Disclaimer: The characters recognizable from the Cannon belong to Conan
Doyle, and Mary Russell belongs to the inimitable Laurie R. King....though
I have reason to believe that Holmes and Russell belong solely to
themselves....
A/N: This tale is an attempt--a successful one, I hope--to combine two of
my favorite subjects: Sherlock Holmes and King George VI. Certain
character's, including Prince Albert (George VI), his wife Elizabeth (the
Queen Mum) and Prince Edward (Edward VIII) are real persons who are no
longer living. I have endeavored to remain true to their personalities as
I have understood them from extensive biographical reading, just as I have
with the *supposedly* fictional characters. The mystery involving these
real persons is enitirely fictional, to my knowledge. I hope you enjoy
the story!
**********
A Princely Price
**********
Sussexshire
Near Eastbourne
Tuesday, 15 March, 1924
The letter arrived by special government courier on what must have been
the wettest day of the year. The downpour--or deluge, I might say--that
had blown in from the Channel overnight now virtually imprisoned us in
our own cottage. The blinding rain made the Sussex Downs unnavigable
and, frankly, the chilly air disinclined anyone from venturing out at all.
Holmes had holed himself up in the upstairs laboratory, experimenting
with (thankfully) non-odoriferous chemicals. Mrs. Hudson could be found
pottering around her kitchen, wholly undisturbed by the violent weather
from out of doors.
I, on the other hand, found it impossible to concentrate on anything at
all: not the passage from Leviticus which I had so painstakingly begun
to translate; not Ovid's semi-tawdry "Ars Amatoria"; not even Uncle
John's account of the affair at Reichenbach Falls (the conclusion of
which, incidentally, never failed to reduce me to tears, an occasion
which caused Holmes to crow with delight whenever he caught me).
I threw my fountain pen down in frustration and had nearly resolved to
make my way up the stairs and attempt to entice Holmes away from his
chemicals, when the post boy arrived from Eastbourne. The front bell
rang out and a large packet of soggy envelopes was shoved
unceremoniously through the mail slot.
I practically leapt from my seat in Holmes' frayed basket chair, eager
for any successful distraction, and made my way through the sitting room
to the front door. The various letters proved thoroughly unsatisfying
upon examination, consisting mostly of bills, a summons from Inspector
Lestrade to give testimony regarding our part in a recent state
investigation, and a thick letter from Mrs. Hudson's son in Australia.
I sighed, disappointed, and turned toward the kitchen to deliver this
last, when the bell rang a second time. Halting abruptly in my surprise,
I turned on my heel to face the door once again. When no similarly
sopping parcels presented themselves, I abandoned my theory of a
forgetful post boy and moved to open the door.
The young man standing on our stoop, huddling into his immaculate
uniform great coat to avoid the stinging drizzle, wore the unmistakable
insignia of His Majesty's regimental guard upon his cap.
"May I help you?" I asked, my eyebrows climbing toward my hairline.
"Begging yer pardon, mum, but Oi've come t' deliver a letter to a Mr.
Sherlock 'Olmes," he stated crisply, though his continual shivering
belied his stiffly proper manner to some degree.
I took pity on him, if only to prevent the warmth of the room from being
leeched out through the open door. "Do come in out of the cold,
Sergeant! I'm sure you can spare a few moments to warm yourself by the
fire."
He nodded gratefully and stepped gingerly across the threshold. "Thank
ye kindly, mum. There is a powerful chill out." He doffed his cap and
handed it to me along with his dripping overcoat. Hanging these items
before the fireplace to dry, I turned back to him and had to suppress a
smile. Without his elegant military trappings, our visitor looked to be
even younger than myself, his face pink-cheeked and cherubic above an
ornate uniform waistcoat.
"May I have your name please, Sergeant?"
He blinked, and then blushed slightly. "Aw yes, sorry, mum. Sergeant
Nevile Hortham of the Grenadier Guards."
