manners by raising his backside a fraction of an inch from the seat of the chair as I sat down, then he reached forward and removed the lid from the tureen of promised soup. No steam came out. By the time he had pronounced a grace and served us, the soup had cooled even more, and to top it off, when I tasted the tepid mixture, it was obvious that it had been made a day or several before.
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.
'A powerful substance—I would suggest a small dose if you're not accustomed to it. Distilled from heather honey. This batch is seven years old—I should warn you, never drink it if it's less than three. Yes, I'll have a drop. It helps to keep out the cold,' he said, in answer to Holmes' gesture. I took my husband's unintentional hint and demurred, reassuring my host that coffee would be sufficient to warm me. While they discussed the merits of the contents of their glasses, I examined my surroundings.
The room was panelled in oak and had a decorative plaster roof similar to that in the gallery upstairs. Up to head height the panelling was simple oak, but above that the wood was carved in ornate arches framing dimly seen painted figures that marched around the entire room, all of them, as far as I could tell, posturing ladies in billowing draperies. I took up a lamp from the table and held it to the figure there, a woman with dogs held straining against their leads:
'The one over there might be of interest to you,' Baring-Gould suggested, and tipped his head at the inner wall.
'Gaudium Vitae?' I asked doubtfully, looking at the figure in her gold tunic, its gold ties blowing dramatically behind her and a massive gold chalice held nonchalantly in slim fingertips at the end of an out-stretched arm.
'I think he means the next one,' Holmes said.
In the panel to the left was a woman clothed in orange garments flecked with a design of black splotches that looked alarmingly like huge ants. She had wings sprouting from her temples, and her right hand pointed at a flying white bird that might have been a dove, although it looked more like a goose. At her feet a small white pug- faced dog, tail erect, had its nose to the ground, snuffling busily. Above the wings the caption read,
'Daisy painted them. My daughter Margaret,' he explained.
'Really? What was here before?' There must have been something, as the upper portion of wall was obviously designed for decorations. I wondered what Elizabethan treasure had been lost in this slightly clumsy restoration.
'Nothing. They are new. Not new, of course, but the walls were built since I came here, to my design.'
I examined the walls more closely. They did look considerably fresher than the seventeenth century.
'Local craftsmen, my pattern based on a house nearby, my daughter's painting—I restored an Elizabethan house out of a small and frankly decrepit base.'
'The ceilings too?'
'Nearly everything. I am particularly proud of the fireplace in the hall. It belongs to the reign of Elizabeth, without a doubt.'
The idea of a heavily restored and adapted original explained the very slightly odd feel to the gallery ceiling upstairs—far too ornate for a country house, and much too new and strong for the age of its design.
'The ceilings are very beautiful,' I said. 'Does your daughter still live here with you?'
