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‘I think,’ Rufus Stone said, breaking the heavy silence, ‘that I need a stiff tot of rum and a liniment-soaked bandage for my fingers. Or a stiff tot of liniment and a rum-soaked bandage for my fingers. Either one will do. The rum in the Farnham taverns tastes like liniment anyway.’ He cocked his head as he looked at Sherlock. ‘Let’s delay restarting the violin lessons, eh? I suspect that your fingers will be a lot more agile than mine for a while, and I hate to be embarrassed.’

Glancing at Matty, Rufus raised a finger to his forehead and saluted. ‘Until next time, Mr Arnatt.’

Stone walked off jauntily. Sherlock watched him go. He knew he should have been feeling something over all the goodbyes, but his lips were still tingling with the memory of Virginia’s kiss.

‘See you tomorrow?’ Matty said.

‘I suppose so,’ Sherlock replied. ‘The only thing I can think of now is sleep, and lots of it.’

Matty glanced at the crates that had been unloaded from the train. ‘Looks like there’s some good scoff there,’ he said. ‘I think I’ll follow them crates for a while, just in case an accident happens and one smashes.’

Sherlock smiled. Matty was irrepressible. He would always survive, no matter what happened. In fact, Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if, in fifteen or twenty years’ time, someone named Matthew Arnatt was a highly successful businessman with interests all over the country. But he would still be stealing pies off market stalls, just to keep his hand in; of that much Sherlock was certain.

‘People think there’s an obvious dividing line between things that are legal and illegal,’ he said quietly. ‘I think if I’ve learned anything since moving to Farnham, it’s that there is no line. There’s a whole lot of grey in between the white at one end of the scale and the black at the other end. We just need to be careful where we stand.’

‘As long as I’m closer to the white end than the black end, I’m prob’ly all right,’ Matty said. He grinned suddenly, then turned and ran off.

Sherlock held on for a moment, waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t sure what that thing might be, but he had a sense that the storm had paused for a moment rather than passing on. Eventually, when nobody else came up to talk to him and nothing at all noteworthy happened anywhere around him, he left, feeling somehow deflated.

He caught a ride on a farmer’s passing carriage back to Holmes Manor. He jumped off at the gates and walked up the curving drive to the front door, carrying his bag of clothes and toiletries.

The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open. Sunlight streamed across the hall. The space that for so many months had seemed dark and threatening now was filled with warmth and light. It was like an entirely different house. Had he finally got used to it, or was this something to do with Mrs Eglantine’s departure? Had she taken the shadows and the darkness with her?

As he stepped into the hall, a figure appeared from the dining room.

‘Ah, you must be Master Sherlock,’ a voice said.

Sherlock’s tired gaze took in the form of a middle-aged woman with straw-coloured hair pulled back into a bun that was secured at the back of her head with a net. Her face was kind, and her eyes were brown and lively. Although she wore black there was something about her clothes that gave the impression of parties and dances rather than funerals and wakes.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away for a few days.’

‘So the master said. He mentioned that he was expecting you back soon.’ She smiled. ‘My name is Mrs Mulhill, and I am the new housekeeper. I started yesterday.’

‘Welcome to Holmes Manor.’

‘Thank you. I am looking forward to working here very much indeed.’ She glanced at his bag. ‘I’m sure you have laundry that I can take. If you want to make yourself comfortable somewhere, I will bring you a tray of tea and some biscuits. The master and the mistress are out at the moment, but they will be back for dinner.’

‘Tea and biscuits,’ he said, ‘would be wonderful.’

Leaving his bag in her care, he