"I am Mr. Holmes' wife," I stated simply, thinking better of confusing
the boy by identifying my surname as other than "Holmes." "Please make
yourself comfortable, and I will fetch Mr. Holmes."
I left him in the sitting room, faintly amused at his surreptitious
scrutiny of the many odds and ends scattered about, and poked my head
into the kitchen to ask Mrs. Hudson to serve tea a bit earlier than was
usual. I then proceeded up the stairs and into the windowless room that
held both painful and delightful memories for me. Seeing that Holmes
was in the middle of titrating some solution or other, I stood to one
side within his view and waited.
His expression was one of rapt concentration as he watched each droplet
fall into the beaker below. Fixing my gaze on his profile, I was
suddenly struck by how dear and well-loved that face was to me. The
brooding eyebrows, jutting nose, and strong jaw made him look like
nothing so much as a stern bird of prey, a raptor intent on the kill.
And yet, in a moment's time, a triumphant grin could cross those thin
lips and transform his entire countenance into the embodiment of
exuberant, carefree joy. It was one of those moments in a marraige--or
any longstanding relationship, for that matter--when the veil of the
everyday is lifted and one is struck deeply by all that is beloved in
one's partner.
I must have been grinning stupidly, for when Holmes finally looked up
from his titration (which had flashed suddenly to a startling purple
colour), he raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled in return.
"You find titration so amusing, dear Russell? Surely it has become old
hat for you after your own exhaustive studies in chemistry," he joked
lightly, turning back to his open notebook to record his findings.
He was, therefore, momentarily startled when I impulsively wrapped my
arms about his shoulders and hugged him in an excess of affection.
"Russ?" he queried, craning his neck around to examine my face.
"Missed me already, did you?" He smirked, entirely too smugly, I thought.
Taking his angular jaw in my hand, I leaned in to peck him on the nose
which I had so admired. "I just love you, that's all," I
stated contentedly, and then tried to wipe the grin from his lips with a
more lingering kiss. I was eminently successful, if the slightly glazed
look in his gray eyes was anything to judge by.
"That's all, is it?" he husked, dropping his pencil and moving to return
my embrace. We were thus thoroughly occupied for several minutes before
my sluggish brain recalled my original purpose for ascending to the
laboratory.
"Oh, the sergeant!" I exclaimed, pushing at Holmes' shoulders to get his
attention.
"Pardon?" he asked in utter confusion, lifting his head from my neck to
stare at me as if I'd suddenly gone mad.
"That's actually why I came up in the first place," I replied, using my
fingers to right his slightly disheveled salt-and-pepper hair. "There's
a Sergeant Hortham of the Grenadier Guards waiting downstairs. He has a
letter for you, from London, I would imagine."
"Ah!" he exclaimed as I smoothed down my rumpled dress. The experiment
lay forgotten on the table as we made our way out of the room. On the
landing, Holmes looked at me sidelong, a smile tugging at the corner of
his mouth. "So, you really didn't miss me, hmm?"
I swatted his arm playfully and gave him a mysterious look, eliciting a
sharp bark of laughter.
Once in the sitting room, we witnessed Mrs. Hudson laying out the tea
things at a small table by the window. Our guest, seated in a chair
near the fire, shot to his feet and walked stiffly toward us to present
himself to Holmes. The young man's voice quavered almost imperceptibly
in the presence of the Great Detective, but Holmes shook his hand warmly
and then led the way to the tea table.
"Do sit down, Sergeant," I invited, hoping to put him at his ease.
"Thank you, bu' oi can only stay a shor' time, mum, sir. Just until I
get your reply t' this letter oi've brought." Reaching between the
brass buttons to the inside of his frock coat, Sergeant Hortham drew out
a small, thin envelope with Holmes' name written in a scrawling
copperplate across the front.
As Holmes took the envelope, eagerly examining its, no doubt, myriad
minutia, I persuaded the young man to at least take a cup of tea to
warm him. He sat gingerly on the edge of his chair, looking thoroughly
flummoxed by the delicate bone china cup resiting in his huge hand.
