‘We should start a general knowledge game. You can be the ace up my sleeve.’
‘As long as you split the winnings with me, my lady, I’m in.’
‘Splendid. So much more reliable than cards. We shall introduce it to fashionable society and clean up.’
‘Right you are. It’s funny that you should mention Mrs Beddows, though, my lady. Her name came up in my conversation with Betty as well.’
‘Did it? Gossip?’
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I pinch a slice of toast? I’m famished.’
‘Help yourself, dear – I presumed you’d brought extra so we could share.’
‘Thank you. Mrs Beddows, then. Betty reports that she was furious with Dawkins after his “improper” advances at the party.’
‘Was she, indeed? You did say that it was possible that she was irked by it.’
‘I did. Not merely irked, though. Actually hopping mad.’
‘Mad enough to commit mischief?’
‘Possibly, my lady.’
‘Interesting,’ she said, smashing open a boiled egg.
‘The one thing that counts in her favour is that she has a phobia of dirt.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘A phobia? Of dirt?’
‘So Betty says. Even if it’s no more than a fervent dislike, it still indicates strongly against her being inclined to get down on the floor and wriggle about in the dust.’
She was still laughing. ‘To be truthful, I find it hard to imagine Roz wriggling under any circumstances. Wriggling is such a joyful activity. Roz and joy are not frequent companions, I feel.’
‘That’s the impression she likes to convey,’ I said. ‘Betty has the measure of her mistress, and that’s very much her opinion, too.’
‘We’d be foolish to discount her completely based on a dislike of grime, mind you. I’ve been giving some thought to the events of that night. Our examination of the stables yesterday morning was quite instructive, don’t you think? We know – or at least we firmly believe – that someone let themselves out of the house in the dead of night in possession of a key and a candle. That person slipped into the stables by the side door, took up a pair of pliers and tampered with Number 3. He couldn’t find the hook for the pliers in the dark, so he dropped them on the floor and kicked them under the workbench. Then he let himself out the way he came and went back to the house. I say “he”, but it could as easily be Roz as anyone.’
‘When did the party end?’
‘At two. Sharp.’
‘Could anyone have gone down there before then?’
‘They could,’ she said. ‘It would have been a risk, though: the motor cars were on display as part of the celebrations. Anyone tampering with one of them could have been spotted at any moment. There’d be no especial need to come in through the side door, either: the main doors were all folded back. And no need for a candle: the place was lit up like a theatre stage.’
‘So “dead of night” is right. If there were still guests here at two, and the junior servants started stirring at around four, our saboteur had less than two hours to get to work.’
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘The trouble is, I can’t think of any suspect who would have been better placed to wander the grounds at three in the morning than any other.’
‘No knowledge is entirely without value, though, my lady. You told me that.’
‘Did I? How very pompous of me.’
‘I cleave to your every pronouncement, my lady, however pompous. You know that. What plans for the day, though? Any special wardrobe requirements?’
‘Sports togs, I think. Apparently, it’s going to be sunny again, so there’s talk of tennis. And blasted croquet of all things. I do so hate croquet. So petty and spiteful.’
‘I shall make sure you’re properly prepared,’ I said.
‘And you? More below-stairs snooping?’
‘Below stairs, above stairs, in the grounds and gardens, my lady. No corner of the estate will escape my scrutiny.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ she said. ‘Would you care for some marmalade?’
There was, as always, a massive pot of tea at the centre of the table in the servants’ hall. Lined up in close attendance, like eager acolytes around their glazed china master, were fresh cups, a milk jug, and a sugar bowl. It should have been a place of quiet relaxation and idle chatter. Of course, it wasn’t.
There was quiet chatter, but the table was a hive of industry. Clothes were being mended, silverware polished, and one young maid was sorting candles into small bundles for delivery to bedrooms all over the house. There were two oases of calm: Mr Spinney was reading a newspaper, occasionally sharing titbits with Mrs McLelland, while Betty sat alone, staring into thin air. I squeezed in next to her.
‘Good morning, Betty, fach,’ I said. ‘You were up early this morning.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘I was summoned. Mrs Beddows needed to get ready.’
‘I thought they were playing tennis,’ I said. ‘How much getting ready does that entail? I just laid out a tennis dress and a pair of plimsolls.’
‘Ah, but Lady Hardcastle is calm and rational. And confident in herself. And not insanely competitive. There was hair to be set, make-up to be applied, muscles to be massaged. And that was before we got round to trying on six different hat-and-ribbon combinations. She brings two tennis rackets. Who owns two tennis rackets?’
I laughed. Mr Spinney caught my eye, clearly trying to decide whether to say something to a visiting servant about speaking so disparagingly about her employer. Unfortunately, Mrs McLelland’s face showed no such indecision – she was obviously very annoyed – and I was unable to stop myself from laughing again. Mr Spinney returned quickly to his newspaper, having decided the battle was over before it had begun.
‘That’s handy,’ I said. ‘Lady Hardcastle’s tennis racket was broken during our move to Littleton Cotterell. She never got round to replacing it. Her local friends aren’t too keen on tennis.’
‘Mrs Beddows would never lend her a racket. She’s very particular about her tennis rackets.’
‘She sounds like a keen player,’ I said. ‘Is she good?’
‘She’s rubbish. Absolutely hopeless.’
The maids and footmen were concentrating on their work, trying to pretend not to earwig, but their barely stifled laughter gave them away. Mr Spinney cleared his throat and rustled his newspaper, trying to regain control. Muted conversations were resumed.
‘Still no news about Mr Dawkins in the newspaper, Mrs McLelland,’ said Mr Spinney. ‘I must say, I find that rather odd. A man dies in tragic circumstances at one of the country’s most important houses, and no one bats an eyelid. Most odd.’
‘Would you rather they made a fuss? Stoked a scandal?’ said Mrs McLelland.
‘Of course not. Perish the thought,’ he said quickly.
‘Well, then. Just be thankful they’re leaving it be. It was a tragic accident, that’s all. And no need for a fuss.’
The maid with the candles looked up from her work. ‘’Cept they says it wasn’t an accident, Mrs McLelland,’ she said.
‘Who’s “they”, girl?’