Still, I ate it, and the fish course and the stewed rabbit that came after. The rabbit was bland and chewy, as was the custard that followed.

There was very little conversation during the meal, which suited me. I was pleased, too, at the lack of toothless slurping noises that old people so often succumb to when their hearing goes. If one discounted the actual food, it was a pleasant enough, if quiet, meal, and I was looking forward to an early entrance into the featherbed and thick eiderdown I had felt on the bed upstairs.

This was not to be. Baring-Gould folded his table napkin and climbed stiffly to his feet, gathering his sticks from the side of his chair.

"We will take coffee in the sitting room. That fire seems to be drawing better than this one. Probably a nest in the chimney."

As we obediently trooped—slowly—behind him, I had the leisure to study his back. I realised that he was smaller than I had thought, probably barely an inch taller than my five feet eleven inches even when he was young. Now, stooped over his canes, he was considerably shorter than Holmes, but despite his obvious infirmity, his frame still gave the impression of strength, and he had eaten the tasteless food with the appetite of a young man.

He led us through to the adjoining room, which was indeed both warmer and less smoky. The curtains were drawn against the night, and the steady slap of rain against the windowpanes underscored the physical comfort of the room. If the company inside the cozy room made my feminist hackles rise, well, I was always free to slog back to the train tomorrow.

"I must apologise for the nonfunctional state of my radiators," Baring-Gould said over his shoulder to me. "They are normally quite efficient—I had them installed when my wife's rheumatism became bad—but yesterday we awoke to discover that the boiler gat no heat, and I am afraid the only person competent to quell the demons is my temporarily absent housekeeper. Like its master, my house is becoming tired." I reassured my host that I was quite comfortable, and, although I did not think he believed me, he allowed my reassurances to stand.

When we reached the sitting room, Baring-Gould made for a well-worn armchair and addressed himself to Holmes. "I received a gift today that I think might interest you. That small jug on the sideboard. Metheglin. Ever tasted it?" While he spoke, he propped his sticks against the side of an armchair and lowered himself into it, then reached to the side of the fireplace and picked up a meerschaum pipe with a stem nearly a yard long, which he proceeded to fill.

"Not in some time," said Holmes. I looked at him sharply, but his face showed none of the humorous resignation I thought I had heard in his voice.