Part 1

“Sherlock Holmes has gone missing!”

Oscar Tremont rubbed his eyes, glanced at the Garrard Westminster mantel clock, and held the receiver of the nineteen-fifties black Bakelite telephone at arm’s length before releasing a sigh. Rose Grove was a stately Loire Valley manor set amongst rolling vineyards, but its soul and gardens were distinctly English, as was its owner. Spending the weekend there was an invitation Oscar couldn’t have refused, but as he looked bleary-eyed at the clock again to be sure it really was only a quarter past six, he began to wonder whether he should have. Sandra Royton was a bit batty, and he found that rather endearing, but this was by far the most bizarre sentence he’d ever heard her utter.

“I’m sorry, Sandra. Did you say Sherlock Holmes has disappeared?”

He listened to her reply, eyebrows raised, and kicked the bed sheets away.

“Of course, he had a habit of doing that. It’s nothing very peculiar. Most fictional detectives have quirky and annoying habits. Popping off without explanation is a common one and quite effective as a means of enhancing the reader’s sense of mystery. Other irritating traits include substance abuse, talking in riddles, and being unintentionally arrogant. They mustn’t be perfect simply because they’re fictional.”

Oscar grimaced as he listened. “I most certainly don’t take you for a fool. You’re a very intelligent woman. After all, you came to me to elucidate the unfortunate business with your ex-husband.”

The grimace morphed to a frown.

“Oh, I see! You’re talking about your George Newnes’s first edition copy of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes?”

The previous evening – just a matter of hours ago, in fact – he had been in the library with Sandra Royton, the lady of the manor, Andrew Bellingham, a childhood friend of hers, Lara Lalande, the daughter of the area’s most experienced vigneron, and Troy Walsh, a young English expat making a comfortable living exporting local wines, including Sandra’s. They had all admired her collection of rare books and paid particular attention to the copy of The Adventures with its original light-blue, gilt-decorated pictorial cloth and the signature confirmed as indeed belonging to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Oscar took a deep breath and cleared his head. The theft had taken place during the night. Since he was staying in the old gatehouse cottage, it seemed unlikely anybody could have come and gone by car during the night without his hearing them. Sandra’s dogs were well-trained and protective of their mistress and her property. Oscar gave them the widest berth possible, even though he knew they understood he had been given the green light. It was immediately clear that the probability the thief and book were still inside the manor was very high.

“I’ll be there in a minute. Any chance of a strong cup of coffee? Oh, and can you please keep those magnificent hounds of yours away while I cross the garden, like you did last night?”

He smiled, put the receiver down, and got out of bed. He was dressed within a minute, flat cap and all.

Three hundred yards of open lawn stretched from the gatehouse cottage up to the band of rose garden that almost fully encircled the manor, and beyond which was a gravel path and another band of climbing roses that adorned the building’s walls. Oscar kept a nervous eye out for the dogs as he strode briskly across the damp grass and was relieved to find they were nowhere to be seen. He admired the dark red Edith Piaf and somewhat lighter Docteur Watson roses, then smiled pensively at the icebergs with raindrops glistening on their snow-white petals as he reached the main entrance. Sandra was waiting for him at the door, a steaming mug of coffee in each hand.