When we reached the obelisk, Holmes reined in the pony for a moment and consulted his map once again. I looked up at the huge stone pineapple far above our heads. There seemed something monstrous about it, and something grotesque, too, in the notion that one could express one’s hospitality in a stone monument, as if in doing so one had done one’s duty and need not thenceforth trouble oneself with all the little acts of kindness that are the true mark of hospitality. Above this monument, the clouds were darker now – almost the colour of slate – and the wind that whipped about us was laden with raindrops.

In a moment, Holmes had made his decision and turned the trap into the roadway to the right. As we rattled along between the trees, the rain began to fall, and Miss Borrow, who was clad only in a light dress, began to shiver. The boy, who had been sitting on my knee, appeared to be recovering a little, so I sat him down beside her, unwrapped the blanket a little, and extended it over the girl’s head and shoulders. The two of them huddled close together and pulled the blanket tight around them, as the heavens opened and the rain teemed down.

A minute later we were through the narrow belt of trees and into open countryside, our way taking us between the dripping hawthorn hedges that bordered the sodden fields. To be soaking wet was no new experience for me – I was once caught in a cloudburst in India which was so heavy it almost knocked me to the ground – but I do not think that rain had ever before made me feel quite so cold and miserable. Fortunately, the shower, although heavy, was not prolonged, and in a few minutes had abated.

Holmes glanced round at us, caught my eye and chuckled. “Dry clothes, a hot drink and a pipe,” said he.

“You have divined my deepest desires,” I returned, “although I don’t imagine that in this case it was very difficult.” To myself I reflected, as I had many times before, upon my friend’s remarkable resilience of spirit. However daunting or depressing the circumstances might be, his resolution never faltered, his enthusiasm for the challenges of life never appeared to wane one iota, but, on the contrary, seemed to bubble over with an almost prodigal superfluity and remedy the want of effervescence in those around him. The infectiousness of his enthusiasm made him the very finest of companions in all circumstances, but especially so in adversity. Would this indomitable strength of spirit and good humour ever flag, I wondered, this side of the grave? I rather doubted it. I had scarcely ever known Holmes morose, save only when he was bored by the tedium of inaction.

“Mr Holmes?” said Miss Borrow abruptly, emerging from under the blanket and interrupting my own train of thought. “May I ask a question?”

“By all means,” returned he, removing his hat and slapping it on his knee to knock off the raindrops. “What is it you wish to know?”

“You said that you would explain to me why my uncle had written my aunt’s name over and over so many times.”

“I think it likely,” replied Holmes after a moment, “that in writing her name, and the other miscellaneous words and phrases we saw earlier, he was endeavouring to imitate her hand, so that he could sign letters and papers in her name and give the impression that she had signed them herself.”

“Why should he do that?”

“There may be some official documents, which require both their signatures, and as your aunt is not here to sign for herself, your uncle has no doubt forged her signature.”

“Will people not know that she is no longer at East Harrington?”

“Not necessarily. Your uncle has dealings with, among others, solicitors in Gray’s Inn, in London. No doubt they will occasionally send someone up here, but most of the time the business will be conducted by post. I doubt that they are aware that your aunt is not still at the Hall. I have made a note of the solicitor’s address. Tomorrow, I shall run down to Gray’s Inn and swear an affidavit of all that I have discovered here today.”

“Do you think that the documents you mention have anything to do with Edwin or me?”

“Quite possibly.”

“I know that we were left a little money in my father’s will, and that our aunt and uncle draw on this, to pay for our upkeep.”

“The sum of money involved is perhaps somewhat greater than you realize, but yes, that is part of the subject of your uncle’s dealings with the solicitors at Gray’s Inn. Now, Miss Borrow, if you could answer a question for me: do you recall how your tutor, Mr Theakston, left the house on the evening he departed?”

The girl nodded. “He left for the railway station in this trap. I was watching from an upstairs window.”

“Was the trap driven by the groom?”

“No, by Captain Legbourne Legge.”

“I see. Is that Dedstone Mill over there, on the other side of that little wood?” Holmes asked abruptly, pointing with his whip to where the gable end of a tall roof showed above a belt of trees.

“Yes, that is it,” replied the girl. “This road continues all the way to the river bank, and then turns and follows the river past the mill to the village of Dedstone.”

“And here,” I observed, “are the geese.”

The fields by which we were now passing were almost completely flooded, save where an occasional small hummock of land stood a little above the surrounding level plain and formed a little island in the flood. Upon these cold grey sheets of water, rippled constantly by the chill, blustery wind, were scores and scores of wild geese, their strange cacophonous honking and babbling as constant as the noise of traffic in a city street.

“I am surprised that our passage has not disturbed them,” I remarked.

“It will,” returned Holmes. “Yes, there they go!” cried he, as first one, then two or three, then a dozen, then hundreds and hundreds rose up from the watery ground in a great babbling crowd, until the grey sky was darkened by a thousand beating wings. “It gives away our position somewhat,” remarked Holmes in a rueful voice as the clouds of birds wheeled about the sky and circled above us, “but I doubt that matters now.”

A few minutes more and we had reached the side of the swollen, turbid river, where the grey surging waters, thick with branches and twigs, matted heaps of decaying vegetation, and all manner of debris, boiled and frothed against the banks, as if determined to scour and grind them away. In some places, indeed, this relentless assault had already been successful, and the riverbank had collapsed into the water. By the side of this seething torrent of destruction we rattled along for some time, then the road turned away from the river and wound its way through a little wood, until, all at once, we emerged into an open space, and there before us stood the mill, gaunt and dreary against the leaden sky.

It was a huge building, three or four storeys high, and sixty yards from one end to the other. No doubt it had once seemed the most modern establishment imaginable in the milling line. But now it resembled nothing so much as a medieval ruin, a crumbling relic of a bygone age. Half the roof tiles were missing, many of the windows were broken, and the timber walls of the upper storeys had a rotten, decayed appearance, and had clearly not received a coat of paint in fifty years. Towards the right-hand end, the destruction of the building was especially severe, and the missing section of roof and blackened, charred timbers indicated clearly that that was where the fire which Miss Borrow had mentioned had burnt most fiercely.

As we drew to a halt before this dirty and dilapidated building, the little boy, who had seemed more lively by the minute, became extremely agitated and clung to his sister’s arm. I was helping them down from the trap when a door in the mill was abruptly opened and a scrawny, filthy-looking woman looked out. The boy let out a little shriek and turned away.