One evening in March 1888, I was walking home after visiting a patient when I found myself on Baker Street. I remembered that it had been a while since I last saw my old friend Sherlock Holmes. I looked up at the window of his apartment, which was brightly lit. I could see Sherlock’s tall shadow as he walked around his room. His head was down, and his hands were behind his back, showing that he was thinking deeply. I knew right away that he was working on a new case.

His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, welcomed me like an old friend and took me upstairs.

When I walked in, Holmes stopped walking and looked at me. "Watson!" he said. "You've gained seven and a half pounds since I last saw you."

"Seven!" I corrected him, frowning.

"Really? I thought it was a little more. But how are you, my dear friend? I see you’re working as a doctor again, you’ve gotten your clothes muddy, and your housemaid is not very careful."

"Holmes, this is too much!" I said, laughing. "It’s true that I’m back working as a doctor. I also went for a walk in the countryside on Thursday and got dirty. As for Mary Jane, my housemaid, she really is not good at her job. But I don’t understand how you know all of this."

"It’s very simple," said Holmes. "If a man walks into my room smelling like antiseptic, with a black stain of silver nitrate on his right finger, and a bulge in his hat from carrying a stethoscope, it’s easy to guess that he’s a working doctor. My eyes also tell me that the leather on the bottom of your left shoe has been scratched, like someone tried to scrape off mud."

I shook my head in amazement when I heard Holmes explain. His ideas were so simple, but also very clever.

"Since you're here, and I know you like mysteries," Holmes continued, "you might find this interesting." He handed me a piece of thick, pink paper. "It arrived in the evening mail," he said. "Read it aloud."

The note had no date, signature, or address.

“There will come to visit you tonight at 7:45,” I read, “a gentleman who wants to discuss something very important. Please be in your room at that time, and don’t be offended if your visitor is wearing a mask.”

“This is very mysterious!” I said. “Who do you think the visitor is?”

“We can only guess,” said Holmes. “What do you think about the handwriting and the paper?”

“The paper seems expensive,” I said. “The person who wrote it must be rich.”

“And probably not from this country,” said Holmes. “The style shows that the writer’s first language isn’t English. I checked the mark on the paper, and it comes from the small European country of Bohemia, where they speak German.”

As he spoke, we heard horses’ hooves and the sound of wheels from outside.

Holmes went to the window and whistled. “I see a nice carriage with two beautiful horses. Our client has plenty of money, Watson.”

The man who came in was tall and strong, like Hercules. He wore a dark blue cloak with orange silk inside, held together by a gemstone brooch. His tall boots were trimmed with brown fur. He held a wide-brimmed hat, and a black mask covered the top part of his face.

“You received my note?” he asked in a deep voice with a German accent. “I said I would come.” He looked at both of us, not sure who to speak to.

“Please, sit down,” said Holmes. “This is my friend Dr. Watson, who helps me with my cases.”

“And who do I have the honor of speaking to?” Holmes asked.

“I am Count von Kramm, a nobleman from Bohemia. I’m sure your friend is trustworthy, but I would prefer to speak with you alone.”

I got up to leave, but Holmes grabbed my wrist and made me sit back down. “It’s both of us or neither,” he said. “Anything you say to me, you can say to Dr. Watson.”

The count shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” he said. “First, I must ask both of you to promise complete secrecy about what I’m going to tell you.”

We both agreed.

“Please excuse this mask,” the visitor said. “The important person who sent me wishes to keep my identity secret, and the name I gave you is not actually mine.”

“I knew that,” said Holmes.

“What I’m about to tell you is very sensitive, and we must do everything possible to avoid a scandal that could hurt the reputation of one of the great royal families in Europe: the House of Ormstein, the kings of Bohemia.”

“I knew that, too,” said Holmes, sounding a bit impatient. “Maybe if your Majesty just tells me what problem you’re facing, I can help.”

The man jumped up from his chair and started pacing the room, very upset. Then he ripped off his mask and threw it to the ground. “You are right!” he shouted. “I am the king. Why should I hide it?”

“Why indeed?” said Holmes.

The King of Bohemia sat down again and wiped his forehead. “You understand, I’m not used to handling matters like this myself. But this situation is so sensitive that I can’t trust anyone else to do it without putting myself at risk.”

“I understand,” said Sherlock Holmes. “You’ve secretly traveled from Bohemia to ask for my help. So, how can I assist you?”

“Five years ago, I became close with an opera singer named Irene Adler. Have you heard of her?”

“The famous singer from the Warsaw Imperial Opera? I know she’s retired and living in London now. I’m guessing your Majesty fell in love with her and sent her some love letters that you now want back, correct?”

“Exactly, but how did you—?”

“Then I don’t see the problem. If she tries to use the letters to blackmail you, how can she prove they’re real?”

“They’re in my handwriting.”

“Fake.”

“On my personal paper.”

“Stolen.”

