'We should get off this road soon enough, I can tell you that.'
The narrow lane was bounded on either side by dense forest. 'You think it unsafe?'
'At present that's a fair description of just about anywhere.' Sparks halted suddenly. His head moved back and forth like a bird, registering exactly what sort of sensory information it was difficult to ascertain.
'This way,' he said, and quickly ran off into the woods.
Doyle followed, alarmed. Sparks led them so deep in that the road was no longer visible. Stalking through a gully of second-growth ferns on the forest floor, he slowed his step, came to a halt, and gently drew aside a column of brambles, revealing a spotty gooseberry bush.
'Let's eat,' said Sparks.
They denuded the bush, harvesting a handful of berries apiece. They were malformed and bitter, but Doyle savored each one like napoleon creams.
'You like your food, do you, Doyle?' Sparks asked, watching him eat. 'You look like a proper trencherman.'
'I wouldn't turn down a proper meal, no.'
'Nourishment. There's a subject. There'll be a lot to say about that before too long. The general health.'
'Jack, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about the general health just now.'
'Not at all.'
'I'd just as soon talk about my health in particular; my health vis a vis these determined attempts upon my life. My health as in, I'd prefer to go on having it, thank you very much.'
'I understand completely.'
'Good, Jack. I'm glad that you understand.'
'I don't need to walk a mile in your shoes to see how bleak things look from where you're sitting,' Sparks said, rising to his feet, stretching, ready to press on.
'I wish I could say that were some small comfort to me.'
'Comfort's a luxury we're a bit short on at the moment—'
'Jack: Where ... are ... we ... going?' Doyle said, refusing to budge.
'Where do you want to go?'
'I'd prefer to hear your answer first.'
'Not as easy as all that, Doyle—'
'That's fine, but to be honest with you, Jack, I was counting on—depending on, actually—your advice and counsel in this matter.'
'Here it is, then: Where I want to go at this particular moment in time is not to the point. Not at all.'
'Not to the point.'
'No. The point is, where do ... you want to go?'
Doyle considered shooting him, but the consumed berries, despite their aesthetic inadequacy, had planed the rougher edges off his temper. 'I had entertained some vague plan of going to Topping. The home of the late Lady Nicholson. That was my most recent intention.'
'Good. Let's be off,' Sparks said, and he started walking away.
'Just like that?'
'It's you who wants to go there, isn't it?'
'So you endorse the idea, then,' said Doyle.
'Sounds serviceable. Do you know where it is?'
'Haven't a clue.'
'How were you planning to get there?'
'My plan hadn't evolved quite that far.'
'East Sussex. Near the town of Rye. Come on, Doyle, we've a long walk ahead of us,' said Sparks, setting off through the copse of woods.
'I do have more questions for you,' Doyle said, rising to follow him.
'Fit discussion for the open road, are they?'
'I should think so.'
'Not this road, mind you. Our route will by necessity be somewhat discursive.'
'So I might have suspected.'
The sun continued its morning climb, chasing the chill from their bones, blotting up the first layer of damp from their clothes. They kept to the main thoroughfare for no more than a mile before reaching an almost invisible intersection with an overgrown cart path. After some private deliberation, Sparks guided them to the left, down the forgotten byway. From that point forward, he demonstrated the presence of a formidable internal compass, never hesitating over a change of direction, even when.the sketchy track they were following entirely disappeared for extended stretches at a time.
Such as it was, the path fell away from the forest, down into a rolling valley of lush farmland. In the brilliant sunlight, the rich loam of the fields engaged and delighted the senses. A choir of songbirds kept faith with the day's emerging gentility. Doyle found it difficult to hold his worries squarely in mind and once caught himself starting to whistle. Sparks grabbed a handful of dry grass, thoughtfully examining and then chewing the stalks, one after another.
At Sparks's request, Doyle recounted his experiences since they had parted in London, remembering, as Sparks had importuned him to avoid the police altogether, to leave out his visit with Leboux of Scotland Yard. And quite cleverly, too, Doyle congratulated himself.
'So after leading the inspector to Thirteen Cheshire Street, you returned to your flat and discovered the body of Mrs. Petrovitch,' Sparks said.
Buffeted, Doyle tried to bluff his way through.
'Allow me to unburden you, Doyle: Don't bother lying to me—'
'How did you know?'
'What does it matter? The damage is done.'
'But you must tell me, by what manner of reasoning did you—'
'I was following you.'
'Even then? Before the Indian getup?'
'Throughout, more or less.'
'For the purpose of protection, or in the hope that I'd draw trouble?'
'Those ends are not working at cross-purposes—'
'Likewise for your presence in Cambridge.'
'I had additional objectives there as well—'
'Such as?' asked Doyle, pressing what he now felt sure was the interrogatory advantage.
'Lady Nicholson's brother was an undergraduate at Gonville and Caius. I made some inquiries at the Bursar's Office.'
'While I was off looking for 'Professor Sacker.' '
'That was the most opportune time, yes.'
'I suppose that was your reason for giving the false name,' Doyle concluded. 'If I went to Cambridge to seek you out, you could keep one eye on me while you tracked down the brother—'
'Well considered, Doyle.'
'As it happened, your best-laid plan nearly had me for birdseed.'
'Most unfortunate.'
'I don't suppose you have an explanation for what-the-devil was chasing me in the halls of the Antiquities Building.'
'No. Sorry,' said Sparks, without a hint of misgiving, then, sprightly, 'Not without interest, though, is it?'
'A moment hardly goes by without my thinking of it. So what did you discover about the brother?'
'Last name, Rathborne; Lady Nicholson's maiden name. First name, George. He left school three days before the vacation on what he told the proctor was urgent family business. Hasn't been seen or heard from since.'
'Nor will he be, poor devil. What about Madame Blavatsky?'
