As compelling a character as Sherlock holmes is, I’m intrigued by his less famous fictional brother, Mycroft. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle creates a character of great girth, of literal gravitas. Rooted to his chair in a second-rate London club, Mycroft solves the mysteries Sherlock can’t break, relying on the complex flowing powers of his mind.

Cecilia, Louisiana is a little town of agricultural fields and straight two-lane roads that neatly splice them. Now I place Mycroft in Cecilia around 1960 – and he’s sitting by an electric fan. He lives on dirty rice and smothered okra. His accent is no longer British but Cajun – and his profound thoughts generate beads of sweat that trickle down his neck to darken the collar of his short-sleeve cotton shirt. He smells of bitter iron and sweet bay rum. The mysteries he solves involve ghosts and hunters and bayous, and keep at bay his own dark memories. He has a fine low voice, and he hums slow unshaped melody that transports him to a solution.