Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the water, sending daggers of light flashing towards Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked repeatedly, and tried to keep his eyelids half-closed to minimize the glare.

The tiny rowing boat rocked gently in the middle of the lake. Around it, just past the shoreline, the grassy ground rose in all directions, covered in a smattering of bushes and trees. It was as if it were located in the middle of a green bowl, with the cloudless blue of the sky forming a lid across the top.

Sherlock was sitting in the bows of the boat, facing backwards. Amyus Crowe was sitting in the stern, his weight causing his end of the boat to sink lower into the water and Sherlock’s to rise higher out of it. Crowe held a split-cane fishing rod out over the lake’s surface. A thin line connected the tip of the rod with a small clump of feathers which floated on the surface of the water: a lure that, to a hungry fish, might look like a fly.

Between them, in the bottom of the rowing boat, sat an empty wicker basket.

‘Why did you only bring one rod?’ Sherlock asked, disgruntled.

‘This ain’t a day’s fishin’,’ Crowe replied genially, eyes fixed on the floating lure, ‘much as it may look like it. No, this is a lesson in life skills.’

‘I should have guessed,’ Sherlock muttered.

‘Although it’s also a way to get some dinner for me an’ Virginia tonight,’ Crowe conceded. ‘Ah always, if possible, try to arrange that what ah do serves several purposes.’

‘So I just sit here?’ Sherlock said. ‘Watching you fish for your dinner?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’ Crowe smiled.

‘And is it going to take long?’

‘Well, that depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether ah’m a good fisherman or not.’

‘And what makes you a good fisherman?’ Sherlock asked, knowing that he was playing into Crowe’s hands but unable to stop himself.