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"So you say."

"Precisely. So I say." The two men measured each other over the gouged tabletop, until finally Lestrade let out an explosive breath.

"Oh, very well, Mr Holmes. For you, I'll go, and I'll take her with me. But I don't have time to come back down to this godforsaken wilderness. She'll have to get back on her own."

"I believe I can manage the train, Inspector. Twenty minutes."

Precisely nineteen minutes later, I walked into the sitting room in what Holmes calls my "young lady" guise. The blouse was a bit crumpled, but the unfashionable skirt looked as dowdy as ever and my hair was wrapped tightly around my head and covered with a cloche hat. I pushed a thin notebook and pencil into my ridiculous bag. Lestrade glanced at his watch and stood up.

"Right. Ellis should be finished with the toolshed."

"Send me prints of the photographs, would you, Lestrade? Russell, did you give your films to Mr Ellis?"

"I did. See you later, Holmes. Watch out for the marmalade on the pantry floor."

I turned to leave and nearly walked into Lestrade, who was bent over in a contortion, peering fiercely at the patch of boards Holmes had earlier indicated. He straightened hurriedly and left. I followed him to the door, then stopped to look back at the room. A swath of bare floor cut through the débris. Holmes stood amidst the ruins, rolling up the sleeves of his collarless shirt.

"Don't look so grim, Russell."

"Ring Patrick, Holmes."

"I'll have him meet you at the station."

* * *

Tony Ellis had finished with the photography and was loading his equipment into the back of the car. Lestrade handed him a bag. I was surprised to see that he had no driver.

"I'll drive back, Tony. Miss Russell is coming with us."

Mr Ellis glanced at me but said nothing as he went to the front of the car and cranked the starting handle for Lestrade. After several attempts, the elderly engine shuddered to life, and he came around and climbed into the narrow back seat. He looked absolutely exhausted, and I was not surprised when I heard snores erupting from the back before we had gained the main road.

"Your Mr Ellis seems to have made a night of it," I commented, though, truth to tell, there was no sign of alcohol about him.

"He's been working for nearly thirty-six hours. We were over in Kent yesterday night when your message reached me. We'd started off with the car, so now we're stuck with it. Can't exactly tuck it into the overhead rack, can you? Ellis offered to come down with me— he doubles as a driver when we're shorthanded."

"Generous of him to volunteer."

"He wanted to meet Mr Holmes."

"Ah. Have you also been on duty since yesterday morning?"

"Yes, but he drove last night. Don't worry, I won't fall asleep at the wheel."

"I was not worried, though if you wish me to take over at any point, I'm quite a decent driver." I made the offer, although he did not seem the sort who would care to be driven by a woman.

"Miss Russell— is that what I should call you, by the way?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"I wonder if you'd mind telling me the whole story from your point of view, to cover the, er, gaps left by Mr Holmes?"

"Certainly. Where would you like me to begin? With her letter to me?"

"Tell me about her. What was she like, how did you meet her, what do you know of her work in Palestine? Anything along those lines."

"Miss Ruskin was one of those odd women this country occasionally throws out, like Gertrude Bell or Mary Kingsley. Fascinated by the exotic, oblivious of comfort or convention, largely self-educated, an incongruous mixture of utter, inflexible certainty and immense insecurity around her peers, so that in normal social intercourse, she usually spoke in brief, brusque phrases. Left off pronouns. Loud voice. In writing or when she was involved in explaining her work, she could be very eloquent. Devastatingly observant. Dauntingly vital. Immensely intelligent, and wise, as well. It's hard to think of her as dead, even having seen her body. I shall miss her."

Lestrade was