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Sherlock, he continued: “For a while, there were two American presidents—Abraham Lincoln in the North and Jefferson Davis in the South.”
    â€œWhy did they want independence?” Sherlock asked.
    â€œWhy does anybody want independence?” Mycroft rejoined. “Because they don’t like taking orders. And in this case there was a difference in political views. The Southern states supported the concept of slavery, whereas Lincoln had run his election campaign based on halting the spread of slavery.”
    â€œNot that simple,” Crowe said.
    â€œIt never is,” Mycroft agreed, “but it will do for the moment. The war began on April 12, 1861, and during the next four years 620,000 Americans died fighting one another—in some cases, brother against brother and father against son.” He seemed to shiver, and for a moment the light in the room grew darker as a cloud passed across the sun. “Gradually,” he continued, “the North, known as the Union of States, eroded the military power of the South, who were calling themselves the Confederacy of States. The most important Confederate general, Robert Lee, surrendered on the ninth of April 1865. It was as a direct result of hearing that news that John Wilkes Booth shot President Lincoln five days later. That was part of a larger plot—his confederates were supposed to kill the Secretary of State and the Vice President—but the second assassin failed in his task and the third lost his nerve and ran. The last Confederate general surrendered on June 23, 1865, and the last of their military forces—the crew of the CSS Shenandoah —surrendered on the sixth of November 1865.” He smiled, remembering something. “Ironically, they surrendered in Liverpool, England, having sailed across the Atlantic in an attempt to avoid having to surrender to the forces of the North. I was there, representing the British government. And that was the end of the War Between the States.”
    â€œExcept that it wasn’t,” Crowe said. “There’s still people in the South who want their independence. There’s still people agitatin’ for it.”
    â€œWhich brings us to now,” Mycroft said to Sherlock. “Booth’s co-conspirators were caught and hanged in July 1865. Booth himself fled, and was allegedly captured and shot by Union soldiers twelve days later.”
    â€œâ€˜Allegedly’?” Sherlock questioned, picking up on the slight emphasis in Mycroft’s words.
    Mycroft glanced at Crowe. “During the past three years there have been repeated claims that Booth actually escaped his pursuers, and that it was another conspirator, one who looked like Booth, who was shot. It’s said that Booth changed his name to John St. Helen and fled America, in fear of his life. He was an actor, in his personal life.”
    â€œAnd you think he’s here now?” Sherlock said. “In England?”
    Mycroft nodded. “I received a telegram from the Pinkerton Agency yesterday. Their agents had heard that a man named John St. Helen who met the description of John Wilkes Booth had embarked from Japan to Great Britain. They asked me to alert Mr. Crowe, who they knew was in the country.” He glanced across at Crowe. “Allan Pinkerton believes that Booth arrived in England on board the CSS Shenandoah three years ago, stayed for a while, then moved abroad. Now they believe he’s back.”
    â€œAs I think I mentioned some time ago,” Crowe said to Sherlock, “I was asked to come to this country to track down those people who had fled America because they committed the most horrific crimes durin’ the War Between the States. Not killin’s of soldiers by soldiers, but massacres of civilians, burnin’s of towns, an’ all manner of godless acts. Since I’m here, it makes sense for Allan Pinkerton to want me to investigate this man John St.