"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."