“Good day!” cried Holmes as the newcomer approached.

“Good day to you, sir!” returned the other in a broad rural accent, giving a little salute. “Are you lost, sir?”

Holmes shook his head with a smile. “My friend and I are taking the air,” said he.

The young man’s mouth fell open a little and his features assumed a look of puzzlement and alarm. “Taking the air, sir?” he queried in an anxious tone.

“No, no,” said Holmes quickly, chuckling to himself. “I mean, my friend and I are enjoying the fine fresh air of this beautiful countryside. You live locally, I take it. If so, you are indeed fortunate!”

“Yes, sir. Fortunately, I live at the hardware shop!”

“Ah, yes. I saw it as we walked up the high street: ‘J. Blogg, Hardware’. You are, perhaps, Noah Blogg?”

“Yes, sir. Noah Blogg,” returned the other, appearing pleased to hear his own name spoken.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said my colleague, extending his hand to the young man, who took it and shook it vigorously, “and this is my friend Dr Watson.”

“Pleased,” declared Noah Blogg with a broad smile, repeating his energetic performance with my own hand.

“This is an interesting spot,” said Holmes, indicating the pool and its surroundings. “Do you come here often?”

“Often,” repeated the young man.

“You like it here?”

The young man hesitated and appeared unsure.

“Sometimes,” he responded at length.

“And sometimes not, eh?” said Holmes, regarding the young man keenly. “When do you not like it?”

The young man again looked unsure. His mouth opened, but he did not answer.

“Do you remember Sarah Dickens?” asked Holmes.

“My friend,” was the simple reply.

“I am sure she was,” said Holmes in a kindly voice. “It was sad that she was drowned here, was it not?”

“Don’t know,” the young man replied, appearing confused. His previously cheery face had assumed a sombre look, and his eyes moved to a spot at the edge of the water, close to where we were standing.

Holmes followed his gaze. “Is that where she was drowned?” he asked.

The young man did not reply. A variety of emotions passed across his features in rapid succession, and his lips moved without producing a sound. Then, with a suddenness that made my hair stand on end, he blurted out, “Don’t know nothing,” turned on his heel and ran very swiftly back along the path by which he had come.

“It appears that your questions have awoken painful memories for him,” I remarked as the sound of Noah Blogg’s heavy footsteps faded. “You were perhaps a trifle blunt.”

Holmes nodded. “If so, I am sorry. I had no wish to cause him distress, but I could not neglect a possible source of information.”

“Of course, it is arguable whether any information he provided would really be of much value,” I remarked, but Holmes shook his head.

“Do not be too quick to dismiss it,” said he. “If he was on friendly terms with the dead girl he may perhaps have been privy to her secrets. One can never tell in such a case who might hold the key that will unlock the problem.”

For some time then, Holmes resumed his pacing about and his probing of the water, examining the area from every possible angle and muttering to himself constantly as he did so. Then he seated himself upon the fallen tree and slowly began to fill his pipe, a thoughtful look on his face.

“There is something in the air here,” said he at last, looking about him. “Do you not feel it, Watson? Perhaps I am permitting myself to indulge in fancies, but many places have their genius loci, and the spirit of the Willow Pool is, I think, one of tragedy and misfortune.”

“I have known cheerier spots,” I remarked.

My friend chuckled. “Let us walk on a little way, then,” he suggested, rising to his feet. “Mr Yarrow will not be here for a while, so we have plenty of time to follow this path out beyond the wood and take our lunch upon the hillside above.”

Following the way, therefore, by which Noah Blogg had made his abrupt departure, we passed along the length of the pool and on through the wood, our path rising as it followed the course of the stream, until we emerged at last upon a sunlit upland. Of Noah Blogg there was no sign.

“Has your examination of the pool furthered your thoughts in any way?” I asked my companion as we sat on the springy turf, smoking our pipes after our humble lunch.

“Indeed. It has enabled me to see for myself the location of the event which is at the root of Captain Reid’s problems,” he returned, “and has provided further material for judicious speculation.”

“Perhaps so,” said I, “but I cannot see how anything you discover here can really make much difference to your client’s lamentable position. The girl in question is dead. Nothing you discover, as to the precise circumstances of her death, can alter that fact, nor alter the generally held opinion that Reid was the cause of her sorrow.”

“You enunciate one particular point of view very clearly, Watson,” returned Holmes, “but as it is a view that would foreclose most possibilities before they have been examined, it is not a view I favour. I have undertaken sufficient investigations to know that new facts can emerge from the unlikeliest of quarters. There is an unresolved question about the girl’s death: some in the district think it was an accident, others, despite the verdict of the coroner’s court, believe that it was suicide. I am confident of discovering the truth of the matter, to my own satisfaction at least. Once I have established in my own mind precisely what occurred here three years ago, I can then address the remainder of the problem. I am hopeful that when Mr Yarrow arrives he will be able to furnish us with a little more information. Ah, there he is now!”

I followed my companion’s gaze and saw that some distance off to our right, a dark-clad figure was making his way along the edge of a ploughed field towards Jenkin’s Clump. In a few minutes we had retraced our steps and were once more within the shaded spinney, by the margin of the pool. A moment later there came a man’s voice, calling to us from the path from Oakbrook Hall, and looking up the hill I saw a figure framed for a moment in the bright sunlit rectangle where the path through the wood met the open fields beyond. Holmes had been once more examining closely the ground at the edge of the pool, but he looked up as the vicar called to us, and there was a sudden stillness in his manner. I turned and saw that his face was rigid and tense, like a keen hound that has got the scent of game in his nostrils, and in his eyes was a steely glitter. What had wrought this abrupt change I could not imagine. In a moment his features had relaxed again, as the vicar joined us by the pool and we all shook hands. Mr Yarrow was a broad-faced, learned-looking man, with a shining bald head fringed with grizzled grey hair. He declared himself ready to answer any questions that we might have.

“I should be very obliged,” said Sherlock Holmes, “if you would repeat the main points of the account you gave me yesterday evening. Dr Watson would no doubt appreciate hearing the details from your lips, and I wish to ensure that I have not overlooked any fact of significance.”

“By all means,” responded the vicar in an agreeable tone. “Let me see now. First of all, you should know that Sarah Dickens lived with her parents and her brother, who was two years older than her, on the outskirts of the village. Her father farms there in a small way, on land rented from Admiral Blythe-Headley, the smallholding being known as ‘Hawthorn Farm’. It is probably true enough to say that Sarah came from typical rural stock, but I do not mean by this that she was in any way a simpleton. She had learned her lessons at the village school very well and was a great reader. She had something of a taste for poetry, and had herself composed many little poems, the best of which she wrote up neatly in an exercise book that she had bought for the purpose. She had showed me one or two of these poems on occasion, and I had encouraged her to write more. She also went into the school fairly often, at the request of Miss Mead, the teacher, to help the little ones learn their letters, and I know that Miss Mead found her a great help.