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Helen.”
    â€œDo you mind if I ask you,” Sherlock said to Crowe, “what side you were on in the War Between the States? You told me you came from Albuquerque. I looked it up on a map of America, here in my uncle’s library. Albuquerque is a town in the New Mexico territory, near Texas, which is a Southern state. Isn’t it?”
    â€œIt is,” Crowe acknowledged. “An’ Texas was part of the Confederacy durin’ the War. But just because I was born in Texas doesn’t mean I automatically support anythin’ they do. A man has the right to make his own decisions, based on a higher moral code.” He grimaced inadvertently. “I find slavery … distasteful. I don’t believe that one man is inferior to another man because of the colour of his skin. I may think that other things make a man inferior, includin’ his ability to think rationally, but not somethin’ as arbitrary as the colour of his skin.”
    â€œOf course, the Confederacy would argue,” Mycroft said smoothly, “that the colour of a man’s skin is an indication of his ability to think rationally.”
    â€œIf you want to establish a man’s intelligence, you talk to him,” Crowe scoffed. “Skin colour ain’t got a thing to do with it. Some of the most intelligent men I’ve ever talked to have been black, and some of the stupidest have been white.”
    â€œSo you went to the Union?” Sherlock asked, eager to get back to Crowe’s fascinating and unexpected history.
    Crowe glanced at Mycroft, who shook his head slightly. “Let’s just say I stayed in the Confederacy but I worked for the Union.”
    â€œA spy ?” Sherlock breathed.
    â€œAn agent,” Mycroft corrected quietly.
    â€œIsn’t that … unethical?”
    â€œLet’s not get into a discussion of ethics, otherwise we’ll be here all day. Let’s just accept that governments use agents all the time.”
    Something that Mycroft had said finally percolated through Sherlock’s mind and sparked a response. “You said that the Pinkerton Agency asked you to tell Mr. Crowe about John St. Helen. That means”—he felt a wash of emotion flood across him—“that you didn’t come here to see me. You came to see him .”
    â€œI came to see you both,” Mycroft said gently. “One of the defining characteristics of the adult world is that decisions are rarely made on the basis of one factor. Adults do things for several reasons at once. You need to understand that, Sherlock. Life is not a simple thing.”
    â€œIt should be,” Sherlock said rebelliously. “Things are either right or they are wrong.”
    Mycroft smiled. “Don’t ever try for the diplomatic service,” he said.
    Crowe shifted from foot to foot. He seemed uneasy to Sherlock. “Where does this St. Helen fellow live?” he asked.
    Mycroft took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and consulted it. “He apparently has taken a house in Godalming, on the Guildford Road. The name of the house is”—he checked the paper again—“Shenandoah, which might be indicative or might just be a coincidence.” He paused. “What do you intend doing?”
    â€œInvestigatin’,” Crowe said. “That’s why I’m here. Course, I’ll have to be particular about how I go about it. A big American like me is likely to be spotted pretty quickly.”
    â€œThen be subtle,” Mycroft warned, “and please do not try to take justice onto yourself. There are laws in this country, and I would hate to see you hanged for murder.” He sniffed. “I dislike irony. I find it upsets my digestion.”
    â€œI could help,” Sherlock said abruptly, surprising himself. The thought appeared to have gone straight from his brain to his mouth without engaging his reason.
    The two men stared at him in