All kinds of reasons a soul might want to hunt someone down. The basic principles remain the same.’ Glancing over at Sherlock from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he added: ‘Based on previous experience, there’s always the murderers and criminals you might come across during the course of your life.’ He took hold of the fishing rod and flicked the lure back over his head in a figure-of-eight and into the water. ‘And then, when all’s said and done, there’s always deer, boar and fish.’

With that he settled back with eyes half-closed and devoted himself to fishing for the next hour while Sherlock watched.

After two more fish had been caught, dispatched and thrown into the basket, Amyus Crowe set his rod down in the bows of the boat and stretched. ‘Time to head back, ah think,’ he announced. ‘Unless you want to try it yourself?’

‘What would I do with a fish?’ Sherlock asked. ‘There’s a cook at my aunt and uncle’s house. Breakfast and luncheon and dinner just arrive on the table without me having to worry about it.’

‘Someone has to catch the animals to make the food,’ Crowe said. ‘And one day you might actually find yourself having to worry about where the next meal comes from.’ He smiled. ‘Or maybe you might want to surprise the lovely Mrs Eglantine with a nice plump trout for dinner.’

‘I could slip it into her bed,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘Would that do?’

‘Tempting,’ Crowe laughed, ‘but no, I don’t think so.’

Crowe took the oars and rowed the boat back to the shore. After tying it to a post that had been set into the ground, he and Sherlock set off back to his cottage.

Their path led up the steep side of the bowl containing the lake. Crowe pushed on ahead, carrying the wicker basket. His large body made surprisingly little noise as he moved. Sherlock followed, tired now as well as bored.

They got to the ridge at the top of the slope, where the ground fell away steeply behind them and levelled out in front, and Crowe stopped to let Sherlock catch up.