an invisible wall before him.
And indeed, I felt something, though whether it was energy spilled by unimaginable beings, or the Earth's quiet potential on a summer's day, I could not tell.
While Sir Arthur and I waited for Holmes to finish his search, a rough-shod man of middle years approached.
"Good morning, Robert," Conan Doyle said.
"Morning, Sir Arthur," Robert replied.
"Watson, this is one of my tenants, Robert Holder."
Robert's work clothes were shabby and sweat-stained. I thought he might have taken more care with his appearance, when he came to speak to his landlord.
To Robert Sir Arthur said, "Mr Holmes and Dr Watson have come to help us with our mystery."
"Mr Holmes?" Robert exclaimed.
He glanced out into the field, where Holmes continued to pace and stoop and murmur.
"And you're Dr Watson?" Robert's voice rose with the shock of finding himself in the presence of celebrity. "Why, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir," he said to me. "My whole family, we read your recountings in the evenings. The children learned their letters, sitting in my lap to listen to your tales."
"Er . . . thank you," I said, somewhat nonplussed. Though he was well-spoken for a farmer, I would not have marked him as a great reader; and, more, I consider the perils encountered by Holmes to be far too vivid for impressionable young children. However, it was not my place to correct Robert's treatment of his offspring, particularly in front of his landlord.
"Have you found the villains?" Robert asked. "The villains who have crushed my best wheat field!"
Holmes strode across the field and rejoined us, a frown furrowing his brow. He appeared not even to notice the presence of Sir Arthur's tenant.
"Useless," Holmes said. "Perfectly useless! Here, the artist stood to sketch the scene." He flung his hand toward a spot where white dust covered the scuffed ground. "And there! A photographer, with his camera and flash powder. Fully six reporters and as many policemen trampled whatever evidence might have been left." He did not pause to explain how he could tell the difference between the footprints of reporters and those of policemen. "And, no doubt, when the sightseers arrive by the next train—"
"I can easily warn them off," Sir Arthur said.
"To what purpose? The evidence is destroyed. No! I could conjecture, but conjecture is only half the task. Proof, now; that's a different story."
He glared out into the field as if it had deliberately invited careless visitors to blur the story written there.
"If only," Holmes said softly, "the scene were fresh."
He turned abruptly toward Robert. He had taken the measure of the man without appearing to observe him.
"You saw the lights," Holmes said. "Describe them to me."
"Are you Mr Holmes?"
I blushed to admit, even to myself, that the rough farmer had a better respect for common manners than did my friend.
"Of course I am. The lights."
"The night was calm. A bit of fog, but no rain, no storms. I heard a strange noise. Like a musical instrument, but playing no melody I ever heard. And eerie . . . It put the chills up my back. Made the baby cry. I went outdoors—"
"You were not frightened?"
"I was. Who would not be frightened? The Folk have fled London, but they still live in the countryside, in our hearts."
"You are a scholar and a folklorist," Holmes said without expression.
"I know the stories my family tells. Old stories. The Folk—"
"The faerie folk!" Sir Arthur said. "I've seen photographs—they do exist."
"The Folk," Robert said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with Sir Arthur. "The ones who lived in this land before us."
"The lights, man!" Holmes said impatiently.
"At first I saw only a glow against the fog. Then—a ring of lights, not like candles, flickering, but steady like the gaslights of the city. All different colours. Very beautiful."
"Foxfire," Holmes said.
"No, sir. Foxfire, you see it in the marsh. Not the field. It's a soft light, not a bright one. These lights, they were bright. The circle spun, and I thought—"
He hesitated.
"Go on, man!"
"You'll think I'm mad."
"If I do, I shall keep it to myself."
Robert hesitated. "I thought I saw . . . a huge solid object, floating in the sky like a boat in the water."
"A flying steamship?" I said.
"An aeroplane," said Sir Arthur. "Though I would have thought we'd hear of a pilot in the area."
"More like a coracle," Robert said. "Round, and solid."
"Did you hear its motor?" Holmes asked. "A droning, perhaps, or a sound like the autocar?"
"Only the music," said Robert.
"I've never known an apparition