"I thought the hound was supposed to be leading the carriage, not following," I said weakly.
Holmes replied, "I don't think the displacement of the animal would negate the experience in the minds of the couple, Russell."
I was surprised to see a tiny smile twitch at the corner of Baring-Gould's ancient blue lips, and then astonished when they opened and the old man began to sing, in a baritone that quavered a bit but was true enough, to give forth a tune that was simple, yet eerie.
"My Lady hath a sable coach, with horses two and four,
My Lady hath a black blood-hound, that runneth on before.
My Lady's coach hath nodding plumes, the coachman hath no head,
My Lady is an ashen white, as one who is long dead."
He sat with his head resting on the back of the chair, a reminiscent smile softening his face. "My old nurse Mary Bicknell used to sing that song to me when I was small."
Personally, I thought that a woman who would sing something like that to a young child ought to be barred from her post, but I did not voice the idea. Baring-Gould, however, either read my thoughts or had a mind that ran in the same direction, because he opened one eye, looked straight at me, and said, "She did hasten to reassure me that Lady Howard was only on the road after midnight."
"Which ensured that you would not venture out of your window at night," I commented. He closed his eyes again, looking ever so faintly amused.
"Come, Russell," said Holmes. "We will see you this evening, Gould." His only answer was one aged forefinger, tipped up from the arm of the chair in farewell.
It was still miserably wet outside, looking as if it intended to rain steadily for days, but I was not surprised when Holmes suggested that we go out.
"I neglected to bring monsoon gear with me, Holmes."
"I'm sure the good Mrs Elliott could supply an adequate garment," he said. "Any house overseen by Gould is bound to have enough raiment for a small army."
So it proved, although one might have wished for modern gum boots rather than the stiff gaiters made of oiled leather, grey with hastily scrubbed-off mildew. In fact, everything smelt as musty as a cavern. Still, aside from one or two places, the rain sheeted off us as we set off across the drive past the round fountain, which in daylight I could see featured the bronze figure of a goose-herd. I paused to look back at the house, this combination of white and grey stone, leaded windows, and slate, a family home both idiosyncratic and comfortable. My eye was caught by the stone carvings over the porch, with an indistinguishable coat of arms and the date 1620.
"Part of the house is original, anyway," I noted.
Holmes followed my gaze. "Original, yes, but not to Lew Trenchard. I believe the porch came from a family holding in Staverton, although that particular stone was once a sundial in Pridhamsleigh. Various other pieces came from Orchard, a house approximately five miles to the north of here."
I laughed. "Baring-Gould's Elizabethan house, composed of old pieces patched together, like the new ceiling upstairs."
"The upstairs actually is old," Holmes said, "though Gould brought it here from a building in Exeter. It's the downstairs that's new."
"Well, have you looked closely at the carving over the fireplace in the hall? It's quite nice, but the fox appears to be making for a pinery. The pineapple wasn't even introduced until the reign of Charles II, and wasn't cultivated until the early eighteenth century. I looked it up in his Britannica," I added.
"True, although I believe the stone fireplace itself is considerably earlier than the carving surrounding it."
I gave up.
We set off through a low, weedy rose garden and by a gate into the long meadow stretching out towards the small river that had so plagued me the night before. The grass was ankle-deep and sodden, and we kept a close eye on our feet, lest we meet the sign of a cow's passing.
"Where did you go on the moor?" I asked after a bit. "Not to where Lady Howard's coach was seen?"
"Actually, it was more or less the same area, although with a different goal. I was looking at the artillery ranges."
I allowed quite a number of steps to pass before I finally asked, "Are you going to tell me why you were looking at the artillery ranges?"
"Are you interested?"
"As I told you last night, I am here, Holmes," I said heavily. "I have not yet packed my bags and sloped off to Oxford."
"I suppose that answers my question."
"It damn well ought to."
"Mycroft."
He spoke the name as if that, too, were answer enough, and to some extent, it was. Mycroft Holmes (who was, I still had to remind myself, my brother-in-law) had been the instigator of many of Holmes' more, shall we say, official investigations. Mycroft worked for a governmental agency that it amused him to call the accounting office, although the accounts tallied (and occasionally settled) often had very little connexion with pounds, shillings, and pence.
"The army this time?"
"A weapon they're testing. They wish to keep it secret and are not having much success."
I stopped. "Oh God. Doesn't the world have enough weapons? Have they learnt nothing from four years of war, millions dead, and whole countries brought to the edge of destruction?"
"They have learnt that the next war will be won by technology."
"The next war." The idea was physically revolting.
"There will be one, Russell. There always is."
"I will not participate in an army spy-search. I absolutely refuse. I'd rather talk to drunken farmhands about spectral coaches."
"It is peripheral, Russell," he said soothingly. "I made the mistake of letting Mycroft know where I was going, and he asked me to do this while I was here. We are in Devon because of Gould's case, and any work for Mycroft is strictly secondary. Although I don't believe we need stoop to interviewing rural inebriates, particularly those who have had three weeks to build up a story."
I wrenched my boots up from the muddy pasture and started walking again. We were mounting a rise, approaching a raw patch of ground with a few small trees trying weakly for a foothold. It seemed to be a wide, oval depression in the earth, but that impression did not prepare me for what in a moment lay at our feet. I was so startled I took a step back from it.
It was a pit, an enormous water-filled crater with nearly vertical sides gouged straight into the green pasture barely a stone's throw from Baring-Gould's front door. A gush of water shot out from the bank on the far side and plummeted down into the lake, looking more like a furious storm drain than a debouching stream. A ramshackle boathouse, incongruously resembling a Swiss chalet, clung to the bank across from the waterfall.
"What on earth—?"
"Astonishing, isn't it?" Holmes was staring morosely at the water that lay a good forty feet below us. It was impossible to tell how deep the water was beneath that leaden surface, but it had a definite feeling of profundity. "Gould's father had the brilliant idea of establishing a quarry here, as a source of income. You see the two ramps cut to haul it out? Nearly overgrown now. When Gould took over in the 1880s he diverted a stream to fill it. He claims it is pleasantly cool on a hot day, to paddle about in a boat."