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Christmas at The Grange: A Lady Hardcastle Mystery (Kindle Single)

ALSO BY T E KINSEY

The Lady Hardcastle Mysteries

A Quiet Life in the Country

In the Market for Murder

Death Around the Bend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2017 by T E Kinsey.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Publishing, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781503956971

Cover design by Lisa Horton

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ONE

Lady Farley-Stroud set her cup and saucer down with a clatter. The occasional table beside the armchair in our drawing room wobbled precariously under the impact.

‘I shan’t hear another word on the matter,’ she said. ‘You shall both come up to The Grange for Christmas.’

‘But, Gertie, dear—’ began Lady Hardcastle.

‘Butts are for storing rainwater in the garden, Emily. You’re not going to sit down here on your own while the rest of our family and friends are swaying away on the top-ropes up at the big house.’

Lady Hardcastle sighed. ‘You know I want to—’

‘But you’re afraid of placing even more of a burden on us. I know. You’re the kindest and most thoughtful person I know, m’dear, but you should just let Hector and me worry about the money. Actually, we’ll let Clarissa worry about it. She can sell the place when we’re dead and buried – that should settle all our debts, pay the death duty, and leave her enough for a slap-up feed to wish us on our way. As long as she goes easy on the slap-up feed.’

It was a sign of how thoroughly I’d been accepted by Lady Farley-Stroud that she felt able to make jokes about her financial circumstances in front of a ‘mere’ lady’s maid like me.

‘Tell you what,’ she continued, ‘if you can get hold of a couple of geese and a crate of ale for the villagers, we’ll call it quits. Honour will be satisfied, and I can have the company of my dear friend at the most fractious time of the year. Goodness knows I’ll need an ally with Hector’s sister, Joyce, there. My own sister can only do so much to assist me, and Joyce will be the living end without a chum to guard my other flank.’

‘We can’t have that,’ said Lady Hardcastle. She paused a moment, and then sighed with resignation. ‘We shall be delighted to join you. I shall seek out the required tribute and see that you’re properly goosed in plenty of time.’

‘I say!’ said Lady Farley-Stroud with a surprisingly girlish giggle. ‘And you, Armstrong – you’re to come as a guest, not a servant.’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘But are you sure? What about Edna and Miss Jones?’

‘They’ll get their own invitations as villagers, of course. We invite everyone up for a meal and a drink on Boxing Day. We give the children a little something. But you, m’girl, shall be with family and friends. The villagers know you well enough now to think nothing of it, especially after all the things you’ve done for them. And it will do our relatives a bit of good to be scandalized.’

‘Oh, I can scandalize with the best of them, if you’re sure that’s what you want,’ I said.

‘As outrageous as you dare,’ she said. ‘So that’s settled?’

‘Yes, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you.’

Lady Farley-Stroud struggled to her feet. ‘Splendid,’ she said. ‘I’d best be on my merry way. Lots to do, lots to do. Thank you for the tea, dear.’

Lady Hardcastle stood, too. ‘You’re welcome to drop in and drink our tea any time, you know that.’

‘Y’see? How could I not return such generous hospitality?’

I rose to see her to the door.

‘I’ll find my own way out,’ she said, waving me back down. ‘Don’t mind me. You just hunt out your most comely frocks for the festivities and we’ll see you on Christmas Eve.’

Giving a cheery wave, she swept out of the room accompanied by the rustling of her voluminous skirt.

‘I say,’ she called from the hallway. ‘Which coat is . . . As you were – I see it now. Cheerio, m’dears.’

The door slammed behind her and she was gone.

‘So much for a quiet Christmas at home,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘We had a quiet Christmas last year,’ I said.

‘Only because I’d been shot. It wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d have liked.’

‘Well, this will be fun, too. We’ve never had a proper country Christmas. We’ve celebrated in London, Shanghai, Calcutta, Paris . . .’

‘We have,’ she said. ‘And that peculiar time in Berlin with Count Pfumpfel von Schnerfenflerf.’

‘I’m reasonably certain that wasn’t his name,’ I said. ‘But I agree it was a most peculiar affair. Wasn’t there a boar hunt at one point?’

‘Indoors,’ she said. ‘With his grandchildren standing in as boars.’

‘With papier-mâché tusks.’

