The Marsh Madness

How would I know? I came from simple, criminal stock, good-natured and totally devoid of servants. Maybe it was instinctive for me to note the impressive security setup at the front door. I’d be sure to mention that to Uncle Mick. More impressive though was this butler. Even Vera didn’t have a butler. Attempts to dress up Uncle Kev and have him answer the door had not gone well, shall we say.

But back to the moment. I was expecting more of a stereotypical British butler, the type you might meet on Masterpiece Theatre. But this was upstate New York, not England. This butler’s pear-shaped body stretched the fabric of his somber suit, and he could have used a good color-consultant before choosing that flat, black hair dye. One of the things I liked about Ngaio Marsh when she described characters was that she commented on their hands. Somehow it helped to bring those characters to life. I found myself checking hands too. In fact, the butler’s ham-like appendages seemed more suited to tossing a javelin than serving tea, or whatever it is that butlers do. I figured he might have had a career as a wrestler before he discovered that the butler’s life was his heart’s desire. I was surprised that those hairy fingers hadn’t kept him out of the game, not to mention the five-o’clock shadow at noon.

The nameless underling ushered us in, much to Kev’s astonishment. He is used to being the underling. He nodded to the butler in his best version of a gentleman of leisure.

Miss Troy was waiting and she seemed delighted to see us. “Please, call me Lisa.”

I don’t know why I was surprised by her warm greeting. Why had I been expecting otherwise? As Vera’s assistant, I would have been equally happy to meet guests who were going to help her out in some way.

The grave look of the butler had worried me. Or it could have been the significance of the Kauffman family and their mighty history. I reminded myself that we lived in a democracy where everyone had a value and it was supposed to be how you lived your life that mattered, not how much money you had. I tried not to gawk at the huge crystal chandelier illuminating the foyer.

After all, I was not the upstairs maid. I’d be at the table.

I was impressed by Miss Troy. She was tall and willowy, and that severely tailored black suit and crisp white shirt couldn’t disguise that. Her soft brown hair was caught back in a perfect chignon, a style that flattered her. With her luminous skin, she could have been the face of any major beauty company. Really, she would have been quite unbearable except for her dark horn-rimmed glasses and the barest suggestion of an overbite. That overbite was kind of endearing. And of course, she was so welcoming. She seemed to be working at being cool and professional, but her smile kept surfacing. Even so, in this environment, I kept thinking of her as Miss Troy. It seemed right somehow. Maybe because of the Ngaio Marsh connection.

Kev looked like he could get used to being an honored guest. Of course, we’d only been there for minutes and he hadn’t had time to mess up.

Miss Troy murmured delicately that if we wished to freshen up after our trip, there were facilities around the corner. She gestured beautifully with her long, slim white hand. I couldn’t help but admire her modern manicure with the short, smooth nails in deep, glossy burgundy. I was glad I’d done my own nails in palest nude. My hands are small and dexterous, perfect for using the traditional tools of my family. Have I mentioned I received a set of lock picks for my Sweet Sixteen? Despite this encouragement, I’ve stuck to the straight and narrow. Mostly.

Uncle Kev and I took advantage of her offer to freshen up. Vera never freshens up; if anything, she blands down.