It was a particularly sullen December day in our little corner of the world. I had risen quite late to find the long form of Sherlock Holmes tucked up against the sitting-room window, staring listlessly out into the foggy street. He was in the same dressing gown he had been wearing for the past three days, typical of his attitude when cases were few and far between. His forehead was pressed against the glass, eyes clouded over and his expression lax. So absorbed was he in his contemplations that he did not immediately acknowledge my greeting. After a moment of heavy silence, he lifted himself from his torpor and regarded me with those languid eyes.

"Existence," he said, ambling over to his pipe stand and selecting the cherrywood," is a dreary, pointless exercise, and it makes one desperate for the occasional tragedy to break up the monotony."

I sat down to my breakfast and began to saw into my steak and eggs. "In a good mood again today, I see."

"There has been a mass exodus among the London criminal classes since my return to the public sphere. Sometimes I wonder if my resurrection has done more harm than good for this country."

"Surely not," I said, glancing at him with concern. "It would foster boldness among them."

"And now that I have returned, they will remove their nefarious activities to other locales," he tapped the pipe stem against his teeth, and then favoured me with a sinister smile. "Perhaps I will again arrange my own demise, and see if I can't entice some sport out of them."

I put down my fork and knife, my appetite evaporating. I glared at him. "That is an appalling notion, Holmes."

He shoved a pile of papers out of his chair and dropped into it, stretching out his long legs and letting his head loll back. His arms hung loosely on either side of him, one hand clutching the pipe.

"Appalling! Ceaseless boredom is appalling," he said moodily, raising the pipe to his lips. "My art wants chaos, Watson. What is virtue without villainy?"
To this I had no answer. I rose from my seat and went over to the window, pulling back the curtain. Below, a familiar figure was making his way hurriedly up our steps, followed by a uniformed police constable, who halted by the door.

"Well," I said, recognizing our guest. "I think you will get your sport soon enough."

Holmes looked at me, and then at the door as the sound of heavy footsteps met our ears. He leaped to his feet, suddenly charged with energy. I had often witnessed this sudden reversal of moods, but it never ceased to amaze me. In an instant, his whole aspect went from deep depression to hearty enthusiasm.

He met Inspector Lestrade at the door, hand outstretched.

"Inspector Lestrade! How wonderful to see you. Please, come by the fire, I can see you are quite damp."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade gripped my friend's hand, his face haggard. "I am in most dire straits and would be very glad of your assistance."

Holmes' face lit up and he looked as eager as a child on Christmas morning. "Pray tell, Lestrade. I am entirely at your disposal."

Inspector Lestrade held his hands out to the fire. "You will have heard about the affair?"

"No, I have not yet had today's paper."

"I shall have to tell you the details on the way. There is no time to be lost."

Holmes glanced at me, a quick smile coming to his face, which disappeared when he turned back to Lestrade. "It is a matter of great importance, then?"

"Tremendous importance. A peer of the realm has gone missing."

"Ha!" Holmes clapped his hands together in delight, and practically bounced off to his room to get dressed. Lestrade looked at me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged my shoulders and turned my attention back to my cold breakfast.

Ten minutes later found us in a four wheeler, speeding towards Charing Cross Station. Lestrade stayed mum until we were in the security of our train compartment, bound for Chislehurst.

"I am sorry to be so mysterious, but the Lords wish us to keep the press at bay as long as possible," said the inspector apologetically. "There has already been a considerable uproar."

Holmes waved a dismissive hand, and gestured for him to continue.

"Lord William Arthur Monroe went missing about half past eight Monday morning last. He was last by a builder, Jonathan Talbot, presumably traveling to Westminster. Talbot claims he spoke briefly with Lord Monroe about construction work being done on the manor house and that the gentleman continued on his way after that. His coachman could give us no details, as it was Lord Monroe's preference to walk to the train station. It is less than a mile from the grounds."

"Who reported him missing?"

"The Lady Monroe."

Holmes pressed his steepled fingers against his lips, and then leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "The first instinct is to assume, as when any member of the government goes missing, the motive is political."

