two."
"Or two," he agreed. "Are you satisfied to stop the night here? I could arrange for a motor to take us to Lew Trenchard, if you would prefer, as our set tasks on the moor are, for the moment, more or less complete. I ought to consult with Gould before we determine our next actions." So saying, he stretched his legs out to the fire, rested his cup and saucer on the buttons of his waistcoat, and half closed his eyes. Somehow, he did not look overanxious to hurry off.
"Is there any need to return tonight?"
"None. And on the contrary," he said, lowering his voice, "the public bar might make for an informative evening."
"Grilling the locals while they're in their cups. Have you no shame?"
The corner of his mouth twitched and he allowed his eyes to shut. I ate my scones and poured out the last of the tea, refused the offered refill of both solid and liquid, and sat staring contentedly into the fire. When my cup was empty, I sighed, and glanced over at the relaxed figure in the next chair.
"Holmes, if that cup isn't empty, you're about to have an unfortunate stain."
It was not empty, but he drained it, replaced the cup on the tray, and we adjourned to the stronger refreshment and heartier companionship of the public bar.
***
The companionship we found went some distance beyond hearty, nearing raucous, and I slept late the following morning in the cloud-soft bed. I woke eventually, and lay staring through one eye at the teacup on the table beside the bed. I could smell the tea, could nearly taste the clean, acrid heat of it scouring the fur off my tongue, but I did not care much for the movement required in transporting cup to lips.
"God," I said, and then: "Do I remember dancing last night?"
"Briefly," said Holmes from somewhere across the room.
"God," I said again, and carefully pulled the bedclothes back up around my head.
***
We did not make an early start that morning. I am not certain it was even still morning when we left the Saracen's Head behind. I half wished I could leave my own head there, too.
"But I only drank cider, Holmes," I protested, when a mile of fresh air lay between us and the inn.
"Powerful stuff, Devonshire zyder." I had thought him untouched by our night of carousing with the natives, but on closer examination I decided that he, too, was moving with a degree more care and deliberation than was normal.
"Did we extract any information from the local inhabitants, though?"
"You don't remember?"
"Holmes."
"One of the lads told me an interesting tale about his wife's granny, who was alone in her house one night when the rest of the family had not yet returned from a wedding in Lydford, who heard a dog scratching at the door. She is, the boy admitted, very deaf, but her own dog raised such a noise trying to get out of the door it attracted her attention."
"Now there's a piece of hard evidence," I said. Sarcasm is a ready companion to a sore head.
"When did you learn to play the tin whistle?" Holmes asked innocently. "This is a talent you've kept well hidden from me."
"Oh Lord, I didn't play the tin whistle, did I? Yes, I suppose I did. I was going to surprise you with it someday; I thought it might prove a useful skill the next time we found ourselves disguised as gipsies or something."
"You did surprise me, and it did come in useful."
"Did it? I'm glad. How?"
"Do you recall the old smith-turned-motor-mechanic, Jacob Drew? With the full white beard and the red braces?"
"Er, vaguely." I remembered him not in the least, but I thought I would not admit it.
"He took quite a fancy to you, and came over to tell me while I was trying to tune that wretched excuse for a fiddle that we were not like all the summer trippers, and proceeded to recount some of their madder antics. Such as the pair of Londoners who stopped the night atop Gibbet Hill back in July and came down swearing they'd seen Lady Howard's coach of bones travelling across the moor."
"You don't
"Or two," he agreed. "Are you satisfied to stop the night here? I could arrange for a motor to take us to Lew Trenchard, if you would prefer, as our set tasks on the moor are, for the moment, more or less complete. I ought to consult with Gould before we determine our next actions." So saying, he stretched his legs out to the fire, rested his cup and saucer on the buttons of his waistcoat, and half closed his eyes. Somehow, he did not look overanxious to hurry off.
"Is there any need to return tonight?"
"None. And on the contrary," he said, lowering his voice, "the public bar might make for an informative evening."
"Grilling the locals while they're in their cups. Have you no shame?"
The corner of his mouth twitched and he allowed his eyes to shut. I ate my scones and poured out the last of the tea, refused the offered refill of both solid and liquid, and sat staring contentedly into the fire. When my cup was empty, I sighed, and glanced over at the relaxed figure in the next chair.
"Holmes, if that cup isn't empty, you're about to have an unfortunate stain."
It was not empty, but he drained it, replaced the cup on the tray, and we adjourned to the stronger refreshment and heartier companionship of the public bar.
***
The companionship we found went some distance beyond hearty, nearing raucous, and I slept late the following morning in the cloud-soft bed. I woke eventually, and lay staring through one eye at the teacup on the table beside the bed. I could smell the tea, could nearly taste the clean, acrid heat of it scouring the fur off my tongue, but I did not care much for the movement required in transporting cup to lips.
"God," I said, and then: "Do I remember dancing last night?"
"Briefly," said Holmes from somewhere across the room.
"God," I said again, and carefully pulled the bedclothes back up around my head.
***
We did not make an early start that morning. I am not certain it was even still morning when we left the Saracen's Head behind. I half wished I could leave my own head there, too.
"But I only drank cider, Holmes," I protested, when a mile of fresh air lay between us and the inn.
"Powerful stuff, Devonshire zyder." I had thought him untouched by our night of carousing with the natives, but on closer examination I decided that he, too, was moving with a degree more care and deliberation than was normal.
"Did we extract any information from the local inhabitants, though?"
"You don't remember?"
"Holmes."
"One of the lads told me an interesting tale about his wife's granny, who was alone in her house one night when the rest of the family had not yet returned from a wedding in Lydford, who heard a dog scratching at the door. She is, the boy admitted, very deaf, but her own dog raised such a noise trying to get out of the door it attracted her attention."
"Now there's a piece of hard evidence," I said. Sarcasm is a ready companion to a sore head.
"When did you learn to play the tin whistle?" Holmes asked innocently. "This is a talent you've kept well hidden from me."
"Oh Lord, I didn't play the tin whistle, did I? Yes, I suppose I did. I was going to surprise you with it someday; I thought it might prove a useful skill the next time we found ourselves disguised as gipsies or something."
"You did surprise me, and it did come in useful."
"Did it? I'm glad. How?"
"Do you recall the old smith-turned-motor-mechanic, Jacob Drew? With the full white beard and the red braces?"
"Er, vaguely." I remembered him not in the least, but I thought I would not admit it.
"He took quite a fancy to you, and came over to tell me while I was trying to tune that wretched excuse for a fiddle that we were not like all the summer trippers, and proceeded to recount some of their madder antics. Such as the pair of Londoners who stopped the night atop Gibbet Hill back in July and came down swearing they'd seen Lady Howard's coach of bones travelling across the moor."
"You don't
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