“When will you go back?” he asked, hoping it wouldn’t be soon. He had grown accustomed to both Crowe and Virginia. He liked having them in his life since he’d been sent to live with his aunt and uncle.

“When my work here is done.” A huge smile creased his lined, weather-beaten face as his mood changed. “An’ when I consider that I have discharged my responsibility to your brother by teachin’ you everythin’ I know. Now, let’s talk about ants.”

Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to another of Crowe’s impromptu lessons. The big American could take anything from around him, whether it was in the countryside, the town or someone’s house, and use it as the springboard for a question, a problem or a logical conundrum. It was beginning to annoy Sherlock.

Crowe straightened up and looked around behind him. “I thought I’d seen some of the little critters,” he said, walking over to a small pile of dry earth that was piled up like a miniature hill in a patch of grass. Sherlock wasn’t fooled. Crowe had probably spotted them on the way up and filed them away as fodder for his next training session.

Sherlock jumped down from the wall and walked across to where Crowe was standing. “An anthill,” he said with little enthusiasm. Small black forms wandered aimlessly around the mound of earth.

“Indeed. The external sign that there’s a whole bunch of little tunnels underneath which the little critters have patiently excavated. Somewhere under there you’ll find thousands of tiny white eggs, all laid by a queen ant who spends her life underground, never seeing daylight.”

Crowe bent down and gestured for Sherlock to join him. “Look at how the ants are movin’,” he said. “What strikes you about it?”

Sherlock watched them for a moment. No two ants were heading in the same direction, and each one seemed to change direction at a moment’s notice, for no visible reason. “They’re moving randomly,” he said. “Or they’re reacting to something we can’t see.”