Lady Bickle laughed. ‘Perhaps you’d be good enough to have a word with my father.’
‘Any time you like, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Point him in my direction and I’ll set him straight on a few things.’
Lady Bickle laughed again. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, Emily; it’s so wonderful to have you both here. I do hope we can be friends – all our other friends are so frightfully staid and proper.’
‘I’m much in demand as a disreputable companion and general bad influence. Perhaps you’d both come and visit us for dinner one evening.’
‘We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Ben.’
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Be nice to get some country air.’
‘Then it’s settled. How about this weekend?’
‘This weekend?’ said Lady Bickle. ‘But…’
‘We really mustn’t impose upon your hospitality any further, dear. We must get home.’
‘But how will you cope?’ said Lady Bickle, forlornly. ‘With poor Florence laid-up, how will you manage? Really, you must stay here, I insist.’
‘Oh, we shall be fine,’ said Lady Hardcastle, breezily. ‘I’m quite the gourmet cook on the quiet, and a household of our size practically runs itself, doesn’t it, pet?’
She looked at me for confirmation but I merely raised my eyebrows.
‘You see?’ said Lady Bickle. ‘You’ve upset the poor woman by dismissing her contribution and it really would be no trouble to have you here a little longer. We shall have such fun.’
Lady Hardcastle looked as though she might protest further, but after a moment or two’s thought, she demurred. ‘Of course, dear,’ she said. ‘You’re right and you’re really very generous. Thank you. Thank you both.’
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Sir Benjamin. ‘Be good to have a chum about the place.’
‘Chums, darling,’ said Lady Bickle, looking pointedly in my direction.
He flushed slightly. ‘Er, yes, quite,’ he blustered, and became suddenly very interested in his boiled egg.
‘Do you have plans for today?’ asked Lady Bickle, ignoring his discomfiture.
‘Flo and I have an appointment at the Bristol News,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Other than that, the day is entirely our own.’
‘Wonderful. Then you must be sure to be back here as soon as you’re done. I thought we might go up to the Downs and have a picnic tea.’
‘What fun. We shall hurry back.’
On arrival at the Bristol News, we had been met by a prim and slightly intimidating secretary who had led us to the editor’s office. She introduced us, handing the editor Sir Benjamin’s letter of introduction, then offered us tea before stepping smartly out and closing the door behind her.
Charles Tapscott occupied the corner office on the newspaper’s noisily busy editorial floor. It wasn’t as large or luxurious as I had expected the office of the editor of a major provincial newspaper to be, but the man himself exuded a quiet authority which gave the room an air of grandeur which the dilapidated furniture and flyblown lamps could not have managed on their own. A large window gave him an emperor’s view of the main office but did little to block out the clamour of the shirtsleeved reporters as they rushed around with paper in their hands, shouting questions and instructions at each other at deafening volume.
He put down Sir Benjamin’s letter and invited us to sit down. ‘What can I do for you, ladies?’ he said. ‘Ben asks that I do all within my power to help, but from what I hear, you’ve done enough to deserve any help I can offer without his needing to commend you to me.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Lady Hardcastle, inclining her head slightly. ‘Though to be honest, I rather hope that we shan’t take up too much of your time. We could have done all this by letter, but I do find the personal approach to be more efficient sometimes.’
‘I quite agree,’ he said, sitting behind his cluttered desk. ‘I always tell my lads to get out and talk to folk face-to-face. What do you wish to know?’
‘We were simply wondering what you could tell us about one of your reporters, a Mr Christian Brookfield.’
‘Are you certain you have that name right?’ he said with a frown.
‘Quite certain,’ she said. ‘Armstrong here has corrected me often enough, and it’s not a name I’m likely to forget again.’
‘Well I’m sorry, my lady, but we have no Christian Brookfield on the staff. Never have had.’
‘Might he be a freelance contributor?’
‘I’m reasonably certain I know most of our freelancers,’ he said, ‘but my deputy might know. I’ll get Mary to fetch him.’
At that moment, the secretary arrived bearing a tea tray.
‘Ah, Mary,’ said Mr Tapscott. ‘Excellent timing as always. Fetch Salthouse for me, would you. And tell him to bring the freelance book.’
Mary nodded and left, closing the door once more.
‘Gives me the creeps, that woman,’ said Mr Tapscott, handing us each a slightly chipped and scarred cup full of dauntingly strong tea. ‘Just materializes out of nowhere; it’s as though she can sense your thoughts. Pretty sure we’d have burned her as a witch in the middle ages. Not sure there’s many here who would try to stop me if I ordered it now, to tell the truth. Damn fine secretary, mind you. Efficient, but unnerving.’
Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged glances but said nothing as we sipped our tea and waited for the deputy editor.
A moment later, a harried looking man in his thirties appeared at the door. ‘You wanted me, Mr Tapscott?’
‘Ah, yes, Salthouse. Come in for a moment. This is Lady Hardcastle and her maid Miss Armstrong–’
‘I’ve read about you both, of course,’ said Salthouse. ‘How do you do?’
We both smiled and nodded our greetings.
‘They’ve been asking me about one of our freelancers,’ continued Mr Tapscott. ‘One Christian Brookfield.’
‘Christian Brookfield?’ said Salthouse with some bewilderment. ‘I’m not sure I…’
‘No, nor I,’ said Mr Tapscott.
Salthouse riffled hastily through his book, but came up blank. ‘No Christian Brookfield on our books, my lady,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you have the name correctly?’
‘Quite sure, Mr Salthouse,’ said Lady Hardcastle, kindly. ‘Since you’re both here, might I ask what might be an impertinent question?’
‘By all means,’ said Mr Tapscott magnanimously from behind his desk as though he were a potentate dispensing favours to the poor.
‘The recent run of scandals in the paper about the board of the tram company… who wrote them?’
‘One of our staff reporters, wasn’t it?’ said Mr Tapscott.
His deputy nodded.
‘And did he find the stories himself?’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘As I recall, it was a series of anonymous tip-offs,’ said Mr Tapscott.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘Did you corroborate them?’
‘We, er, we checked them most thoroughly,’ said Salthouse, anxiously. ‘We always do.’