Looking back to my husband, I could see that he had discovered the wax
seal that secured the flap. I was intrigued to observe his eyes
suddenly alight with glee, making it clear that he had discovered the
vital clue to discovering the mysterious envelope's contents.
"Ah-hah!" he cried, nearly causing the sergeant to upset his cup. "I
say, Russell, this will prove to be an interesting missive, have no
doubt. It is from the recently invested Duke of York. I recognize his
coat of arms."
I was stunned, to say the least. I knew that Holmes had had dealings
with many royal houses during his years at Baker Street, had even
politely refused an offer of knighthood from the late Queen Victoria.
Nevertheless, the reality of the circles which my husband still moved in
managed to leave me momentarily speechless.
//The Duke of York// I thought dazedly. Prince Albert Frederick Arthur
George, second son of the current monarch, King George V, had been
married only the previous year to a Scotswoman. The fact that she was a
"commoner," not of European royal blood, had caused some uproar within
the velvet lined halls of Pall Mall, but most had rejoiced at this
decidedly British edition to the mostly German Windsor family. The
court circular made free to praise her feisty charm and wit, though her
husband remained largely ignored. Prince Albert was, by all accounts,
very shy and diffident, a painful stammer making his public duties
arduous for all concerned. Certainly his flashy, glamorous older
brother, the Prince of Wales, overshadowed him with his gossip-worthy
exploits and his charismatic demeanor. It was really a shame--
"Russell?" Holmes' impatient voice jerked me out of my reverie, and I
coloured slightly in embarrassment. I saw that he had already made quick
work of the letter and was waving it in front of my face. Suppressing a
flash of irritation, I snatched it and began to read while Holmes left
to fetch paper and pen for his reply.
My dear Uncle Sherlock [it read],
I do hope you don't mind me still calling you that. I
know it seems silly, now that I'm quite grown, but
really, you are so much more interesting than my *real*
uncles!
Elizabeth and I will be traveling through Sussex the
day after tomorrow, Thursday, and as I have not had the
opportunity to catch up with you in some time, I wonder
if you would be agreeable to our stopping by for tea.
I have not yet had the chance to meet your reportedly
charming new wife, nor have you met mine. In fact, I
have rattled on so much about you to Elizabeth, that
she is understandably eager to make the acquaintance of
the "Great Detective."
If you are amenable, we would very much enjoy a lengthy
visit! I eagerly await your reply.
Until then, I remain, most affectionately,
Yours,
Bertie
Duke of York
P.S. - I also have a little conundrum to lay before you.
If I know you--and I do--you will most assuredly find it
to be suggestive.
-B-
For several moments, I could not think beyond the immediate implications
of the letter. "Royalty? Coming here, to my house? What will I wear?!"
I mumbled in a rising panic, not realizing that I had spoken aloud.
"Oh, come now Russell! The Duke may be second in line for the throne of
the Empire, but he's still just a man, and a refreshingly down-to-earth
one, at that," Holmes chided gently.
I shook myself and threw him an annoyed glance. He was right, of
course. I did not usually care so much about title or position, as
about accomplishments and character. However, for me, as for any
British subject, the English Royal house rarely failed to engender
feelings approaching mystical awe and reverence. Neither their immense
wealth nor any scandal associated with them could change their virtual
embodiment of all things British. Despite their complete lack of any
real ruling power, the Royal Family commanded a wide-spread public
affection rarely achieved by any duly elected official. It was, in some
infinitesimal way, like seeing the Almighty come down from Mount Sinai
to ask for a cuppa.
"We shall have to ask Mrs. Hudson to postpone her day off," Holmes was
saying, "but somehow, I doubt she will object to serving Their Royal
Highnesses."
"She'll have a fit, Holmes!" I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the
presence of our guest. "I had better keep the smelling salts on hand to
revive her when she faints dead away."
