‘Most of the party guests got lost on their way to the WC,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘But the staff would all know where the door is. And the family. Fishy’s friends practically live down here, of course. I suppose I could have found my way down here. Roz, too.’
‘Let’s do your trick, Flo, of putting ourselves in the mind of the villain,’ said Lady Hardcastle, walking purposefully towards the door.
Miss Titmus and I followed. Still I said nothing about my repeated walking of the length of the stable. I was thinking of nominating myself for a sainthood.
‘She was absolutely marvellous, Helen dear,’ she continued. ‘We were trying to find a stolen emerald, you see. Flo had the simply cracking idea of standing in the room and imagining herself as the doer of the dastardly deed.’
We arrived back at the locked door and began looking around. Miss Titmus seemed excited, but clearly had no idea what was expected of her. Lady Hardcastle, as focused as ever, was concentrating on a minute examination of the workbench along the wall.
I, meanwhile, did as she had suggested. I was the dastardly saboteur. I had let myself into the stable through the side door. It was pitch black. I had a candle. I lit it. Good guess, Flo, I thought – there’s some spilled wax on the workbench. I looked around. The motor cars were in a line. I wanted to cut the brakes. I went to the end of the . . .
‘Why did the saboteur not disable the nearest motor car?’ I said. ‘He passed two perfectly nobbleable racers and snipped the brakes of the one farthest from the door.’
‘He wanted to tamper with a particular vehicle?’ suggested Lady Hardcastle.
‘Seemingly,’ I said. ‘But why?’
‘He knew who would be driving it?’ said Miss Titmus tentatively.
‘The race card!’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.
‘Dawkins was going to be in Number 3,’ I said.
‘And Number 3 was at the end of the row,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
I put myself back in the saboteur’s shoes, and once more tried to imagine his actions. I could see the numbers painted on the sides of the motor cars. I found my target. Did I know exactly what I was going to do? Had I already decided on the brakes? I must have. I’d come down here with a key and a candle; it was unlikely that my plans stopped there.
So I needed a tool. I might have brought one with me, but I was on my way to a workshop. There were tools aplenty there. Why run the risk of being caught with something incriminating on my person when I could just lift something from the bench?
There was a row of hooks on the wall holding spanners, screwdrivers, and an assortment of other, well-kept tools. One hook was empty. So that was where I took my . . . my whatever-it-was. I imagined myself going to the motor car and getting down on my hands and knees. I couldn’t see the cables. Flat on my belly. The brake cable. Cut. I stood. I’d forgotten where I’d taken the tool from. What to do? I dropped it and kicked it under the workbench. Better a lost tool than a tool out of place.
I got down on my hands and knees for real now. I felt about under the workbench. At first, nothing. Then my fingers brushed against something metallic. I managed to get hold of it. I got back to my feet.
‘Pliers, my lady,’ I said, holding up my treasure with my fingertips. ‘I’d wager these are the murder weapon.’
‘I say, Flo, well done,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Yes, well done, you,’ said Miss Titmus excitedly.
‘Whoever it was would have been rather dusty,’ I said. ‘He’d have been flat on his belly to get to the brakes.’
‘So we’re looking for a grimy man who knows how to use a pair of pliers,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘One who had seen the race card you drew up at the party,’ I said.
‘And who wasn’t afraid to kill someone to get what he wanted. We’d better get back to the house.’
Chapter Nine
We arrived back at the house in plenty of time to get Lady Hardcastle changed for lunch. It was a little early for the white, delicately embroidered tea gown we chose, but she declared that she wouldn’t ‘dashed well get changed again for tea so they’ll have to lump it’.
I rushed to the attic to change into my indoor uniform so that I might report to the servants’ hall for instructions. Lunches at Codrington Hall were informal, though, and so my services weren’t required. Mr Spinney suggested I return later in the afternoon to help with tea, but gave me leave to disappear. There were a few things I needed to sort out for Lady Hardcastle, including a little mending, so I went up to her room.
Sitting alone at the window, expertly (if I do say so myself) repairing an unexplained (and, frankly, inexplicable) rip in one of Lady Hardcastle’s evening gowns, I allowed my mind to wander. On Sunday, we had been packing our bags, anticipating a week of motor racing and jollity. Now it was Thursday, and we were up to our ankles in the unexpected. Again. A car had been sabotaged and a man was dead. We had no idea if his death was deliberate, or whether it was some sort of attempt to undermine Lord Riddlethorpe or his new motor racing team. Half the people in the house seemed to have a motive, almost everyone had an opportunity, and anyone who could find a pair of pliers in a darkened stable had the means.
A tiny, selfish part of me wished we could just pretend we didn’t know that the crash was the result of malicious mischief and leave things alone. It would be wonderful to say our farewells and head for the seaside. We could take a proper break, eat winkles, walk by the sea, find a nice café for a cream tea, make up stories about the strange-looking locals . . .
Lady Hardcastle interrupted my reverie by bursting exuberantly through the door.
‘What ho, Flo,’ she said, somewhat surprised. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here. I thought you’d be downstairs, interrogating the lower orders.’
‘I wasn’t required for lunch service, so I was given leave to come and see to my regular duties.’ I held up the gown. ‘I fixed the rip,’ I said. ‘How on earth did you manage to do that?’
‘What rip?’ she said, looking at the gown. ‘Ohhh, that rip. It was at the party on Tuesday. I was chatting to a lady from Leicester, wife of . . . Actually, I’ve no idea whose wife she was. She wasn’t terribly impressed with her husband’s behaviour, though. I remember that. A few glasses of wine had loosened her tongue, and she was unburdening herself to yours truly about his promiscuity and profligacy. I must have that sort of face. Do you think I have that sort of face?’
‘What sort of face, my lady?’
‘The sort of face that makes strangers take me into their confidence and throw caution and discretion to the wind by exposing me to the excruciatingly embarrassing details of their private affairs.’
‘Oh, yes, you have that sort of face. I always thought that was what made you such a good spy. But what about the frock? Did you both rend your garments while lamenting the tragedy of her failing union?’