I was conscious that the murmuring of the local yeomanry, whom I could dimly make out nursing their pint pots in the gloom, had ceased upon our entry and felt, rather than saw, all eyes upon us.

"Might I prevail upon you for some refreshments, my good man" said Sherlock Holmes in his suavest manner. "My friends and I have had a long journey, and would welcome a loaf of bread and a pot of your local honey. That should satisfy our hunger and three pints of ale, or mead if you have it, will wet our dry throats and restore our spirits."

"You'd be from London, then" scowled the landlord, still eyeing us with deep mistrust.

"Indeed." replied Holmes. "Mr Boswell here is a journalist who is engaged in writing an article for the Strand Magazine upon apiculture."

The fellow's eyes narrowed further, as I nodded acknowlegement that I was Mr Boswell.

"Apper... what?"

"Apiculture, my good fellow, the keeping of bees. The region is well known for the unique characteristics of its honey. I am myself an apiarist, and have offered my services to direct Mr Boswell to the kingdom's finest sources of honey. Mr Finn...", and here Holmes indicated our companion, who nodded in somewhat confused confirmation, "will be making photographs to accompany the published article."

"Aye, it's true that many keep bees hereabouts. This mead is brewed from the local honey" said our host, placing three pint jars of golden liquid before us. "There's none better."

"Then you must join us" said Holmes, placing a silver coin on the bar with a gesture that the innkeeper need not trouble himself to furnish change. "I am particularly anxious that Mr Boswell should sample some of those varieties of your splendid local honey which derive from bees who feed exclusively on jasmine flowers. It is quite sublime, Mr Boswell. The bees' diet imparts a particular scent and flavour of jasmine to the honey itself. Its like can be found nowhere else."

"As it happens, sir, I have some jasmine honey in the kitchen." announced our informant, his initial hostility tempered a little by Holmes's praise of the local produce. "Agnes" he called "fetch a pot of Wickham's honey and a fresh loaf for these gentlemen. They're from the London papers."

At the mention of the name Wickham, I saw Phineas Blount open his mouth to speak, but Holmes swiftly interposed.

"Splendid! Is Mr Wickham the farmer who supplies the jasmine honey? We should dearly like to speak with him."

"Yes," said I placing a cautioning hand on Captain Blount's arm, "his thoughts on how he produces such an unusual honey would be of great interest to my readers."

"Ah, there you'll be disappointed, I'm afraid, gentlemen. Mr Wickham died just the other day." He placed on the bar a tray with a loaf of freshly baked bread, three plates, and a small earthenware pot of rich amber honey, from which, even in the smoky atmosphere of the tap- room, I could detect the distinctive aroma of jasmine.

"I am sorry to hear so," said Holmes. "Of what illness or accident?"
"Oh accident it was," said our host, leaning forward, his closed- mouthed suspicion turning into loquacity, "he were found dead on Monday morning in his bed, stung to death by his own bees!"