Miss Titmus had agreed to meet us in the library after breakfast to show us her photographs from the previous week. We clustered around the desk by the window, which provided a good natural light.
‘Look, Emily, here’s one of you and Armstrong,’ said Miss Titmus.
‘Gracious,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I had no idea you’d taken this one. I think you might be on to something with these, you know, dear. Photographs always look so stilted and formal – everyone in their Sunday best, staring at the camera. In these . . . Well, you seem to have caught us just being us. Flo never looks like that in photographs – that’s how she looks in real life. You have a gift, dear, a true talent. You really should try to do something with it.’
‘I’ve been thinking about it a lot, lately,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘I really think I shall.’
‘Good for you.’ Lady Hardcastle continued leafing through the small pile of photographs. ‘I say,’ she said suddenly as one caught her eye. ‘Look here. What do you see?’
Miss Titmus and I craned a little closer. It was a photograph taken on the day of the crash. The motor cars were lined up on the starting line. Lady Hardcastle and I had turned towards the camera as we heard Miss Titmus and the others approaching. Lord Riddlethorpe was leaning over Number 1, adjusting something under the bonnet. Morgan Coleman was sitting in Number 4, grinning, and clearly very aware of how dashing he looked in the sleek racing car. Mr Waterford was standing with a spanner in his hand.
‘What are we looking at, my lady?’ I said.
‘Poor Dawkins was killed in Number 3,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Inspector Foister’s story is that Monty tampered with the brakes when the motor car was on the starting line. He had any number of witnesses, myself included, saying that we’d seen Monty working on one of the motors.’
‘And you were right,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘There he is in his overalls with a tool in his hand.’
‘Oh,’ I said, when I realized. ‘He’s behind Number 2. He’s nowhere near Number 3.’
Miss Titmus looked again. ‘So he couldn’t have tampered with Number 3,’ she said.
‘Well, let’s not get carried away,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘All this shows is that the inspector’s version of events is incorrect. It doesn’t prove that Monty didn’t tamper with the brakes in the coach house. Which is where we believe it actually happened.’
‘Well, no,’ said Miss Titmus. ‘But still. I’m going to tell Fishy to telephone the inspector at once. We’ll have them out in no time.’ She picked up the photograph and hurried out.
‘It’s hardly conclusive proof of his innocence,’ said Lady Hardcastle when Miss Titmus had gone.
‘No,’ I said. ‘But the inspector had no conclusive proof of his guilt, either, other than some statements from witnesses. And the photograph makes it very clear that the witnesses didn’t see Mr Waterford working on Number 3.’
‘True,’ she said. ‘I suppose if we stick around long enough, everyone will be killed, or removed from suspicion by some random piece of evidence, and the only one left standing will be the killer.’
‘Detection by attrition,’ I said.
‘Well, quite. And that’s all very well, but the trouble is that the people who’ll be killed will be our friends. The killer has already taken a swing at Helen and Harry. Who’s next?’
Helen returned a few minutes later, flushed with excitement.
‘I told Fishy what you found, and he’s thrilled. He telephoned Inspector Foister straight away. He was being terribly firm with him when I left. I think Roz and Monty will be home before lunch. Should we send the motor car for them? We should, shouldn’t we? They’ll need a lift, won’t they? Or will the police bring them?’
Before Lady Hardcastle could answer, Lord Riddlethorpe appeared at the door.
‘Well done, ladies,’ he said. ‘Thanks to your eagle eyes, I persuaded Foister to let them out on bail. I need to drive over at once to make the arrangements and bring them back. I owe you a bottle of something splendid. Each.’
‘Think nothing of it, Fishy, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘All part of the service.’
He waved a cheery goodbye and closed the door behind him.
It opened again almost immediately.
‘Clean forgot,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe, poking his head round the door. ‘Chap on the telephone for you, Emily. Inspector Middlesbrough, or something. Toodle pip.’
‘Sunderland!’ called Lady Hardcastle, but he was gone. ‘Best not keep the poor chap waiting any longer,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and see what he wants. Could you be a poppet and get us some coffee, Flo? You’d like some, wouldn’t you, Helen?’
‘We could just ring for it,’ said Miss Titmus.
‘We could, but we can also send Flo. Six of one and the square root of thirty-six of the other.’
‘Don’t worry, Miss Titmus,’ I said. ‘I’ll nip down to the kitchens. I’ve a couple of things I need to do down in the Netherworld anyway.’
‘Might I trouble you for a pot of coffee for the library, please, Mrs Ruddle?’
The cook looked up from her mixing. ‘Of course, dear. Patty will see to that for you. You could have just rung down for that, you know.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I like coming down here and seeing everyone.’
‘You’re a sweetheart for saying so, dear, but most of us would stay upstairs if we could. Patty! Make up a tray of coffee for the library.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Ruddle. You know, I—’
I was pulled up short by the sound of a kerfuffle in the servants’ hall. Mrs McLelland was giving someone what-for, and she wasn’t concerned about being overheard.
‘. . . ungrateful, evil, lying, deceitful, THIEF!’ This last word was shouted with such force that it seemed to overcome her and render her momentarily incapable of further speech.
Mrs Ruddle slammed her mixing bowl down on to the work bench with unaccustomed passion. ‘She’s gone too far this time,’ she said as she wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I don’t care what’s gone on, but that ain’t no way to deal with it.’ She started towards the hall, but I gently held her arm and stopped her.
‘Leave it to me, Mrs Ruddle,’ I said. ‘We’ll be gone soon, and it doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. I’d hate to see you burn any bridges.’
She was still fuming, but she allowed me to ease her back towards her work. I went through to the servants’ hall, where I found a tableau vivant worthy of a theatre show: ‘The Astonishment of the Servants’. There were two parlour maids, a footman, a boot boy, and a laundry maid standing in mute horror at the outburst. The only movement was the retreating back of Evan Gudger as he stomped out of the room. Mrs McLelland looked around sharply.
‘Get on with your work, all of you,’ she barked. ‘And what do you think you’re looking at?’ she said when she saw me. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want you never to address me like that again, for starters,’ I said.