I returned to the dining room and flopped into a chair.
‘How on earth are we supposed to deal with this one?’ I said with a sigh.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.
‘Well, we usually start by talking to witnesses and likely suspects and asking a few pertinent questions,’ I said.
‘Impertinent questions sometimes,’ she said.
‘Quite. But this time our most likely suspect is “not at home” and our best witness is a ghost.’
She laughed. ‘A ghost, yes. But…’
‘But you don’t believe in ghosts, my lady, I know.’
‘Which means that I think there must be a more down-to-earth explanation for it all.’
‘But you saw him. You were there.’
‘That’s the part I can’t quite get past at the moment. Someone or something that very much resembled the traditional idea of a ghost quite definitely appeared in the room and I don’t yet doubt that Mr Snelson – wouldn’t it be too, too wonderful if his middle name were Belsen – that Mr Snelson was touched by the cold hand of… of something or other. And we know that everyone’s hands were on the table because we were all grasping each other’s wrists, and that the spirit was too far away. That’s what we know, at any rate.’
‘Others might know differently?’ I suggested.
‘You said yourself that we can’t very well question the ghost–’
‘We could hold another séance,’ I interrupted.
‘We could let Madame Eugénie fleece us for another séance, yes.’
I said nothing.
‘But,’ she continued, ‘we can talk to one or two of the others to see if their stories match ours. And I’d very much like to find out a little more about this Eugénie character. What’s her story? How did Daisy find her?’
‘Daisy’s very interested in spiritualism, I think,’ I said. ‘I dimly recall Mrs Pantry from the grocer’s telling me something like that. I wish I paid more attention, but I tend to drift off once she gets going. She does like to chat.’
‘You think she moves in spiritualist circles, then?’
‘She would certainly know who the big names were,’ I said.
‘How are you two getting on these days? Is it worth your while bumping into her, say, at the butcher’s tomorrow? Having a little gossip? You’re curious about spiritualism, after all. You could subtly persuade her to blow the gaff on the secret world of spiritualism.’
‘Or just ask her what she knows about Madame Eugénie.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Or that. But don’t let on we’re dubious about her.’
‘We’re not. Are we?’ I said.
‘For now. What do you think? Can you do it?’
‘We’re not exactly pals, but we rub along better than we used to.’
‘So that’s settled, then,’ she continued. ‘You can nip to the butcher’s early tomorrow for some urgent hogget and have a chat with the butcher’s charming young daughter.’
‘Oooh, hogget,’ I said. ‘What an admirable idea. Hot pot, do you think? Or something more exotic?’
‘I rather fancy a curry,’ she said. ‘Memories of Bengal.’
‘I’ll see if there’s yoghurt at the diary,’ I said. ‘What shall you be doing?’
‘I thought I might pay a call on Dr Fitzsimmons. He wanted to look over the old war wound so I shall drop in and let him peruse the scar with a clinical eye and engage him in conversation about our shared evening of terror.’
‘Very well, my lady. And what of the rest of today?’
‘I need to finish something in the study, and you need to do some piano practice. And then I thought a light supper and cards.’
‘Light supper and cards it is, then, my lady.’
‘And piano practice.’
‘And then a light supper and cards.’
She gave me her sternest look and I went into the drawing room and sat at the piano.
The evening had ended with me winning six thousand, two hundred and thirty-seven pounds at piquet and Lady Hardcastle vowing never to play me again. We entered my winnings into our cards ledger and after a few minutes’ tipsy efforts at calculation we worked out that I now owed her three shillings and sixpence ha’penny. I slept well.
The following dawn saw neither larks nor robins, but it did see yours truly scrubbing the kitchen flagstones. After breakfast, we went our separate ways, with Lady Hardcastle heading to one side of the green to see the doctor and me turning right to go to the other side of the green and the shop of A. Spratt, Butcher.
The bell tinkled welcomingly as I opened the door. There was sawdust on the floor and a familiar smell in the air. I find myself unable to describe it, that smell of meat and sawdust, but it’s the smell of a butcher’s shop. Mr Spratt was sharpening his knives behind the counter while his daughter Daisy sat on a high stool in the corner, poring over a ledger.
‘Morning, Miss Armstrong,’ said Mr Spratt with a smile. He was a large man, not quite fat, but meaty, as befits a butcher. The white stripes of his blue apron were stained with blood. ‘What can I do for you today, miss?’ he said, putting down his knife and steel and coming forward to the counter. ‘I’ve got some lovely sausages. Made fresh this morning. How about some lovely pork chops?’
‘Good morning, Mr Spratt. I was actually after some hogget.’
‘Hogget, eh? I’ve got just the thing. Nice bit of shoulder?’
‘Just what I’m looking for, thank you.’
‘I’ll be two shakes of a hogget’s tail, miss,’ he said, and disappeared into the back room.
I sidled over to the other end of the counter and leaned on it. ‘Morning, Daisy,’ I said.
She looked up from her adding. ‘Oh, good morning,’ she said, brightly. ‘I were so engrossed I didn’t even notice you come in. How are you today? How’s Lady Hardcastle getting on? Did you enjoy the séance t’other night? Wasn’t it amazing? Madame Eugénie is an extraordinary woman, isn’t she? To be able to do all that.’ It all tumbled out of her like someone had upended a bucket of words.
‘We’re both well, thank you,’ I said. ‘And we very much enjoyed the séance. It was a remarkable experience. Where on earth did you find such a gifted medium?’
‘Loads of people has been asking me that,’ she said, proudly. ‘I knows this woman in Woodworthy, see. I goes to see her for readings once a month when I can afford it. She does the cards and palms as well as contacting t’other side. She put me on to Madame Eugénie, said she was well known among the Birmingham spiritualists. Came highly recommended, she did. And they was right, weren’t they? She’s amazing. And who would have thought old Snelson was a murderer? Well, o’ course, I knew something was up with him the moment I saw him. He’s got beady eyes, see. You can always tell. And Our Ma reckons I’ve got the gift meself so o’ course I’d be able to see something in him, wouldn’t I?’
‘Birmingham, you say?’ I said, trying to limit her to one subject at a time.
‘’S right,’ she said. ‘She’s a regular at spiritualist meetings up there.’