“Yes. A most unusual case, overall.” Sherlock put his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “It almost has the cadence of a chess match.”

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The van’s route mostly wound through city streets, which would hopefully make it easier to spot—and evade—any potential pursuers. Traffic was light, but the driver still seemed nervous any time he had to idle at a light or a crossing; his anxiety was contagious, and John found himself suspiciously eyeing the pavements and cross streets around them.

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Moran made a low, breathless sound, staring down at Jay’s hand. Jay followed his gaze; the smouldering tip of the cigarette had landed just a hair’s breadth from the skin between Moran’s thumb and forefinger.

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“I have insufficient facts to construct a theory,” Sherlock replied. There was a certain intensity to the statement, as if he were reminding himself more than anyone else. “Or perhaps too many facts, of too little significance.”

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Less fashionable and affluent than the city’s other private clubs, the Bagatelle lacked air conditioning but made up for it with a lovely shaded courtyard—and, as a concession to the heat, the club’s regular poker game had been moved outside. Sebastian volunteered to deal, as that made it easier to cheat.

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A pair of slippers propped up on the arm of the sofa confirmed the presence of John’s flatmate; over the dull roar of street noise he could just make out the sound of long, thin fingers plucking idly at the strings of a very expensive violin.

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