The House Of Silk

as he was in the pursuit of his various investigations. Perhaps that was why the two of us got on so well.
    I just had time to pack a few things for an overnight stay, and by the time the sun set we found ourselves in a pleasant inn, dining on a leg of lamb with mint sauce and a pint of quite decent claret. I forget now what we talked about over the meal. Holmes asked after my practice and I think I described to him some of Metchinkoff’s interesting work on cellular theory. Holmes always took a keen interest in matters to do with medicine or science, although, as I have related elsewhere, he was careful not to clutter his mind with information which, in his opinion, had no material value. Heaven protect the man who tried to have a conversation with him about politics or philosophy. A ten-year-old child would know more. One thing I can say about that evening: at no time did we discuss the business at hand and, though the time passed in the easy conviviality that the two of us had so often enjoyed, I could tell that this was quite purposeful. Inwardly, he was still uneasy. The death of Ross preyed on him and would not let him rest.
    Before he had even taken breakfast, Holmes had sent his card up to Ravenshaw Hall, asking for an audience, and the reply came soon enough. The new Lord Ravenshaw had some business to take care of, but would be pleased to see us at ten o’clock. We were there as the local church struck the hour, walking up the driveway to a handsome Elizabethan manor house built of Cotswold stone and surrounded by lawns that sparkled with the morning frost. Our friend, the raven with two keys, appeared in the stonework beside the main gate and again in the lintel above the front door. We had come on foot, a short and pleasant walk from our inn, but as we approached we noticed that there was a carriage parked outside, and suddenly a man came hurrying out of the house, climbed into it and swung the door shut behind him. The coachman whipped on the horses and a moment later he was gone, rattling past us on the drive. But I had already recognised him. ‘Holmes,’ I said. ‘I know that man!’
    ‘Indeed so, Watson. It was Mr Tobias Finch, was it not? The senior partner in the picture gallery Carstairs and Finch of Albemarle Street. A very singular coincidence, do you not think?’
    ‘It certainly seems very strange.’
    ‘We should perhaps broach the subject with a certain delicacy. If Lord Ravenshaw is finding it necessary to sell off some of his family’s heirlooms—’
    ‘He could be buying.’
    ‘That is also a possibility.’
    We rang the doorbell and were admitted by a footman who led us through the hall and into a drawing room of truly baronial proportions. The walls were partly wood-panelled with family portraits hanging above, and a ceiling so high that no visitor would dare raise his voice for fear of the echo. The windows were mullioned and looked out onto a rose garden with a deer park beyond. Some chairs and sofas had been arranged around a massive stone fireplace – there was the raven once again, carved into the lintel – with green logs crackling in the flames. Lord Ravenshaw was standing there, warming his hands. My first impression was not entirely favourable. He had silver hair, combed back, and a ruddy, unattractive face. His eyes protruded quite conspicuously and it struck me that this might be due to some abnormality of the thyroid gland. He was wearing a riding coat and leather boots and carried a crop tucked under his arm. Even before we had introduced ourselves, he seemed impatient and keen to be on his way.
    ‘Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes. I think I have heard of you. A detective? I cannot imagine any circumstances in which your business would connect with mine.’
    ‘I have something that I believe may belong to you, Lord Ravenshaw.’ We had not been invited to sit down. Holmes took out the watch and carried it over to the master of the estate.
    Ravenshaw took it. For a moment he weighed it in his hand, as if uncertain it was even his. Slowly, it dawned on him that he recognised it it. He wondered how Holmes had found it. Nonetheless, he was pleased to have it back. He spoke not a word but all these emotions passed across his face and even I found them easy to read. ‘Well, I am very much obliged to you,’ he said, at length. ‘I am very fond of this watch. It was given to me by my sister. I never thought I would see it again.’
    ‘I would be