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‘Quite right too. The best way of learnin’ is to listen.’

Crowe pulled himself up on to his horse, and Virginia did the same. She watched, smiling, as Sherlock and Matty mounted their own horses, and nodded to Sherlock with approval. ‘Not half bad,’ she said.

Together, the four of them cantered along the road, reversing the route that Sherlock and Matty had taken to get to the cottage. The sun was shining, the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, and Sherlock had to try hard to convince himself that he had ever been knocked out, taken prisoner, questioned and then casually sentenced to death. Things like that just didn’t happen, did they? Not on a sunny day. Even the cuts on his face had stopped hurting.

Virginia nudged her horse closer to Sherlock’s. ‘You ride well,’ she said, ‘for a beginner.’

‘I had good advice,’ he said, glancing at her and then away again.

‘That stuff you said, back in the cottage. That was all true?’

‘Every word.’

‘Then maybe this country ain’t as boring as I thought.’

The nearer they got to the big house in which Sherlock had been imprisoned, the edgier he got. Eventually Amyus Crowe reined his horse to a halt within sight of the gates to the house. There was nobody in sight.

‘Is this the place?’ Crowe called.

Sherlock nodded.

‘There’s rutted tracks leadin’ out of the gates and along the road,’ Crowe continued. ‘Looks to me like they’ve skedaddled.’

Sherlock looked in confusion at Virginia. She smiled. ‘Left,’ she explained. ‘Run away.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He filed that one away for the future.

‘Let’s head down the road and see what we find,’ Crowe shouted, and urged his horse on. Virginia was right behind him. Sherlock and Matty exchanged glances and followed.

About five minutes further on, they found a tavern – red brickwork, laid in that distinctive herringbone style that Sherlock had noticed before, white plaster and black beams. Trestles and benches had been set out on the grass outside. Smoke trailed out of the chimney and Sherlock could smell roasting meat. He was instantly hungry.

Crowe stopped and dismounted. ‘Late lunch,’ he called. ‘Matty, Virginia, you stay out here and watch the horses. Sherlock, you come in with me.’

Sherlock followed the big American into the tavern. The ceiling was low, almost hidden by a layer of greasy smoke from the lamb that was roasting on a spit in the fireplace. Fresh sawdust covered the floor. Four men sat together at a table, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. A fifth man sat on a stool at the bar and paid them no attention, being more concerned with gazing into his drink. The landlord, standing behind the bar and polishing a tankard with a cloth, nodded at Amyus Crowe.

‘Afternoon, gents. Will it be drink or will it be food or will it be both?’

‘Four plates of bread and meat,’ Crowe said, and Sherlock was amazed to hear him speaking without his normal American accent. His voice, as near as Sherlock could tell, was pitched as if he was a farmer or labourer from somewhere in the Home Counties. ‘And four tankards of ale.’

The landlord pulled four tankards of beer and set them on a pewter tray. Crowe picked one up for himself and nodded to Sherlock. ‘Take ’em outside, lad,’ he said in his gruff ‘English’ voice. Sherlock picked the tray up and cautiously carried it to the door. Crowe, he noticed, was settling himself on a stool by the bar.

Outside, Sherlock saw that Matty had found a table and benches near the tavern. Virginia was still standing with her horse. He joined Matty, and sat where he could see through one of the windows. Matty took one of the tankards and started drinking thirstily, holding it in both hands.

Sherlock sipped at the dark brown liquid. It was bitter and flat, and left an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

‘Hops aren’t edible, are they?’ he said to Matty.

The boy shrugged. ‘You can eat them, I s’pose, but nobody does. They don’t taste too good.’

‘So why on earth does anyone think you can make a drink out of them then?’

‘Dunno.’

Looking