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“A night or two at most. And I hope to return with answers.”

“Will you let me know,” said Heather, “if you find the Duke’s missing word?”

“Of course,” said Havelock, donning his hat and bowing. “Thank you for your help, Heather.”

We swayed together in the back of the postal coach; we were on our way back to Grasmere, from where we would take a cab back to Windermere. This time, our journey was softened by the sacks and boxes of Farleigh’s fruit that surrounded us, and their fragrances filled the air. Havelock rocked against my shoulder, and we listened to the sound of the postmaster whistling, barely audible over the rattling of the coach.

“You’re quiet, Sebastian,” said Havelock, into my ear.

I turned to him. In the low light of the coach, we were almost nose-to-nose.

“I think I am feeling sorry to have left Farleigh so soon,” I told him.

“A night or two at most, I promise, and then we’ll return.”

“Perhaps…” I ventured, “when the case is closed, we might spend a while in the village? I think I should like to spend more time studying the trees.”

“I think I should like that too.”

A pause. I could feel Havelock’s hand in mine.

“It’s the most peculiar thing,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“We take such pains to conceal our relationship. I know that I must play the part of your trusty companion, and that our reputations depend on it. Yet, in Farleigh…”

“I feel as if I might kiss you in public,” said Havelock.

“Yes. That’s it.” We were jarred as the coach went over a particularly poor part of the track. “Why do you think that is?”

Havelock was quiet. Then he said, “We are very much men of the Empire, you and I. And the Empire does not coexist well with other cultures. It is the opinion of the Crown, and Parliament, and every gentleman in this country, that the English way of life is superior, and should be imposed upon the world for its betterment. Hidden right in the heart of the Empire, however, are two extremely different peoples that have learned to live peacefully together—the village of Farleigh, and its forest of talking trees.” Havelock squeezed my hand. “For all that we are men of the Empire, our love for each other sets us apart from it. Farleigh is evidence that that might not always be so. It is evidence that we might one day be accepted and respected, in the same way that Farleigh’s trees are.”

“Beautifully put,” I said. “Do you think there are people like us living in Farleigh?”

“There are people like us living everywhere, Sebastian. Men who love men. And women who love women.”

“Like Mary and Heather.”

“Indeed. I make a great many deductions that I never reveal. You might be glad to know that there are all kinds of marvellous relationships occurring everywhere all the time, often right in front of us. Love takes many forms. In Farleigh too.”

“I am glad to know that.”

“You and I are not as unusual as you might imagine.”

“Nonsense,” I told him. “We are extraordinary.”

Havelock took both of my hands, and ran his fingers along mine—turning them over and studying them in the meagre light leaking in through the postal coach’s high window. “I love your hands,” he told me. “You have the finest hands of any man I’ve ever met.”

I was reminded of the day before we left London, when I shaved Havelock, and all seemed at odds with us. Here and now, though, that version of us seemed so far away. I didn’t know if things would ever quite be the same as they were before between us—but I could feel us growing together, and rediscovering one another; becoming something new and wonderful. I let Havelock study my hands, and breathed deep of his hair; that same mustiness, but there was something new in it today. It smelled of peaches.

I sat outside the telegraph office and read through The Times while Havelock sent some correspondences. It was a bright, overcast day in Windermere, and last night’s rain still gleamed on the tiles. A fair few people bustled about, with cabs and coaches passing to and fro, and though the summer season was coming to an end, there were still plenty of folk on vacation, striding about in their holiday best, making merry in the free houses, or consulting maps. The air smelled of the recent rain, and the lake, and horses, and there was so much clattering about, and noisy exchanges, that I found it quite difficult to focus on the headlines.

On page seven, as usual, was our latest serial. This one was part five of “The Silver Owl.” The investigation in question had actually taken place three years ago, but The Times had kept my report on hold until now. The truth was that we had accumulated something of a backlog—Havelock was in his prime, and our continued fame by way of The Times meant that we were never short on interesting cases. I lowered the paper and, observing the boats out on Windermere, wondered, for the first time in my life, about retirement. How many more years of adventure would we have together?

On page eight were the court reports, and it was there, presented as no more than a bullet point in a list, that I saw that the perpetrator of our last case—“The Dollmaker’s Daughter”—had finally been sentenced. This, too, caused me pause. I was, of course, glad to see that the so-called Dollmaker would face justice, but every time I saw a sentencing made possible by Havelock and myself—especially in relation to such an extreme crime—it always caused me a moment of self-doubt. What if we had been wrong? What if the real culprit was still at large? It was my faith in Havelock that reassured me. He was meticulous, and always took the time to gather indisputable evidence, especially when the crime was of such a terrible nature. I let myself exhale: We had done the right thing, and a monster would be hanged.

“Excuse me.” I lowered my paper to see a family there: a portly gentleman with a large moustache, and a tall lady, with two young boys peering out from behind her dress.