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unhelpfully, opening one eye.
    ‘You
are. You know you are. You’re observant. Though normally you never stop
talking, you know how to listen, too. Your parents taught you. It’s a good
discipline. And you’re a poet, so you can make the imaginative leap when
necessary.
    ‘The
“imaginative leap”,‘ repeated Oscar, both eyes open now. ‘I like that.’
    ‘You
know what I mean, Oscar. You dare to think things that Lestrade and the other
plodders at Scotland Yard would never dare. And you’re a gentleman, in your
way, so you can mix and mingle among all sorts. Your ordinary detective has to
come in through the servants ‘entrance, but you can walk in through the front
door.’
    ‘So
you’re the detective, Mr Wilde,’ said Catherine English, turning her gaze on
Oscar. ‘How wonderful.’ She leant forward, eagerly. ‘Tell me, what does your
detective’s eye tell you about me?’
    Oscar
sat up. ‘That you are young, pretty, highly intelligent and wonderfully well
read,’ he said.
    ‘I
could have told you as much,’ I protested. ‘Anyone could.’
    Oscar
ignored me and continued to look steadily at our beautiful companion. ‘What
more can I say?’
    ‘Anything
that occurs to you, Mr Wilde. This is marvellously amusing.’
    ‘Well,
then,’ said Oscar, ‘I can tell you that you like to be amused, that you have
secrets and that you are impressively protective of your older brother.’
    ‘I have
secrets, Mr Wilde?’
    ‘We all
have secrets,’ said Oscar.
    I
turned to Catherine English. ‘You have a brother?’ I enquired.
    Oscar
intervened. ‘The gentleman sitting opposite Miss English is her brother. Our
companions are brother and sister, Arthur, not husband and wife.’
    ‘Is
that so?’ I asked, confused. The young lady nodded, smiling. ‘I assumed…’
    ‘Never
make assumptions, Arthur. It’s the golden rule.’
    I
turned to Oscar. ‘Brother and sister. How on earth did you know?’
    ‘Well,
it was fairly obvious, Arthur, even before we learnt their names. The couple
are sitting face to face. They might have been married, except for the fact
that Miss English is not wearing a wedding ring. They could have been
sweethearts, except that then we would have expected to see them sitting side
by side. When we discovered that they shared a surname, I thought for a moment
they might be cousins, except that Miss English’s easy familiarity with Mr
English — a familiarity bordering almost on impertinence: she called him
“boorish” and “curmudgeonly” — suggested a much closer kinship. The age
difference does not allow them to be father and daughter, ergo they must be
brother and sister.’
    ‘Well
done, Mr Wilde.’
    ‘Yes,
Oscar, congratulations. A tour de force.’
    ‘And
I’ll hazard two more thoughts while I’m about it. Miss English and her brother
are orphans — and Mr English is not all that he seems.’
     

 
     
     
    4
    Brown shoes

     
     
    M artin
English lowered his newspaper and turned hi head towards Oscar, his stare cold
and unamused. He spoke in a low voice, slowly, emphasising each word in turn.
‘And how, sir, do you know that I am not all that I seem?’
    ‘Because
of the brown shoes that you are wearing, ‘replied Oscar, lightly.
    English
glanced down at his elegantly shod feet. He was wearing two-tone ankle boots in
chestnut and tan. ‘Is there something amiss in my “brown shoes”?’ he asked.
Again he spoke slowly, emphatically, without emotion.
    ‘No,’
said Oscar, quickly, ‘nothing at all. Far from it. I have a pair quite like
them myself, bought — like yours, I think — from John Lobb of St James’s.’
    There
was an awkward pause. ‘Yes,’ said English, eventually, looking up from his
boots to return Oscar’s gaze. ‘And what of that?’
    ‘They
are beautiful brown shoes, Mr English,’ answered Oscar, smoothly, ‘but I cannot
help noticing that you are wearing them with black socks.’
    ‘Ah,’
grunted English, folding his newspaper