For once the air smelled of nothing more than the oils and spores released by wet earth and turned soil, and it reminded Watson of travelling briskly down the Surrey lanes in the aftermath of a rainstorm on a spring day, the hedgerows dotted with green shoots, ploughed fields steaming in fresh sunshine after the squall had moved on. He could almost hear the clop of hoofs, the encouragements of the trap driver, feel the old excitement as they faced solving another enticing puzzle together. Such a simpler world back then. The world, he reminded himself, that most of these young men imagined they were fighting to save. He leaned against the wing of his Crossley 20/25 staff car while he waited for Mrs Gregson and lit one of his Bradley’s, breathing deeply of the slightly sweet smoke. Women’s tobacco, Holmes had called the blend, but Watson liked the contrast – his choice of cigarette was light and refreshing, his pipe of Schippers muscular and invigorating. The only activity around him was the grim scurrying back and forth of the blank-eyed burial parties and the attendant chaplains, so instead he watched three slow pusher observation biplanes crawl overhead, almost stationary against the pale sky, making their stately way towards the German lines.