My husband chucked gleefully--and rather wickedly, I thought--as he put
the finishing touches on his response. "How does this read, wife?" he
asked, passing the paper to me, while glancing significantly in the
sergeant's direction. I gritted my teeth; I did not need to be reminded
that discretion was called for, thank you very much.
Your Royal Highness [it read]:
My dear Bertie,
Russell and I would be more than happy to welcome
you and the Duchess to tea at 4 in the afternoon on
Thursday. Your old chum Mrs. Hudson will be delighted
to bake all of your favorites for the meal.
I am always at Your Highness' service, as you well
know, as a friend as well as a subject.
Awaiting your arrival, I remain, faithfully,
Yours,
Sherlock Holmes, Esq.
P.S. - I have some marvelous new honey harvesting
methods which I'm sure will interest you.
"Uncle" Sherlock
Not knowing quite what to say about a letter to a potential king who
also seemed to be an old friend, I simply smiled warmly at him. "That
will do well, Holmes," I stated firmly, and rose to seal it into an
envelope (fastened in the more conventional way).
Our guest seemed unaccountably relieved at having completed his task and
being allowed to take his leave. I forgave him immediately though;
although it had never been a factor in my own case, many an ordinary
person found Holmes' reputation to be thoroughly intimidating. Once the
young man was appropriately swathed, crowned, and out the door, I wasted
no time in fixing my husband with a look that brooked no argument.
"Alright, Holmes, out with it. How in the world did you make the
acquaintance of such an exalted personage?"
**********
A/N: Well, there you have it. Many questions remain: how did Holmes first
meet the Duke of York? Are the Duke and Duchess really just stopping by
for a chat? What is the problem that will so interest Holmes?
Stay tuned.
For those date conscious historians: Albert, Duke of York was invested with
that title in 1920. He married Elizabeth Bowles-Lyons on April 26, 1923.
He became king of the British Empire on December 10, 1936 after Edward VIII
abdicated his throne.
Doyle, and Mary Russell belongs to the inimitable Laurie R. King....though
I have reason to believe that Holmes and Russell belong solely to
themselves....
A/N: This tale is an attempt--a successful one, I hope--to combine two of
my favorite subjects: Sherlock Holmes and King George VI. Certain
character's, including Prince Albert (George VI), his wife Elizabeth (the
Queen Mum) and Prince Edward (Edward VIII) are real persons who are no
longer living. I have endeavored to remain true to their personalities as
I have understood them from extensive biographical reading, just as I have
with the *supposedly* fictional characters. The mystery involving these
real persons is enitirely fictional, to my knowledge. I hope you enjoy
the story!
**********
A Princely Price
**********
Sussexshire
Near Eastbourne
Tuesday, 15 March, 1924
The letter arrived by special government courier on what must have been
the wettest day of the year. The downpour--or deluge, I might say--that
had blown in from the Channel overnight now virtually imprisoned us in
our own cottage. The blinding rain made the Sussex Downs unnavigable
and, frankly, the chilly air disinclined anyone from venturing out at all.
Holmes had holed himself up in the upstairs laboratory, experimenting
with (thankfully) non-odoriferous chemicals. Mrs. Hudson could be found
pottering around her kitchen, wholly undisturbed by the violent weather
from out of doors.
I, on the other hand, found it impossible to concentrate on anything at
all: not the passage from Leviticus which I had so painstakingly begun
to translate; not Ovid's semi-tawdry "Ars Amatoria"; not even Uncle
John's account of the affair at Reichenbach Falls (the conclusion of
which, incidentally, never failed to reduce me to tears, an occasion
which caused Holmes to crow with delight whenever he caught me).
I threw my fountain pen down in frustration and had nearly resolved to
make my way up the stairs and attempt to entice Holmes away from his
chemicals, when the post boy arrived from Eastbourne. The front bell
rang out and a large packet of soggy envelopes was shoved
unceremoniously through the mail slot.
