From the shore it was impossible to make out any detailed features and there was no sign of habitation – certainly there was no smoke rising from any hidden chimney. It looked innocent enough in the spring sunshine, but I wondered what strange and diabolical secrets it held. Dismounting, Holmes and I tethered our horses to the uprights of the jetty; then we set about dragging one of the ancient rowing boats into the shallows. Once the craft was bobbing on the water, Holmes stepped aboard, retrieved the oars from the bottom of the boat, and positioned himself as oarsman. I gave the prow, which was facing the shore, a heave in order to propel it out into the lake before clambering aboard myself. With some difficulty Sherlock Holmes manoeuvred the boat around in the direction of the island and then we set forth on our voyage. ‘I am rather rusty, I am afraid,’ my friend cried over the sound of the wind and the slap and splash of the oars. ‘I haven’t rowed since my university days.’ He tugged on both oars and after a time managed to build up a steady rhythm that sent the boat moving through the water on a reasonably steady course.
