Life had settled into a rather comfortable summer routine since the circus had left. We had had dinner with Liu Feng and his acrobats where we had enjoyed genuine Chinese cooking for the first time in many years. Colonel Dawlish had called round for lunch, too, before they all left, but all too soon they had packed up and gone from our lives.
We’d been tied up for a week or so with police interviews and other official matters and had presented our evidence to the Coroner’s Inquest, which had then been adjourned pending the results of investigations by the police surgeon. We had received a stern talking-to from Inspector Sunderland of the Bristol CID for attempting to take matters into our own hands, but the Coroner himself had praised our efforts and had said that in view of Jonas Grafton’s obvious mental instability there was nothing that we, Colonel Dawlish, the local police, nor even the Bristol CID had they been called in, could have done to prevent any of the deaths.
And once all that was over, there had been a blissful period of summery calm. Lady Hardcastle had been on a few trips to Bristol and had engaged the services of a firm of solicitors there to take care of assorted business and legal matters for her. There had also been a fair amount of shopping, and the house in Littleton Cotterell was finally beginning to feel like home.
Lady Hardcastle had been welcomed into village life. That was terribly important to her, I think. The story of the capture of the “Killer Clown” (as the papers had rather unimaginatively dubbed Jonas Grafton – I preferred “Perilous Pierrot” or even “Utterly Terrifying Murderous Red-Nosed Madman”, but perhaps that’s why I never managed to get a job with the press) had spread as rapidly as any story ever did in a small village, and she was regarded with increasing awe and respect as a result. I fared similarly well, it should be said, and found that my trips to the village shops took much longer than expected for a while as everyone, shopkeepers and customers alike, pressed me for details on the case and congratulated me on my part in the adventure.
Summer walks in the woods and fields continued, complete with more nature talks from Lady Hardcastle and my continuing inability to tell the difference between male, female and juvenile Great Spotted Woodpeckers (it has something to do with the red feathers on their heads, but I’m dashed if I can remember what). Our own walled garden flourished, and we often enjoyed our afternoon tea in the shade of the apple tree there. Actually, when I say “flourished”, I mean “ran wildly out of control”, but Lady Hardcastle assured me that the fashion was for “natural” country gardens. It seems that what I thought of as something akin to the jungles of Burma – an impression aided by the abundance of wildlife that seemed to be living there – was actually quite the most fashionable plot in all of England. I begged her to employ a gardener.
Lady Hardcastle had even entertained once or twice, hosting visits from her London friends who were as enchanted as we were by the chance to get completely away from society and hide out in a small house in the country for a weekend.
But society could not be avoided completely and so when the engraved card had arrived from The Grange, inviting Lady Hardcastle to celebrate the engagement of Miss Clarissa Farley-Stroud and Mr Theophilus Woodfield, she had responded immediately. She wrote by return to Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud, saying that she should be delighted to attend and asking that they convey her warmest congratulations to their delightful daughter and her charming beau.
Her enthusiasm was genuine – she had always been fond of parties – though her admiration for Clarissa (whom she regarded as a vacuous ninny) and Theophilus (who was equally witless and who was possessed of slightly less charm than a blocked drain), was entirely, if politely, feigned.
A few days later, another letter had arrived from The Grange which had caused a strange mix of amusement and irritation in Lady Hardcastle.
‘Well, of all the...’ she had said as she read it at the breakfast table.
‘What is it, my lady?’ I asked.
‘Gertrude Farley-Stroud asks ever so sweetly, and if it’s not altogether too much trouble, whether I might see my way clear to letting her hire your services for the evening of the party. She says she’s having some minor, temporary staffing difficulties – which as anyone in the village will tell you means she hasn’t got the chink to pay for all the servants she needs – and would be so terribly grateful if she could make use of my “most excellent lady’s maid” – that’s you, pet – as part of the serving staff, etc, etc. Oh this really is too much.’
‘I don’t mind, my lady. It’s a chance to be at the party, after all.’
‘Yes, but I mean, really. It was a chance for you to have a night off,’ she said, indignantly.
‘It’s not as though I could go to the music hall or anything. Village life is wonderfully peaceful, but the nightlife is the Dog and Duck. I would just have been sitting here reading. This way I get to listen to the music, eavesdrop on the conversations, have a sneaky secret dance in the corridors when no one’s looking. I really don’t mind.’
‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up for a handsome fee, mind you.’
‘Then I shall have to make sure I eat more than my fair share of canapés and swig a few glasses of champagne–’
‘Cheap, sparkling wine, I should think. Poured in the kitchens so no one sees the bottles.’
‘We shall see. But it’ll be fun. And it’ll help them out; they’re not bad people.’
‘They’re not. Very well, you shall be hired out like some agency skivvy and I expect as much below-stairs gossip as you can glean.’
And so it was agreed. Lady Hardcastle replied at once and, over the next couple of weeks, the arrangements were made. My own uniform was deemed suitable (‘Which means,’ Lady Hardcastle had said, cattily, ‘that she can’t afford to have one of her own shabby maids’ uniforms spruced up and adjusted to fit you’) and I was to report to the kitchens by four o’clock on the day of the party.
The day of the party eventually arrived and I was dressed in my very best uniform, cleaned, pressed and generally dandified as I helped Lady Hardcastle with her own preparations for the evening. She wasn’t the sort of lady who was incapable of getting herself ready without help, but it seemed a shame not to do a few maidly things for her before I left.
She had negotiated with Lady Farley-Stroud for her chauffeur, Bert, to come and pick me up and I was just putting the finishing touches to her hair when the doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be your carriage, pet,’ she said. ‘Run along. Be good, pilfer as much free food as you can and, most importantly, gather gossip. I want to know the real story of the Farley-Strouds.’
‘I shall do my utmost,’ I said, and went to the front door.
Bert had already got back in the car and was waiting with the engine running.