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By Root 386 0

harness trimmings, with a woman clearly visible inside. They heard the crack of a whip, and as the carriage was passing another dark shape appeared behind it. The shape turned and looked straight at them, and it whined. They were both clear that they had heard the whine. At that point in her story the girl broke down into hysterics, because when the beast turned to look at them, they could clearly see that it was possessed of a single eye, large and glowing, in the centre of its head. The driver of the carriage whistled, and the hound—or whatever it was—loped off, leaving the two lovers to collect what wits they might have, and their clothing, and race for the girl's cottage as if, as the saying goes, all the hounds of hell were after them."

Baring-Gould allowed his eyes to close, and his mouth opened slightly. He was exhausted by his lengthy narrative, but Holmes continued to pore over the map, and I felt sure that if his old friend would benefit by a doctor's attention, Holmes would summon one. Not knowing quite what was called for, I thought I ought at least to comment on what the old man had so laboriously given us.

"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