‘How on earth did we smuggle you into that one?’

‘I was posing as your pal,’ I said. ‘I was Lady Philomena Fitzwilliam-Barratt, mining heiress and girl-about-town. We were trying to pinch some papers from some dreary Prussian colonel or other.’

‘Good lord, so we were. Didn’t his wife slap you?’

‘There was a . . . slight disagreement,’ I said. ‘She objected to the overly familiar way I was talking to the colonel, and I objected to her trying to slap my face.’

‘She ended up on her backside on the ballroom floor.’

‘She must have slipped,’ I said, innocently.

‘We have had some fun, haven’t we?’

‘Always,’ I said. ‘And Christmas at The Grange will be just as much fun.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘We’d better get ourselves organized. What was Gertie’s shopping list again?’

‘Two geese and a crate of ale,’ I said. ‘For the villagers.’

‘Oh, I think we can do better than that. They’ll need more than one crate of ale for the villagers. And two geese isn’t nearly enough. Half a dozen? We should add a side of beef and a couple of cases of champagne for the big house. Better make it half a dozen cases – do you remember that awful stuff they had at Clarissa’s engagement party? And a couple of turkeys. Oh, and some brandy. And port. We should get them some Bordeaux for the beef. And Burgundy if you do manage to get any turkeys this late in the day. Although they’ll probably have their own. So get Burgundy, anyway. And something sweet to go with the pudding. Sauternes? And get some sherry from Harvey’s – it’s not Christmas without sherry.’

‘I’ll telephone the wine merchant,’ I said.

‘Good girl. There’s only a week to go so I think you might have to find a butcher in town. I doubt Fred Spratt will have geese and beef to spare.’

She was probably right, but I planned to visit Fred in the morning, anyway. I always liked to support the local shopkeepers and I thought I’d at least give him a chance. ‘Leave it to me,’ I said to her retreating back as she left the room. ‘We’ll do them proud.’

‘And find a confectioner’s,’ she called. ‘Lots of delicious sugary things for the little ones.’

There had been a blissful few moments just after she had accepted the invitation when I believed I was going to have an easy and relaxed Christmas. It never pays to get one’s hopes up.

* * *

Lady Hardcastle’s vintner in Bristol treated me to the expected amount of teeth-sucking and we shall have to see what we can do-ing when I telephoned him. It seemed very important to him to make it plain just how much I was putting him out, and how much of an effort would be required to supply so much booze at such short notice. Of course, this was followed by the equally expected reassurances that he would move Heaven and Earth to make sure that one of his most valued customers was taken care of. I imagined him chuckling to himself and dancing a merry little dance as he contemplated this unexpected boost to his profits. Perhaps there would be an even more luxurious Christmas for himself, Mrs Vintner and all the little Vintners.

Fred Spratt, the village butcher, made no such fuss. He was as affable and helpful as ever, and assured me that the extra meat would be delivered to The Grange in plenty of time. Mrs Spratt wished me a merry Christmas while their daughter, my good friend Daisy, asked whether she’d see me at The Grange.

‘I shall be there,’ I said. ‘With Christmas bells on.’

‘You comin’ up on Boxin’ Day with the rest of the village?’ she asked.

‘We are. And we’re having Christmas lunch with the family, too.’

‘What, even you?’

‘Even, as you say, me.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t mean no insult,’ she said. ‘But you knows what I means. They don’t usually have servants to dinner.’

‘When I was a girl,’ interrupted Mrs Spratt, ‘I used to wonder whether they might have servants for dinner. I was terrified of the people in the big house near where I grew up. I was sure they must be terrible monsters who ate their servants.’

‘Ma!’ protested Daisy. ‘That’s disgustin’.’

‘What is, dear?’

‘Talkin’ about eatin’ people.’

‘Really? What do you think goes in your dad’s pork pies?’

‘Ma!’ said Daisy again.

‘As far as I know,’ I said, ‘I’m not on the menu. And I’ve been asked to wear a – what did she say? – a “comely frock”. My guess is that I’m expected at table.’

‘And none deserves it more than you, m’dear,’ said Mrs Spratt. ‘You and your mistress has been a breath of fresh air to this village, not to mention how many ne’er-do-wells you’ve brought to justice between you. You put on your best frock and go to that dinner. You can be our representative at the top table.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Spratt,’ I said. ‘I shall scoff and quaff on behalf of all the village.’

