Red on the Pin

Holt flung the tarpaulin fully open. No second person was in the boat—only an unlit lantern and a roll of canvas still dripping.

"I came to fetch him," Holt said. "I lit the third lamp. Mr Crane taught me the code—in case a pretended death was made real."

Holmes watched the calluses on his knuckles. "The man who taught you that knot can teach another. Was the boy on the shore lighting a fourth lamp by your order?"

Holt shook his head hard. His face went whiter. "I brought only this one. Someone else in the theatre still knows the lamp-code. His name is—"

He never finished. Bootsteps sounded on the stone steps. Not the police. Mrs Crane stood in the fog, holding the pin that had fastened that line into her costume. Its tip was wet with a little red that had not yet dried. Watson whispered, "That red… it does not look like make-up."

❦ To be continued.