I practically leapt from my seat in Holmes' frayed basket chair, eager
for any successful distraction, and made my way through the sitting room
to the front door. The various letters proved thoroughly unsatisfying
upon examination, consisting mostly of bills, a summons from Inspector
Lestrade to give testimony regarding our part in a recent state
investigation, and a thick letter from Mrs. Hudson's son in Australia.
I sighed, disappointed, and turned toward the kitchen to deliver this
last, when the bell rang a second time. Halting abruptly in my surprise,
I turned on my heel to face the door once again. When no similarly
sopping parcels presented themselves, I abandoned my theory of a
forgetful post boy and moved to open the door.
The young man standing on our stoop, huddling into his immaculate
uniform great coat to avoid the stinging drizzle, wore the unmistakable
insignia of His Majesty's regimental guard upon his cap.
"May I help you?" I asked, my eyebrows climbing toward my hairline.
"Begging yer pardon, mum, but Oi've come t' deliver a letter to a Mr.
Sherlock 'Olmes," he stated crisply, though his continual shivering
belied his stiffly proper manner to some degree.
I took pity on him, if only to prevent the warmth of the room from being
leeched out through the open door. "Do come in out of the cold,
Sergeant! I'm sure you can spare a few moments to warm yourself by the
fire."
He nodded gratefully and stepped gingerly across the threshold. "Thank
ye kindly, mum. There is a powerful chill out." He doffed his cap and
handed it to me along with his dripping overcoat. Hanging these items
before the fireplace to dry, I turned back to him and had to suppress a
smile. Without his elegant military trappings, our visitor looked to be
even younger than myself, his face pink-cheeked and cherubic above an
ornate uniform waistcoat.
"May I have your name please, Sergeant?"
He blinked, and then blushed slightly. "Aw yes, sorry, mum. Sergeant
Nevile Hortham of the Grenadier Guards."
"I am Mr. Holmes' wife," I stated simply, thinking better of confusing
the boy by identifying my surname as other than "Holmes." "Please make
yourself comfortable, and I will fetch Mr. Holmes."
I left him in the sitting room, faintly amused at his surreptitious
scrutiny of the many odds and ends scattered about, and poked my head
into the kitchen to ask Mrs. Hudson to serve tea a bit earlier than was
usual. I then proceeded up the stairs and into the windowless room that
held both painful and delightful memories for me. Seeing that Holmes
was in the middle of titrating some solution or other, I stood to one
side within his view and waited.
His expression was one of rapt concentration as he watched each droplet
fall into the beaker below. Fixing my gaze on his profile, I was
suddenly struck by how dear and well-loved that face was to me. The
brooding eyebrows, jutting nose, and strong jaw made him look like
nothing so much as a stern bird of prey, a raptor intent on the kill.
And yet, in a moment's time, a triumphant grin could cross those thin
lips and transform his entire countenance into the embodiment of
exuberant, carefree joy. It was one of those moments in a marraige--or
any longstanding relationship, for that matter--when the veil of the
everyday is lifted and one is struck deeply by all that is beloved in
one's partner.
I must have been grinning stupidly, for when Holmes finally looked up
from his titration (which had flashed suddenly to a startling purple
colour), he raised a questioning eyebrow and smiled in return.
"You find titration so amusing, dear Russell? Surely it has become old
hat for you after your own exhaustive studies in chemistry," he joked
lightly, turning back to his open notebook to record his findings.
He was, therefore, momentarily startled when I impulsively wrapped my
arms about his shoulders and hugged him in an excess of affection.
"Russ?" he queried, craning his neck around to examine my face.
"Missed me already, did you?" He smirked, entirely too smugly, I thought.
Taking his angular jaw in my hand, I leaned in to peck him on the nose
which I had so admired. "I just love you, that's all," I
stated contentedly, and then tried to wipe the grin from his lips with a
more lingering kiss. I was eminently successful, if the slightly glazed
look in his gray eyes was anything to judge by.