‘You do that, my girl. And if you gets a chance, drink some champagne for me.’

‘You’re a lover of champagne?’ I asked.

‘A’n’t never had none,’ she said. ‘But I’ve always fancied a drop. It always seemed like the height of luxury to me.’

‘Then I shall toast you if I get a chance,’ I said.

She smiled warmly.

By this time, Mr Spratt had finished his calculations and he showed me the bloodstained scrap of paper he’d been working on.

‘Would that be acceptable?’ he asked.

I looked at the numbers. ‘It seems a fair price to me,’ I said. ‘Send the bill over as soon as you can and I’ll make sure you get paid in plenty of time for Christmas.’

We exchanged farewells and another round of ‘Merry Christmas’ before I made my way home again in the chill December air.

I found Lady Hardcastle in her study, catching up with some correspondence. I assured her that both meat and drink were well in hand, and then lingered at the door.

‘Did you want something, dear?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Mrs Spratt brought me down with a bit of a bump just now, that’s all. She said she’d never drunk champagne. And I thought of all the times I’ve drunk it – on missions all over Europe, at Codrington Hall, even just here in the evening because we fancied it. I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that you invited me to be part of your madcap world all those years ago.’

‘The pleasure has been entirely mine, Flo, dear,’ she said. ‘I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere were it not for you. Or living here on my own, lonely and batty, surrounded by parakeets.’

‘Parakeets?’ I said.

‘I would have turned to them for company.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Well, I just wanted you to know that I don’t take my privileged life for granted.’

‘I never imagined for a moment that you do,’ she said. ‘But you’ve given me an idea. Do you think The Grange could make do with just five cases of fizz?’

‘I should imagine they could make do without any at all if they had to.’

‘Splendid. In that case – oh, I say, it’s all about cases, isn’t it? – in that case we shall hold one back and give a bottle each to the village shopkeepers who have kept us so splendidly supplied with essentials throughout the year.’

‘What a good idea,’ I said. ‘What about Edna and Miss Jones?’

‘I’ve bought them each a pair of those lovely kid gloves we saw in that little shop in Bristol. I thought that would combine elegance and practicality in one useful gift. But I see no reason why we can’t treat them to a bottle of chammy each as well.’

‘And me?’

‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she said.

I left her to her letter writing and went upstairs to see what sort of a state my best frock was in.

* * *

On the day before Christmas Eve, Edna and I made an unfashionably early start and decorated the house with the requisite quantity of ribbon, tinsel, and garlands of assorted evergreens. Lady Hardcastle wasn’t fond of Christmas trees, but we managed to persuade her to let us put one up in the hall. Once we had decorated it with yet more tinsel, and glass baubles and candles, then set a glittering star on the top, even Lady Miseryguts had to concede that it gave the house an air of festive jollity.

I had placed the orders for her Christmas presents shortly after her birthday at the beginning of November. The first part had arrived promptly and was safely hidden in the attic. As the weeks dragged by, and Christmas drew ever closer, I had begun to despair of the second part arriving in time. But when I telephoned to try to establish whether I needed to think of something else, I was assured that the item had been made to my exact specifications and was awaiting final finishing. It would, they said, be dispatched in good time. They offered to gift-wrap it as a way of thanking me for my patience.

It was with some relief that I answered the door on Christmas Eve morning to find the postman struggling with a cumbersome package addressed to ‘Miss Florence Armstrong, Littleton Lane, Littleton Cotterell, Glos’.

‘There you goes, miss,’ said the postman as he handed it over. ‘I must say, me heart sank to me boots when I saw it at the sortin’ office. “How am I goin’ to carry that as well as all me letters?” I says. But they just laughed. “Pick ’e up,” they says. “Mind you don’t strain yourself.” So I braces meself and puts all me strength into it. I fell flat on me backside, didn’t I? It don’t weigh nothin’ at all. You been buyin’ empty boxes?’

‘It’s a special package of London Fog,’ I said. ‘I bought it for Lady Hardcastle to remind her of home.’

