“And each bulb has twenty or forty watts?”
“No,” Dave stuck his hands in the pockets of his padded gilet. “The family wanted to use hydroelectricity, just like old Armstrong would have wanted it, and we use energy-saving LED bulbs to conserve power and maintain the historical ambience.”
“What about the other electrics?”
“The screw only provides enough power to light the house,” Quibble explained. “There isn’t enough hydro-power to operate large items, like fridges or washing machines. The house is connected to the National Grid, of course, so we can always rely on mains electricity for that. Sometimes, we produce excess power and store it in a giant battery but it’s not usually enough for a consistent output.”
A light drizzle began to fall as their feet crunched over twigs and fallen leaves.
“So, you’re saying you can choose whether to rely solely on hydro-power?”
“Sure,” Quibble shrugged, as if it were obvious. “But the Gilberts prefer to avoid mainstream electricity wherever possible.”
“When do they use it?” Ryan prodded.
“Only on set days—usually Mondays and Fridays, which is when the housekeeper does the laundry and whatnot.” Quibble chuckled to himself. “That’s when we have the radio playing in the staff room.”
“How about yesterday? Surely, mains power would have been needed to prepare dinner for the party?”
Quibble scratched the side of his nose.
“Ordinary cooking for the family or small parties can be done in the house kitchens but large-scale catering comes from the tea room in the old stable block. We keep that area connected to the National Grid continuously, so there’s never any disruption to visitors’ amenities. The best person to ask about that would be Maggie but I think the catering staff transferred the food and drink from the tea room across to the main house last night using the servants’ stairs.”
The same staircase Victor had tumbled down, Ryan thought.
“But the main part of the house was entirely disconnected from the National Grid?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“One final question, Dave. Who knows when the house will be connected to mains power and when it won’t?”
Quibble gave him a searching look.
“Well, everybody, I suppose. It’s part of the initial staff training, to prevent people turning on a dishwasher and inadvertently fusing the circuit. All the family and staff know which days are safe to use large electricals. The only possible exception would be when the Gilberts decide to use mains electric on a different day and forget to tell anybody about it but that rarely happens.”
Ryan fell silent as the drizzle turned to fat raindrops and soaked through his thin cotton shirt. He looked up at the whimsical house that appeared like a mirage, hazy and fantastical with its turrets and towers, and wondered what festered beneath its picturesque exterior.
*
“Found anything interesting?”
Melanie Yates looked up from her inspection of the chest of drawers in Victor Swann’s bedroom as Lowerson sauntered into the room. “Not yet,” she replied, turning back to her search. “Just clothes and trinkets. You?”
Lowerson cleared his throat in what he hoped was a manly fashion.
“It’s more a question of what I haven’t found,” he said. “There’s hardly any photographs around the house and no letters or cards from family. Bit weird, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.”
“Victor certainly liked the finer things in life, didn’t he?” Lowerson went on, taking in the upscale furnishings and extravagant clothes hanging in the wardrobe. “I didn’t realise valets were paid so well.”
“I wouldn’t have a clue,” Yates admitted, then made a small sound of surprise when her fingers brushed against something hard. She pushed aside a mound of folded boxer shorts and grasped a brown, A4-sized envelope.
“What’s that?”
Lowerson came to stand beside her, leaning in a little too close for comfort. Yates took a subtle half-step away, so she would not be suffocated by the overpowering scent of whatever aftershave he’d doused himself in that morning.
“Looks like photographs,” she said, then pulled out a wad of colour prints with a gloved hand.
The first few images were innocent enough, just snapshots of a garden and of the house at Cragside. The prints seemed to be a few years old judging by the yellowing edges and general hue, but they had been carefully stored away from the light so their quality was preserved.
As she turned to the next print, the content changed dramatically.
The images that followed were all of Cassandra Gilbert in various poses, out on the lawn or beside the trees, mostly in the nude or half-dressed. At a glance, they might have been taken at least ten years earlier.
“Well—”
“Ah—”
Lowerson and Yates looked at each other in a combination of startled embarrassment and genuine surprise.
“Who said the younger generation have all the fun? Judging by these photos, it’s the older ones who like to let loose,” Lowerson tried for levity but his attempt fell on deaf ears.
“Do you think Victor took these photos?”
Lowerson shrugged.
“Impossible to say for sure.”
Yates returned the photos to their envelope and looked across at him.
“Why else would Victor have these pictures? It puts a different slant on Cassandra Gilbert’s relationship with her husband’s valet, doesn’t it?”
“Let’s not go jumping to conclusions, pet.” His tone was ever-so-slightly condescending and he immediately wished he could snatch the words back. Perhaps he should do himself a favour and stop talking altogether.
“I am not your pet.”
Too late, Lowerson thought weakly.
Yates raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow and then stalked out of the room with her spine ramrod straight.
After she’d left, Lowerson slapped a palm against his own face and blew out a long, frustrated breath.
“And I wonder why I’m still single,” he muttered, before trailing after her to issue an apology.
CHAPTER 9
The rain continued for the rest of the afternoon, casting a daytime shadow over the landscape so that it seemed much later than five o’clock when the CSI team packed away their equipment and Cragside closed its doors to the outside world.
Ryan waved off Faulkner’s team as they trundled along the winding driveway back toward the city and remained standing for a while longer watching the rain from the relative shelter of a covered stone archway.
Phillips and MacKenzie found him there, lost in thought.
“Penny for them, lad?”
“I’m not sure they’re worth that much,” Ryan replied, turning away from the rain. “I was wondering whether we’re barking up the wrong tree. Faulkner says they haven’t found any meaningful trace evidence, although they’ll be running tests over the next few days. No fingerprints other than Swann’s on his locker or at his house, so I’m asking myself why it still feels off.”
MacKenzie zipped up her jacket as the wind whipped through the archway.