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hotfoot it after him, or mark my words, he’ll be halfway to the War Office before he notices you’re not with him.”
    I laughed. “You know, Inspector, I’m not at all sure if that would be a bad thing.” I secured my hat on my head, and took off after Holmes.

CHAPTER THREE
    To my untrained eye, the War Office building on Horse Guards Avenue was something of a monstrosity. Architecturally speaking, of course, it was a triumph of neo-Baroque design, with high, decorative domes, sculpted window frames and artificial pediments. To my mind, however, it represented everything that war was not: glorious, a thing to be celebrated – cultivated, even. It even
looked
like a ruddy cathedral.
    As I stood there on the pavement looking up at the building, I found it strange to consider that inside that vast edifice, the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener himself, was going about his business, planning our efforts abroad. As an old soldier, I was a believer in war being a matter for professionals. I had found Kitchener’s rhetoric troubling, his exhorting young men with no experience of military life to join up as if they were volunteering for a football match.
    I had not spoken to Holmes regarding his opinions on the war; he did not often interest himself in the murky world of politics. To Holmes a villain was a villain – be they a petty thief, a blackmailer, or a foreign country with which we were at war. I believed the reason he was in London, taking leave of his retirement, was because he felt duty bound to do his bit for the war effort, to use his considerable intellect in assisting his brother to resolve a matter that might yet prove to have far-reaching implications for the morale of the nation.
    Of course, there was also the distinct possibility that he was simply bored, and the mystery surrounding the death of Herbert Grange was nothing but a timely diversion. Truthfully, that was the real reason I’d so far avoided enquiring after his thoughts on the matter – in case I found myself frustrated by the self-centred nature of his response.
    “So,” I asked of Holmes. “How does one gain entry to the War Office? I don’t imagine it’s as simple as strolling up to the front door and asking to be let in.”
    “Oh, I don’t know, Watson,” replied Holmes, with a sly smile. “I often find the direct approach elicits the most satisfactory result. Let us not overcomplicate matters.” With that, he tugged determinedly on his lapels, and then, exuding complete confidence, strode right up to the front door and went in.
    I hurried behind him, shaking my head in amusement.
    Two soldiers stood just inside the doorway – guards, I presumed – and they eyed us without interest as we crossed into the lobby.
    I took stock of the lobby. It was everything one would expect from the exterior appearance of the building: opulent and ostentatious. A polished marble floor had been laid in neat, geometric patterns, portraits of former military commanders were hung prominently in a series of alcoves, and a vast chandelier hung on a silver stem from the high, vaulted ceiling. A series of doors opened onto what I assumed to be a network of offices and corridors leading deeper into the building.
    There were two Chesterfields against the far wall, and a mahogany reception desk in the centre of the room, behind which stood a middle-aged man in a neat black suit. His hair was thinning, and beneath a clump of wispy grey strands his pate gleamed in the sunlight. His features were craggy and careworn, as if he’d spent a lifetime outdoors, toiling in the sun, and had now, approaching retirement, been co-opted into manning the reception desk of this establishment. It occurred to me that he was probably a retired solider like myself.
    “Good morning, gentlemen?” he said, as much a question as a greeting.
    “We are here,” announced Holmes, “to represent the interests of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my