first thing I noticed was the distinct scarcity of any personal effects; the room was sparsely furnished and felt decidedly unlived in. Two oak desks, two chairs, a poster map of Europe and a filing cabinet were the sum of the room’s contents, aside from a low bookcase under the small window in a far corner. The bookcase held what appeared to be legal texts and Parliamentary reports, although I was surprised to see a rather ornate amber paperweight on the bottom shelf, into which had been etched a five-pointed star. Given the stack of papers on Grange’s desk, I was surprised that he hadn’t made better use of such an object. Craning my neck to see through the window, I could see the identical windows of other offices on the opposite side of a triangular courtyard. Clearly Grange had had neither elegant digs nor much of a view.
The second thing that struck me was the sheer winsomeness of Grange’s secretary, Miss Millicent Brown. She was a remarkably handsome woman; young, in her mid-twenties, with startling rust-coloured hair tied back from her long, pale neck, and a smattering of delicate freckles across her nose. She was dressed in a smart blouse and grey jacket, and was standing behind her desk on the left of us as we entered the room.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Miss Brown,” said Holmes. “I understand this must be a troubling time for you. My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
The woman’s expression changed so dramatically at the sound of our names that I had to resist the urge to laugh. Her eyes widened in shocked recognition, and her bottom lip began to tremble uncontrollably. “M… M… Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she stammered, before sitting down on the edge of her chair and looking decidedly lost.
Compassion overrode any sense of amusement I had felt. I went to her side. “Are you quite well, Miss Brown?”
“Oh, yes, quite well,” she said, although her tone was unconvincing. Her eyes flitted from me to Holmes, and then back again.
I glanced up at Bates. “Could I trouble you to fetch Miss Brown a glass of water?” I asked.
Bates nodded and went immediately from the room. It was clear to see that the woman was out of sorts. This, I supposed, was in no small part down to the recent death of her employer, but it also seemed that the appearance of Holmes and me had thrown her into disarray.
“Forgive me,” she said, after a moment. “It’s just – to have you both here, it suddenly makes it all so real.” She put a hand to her mouth. “He’s really dead, isn’t he?” She peered up at Holmes, a pleading look in her eyes.
“How long had you and Mr. Grange had an understanding, Miss Brown?” said Holmes, gently.
“An understanding?” I blurted, surprised. I quickly realised my transgression and found my manners, although I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Once again, Holmes had managed to see to the root of the matter within moments.
“But how…?” began Miss Brown.
Holmes smiled, but managed to refrain from showing off too overtly to this clearly distressed woman. “I observe the sterling-silver pen upon your desk, marked with the initials ‘M.B.’ It is clearly less than a year old – the nib shows wear consistent with only a few months’ use, and the casing is not yet tarnished. It was evidently an expensive object, far beyond the means of a secretary. A gift from an admirer, then. This, along with the unusual proximity of your desks, the onyx mourning ring upon the third finger of your right hand and your obvious distress, lead me to infer that you and the late gentleman had a relationship beyond the confines of the War Office.”
Miss Brown gave a sad, knowing smile. “You’re right. Of course you are. We have been courting for almost a year,” she replied. “We were to be married, once the war was over. He didn’t want to wait, but I couldn’t do it, not with all this going on.” She waved her arms as if to