By way of answer, Holmes paused with his hand in a trouser pocket, then drew it out and dashed the contents onto the table nearest the door. A handful of small, disparate objects danced and rolled and threatened to fall to the floor, but no sooner had they come to a rest than he scooped them up again, and turned a questioning eyebrow on me.

We hadn’t done this particular exercise in a long time, but I had sufficient experience with Holmes’ ways to know what his action signified.

“You wish me to play Kim’s game?” I asked.

“The boy himself called it the ‘Jewel Game,’ but yes.”

It was a test of one’s perception, first of seeing, then of committing to memory. I was tired, and I couldn’t see what this had to do with my question, but obediently I began to recite.

“Three mismatched collar studs; a nubbin of India rubber; two paper-clips, one of them Italian; the cigar-band from Mycroft’s cigar; a gold pen nib; the button that came off your shirt two weeks ago that you couldn’t find, so that Mrs Hudson replaced all the shirt’s buttons at a go; the stub end of a boot-lace; a seed-head from last summer’s nigella; a penny, a halfpenny, and a farthing; two pebbles, one black and the other white; a tooth from a comb; and one inch of pencil.”

He smiled then, and headed back into the bedroom. “You and O’Hara will find you have much in common, I think.” When I protested that he hadn’t answered me, he put up his hand. “We shall have many days of leisure in which to recount fond tales of derring-do, Russell. But not tonight—we have much to do before we catch that train. And, Russ?” I looked up to find him outlined in the doorway, a pair of patent-leather shoes in his hand, his face as grim as his voice. “Make certain to pack adequate ammunition for your revolver.”

Chapter Two

We rose from our brief rest to a world of white, and the news that the trains to London were badly delayed. Nonetheless, we had my farm manager Patrick put the horses into harness and take us to the Eastbourne station, where we found that indeed, the London trains were not expected to reach Victoria until late in the afternoon. I glanced at my hastily packed bags and tried not to look too cheerful.

“That does it, Holmes. We shall have to wait until next week.”

“Nonsense. Off you go, Patrick, before you end up in a drift over your head.”

I shrugged at my old friend, who touched the brim of his cloth cap and picked up the reins. Holmes had already turned to the station master, a lugubrious individual long acquainted with this particular passenger’s idiosyncrasies, and, I thought, secretly entertained by them. Very secretly. “Are the telephone lines still up?”