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“May we order our meals first, Russell? I have eaten irregularly since last we met and now find myself possessed of an immoderate preoccupation with the idea of meat.”

We ordered a meal that even his obese brother Mycroft would have found more than adequate, and when we were alone, Holmes slumped back and prodded the bread roll on his plate.

“Where have I been, she asks? I have been on a passage through Purgatory, my dear Russell, into the abyss and halfway back. I have been a witness, a guide, and an unwilling participant in a young man’s confrontation with the Furies, and in the process have been reminded of parts of my own history that I should have preferred to forget. I have been nursing, Russell—a rôle for which I am by nature singularly unsuited.”

“You? You were caring for Miles? But Holmes, I never thought—”

“Your faith in my bedside manner is touching, Russell.

Yes, I have been helping to care for Miles Fitzwarren. Did you imagine I might draw him out of his house and habits only to deposit him in the hands of my medical friends and then wash my own hands of him? He would not have stayed, without me.”

“So you… I am sorry, Holmes. I had no idea that I was getting you into that.”

“No? No, I suppose you would not. It’s quite all right, Russell; you needn’t look so penitent. I’ve spent my entire adult life poking my long nose into the problems of other people; this is only a variation on that activity. Please, Russell, if you wish to be of some service, I beg you to remove that woebegone expression from your face. My old bones are much comforted by basking in the sight of your young radiance. That’s better. A glass of wine?”

“Thank you,” I said, speaking equally between Holmes and the discreet personage who materialised at the side of the table before Holmes could finish the phrase, poured, and faded away.

“How is Miles, then?”

“Ill. Weak. He is drained of self-respect, and filled with self-loathing. At least the worst of the physical reaction is over, thank God, and he’s young and strong. The doctor foresees no immediate problems.”

“So he’ll be cured?”

“Cured is not a word one can use in this situation. His body will be clean. The rest is up to him.”

Plates of food began to arrive.

“Well,” I said when the waiter’s arm had withdrawn, “I am most grateful, Holmes, though I hope it will not go on much longer.”

He looked up sharply, a laden fork halfway to his mouth.

“Why? Has something come up?”

“Oh, no. No, nothing urgent, or I should have contacted you earlier.” I concentrated on knife, fork, and plate. “I just… Well, it’s odd, not having you there to consult, that’s all.”

I continued eating, and I was aware that seconds passed before his fork continued.

“I see,” he said, and then added, “Would you care to tell me about your activities since Thursday?”

I would care, and proceeded to describe them. He ate with steady determination, and threw in the occasional comment and question. I told him everything, from my visit to the elves to the treatment I had given my Sussex home, and made him chuckle with an exaggerated account of boiling water in the coal scuttle.

Finally, over coffee, he sat back with the familiar unfocused gaze that signaled a massive rallying of forces beneath that thinning hairline.

“Whence comes her money?” he mused.

“Elijah’s ravens did not bring him French hothouse strawberries on bone china,” I agreed.

“My brother Mycroft’s sources of information are better than ours for the purpose,” he noted without emphasis.

I was absurdly warmed by his use of the inclusive plural, as if this were a case we were working, rather than a peculiar and individualistic interest of my own.

“She may have a supporter who holds the purse. It would be interesting to know. Politics makes for strange… partners, does it not?”

“You think it nothing more sinister than political manoeuvring, then?” he asked.

“Margery’s money? Cynical as I may be, I cannot see her involved in anything more criminal than circumventing the labour