He looked at me for a second before his face split into a grin. ‘You had me goin’ for a moment there,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I i’n’t fishin’. We takes the privacy of the public very seriously at the Post Office. None o’ my business what you bought. I just thought it were funny it was so big but weighed so little, that’s all.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’d happily tell you more, but it’s a surprise.’ I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper to emphasize my point. ‘She might overhear.’

He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mum’s the word,’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas.’

I turned back inside and picked up an envelope from the table beside the door. ‘And a merry Christmas to you, too,’ I said as I handed it to him.

The coins inside the envelope jingled slightly as he took it, and he smiled as he tucked it into the pocket of his tunic.

‘Much obliged to you, I’m sure,’ he said. He touched the peak of his cap in salute as he turned and retreated down the garden path.

I struggled inside with the unwieldy box just as Lady Hardcastle emerged from her study.

‘Oh, I say, what have we got here?’ she asked excitedly.

‘Never you mind,’ I said, and immediately cursed myself for not saying it was something for the kitchen.

She gave an exaggerated wink. ‘Sufficient unto Christmas Day are the presents thereof, eh?’ she said.

‘Something like that,’ I said, resignedly. ‘No peeking, though.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She leaned back slightly as she appraised the package. ‘It’s big, though, isn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve misjudged my present to you now.’

‘A certain amount of gift-related anxiety is part and parcel of the Christmas holiday,’ I said. ‘I’m glad to be the provider of perturbation for once. The boot is usually on the other foot.’

‘Is it boots?’ she said.

‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Sea?’ she said. ‘A model steamboat?’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘With all due deference and respect, my lady, shut your potato trap and get out of the way. I’ve got work to do.’

She stepped nimbly aside and I carried the package through to the kitchen.

* * *

At seven o’clock that evening, Lady Hardcastle and I were dressed and ready for the commencement of seasonal festivities at The Grange. I was, for only the third time since it had been bought for me as a birthday gift, wearing my ‘new’ green gown. With its richly embroidered bodice and the glittering beads and sequins on the sheer silk that fell over the skirt, I wondered if I might look altogether too much like a Christmas tree.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Lady Hardcastle when I voiced my concern. ‘You look wonderful. And Christmas trees are much taller.’

‘You’re such a comfort, my lady,’ I said. ‘So as long as I refrain from standing on chairs and stay away from stepladders, I shall be fine?’

‘I think that’s good advice for any lady, but yes – don’t look too tall or small children will begin searching you for presents.’

I was prevented from replying by the ringing of the doorbell. Bert, the Farley-Strouds’ chauffeur, had arrived to pick us up.

We were admitted to The Grange without fuss or ceremony. Lady Farley-Stroud greeted us warmly and led us through to the library, where we found Sir Hector in his favourite place: beside the drinks cabinet.

‘Good evening, m’dears. What’ll you have?’ he said. ‘Blasted relations are all still up in their rooms, but that shouldn’t stop the rest of us from enjoying a livener.’

‘What’s in the big bowl?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘Wassail punch, m’dear. Made from Old Joe Whatsit’s best cider. And some baked apples, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Oh, and a lemon. Even with Joe’s strongest scrumpy it seemed a bit on the tame side, so there might be a glug or two of Calvados in there.’ He winked. ‘Picked it up in Normandy a few summers ago.’

‘Sounds delicious,’ she said. ‘And the jug?’

‘Mulled wine,’ he said, proudly. ‘Much the same, really, but without the apples and with claret instead of cider. It seemed to suffer the same timidity, so I pepped this one up with cognac.’

‘I’ve always been fond of mulled wine,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a glass of that, please.’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said, and set about pouring the warm, spicy wine from the cut-crystal jug. ‘Trick is to empty the jug before it gets cold.’ He winked again and turned to me. ‘And what about you, m’dear – can I tempt you?’

‘I’ll try the punch, please, Sir Hector,’ I said. ‘When in Rome . . .’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ he said. ‘Excellent choice. Strong tradition of cider-making out here in the West.’ He ladled a healthy serving into a crystal punch cup.

‘Your very good health,’ he said, raising his own glass.

‘Merry Christmas,’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.

We were helping ourselves to mince pies when there was a commotion at the door.

‘. . . but Mama said I could have it,’ said a small girl’s voice.

‘And Great-Aunt Gertrude said you were a dung beetle,’ said another. ‘So I should have it.’

