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setting sun, making it shine with a macabre crimson light. The various sharp
decorations along the edge of the roof looked like teeth raking at the darkening sky. There was something about the structure of the building – the way the wings joined on to the main body,
and the way the lines of differently coloured stone that marked the divisions between the floors ran across the frontage, that made him feel uneasy, even faintly nauseous. No two lines seemed to be
exactly parallel, and no angles summed to exactly ninety degrees, giving the house a strange, lopsided feel. It didn’t appear to be falling down however. It seemed more as if it had been
deliberately built that way – constructed using a geometry that wasn’t based on the rules that Sherlock had been taught at school. There was something about the way the windows gaped,
black and empty, which made him think of many eyes all staring down at him pitilessly, measuring him up and finding him wanting.
    He shook himself. He’d been travelling for too long without any distractions, and he was hungry. His imagination – usually the quietest part of his mind – was running wild.
    ‘Can you see that place?’ Matty called.
    ‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, more quietly than he had intended. It was as if he didn’t want the house to hear them.
    ‘Weird, ain’t it?’
    ‘Yes.’ He felt as if he needed to keep his answers as short and direct as possible, to avoid attracting attention. ‘It’s just a badly designed house,’ he said
sharply. ‘Nothing to get panicked about.’
    ‘’Arold don’t like it,’ Matty pointed out, and indeed the horse did appear to be shying away from the building, as far as the rope that connected him to the barge would
allow. Matty was having to steer the boat further out into the canal just to stop them from being pulled into the bank.
    Sherlock glanced back towards the house as the inexorable progress of the barge carried them past its baleful gaze. The building almost seemed to shift with them as they moved, keeping its
frontage facing them and its black windows fixed on them. Just as he was about to look away, the light from the setting sun illuminated a shape on the roof that was distinct from the chimneys and
the carved decorations. It looked for all the world like a gargoyle, a stone demon poised up there, overlooking the house’s grounds, but who would decorate their house with just one gargoyle
– and why put one on a house anyway? Gargoyles were generally found on churches or cathedrals, and usually came in groups rather than individually. Weren’t they meant to be water spouts
for when it rained? Who would put just one water spout on a roof?
    Even as the thoughts crossed Sherlock’s mind, the massive figure shifted. It moved to one side, and its right arm reached up to catch the edge of a chimney, stabilizing it against a sudden
gust of wind that ruffled the waters of the canal and briefly caught the side of the barge. The figure looked to Sherlock as if it was about seven feet tall, with a chest like a barrel and a head
that was bald and strangely lumpy, rather than smooth like a man’s scalp should have been. Its arms appeared overly long too. He shuddered, feeling an inexplicable fear. Then he blinked, and
suddenly the figure was gone. The roofline was once again just chimneys and spiky decorations.
    A trick of light and shadow – it must have been. He took a deep breath, suddenly aware that he had stopped breathing for a few moments.
    ‘Did you . . . ?’ he called, then bit down on the words he had been going to say.
    ‘Did I what?’ Matty asked.
    ‘Nothing.’
    ‘Do you want to stop for the night? It’s getting dark. We’ve got some sausage left, an’ some cheese.’
    ‘Let’s keep going for half an hour more.’ Sherlock glanced again at the house. ‘I want to get some more distance under our belt before we stop.’
    ‘You’re the boss,’ Matty said cheerfully, then added, more quietly,