"That's all, is it?" he husked, dropping his pencil and moving to return
my embrace. We were thus thoroughly occupied for several minutes before
my sluggish brain recalled my original purpose for ascending to the
laboratory.
"Oh, the sergeant!" I exclaimed, pushing at Holmes' shoulders to get his
attention.
"Pardon?" he asked in utter confusion, lifting his head from my neck to
stare at me as if I'd suddenly gone mad.
"That's actually why I came up in the first place," I replied, using my
fingers to right his slightly disheveled salt-and-pepper hair. "There's
a Sergeant Hortham of the Grenadier Guards waiting downstairs. He has a
letter for you, from London, I would imagine."
"Ah!" he exclaimed as I smoothed down my rumpled dress. The experiment
lay forgotten on the table as we made our way out of the room. On the
landing, Holmes looked at me sidelong, a smile tugging at the corner of
his mouth. "So, you really didn't miss me, hmm?"
I swatted his arm playfully and gave him a mysterious look, eliciting a
sharp bark of laughter.
Once in the sitting room, we witnessed Mrs. Hudson laying out the tea
things at a small table by the window. Our guest, seated in a chair
near the fire, shot to his feet and walked stiffly toward us to present
himself to Holmes. The young man's voice quavered almost imperceptibly
in the presence of the Great Detective, but Holmes shook his hand warmly
and then led the way to the tea table.
"Do sit down, Sergeant," I invited, hoping to put him at his ease.
"Thank you, bu' oi can only stay a shor' time, mum, sir. Just until I
get your reply t' this letter oi've brought." Reaching between the
brass buttons to the inside of his frock coat, Sergeant Hortham drew out
a small, thin envelope with Holmes' name written in a scrawling
copperplate across the front.
As Holmes took the envelope, eagerly examining its, no doubt, myriad
minutia, I persuaded the young man to at least take a cup of tea to
warm him. He sat gingerly on the edge of his chair, looking thoroughly
flummoxed by the delicate bone china cup resiting in his huge hand.
Looking back to my husband, I could see that he had discovered the wax
seal that secured the flap. I was intrigued to observe his eyes
suddenly alight with glee, making it clear that he had discovered the
vital clue to discovering the mysterious envelope's contents.
"Ah-hah!" he cried, nearly causing the sergeant to upset his cup. "I
say, Russell, this will prove to be an interesting missive, have no
doubt. It is from the recently invested Duke of York. I recognize his
coat of arms."
I was stunned, to say the least. I knew that Holmes had had dealings
with many royal houses during his years at Baker Street, had even
politely refused an offer of knighthood from the late Queen Victoria.
Nevertheless, the reality of the circles which my husband still moved in
managed to leave me momentarily speechless.
//The Duke of York// I thought dazedly. Prince Albert Frederick Arthur
George, second son of the current monarch, King George V, had been
married only the previous year to a Scotswoman. The fact that she was a
"commoner," not of European royal blood, had caused some uproar within
the velvet lined halls of Pall Mall, but most had rejoiced at this
decidedly British edition to the mostly German Windsor family. The
court circular made free to praise her feisty charm and wit, though her
husband remained largely ignored. Prince Albert was, by all accounts,
very shy and diffident, a painful stammer making his public duties
arduous for all concerned. Certainly his flashy, glamorous older
brother, the Prince of Wales, overshadowed him with his gossip-worthy
exploits and his charismatic demeanor. It was really a shame--
"Russell?" Holmes' impatient voice jerked me out of my reverie, and I
coloured slightly in embarrassment. I saw that he had already made quick
work of the letter and was waving it in front of my face. Suppressing a
flash of irritation, I snatched it and began to read while Holmes left
to fetch paper and pen for his reply.
My dear Uncle Sherlock [it read],
I do hope you don't mind me still calling you that. I
know it seems silly, now that I'm quite grown, but
really, you are so much more interesting than my *real*
uncles!
