‘So what have we covered today?’ he asked genially as he detached the hook from the trout’s mouth. ‘Know the habits of your prey, know what bait he’s likely to go for, and know what the signs are that he’s in the vicinity. Do all that, and you’ve maximized your chances of a successful hunt.’
‘But when am I ever likely to be hunting someone or something?’ Sherlock asked, understanding the basics of the lesson but unsure how they applied to him. ‘I know you used to be a bounty hunter, back in America, but I doubt I’ll ever go into that profession. I’m more likely to end up as a banker or something.’ Even as he said the words he felt his heart sink. The last thing in the world he wanted to do with his life was a boring desk job, but he wasn’t sure what else there was for him.
‘Oh, life’s full of things you might want to catch,’ Crowe said, throwing the fish into the basket and placing the wicker lid over the top. ‘You might want to flush out investors for some moneymakin’ scheme you’ve come up with. You might consider findin’ yourself a wife at some stage. You might be trackin’ down a man who owes you money. All kinds of reasons a soul might want to hunt someone down. The basic principles remain the same.’ Glancing over at Sherlock from beneath his bushy eyebrows, he added: ‘Based on previous experience, there’s always the murderers and criminals you might come across during the course of your life.’ He took hold of the fishing rod and flicked the lure back over his head in a figure-of-eight and into the water. ‘And then, when all’s said and done, there’s always deer, boar and fish.’
With that he settled back with eyes half-closed and devoted himself to fishing for the next hour while Sherlock watched.
After two more fish had been caught, dispatched and thrown into the basket, Amyus Crowe set his rod down in the bows of the boat and stretched. ‘Time to head back, ah think,’ he announced. ‘Unless you want to try it yourself?’
‘What would I do with a fish?’ Sherlock asked. ‘There’s a cook at my aunt and uncle’s house. Breakfast and luncheon and dinner just arrive on the table without me having to worry about it.’
‘Someone has to catch the animals to make the food,’ Crowe said. ‘And one day you might actually find yourself having to worry about where the next meal comes from.’ He smiled. ‘Or maybe you might want to surprise the lovely Mrs Eglantine with a nice plump trout for dinner.’
‘I could slip it into her bed,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘Would that do?’
‘Tempting,’ Crowe laughed, ‘but no, I don’t think so.’
Crowe took the oars and rowed the boat back to the shore. After tying it to a post that had been set into the ground, he and Sherlock set off back to his cottage.
Their path led up the steep side of the bowl containing the lake. Crowe pushed on ahead, carrying the wicker basket. His large body made surprisingly little noise as he moved. Sherlock followed, tired now as well as bored.
They got to the ridge at the top of the slope, where the ground fell away steeply behind them and levelled out in front, and Crowe stopped to let Sherlock catch up.
‘A point to note,’ he said, gesturing down at the blue surface of the lake. ‘If you’re ever out huntin’, don’t be tempted to stop at a place like this, either to take in the view or to get a better look at the surroundin’ terrain. Imagine what we look like to any animal in the forest, silhouetted here on the ridge. We can be seen for miles.’
Before Sherlock could say anything, Crowe started off again, pushing through the undergrowth. Sherlock wondered briefly how the man knew which way to go without a compass. He was about to ask, but instead tried to work it out himself. All Crowe had to go on was their surroundings. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, but that wasn’t much help at lunchtime when the sun would be directly overhead. Or would it? A moment’s thought and Sherlock realized that the sun would only be truly overhead at noon for places actually on the equator. For a country in the northern hemisphere, like England, the nearest point on the equator would be located directly south, and so the sun at noon would be south of a point directly overhead. That was probably how Crowe was doing it.
‘And moss tends to grow better on the northern side of trees,’ Crowe called over his shoulder. ‘It’s more shaded there, and so it’s damper.’
‘How do you do that?’ Sherlock shouted.
‘Do what?’
‘Tell what people are thinking, and interrupt them just at the right moment?’
‘Ah,’ Crowe laughed. ‘That’s a trick ah’ll explain some other time.’
Sherlock lost track of time as they walked on through the forest, but at one point Crowe stopped and crouched down, putting the basket down.
‘What do you deduce?’ he asked.
Sherlock crouched beside him. In the soft ground beneath a tree he saw a hoof print, small and heart-shaped.
‘A deer went this way?’ he ventured, trying to jump from what he saw to what he could work out based on what he saw.
‘Indeed, but which way did it go and how old was it?’
Sherlock examined the print more closely, trying to picture a deer’s hoof and failing.
‘That way?’ he said, pointing in the direction of the rounded part of the print.
‘Other direction,’ Crowe corrected. ‘You’re thinking of a horse’s hoof, where the round bit is at the front. The sharp bit of a deer’s hoof always points in the direction it is heading. And this one’s a young ’un. You can tell by the small oval shapes behind the print. Those are made by the dewclaws.’
He looked around. ‘See over there,’ he said, nodding his head to one side. ‘Can you make out a straight trail through the bushes and grass?’
Sherlock looked, and Crowe was right – there was a trail, very faint, marked by the bushes and grasses being pushed to either side. It was about five inches across, he estimated.
‘Deer move all day between the area they bed down in and their favourite watering hole, trying to find food,’ Crowe said, still crouching. ‘Once they find a safe route they keep usin’ it until they get spooked by somethin’. And what does that tell you?’
‘Prey tends to stick to the same habits unless disturbed?’ Sherlock replied cautiously.
‘Quite right. Remember that. If you’re lookin’ for a man who likes a drink, check the taverns. If you’re lookin’ for a man who likes a bet, check the racin’ tracks. And everyone has to travel around somehow, so talk to cabbies and ticket inspectors – see if they remember your man.’
He straightened, picking the basket up again, and started off through the trees. Sherlock followed, glancing around. Now that Crowe had pointed out what to look for, he could see sets of different tracks on the ground: some deer, of various sizes, and some obviously something else – maybe wild boar, maybe badgers, maybe foxes. He could also see trails through the underbrush, where the bushes and grasses had been pushed to one side by moving bodies. What had previously been invisible was suddenly obvious to him. The same scene now had so much more in it to look at.
It took another half an hour to reach the gates of Holmes Manor.
‘Ah’ll take my leave of you here,’ Crowe said. ‘Let’s pick up again tomorrow. Ah’ve got some more to teach you about trackin’ and huntin’.’
‘Do you want to come in for a time?’ Sherlock asked. ‘I could get Cook to make a pot of tea, and one of the maids could gut and bone those fish for you.’
‘Mighty accomodatin’ of you,’ Crowe rumbled. ‘Ah believe ah will take advantage of that offer.’
Together they walked up the gravelled drive towards the impressive frontage of Holmes Manor. This time Sherlock was in the lead.