Watson and I had visited the scene of the crime yesterday. The house was a modern mansion in Chelsea. It was a large whitewashed building with gothic fixtures and a stone fountain in the gardens. Where once London had been populated by history, money had changed the landscape and covered it with more modern tastes. Gone were the lavish Victorian houses or the Edwardian estates. This was a different generation. We pulled up to the solid iron gate. The driver of the black cab whistled as he approached the intercom.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, here by appointment," he said as a voice enquired as to who we were.

The gates slid open mechanically. I looked around as we drove through. Thick walls at least five metres high surrounded the whole property. CCTV cameras peered from every corner and there was the dull glow of an alarm near the front door. A warning.

"That's a lot of security," Watson said as we stepped out of the taxi.

"You are very observant, Watson," I said to him.

He grinned.

"I try to be useful," he said.

"Can you feel that?" I asked as we stepped along the cobblestoned path.

"Feel what?"

"The ground. It dips very slightly when you walk along it. I wonder why anyone would need this much security," I said.

"Pressure pads," Watson added, "The second anyone walks anywhere on these grounds at night it will trigger a silent alarm."

A woman stood on the patio framed by a door made of solid oak. She was about thirty-nine and she was worried about getting old. She lived alone and hated animals. Most animals, she had a goldfish, actually a few goldfish and she hated waste. I wanted to tell Watson my observations but recently, the joy my revelations to him used to bring was gone.

"Welcome, Mr Holmes. And you must be Dr Watson. Inspector Lestrade told us to expect you," she said. Her voice was soft, almost like that of a child and she enunciated every last letter, like someone who had taken elocution lessons.

Watson would have told you at this stage that she had striking hazel eyes with flecks of green. Her hair was silky, shoulder length and inky black. She had lines around her generous mouth, like someone who laughed a lot. Her body was slender and toned, like a marathon runner but with ample curves in the places they are supposed to be, which were bulging in her tight black dress. I, however, am not Watson and only note these minor points to keep this blog consistent. He is always preoccupied with the mundane and unimportant details, is Watson, and usually he misses the most important facts even if they are right before his eyes.

She ushered us through the door and I'm sure that if Mary hadn't only just died, Watson would have been after her mobile number.

"It's rude to stare," I mumbled to him as we trailed behind her.

"My name is Lucy Thompson. I am Lord Grayson's private secretary. He will meet you in the study," she said.

Lord Grayson was not what one typically expects a member of the peerage to look like. He was young for one, not older than twenty-five, and with the body of a professional athlete and I say this with great regret, the eyes of a gambler, and a poor one at that. He had the tell-tale tremor of an alcoholic and his otherwise bronze skin was tinged scarlet just below his prominent cheekbones.

"No hat?" He said with a smile. The accent was pure Los Angeles.

"He never wears the hat," Watson said.

"Tell Jameson to bring our guests some tea, Lucy," he said, ushering her out of the room, "We are not to be disturbed."

His voice, despite his youth, boomed with authority and he did not look lost in an office that belonged to someone much older. There were bookshelves lined with volumes of varying ages. The desk, behind which our host took a seat, was an antique but still sturdy and it was at a very awkward angle, upsetting the symmetry of the room. The lighting was all artificial, there were no windows at all and the desk had been moved not long ago, judging by the floor and its unnatural positioning. It sat in the darkest corner.

"I'm only here about the painting," I said, "I am not a bodyguard. Judging by your defences any way, your enemy would need to be very formidable to get anywhere near you."

Watson glanced at me and allowed himself a furtive smile. Our host was not nearly so gracious. He roared as he rose out of his seat, his fists balled. His face had darkened even more and I could sense violence emanating from him.

"How…" he bellowed.

"The desk," I said, "You moved it to face the door. It used to be back there directly underneath the lamp. You are expecting someone. Someone you want to see coming."

"I told you it's not as impressive when you explain it," Watson whispered.

My explanation seemed to be enough for our host, who seemed to regain his earlier composure as a quiet knock came from the door.

"Come in, Jameson," Lord Grayson shouted.

Watson is not the most composed man under normal circumstances, he nearly fell in his chair when he saw the butler.

"Sherlock," he started to say.

"Not him. Look at the eyes. And he's too short," I said.

The butler had jet black hair, a round face with no edges at all and a sharp nose that made him look like a rodent. The eyes were closer together than Lenny Thaites' and I could see how after a cursory glance, Watson would make that mistake.

The butler poured tea for us, spilling Watson's tea into the saucer before apologising and leaving the room.

Watson was still watching him with suspicion.

"Sorry about the tea. I would like to have offered you something stronger but I'm in the middle of a detox program," Lord Grayson said.

"I don't mean to be rude," I said, "But the painting…"

"Very well," Lord Grayson said folding his large hands across his lap, "The painting."

"I won't bore you with the history of how it came to my possession. The painting is absolutely priceless. My family's finances took a hit recently. I won't go into detail but without it, I am dead. That painting was my future," he took a deep breath and continued, "I kept it locked in a room with a titanium door. No one has access to that room apart from me. I keep the key around my neck at all times except for showers or when I sleep and even then I lock it in a safe. I went to check on the painting this morning and it wasn't there, Mr Holmes. Gone. As if it disappeared into thin air."

He seemed to have shrunk as he told the story, now he looked broken.

"And there are renovations happening upstairs?" I asked.

"Yes, all the bedrooms are being redecorated. This place is a little old fashioned for me. I've only just become Lord Grayson; I've been managing my father's businesses in America."

"Any new employees, do you trust them?" Watson asked.

He paused to think.

"Only Jameson but Lucy thoroughly vetted him before he was hired."

"What happened to the last butler?" I asked.

"He is in hospital. Someone coshed him very badly around the head. I was very fond of old Collington; he was the butler when I was a boy."

I rose up.

"Our work is done here, Watson. Lord Grayson, I will be in touch."

"But don't you need to see the room where it disappeared?"

"There's nothing more to see here. What interest would I have in an empty room?"

I could tell by his face that he was not happy with my response but it was important that we leave straight away. There was more work to be done.