Elizabeth and I will be traveling through Sussex the
day after tomorrow, Thursday, and as I have not had the
opportunity to catch up with you in some time, I wonder
if you would be agreeable to our stopping by for tea.
I have not yet had the chance to meet your reportedly
charming new wife, nor have you met mine. In fact, I
have rattled on so much about you to Elizabeth, that
she is understandably eager to make the acquaintance of
the "Great Detective."
If you are amenable, we would very much enjoy a lengthy
visit! I eagerly await your reply.
Until then, I remain, most affectionately,
Yours,
Bertie
Duke of York
P.S. - I also have a little conundrum to lay before you.
If I know you--and I do--you will most assuredly find it
to be suggestive.
-B-
For several moments, I could not think beyond the immediate implications
of the letter. "Royalty? Coming here, to my house? What will I wear?!"
I mumbled in a rising panic, not realizing that I had spoken aloud.
"Oh, come now Russell! The Duke may be second in line for the throne of
the Empire, but he's still just a man, and a refreshingly down-to-earth
one, at that," Holmes chided gently.
I shook myself and threw him an annoyed glance. He was right, of
course. I did not usually care so much about title or position, as
about accomplishments and character. However, for me, as for any
British subject, the English Royal house rarely failed to engender
feelings approaching mystical awe and reverence. Neither their immense
wealth nor any scandal associated with them could change their virtual
embodiment of all things British. Despite their complete lack of any
real ruling power, the Royal Family commanded a wide-spread public
affection rarely achieved by any duly elected official. It was, in some
infinitesimal way, like seeing the Almighty come down from Mount Sinai
to ask for a cuppa.
"We shall have to ask Mrs. Hudson to postpone her day off," Holmes was
saying, "but somehow, I doubt she will object to serving Their Royal
Highnesses."
"She'll have a fit, Holmes!" I exclaimed, momentarily forgetting the
presence of our guest. "I had better keep the smelling salts on hand to
revive her when she faints dead away."
My husband chucked gleefully--and rather wickedly, I thought--as he put
the finishing touches on his response. "How does this read, wife?" he
asked, passing the paper to me, while glancing significantly in the
sergeant's direction. I gritted my teeth; I did not need to be reminded
that discretion was called for, thank you very much.
Your Royal Highness [it read]:
My dear Bertie,
Russell and I would be more than happy to welcome
you and the Duchess to tea at 4 in the afternoon on
Thursday. Your old chum Mrs. Hudson will be delighted
to bake all of your favorites for the meal.
I am always at Your Highness' service, as you well
know, as a friend as well as a subject.
Awaiting your arrival, I remain, faithfully,
Yours,
Sherlock Holmes, Esq.
P.S. - I have some marvelous new honey harvesting
methods which I'm sure will interest you.
"Uncle" Sherlock
Not knowing quite what to say about a letter to a potential king who
also seemed to be an old friend, I simply smiled warmly at him. "That
will do well, Holmes," I stated firmly, and rose to seal it into an
envelope (fastened in the more conventional way).
Our guest seemed unaccountably relieved at having completed his task and
being allowed to take his leave. I forgave him immediately though;
although it had never been a factor in my own case, many an ordinary
person found Holmes' reputation to be thoroughly intimidating. Once the
young man was appropriately swathed, crowned, and out the door, I wasted
no time in fixing my husband with a look that brooked no argument.
"Alright, Holmes, out with it. How in the world did you make the
acquaintance of such an exalted personage?"
**********
A/N: Well, there you have it. Many questions remain: how did Holmes first
meet the Duke of York? Are the Duke and Duchess really just stopping by
for a chat? What is the problem that will so interest Holmes?
Stay tuned.
For those date conscious historians: Albert, Duke of York was invested with
that title in 1920. He married Elizabeth Bowles-Lyons on April 26, 1923.
He became king of the British Empire on December 10, 1936 after Edward VIII
abdicated his throne.