The two of them were out in the Surrey countryside. The heat of the sun weighed on the back of Sherlock’s neck like a brick. An almost overpowering aroma of flowers and freshly mown hay seemed to hang in the air around him.

A bee buzzed past his ear and he flinched. Ants he was relatively ambivalent about, but bees still spooked him.

Crowe laughed. “What is it with the British and jam sandwiches?” he asked through the laughter. “I swear there’s a nursery aspect to British eating habits that no other country has. Steamed puddings, jam sandwiches — with the crusts cut off, of course — and vegetables boiled so long they’re just flavoured mush. Food you don’t need teeth to eat.”

Sherlock felt a stab of annoyance. “So what’s so great about American food?” he asked, shifting his position on the dry stone wall he was sitting on. Ahead of him the ground sloped down to a river in the distance.

“Steaks,” Crowe said simply. He was leaning on the wall, which came up to his chest. His square chin was resting on his folded arms, and his broad-brimmed hat shielded his eyes from the sun. He was wearing his usual white linen suit. “Big steaks, flame-grilled. Properly grilled so there’s crisp bits around the edge, not just waved over a candle like the French do. An’ not smothered in some kind of cream brandy sauce, also like the French do. It don’t take the brains of an archbishop to cook and serve a steak properly, so why can’t anybody outside the United States do it right?” He sighed, his bubbling good nature suddenly evaporating to leave an unexpected flat sadness exposed.

“You miss America?” Sherlock said simply.

“I’ve been away for longer than a man should. An’ I know Virginia misses the old country as well.”

Sherlock’s mind was filled with a vision of Crowe’s daughter Virginia riding her horse Sandia with her copper-red hair flowing out behind her like a following flame.