you."

The visitor was taken aback for a moment, and then smiled warmly. Holmes invited him to sit, and offered him a smoke, which he politely refused.

"I am sorry to call on you unannounced, Mr Holmes," he started, his voice mellow with a West Country accent. Holmes shook his head to relieve him of his concern. "I must admit for a moment I was a little surprised that you knew me and were expecting me, but nay, it's because of that greatness that I have come for your aid."

"Tell me of your son Benjamin, your Lordship. Everything."

"In truth there is not much to tell, Mr Holmes ...."

Holmes stood up. "Then good-day, sir!" he exclaimed. "You have come a long way to see me, and yet it is all to pay me off with stories and half-truth?"

"By no means, Mr Holmes!" replied the visitor. "Please, I will tell you what you wish to know, but really, what you read in the newspaper -" He looked at the crumpled organ on the table - "is not the half of it."

Holmes sat down again, and started his pipe. He closed his eyes, and invited his Lordship to continue.

"Our family seat, as you know, is Trethewan Court, a few miles outside of Tintagel, on the north Cornwall coast. It's a wild spot in winter, but come the summer, there's not a place in the whole of England better for the airs. We have good relations with all our neighbours, and recently Benjamin has been getting particularly involved with the son and daughter of Squire Needham, who lives at Needham Hall, perhaps half a mile away. They are a fine pair, like their father, who is an old Army man and who served in India until he was invalided out a decade ago. We get on well; we're both widowers, my wife died two years ago, and we go hunting and shooting together. We dine in each others houses perhaps twice a month.

"My son is absolutely fascinated by the area round about, and has researched the history of it most completely. It has been his regular habit to go over to the old ruins on the cliffs. He has been studying them for years – since his youth, and he is now six and twenty – and he has examined them in great depth. In fact to be frank, Mr Holmes, I dare say there is now not a person living in Cornwall who knows as much about the history of the area as does my son."

"Did the Needhams share his interest?" asked Holmes.

"Not really, Mr Holmes, although they would often accompany him on his visits," he replied. "More to make up some company than any particular interest, I think. They spent more time here at the house with him, poring over old books and maps, than out in the country air as I would have hoped for young people of their age."

"But something changed, yes?"

"Yes, Mr Holmes, it did. You see, about a week ago my son returned from is field travels much later than usual, after dark, and was in a high state of excitement. I told him I had been concerned, and asked him what was the matter, but he just dismissed my worries and said that I would understand in due course. Each day thereafter he would leave early, and get back late. And then, of course, two days ago he left as normal in the morning, alone, and hasn't been seen since."

Holmes winked at Watson. "And neither, I suspect, has the Needham girl?"

"Oh, yes, Mr Holmes, she is at her home, fully well."

Holmes was clearly taken aback. "Oh. It's just that ..."

"I know what has been surmised, and that by more than just you, Mr Holmes," replied Lord Falconer with a little colour in his cheeks. "I am disappointed that people who do not know my son jump to such conclusions." Holmes bowed his head in apology. "No, Mr Holmes, I have an idea what has happened, and you need to come to Cornwall to resolve this matter."

"Come to Cornwall?"

"And perhaps enter the history books."

Holmes leaned forward. "I cannot see how my finding your son will garner me any more fame than I already have."

Lord Falconer reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small black notebook. "My son's notes," he said, passing it to Holmes. "Look at the final page."

Holmes flicked through the well-worn pages until he came to the last entry. He stopped and stared at the page, his eyes opening in surprise and wonder. "Is it true? Is is possible?"

"I don't know, Mr Holmes, but I think that if you find the answer to that, you will find the answer to my son's disappearance as well."

Holmes passed the notebook to Watson, who looked at the last entry. He looked at Holmes, his mouth open at what he saw.

At last, I have found it. The tomb. The tomb of King Arthur.