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By Root 433 0

around the room. Amyus Crowe’s cottage was cluttered, full of books, newspapers and periodicals that had been left wherever he had set them down. A pile of letters was fixed to the wooden mantelpiece with a knife through their centres, next to a clock that indicated that it was coming up to two o’clock. Beside them sat a single slipper, from which a handful of cigars protruded like grasping fingers. It should have looked squalid, but there was no dust, no dirt. The place was clean but untidy. It just seemed as if Crowe had a different way of storing things.

‘What do you make of it all?’ Crowe challenged eventually.

Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t like being the object of Crowe’s attention. ‘If I knew that,’ he countered, ‘I wouldn’t have had to come to you.’

‘It would be nice if one person could always make a difference,’ Crowe replied without a trace of irritation, ‘but in this complicated world of ours you sometimes need friends, and you sometimes need an organization to back you up.’

‘You think we should go to the Peelers?’ Matty asked, obviously nervous.

‘The police?’ Crowe shook his head. ‘I doubt they’d believe you, and even if they did there’s little they could do. Whoever lives in this big house of yours will deny everythin’. They’ve got the power and the authority, not you. And you got to admit, it’s a preposterous story on the face of it.’

‘Do you believe us?’ Sherlock challenged.

Crowe’s face creased up in surprise. ‘Of course I believe you,’ he said.

‘Why? Like you said, it’s a preposterous story.’

Crowe smiled. ‘People do things when they lie,’ he replied. ‘Lyin’ is stressful, cos you got to keep two different things straight in your head at the same time – the truth that you’re tryin’ to keep secret and the lie that you’re tryin’ to tell. That stress manifests itself in certain ways. People don’t make eye contact properly, they rub their noses, they hesitate and stammer more when they talk. And they go into more detail than is necessary, as if it makes their lie more believable if they can remember what colour the wallpaper was, and whether the people had beards or moustaches or suchlike. You told your story straight, you looked me in the eye and you didn’t add in extraneous details. Far as I can judge, you’re tellin’ the truth – or at least, what you believe to be the truth.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Sherlock asked. ‘There’s something going on around here. It’s got to do with clothes that are being made for the Army, and bees, and that warehouse in Farnham. And that man in the big house – the Baron, I think – is behind it all, but I don’t know what he’s doing.’

‘Then we need to find out.’ Amyus Crowe let his chair settle back on to its four legs and stood up. ‘If you haven’t got enough facts to come to a conclusion then you go out and get more facts. Let’s go and ask some questions.’

Matty shifted uncomfortably. ‘I gotta go,’ he muttered.

‘Come with us, kid,’ Crowe said. ‘You were part of this adventure, and you deserve to find out what’s goin’ on. And besides, young Sherlock here seems to trust you.’ He paused. ‘If it helps make your mind up, I’ll get us some food on the way.’

‘I’m in,’ Matty said.

Crowe led the way outside. In the meadow beside the cottage, Virginia Crowe was brushing down her horse, Sandia. Beside it was a larger bay mare. Sherlock assumed it was Crowe’s horse. The two horses that Sherlock and Matty had ridden away from the Baron’s mansion were quietly cropping the grass off to one side.

Virginia looked up as they approached. Her gaze met Sherlock’s and she glanced away quickly.

‘We’re goin’ for a ride,’ Crowe announced. ‘Virginia, you come along too. The more people askin’ questions, the more chance of some half-decent answers.’

‘I don’t know what questions to ask,’ Virginia protested.

‘You were outside the door, listenin’,’ Crowe said with a smile. ‘I heard Sandia whinnying. He only ever does that if you’re within sight but not actually with him. And I could see somethin’ movin’ about, blockin’ the sunlight ’neath the door.’

Virginia blushed, but kept gazing at her father,