"That is our feeling, yes," said Lestrade wearily. "The Peerage believe it is the work of the Fenians. Lord Monroe was a vocal adversary against Irish Nationalism."

"Indeed," said Holmes. "And yet no demands have been made?"

"None."

"No patriotic declarations, no ransom note?"

"Not a one."

Holmes' eyebrows were drawn down in thought. His eyes took on a glazed look as he peered out the window at the passing urban sprawl. "If, as you suspect, Irish Republicans have kidnapped or murdered Lord Monroe for the purposes of making an example of him, why then have they not come forward to take the credit?"

"If they are still in England-"

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Impossible."

I looked at Lestrade, whose pursed lips betrayed his irritation, then at Holmes, who was still looking out the window.

"You don't think it was the Fenians," I said, trying to discern his thoughts. He turned to look at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I have not discounted it...yet."

Lestrade snorted, and crossed his arms. Holmes' eyes flicked to him, and his smile broadened.

"As usual, we must pursue our separate lines. Come now, don't sulk, Lestrade," Holmes patted his knee. "After all, you want results."

Lestrade gave him a withering look. I hid my smile behind my hand.

The drive to Monroe Manor was short. The narrow road opened up into a wide expanse, and where it terminated, there stood a great sprawling manor house all done in the Tudor half-timbered style.

The east wing of the house was clustered round with scaffolding, upon which several men laboured. I could not discern the nature of their repairs, but as we approached, they all seemed to scurry to find some useful employment for their idle hands. I looked to Holmes, but he was watching the builders with narrowed eyes.

A prim, aged butler awaited us on the steps. We disembarked from the dog cart, Holmes in the lead. The butler gave a short bow, and beckoned us to follow.

"I am Byrnes. My mistress has been expecting you."

We followed the butler across the threshold, and into the richly decorated drawing room, where a handsome woman of perhaps forty reclined on a velvet upholstered sofa. She rose as we entered, and immediately fixed a hostile eye on my companion and myself.

"Inspector Lestrade!" she barked, and the detective jumped. "I thought I told you I wanted no more of your men thundering through my house. This has all been quite inconvenient enough without you snooping through our personal possessions."

"Madam-"

"And further more, I do not see how your hanging about here is going to do any good in recovering my husband!" she waved an elegant hand towards the window. "He is somewhere out there, not in here!"

"Lady Monroe," said Holmes in a calm, confiding voice. "We are not policemen. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my colleague, Doctor Watson."

Lady Monroe, who was quite a tall woman, surveyed my companion with her dark, piercing eyes.

"Your name is not familiar to me. What is your purpose here? If you are reporters come to take advantage of our misfortune and pry into our private affairs, I must insist that you leave my house immediately, or I shall have you thrown out!"

I opened my mouth to counter this insult, but Holmes held up a hand. "I am a private consulting detective, Lady Monroe, and my only purpose here is to locate your husband. If you would prefer that he remains missing, I can always employ my time elsewhere."

The intractable woman drew herself up, evidently about to upbraid Holmes for his somewhat insolent pronouncement, but suddenly deflated, her shoulders going limp. She dropped down on to the sofa as if she were struck by a sudden weakness, and covered her face.

"I am sorry, gentlemen. I have been...it has not been..."

Holmes made a dismissive gesture, and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. "You must be under tremendous strain, Lady Monroe. I promise, I am here to assist you in every way I can. But you must cooperate fully with me. Can you do that?"

She looked at him, her lip trembling slightly, and nodded slowly. Then she looked to the butler.

"Bring coffee and biscuits for our guests."

I settled myself on a velvet settee and pulled my trusty little notebook from my inner jacket pocket. Lestrade did the same, his beady eyes fixed on the distraught woman.

"First, I would like to interview your step-daughter," said Holmes, tapping a cigarette out of a silver cigarette case. Lady Monroe glared at Lestrade.

"Inspector, you assured me Ellen would not be involved in this sordid affair. You have already overstepped the bounds of propriety by allowing these...gentlemen into our confidence."

