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came here for this chance and I intend to take it.’
    Hanson turned and began to stride towards the village. Watson knew he couldn’t let him go. There was too much at stake for every other man in the camp. He bent one leg and used his foot to
drive himself off the tree. It was a long time since he had performed a rugby tackle, and it was as much a stumble as a charge, but he caught the man in his lower back and he felt Hanson’s
legs buckle at the impact. Watson kept his weight on top of him as he fell towards the floor, making sure all the breath was driven from Hanson’s body when he crashed down into sparse
undergrowth.
    Watson, too, was winded and the younger man recovered first, with a vicious elbow to the face. The padding of the man’s greatcoat softened the force of the impact, but even so, Hanson
managed to wriggle free as Watson reared back to prevent a repeat performance. The speed of the man was impressive. He hopped to his feet and began to work with his fists. Watson covered his face
as blow after blow rained down on him, a savagery born of a desperate, irrational urge. Watson lashed out blindly with a foot and made contact with a shin, giving him a moment’s respite so he
could try and struggle upright.
    The pause was short-lived. The moment he was on his feet an uppercut clacked his jaws together and the iron tang of blood filled his mouth. Watson had never had Holmes’s facility as a
pugilist, but he knew even he was performing poorly here. He managed one solid punch of his own, before a left to his ear set the world a-ringing and he went down again, into the carpet of sharp
pine needles.
    Watson rolled on his back. He knew the fight was almost out of him. His lungs felt as if they were being caressed with a blowtorch and his sinuses hummed with pain. Hanson, who had only been in
captivity a matter of weeks, was still in good shape, still carrying muscle that hadn’t been wasted by near starvation. And he was half Watson’s age.
    Excuses, Watson
.
Remember the principles of Bartitsu.
    ‘That was you, Holmes. Not me,’ he said to the phantom voice, which was as unreliable and infuriating as ever.
    Hanson had stepped away from him, walked over to a nearby pine trunk, bent at the waist and then began snuffling like a truffle pig with exertion as he straightened. Watson hoped it was because
he had managed to hurt him, to salvage some pride from the beating he had taken. Perhaps he’d broken a rib or two. But when Hanson stood, Watson could see he had managed to prise free a large
rock from the soil. That was what had required all the grunting effort. There was certainly nothing wrong with his ribs.
    Watson kicked his heels, beetling backwards through the needles until his head rested against sharp bark. He had nowhere left to go. His only option was an appeal to reason, and he was certain
that was in short supply in his assailant’s brain.
    The would-be fugitive approached slowly, clutching the heavy stone that, in a terrible irony, looked to Watson as if it were shaped like a rugby ball. ‘I can’t have you raising the
alarm. Not now I’ve come this far.’
    ‘Hanson—’ Watson began, his arms lifted in a feeble attempt to try to protect his head.
    ‘Sorry, old chap. Needs must, you know.’
    Hanson, his expression somewhere between a grin and grimace, lifted his arms above his head and Watson closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that would crush his skull.

SEVEN
    ‘What do you mean, he’s not on the list?’ said Mrs Gregson, her words snapping like a coachman’s whip.
    ‘Ssh, please, Georgina,’ pleaded Pitt, as the patrons of the Connaught swivelled their heads to take a closer look at the woman who was disturbing their luncheon.
    Mrs Gregson pushed away her bowl of quail consommé, slopping it onto the tablecloth. She clicked her fingers at the waiter and signalled she would like a refill of burgundy. A
crusty-looking diner with walrus-style moustaches tutted at her