“With my seal.”

“Copied.”

“There’s also a photograph of the two of us.”

“Oh no! That was a mistake. You need to get that back.”

“She refused to sell the photograph, so we tried to steal it. My agents searched her house twice and even stopped her while traveling to search her clothes and luggage, but we couldn’t find it. The photograph is still with her.”

“What does she plan to do with it?” Holmes asked.

“She wants to destroy my reputation,” the king replied. “I’m about to marry the daughter of the king of Scandinavia. Their family is very strict, and if they see the photo, they will cancel the wedding. Miss Adler doesn’t want me to marry anyone else and is threatening to send them the photograph.”

“How do you know she hasn’t sent it already?”

“She plans to send it on the day the engagement is publicly announced, which is next Monday.”

“Then we have three days. Will your Majesty stay in London until then?”

“Yes. I’ll be staying at the Langham Hotel under the name Count von Kramm.”

“Excellent. I’ll contact you with updates. Now, about my payment—”

“Tell me how much you need. I’d give a part of my kingdom for that photo. For now, here’s some money to cover your costs.” The king took a large leather bag from under his cloak and put it on the table. “Inside are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in cash. Is that enough?”

“That will do,” said Holmes, looking surprised by the amount of money. “Do you have Miss Adler’s address?”

“Yes, Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John’s Wood.”

Holmes wrote it down. “One last question, your Majesty: Is the photograph large or small?”

“It’s large with a cardboard backing.”

“Thank you.”

After we saw the king out and heard his carriage leave, Holmes turned to me. “Can you come here tomorrow at three o’clock? I’d like to discuss this case with you.”

At exactly three o’clock, I returned to Baker Street, but Mrs. Hudson told me that Holmes hadn’t come back yet. “He left just after eight this morning,” she said, “and didn’t say when he’d return.” So I sat by the fire and waited.

It was almost four when the door opened, and an old stable worker walked in, with sideburns and worn-out clothes. I know my friend Holmes is great at disguises, but I had to look three times to realize it was him. He nodded at me and went to his bedroom. Five minutes later, he came back wearing his usual tweed suit.

Holmes stretched out by the fire, hands in his pockets, and started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You’ll never guess how I spent my morning, Watson.”

“I suppose you were watching Irene Adler’s house?”

“Exactly. My day started with me dressed as an out-of-work stable worker, so I could blend in with the horsemen near Miss Adler’s house. I spent time in the stables near her garden, helping the stable workers clean the horses. In return, I got twopence, a drink, and all the gossip I needed about Irene Adler.”

“What did you find out?” I asked.

“Well, they say she’s very beautiful. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, and goes out at five o’clock every day, coming back at seven for dinner. She also has a male friend who visits her once or twice a day—a handsome, dark-haired lawyer named Godfrey Norton.”

"I was a little worried about this Godfrey Norton and wondered what kind of relationship he had with Miss Adler. If she was his client, maybe she had given him the photograph to keep safe. If that was the case, should I keep watching her house, or should I focus on where he works?

But if they were just friends or in a romantic relationship, there was no problem. If she loved Mr. Norton, she probably didn’t love the King of Bohemia anymore, so why stop him from getting married?"

"I was walking up and down Serpentine Avenue, thinking about all this while watching the small, fancy villa where she lived. Then, a hansom cab stopped in front of her house, and a man stepped out. He was very handsome, with a sharp nose and a fine moustache. It was clearly Godfrey Norton.

He seemed to be in a big hurry. He told the cab driver to wait and knocked on the door. When the maid opened it, he went inside like he belonged there.

He stayed in the house for about thirty minutes. I saw him through the sitting room windows, walking up and down, waving his arms, and talking excitedly. I didn’t see Miss Adler. When he came out, he was in even more of a rush. He pulled out a gold watch, checked the time, and shouted, 'The Church of St. Monica on Edgware Road! I’ll pay you double if you can get me there in twenty minutes.'

The cab left quickly, and I was wondering if I should follow it. Just then, a small carriage appeared. Before it even stopped outside Briony Lodge, the door flew open and Irene Adler came out. She was even more beautiful than I had heard. She told her driver, 'The Church of St. Monica, John, and I’ll pay you double if we get there in twenty minutes.'"

"It was clear to me, Watson, that something very interesting was happening, and I needed to get to that church. The problem was how. Should I run there or try to jump onto the back of Miss Adler’s carriage?

Luckily, I didn’t have to choose between those options because a cab came into the street. The driver looked at me skeptically, but I jumped in before he could say no. ‘The Church of St. Monica,’ I told him, ‘and I’ll give you extra if you get me there in twenty minutes.’

The driver raced through the streets like a man possessed—I don’t think I’ve ever moved so fast in London. However, when we arrived, Mr. Norton’s cab and Miss Adler’s carriage, with their tired horses, were already outside the church. I paid the driver and rushed inside.