Lestrade looked from Holmes to Lady Monroe, his eyes widening. "I have not spoken a word to Mr. Holmes about Miss Monroe!"

"Then how did he know?"

Holmes lit the cigarette and pulled off it, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. "I deduced it, madam. There is a photograph of a young woman on the roll-top desk over there. It is not faded, so it must have been taken recently. It cannot be his first wife; in any case, he would not be apt to display a photograph of her. Therefore it must be his daughter. The wedding band upon your finger is not three years old, so Miss Monroe cannot be your daughter. Ergo, she must be your step daughter."

Lady Monroe was clearly shocked. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it and looked to Lestrade, who gave a helpless shrug.

"It is essential that I speak to her," Holmes said firmly. "You must allow me free reign in every regard, madam, else all will be in vain."

"I want it understood," said the Lady Monroe, "that Ellen is not to be upset on any account. She has a delicate nervous constitution, and has already suffered much."

"I would like to speak to her today," Holmes said insistently. "I will make it as painless as possible, but it is vital."

Lady Monroe shook her head. "I sent her to Brighton to weather this storm."

"Wire her to come back at once," Holmes commanded.

Byrnes, the butler, had returned with our coffee and biscuits. Lady Monroe gestured imperiously to him. He gave a short bow and went to carry out his task.

Holmes switched over to the seat facing the formidable woman, folding his hands together, and focusing intently on her for a full minute with his cigarette resting in the corner of his mouth.

"What, exactly, were the course of events during the day in question? Pray, be as exact as your memory allows."

Lady Monroe made another gesture, wherein a young maid servant I had not seen appeared suddenly at her side. The lady requested her fan, and began to fan herself vigorously.

"William- that is, Lord Monroe- didn't like to wake me in the mornings. He left very early, as it was his preference to arrive at Whitehall at 8 o' clock. I woke a few moment after he departed, and went to the window. He was in a seemingly heated conversation about something with Jonathan Talbot, the builder who is overseeing the restoration of the east wing.
"They both walked away from my view, presumably to inspect the progress on the wing. That was the last I saw of him."

The lady's lip quivered, but her jaw was firmly set, and I felt a grudging admiration for her fortitude. In the course of my service with Sherlock Holmes, I had seen more than one woman succumb to violent hysterics in the face of such a tragedy. I could see now that Lady Monroe's truculence was a symptom of her grief. She did seem to express relief that Holmes had come to take the situation in hand.

"When was Lord Monroe first missed?"

"At about half-past nine that evening," said Lady Monroe, shutting her fan and setting it on the side table. "It was...it is not unusual for Lord Monroe to arrive home quite late, as he was passionate about his work. But he always sent ahead to say if he would be late. He was such a considerate man."

Lady Monroe's face had blurred slightly with a lovelorn expression, and Holmes cleared his throat. She blinked and refocused her attention on him. Holmes stood, taking greater command of the room. He tapped his lips with one finger, then pointed at his client in a graceful movement, as if conducting an orchestra.

"You wired to Whitehall, and was told Lord Monroe had never arrived, and was absent today's session," he said, a statement of fact rather than a question. Lady Monroe nodded, and rose to her feet.

"I immediately summoned the police. They have been searching, but they say now it was Irish Republicans, bent on political revenge against him."

"If that be the case, which I highly doubt," said Holmes, glancing at Lestrade, whose cheeks coloured. "Then it is safe to assume Lord Monroe has been removed to Ireland or some other foreign territory, and that recovering him would be nigh impossible. If the Republicans have him, I assure you, he will be dead before you have time to attempt to recover him."

At this, Lady Monroe gave a brief sob, and put her hand to her mouth. She then grasped Holmes by the hand, causing him to look down at her with a quizzical expression.

"You do not believe that, Mr. Holmes, I can see you do not."

Holmes patted her hand, and withdrew gently.

"I cannot yet tell you. I must first speak to your lawyer. But rest assured, dead or alive, we will discover his whereabouts before long."

With that, he inclined his head, turned on his heel and walked swiftly out the door. I gave a quick bow to the lady and hurried after him.