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“Can I help you?” I said.

“I am sorry to disturb you. We saw you from across the street and…”

One of the boys piped up. “Are you the Major?”

I folded my paper. “I am.”

There were gasps from the boys.

“How wonderful to meet you,” said the man. “We read all about your exploits in The Times, and enjoy them very much. Don’t we, boys?”

“Yes, sir,” said one.

“Is that your sword?” asked the other.

I put my hand on my sabre, which was across my lap. “It is.”

There was another round of gasps.

“If you don’t mind,” said the man, “would you mark my notebook?”

“I’ll do you one better,” I told him. Folding my copy of The Times over to the page with part five of “The Silver Owl” on it, I took my pencil and put my signature beneath the title. Then I handed it to the man. “I was done with it anyway.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man, with a little bow. “Thank you.”

He, his wife, and his boys went away, the boys squealing with delight.

Not long after, Havelock emerged. “I thought you were reading the paper?”

“I was, and then a bird carried it away.”

Havelock laughed. “Anything to report?”

He looked in good spirits, and I didn’t want to spoil them. News of the sentencing could wait. “Nothing of note. Where to next?”

Havelock and I spent a dispiriting afternoon in the Windermere council offices negotiating with the clerk, who wearily fetched us armfuls of dusty books from years long passed, each filled in with a species of handwriting that proved nearly impossible to decipher. Even armed with magnifying glasses, and comparing notes, there was a tremendous amount of information that was lost to history. We emerged just as the last express train of the day arrived, depositing a new set of late-season holidaymakers into the town.

Havelock brushed the dust from his lap.

“Anything at all useful, do you imagine?” I asked.

“A few details,” he said. “Not as much as I would have liked, but enough to be suggestive. I believe that I can see the shape of something emerging.”

“Shall we retire for the night?”

“I think perhaps—” said Havelock. Then, “Oh, hullo. I wonder…”

I followed him over to a local store, set up to sell clothing for ramblers. There were all different kinds of walking sticks, and sturdy boots, and woollen shawls for women. Havelock ignored these and went to the rack at the rear of the store, where there were rows upon rows of maps. Most were in the form of pamphlets, but a few were scrolled, and Havelock handed me armfuls of each, until I was quite overladen. “What do we need these for?” I asked.

“Just an idea,” he said. “It might amount to nothing.”

I emptied my pocketbook to pay for them all, and we wandered back to our hotel. We had a pair of rooms on the first floor with an adjoined balcony that overlooked the lake, and I sat back in one of the wicker chairs there, puffing at my pipe and watching Havelock as he worked. He unfolded each map in turn—scrutinising it before moving on to the next. Most were simple guides to the area, and it was only the scrolled maps that featured any real details, but Havelock kept an amount of each laid out before him, pinned in place with pieces from our luggage. When he had several arranged, he stood, and took several turns around them, studying them from every angle. Night was beginning to fall, so I brought him a candle.

The soft sounds of merriment drifted up from the town below, and there were lights out on the lake and across the shore where there were homes among the trees.

“Oh,” said Havelock at last, pausing at one of the larger maps. “Could it be…?”

I leaned forward. “What have you seen?”