‘I said nothing of the sort, young Patience,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, the great-aunt in question. ‘What are you two fighting over?’

‘It’s a Collider-Spoke,’ said the younger girl earnestly as she held up a small, bright red tube. ‘And it’s mine. Mama said so.’

‘Did your mother say that Constance can play with it?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud to the older girl.

‘Well . . .’ she began, stalling for time while she came up with a convincing story. ‘She did . . . but . . . Constance is a dung beetle.’

‘Oh, do stop that,’ said a weary voice from the door. ‘We’ve allowed you to come down with the grown-ups as a special Christmas treat, but if you’re going to be beastly you can just about jolly well go back up to bed.’

‘Sorry, Mama,’ the girls chimed together. They made a great show of going demurely to a corner of the library, where they quietly resumed hostilities.

‘Come and meet our neighbours, Henrietta, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud to the owner of the weary voice.

A small, pretty woman in her mid-twenties trailed behind the lady of the house and made her way across the room. Her face looked as weary as her voice sounded, but she was elegantly dressed in a cream-coloured gown and she carried herself with confidence.

‘Emily,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, ‘allow me to introduce my . . . niece-in-law? That doesn’t sound right. This is Henrietta, my sister’s younger son’s wife. Henrietta, this is Emily, Lady Hardcastle, my dear friend and our local sleuth.’

The two women shook hands.

‘How exciting,’ said the younger woman. ‘We’ve heard so much about you. Please call me Hattie – everyone does.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Hattie,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘And this is Florence Armstrong,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

Hattie shook my hand with equal vigour. ‘The doughty lady’s maid and bodyguard,’ she said. ‘We’ve read so much about you as well. It seems strange to think that Aunt Gertrude knows someone so famous. Our family only appears in the announcements in the newspapers. “Beaufort. On the third of October, 1909, to Henrietta (née Bentley) and Cornelius, a daughter Prudence.” That sort of thing. But you two always make a splash with your sleuthing and fisticuffs. Gosh.’

I stifled a laugh but Lady Hardcastle didn’t bother. She chuckled merrily. ‘I’m not sure it’s quite the notoriety our own mothers would have wished for us, but it does mean we’re invited to dinner more often these days.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Hattie.

‘Dear Cornelius can’t be with us this evening, I’m afraid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘He’s been detained in London on important business. He works in banking, you know.’

Lady Hardcastle frowned inquisitively.

‘My husband,’ Hattie clarified. ‘Father of the two squabbling hellions over yonder and, apparently, someone without whom the bank simply cannot function.’ She sighed.

‘He’ll come down when he can, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘He wouldn’t let his family down at Christmas.’

Hattie had the resigned look of someone who had been ‘let down’ altogether too many times before to believe this hearty reassurance, but she dutifully nodded her agreement nonetheless.

Hattie and her brood were merely the advance guard. Over the next quarter of an hour, the rest of the houseguests arrived – along with the Reverend and Mrs Bland, and Dr Fitzsimmons, from the village.

I tried to keep track of the family members, but without a notebook and pencil I never really stood a chance. Lady Farley-Stroud’s sister, Hilda, made an impression, certainly. She seemed to be younger by a few years, but theirs was a strong family resemblance both in appearance and manner. I remembered being pleasantly surprised by some of the more outrageous tales from Lady Farley-Stroud’s youth, and it seemed that Hilda was no less prone to ribaldry. They shared a taste in men, too. Her husband, Baden Beaufort, was clearly cast from the same mould as Sir Hector – affable, cheerful and compliant. He was also partial to a drink. Or two.

Sir Hector’s sister, by contrast, struck me as being a good deal less fun to be around. Mrs Joyce Adaway had been widowed in 1898. Like the late Queen Victoria, she had dressed in mourning and had steadfastly refused to wear any colour other than black ever since. She was a few years older than Sir Hector, with old-fashioned attitudes to match. She had been on the verge of shaking my hand until Lady Farley-Stroud had said that I was Lady Hardcastle’s lady’s maid. Where others might have shaken my hand anyway and privately wondered what the world was coming to, she snatched back her hand and turned away. She didn’t even trouble to invent a distraction, she simply turned and left.

This amused Sir Hector no end. ‘Take no notice, m’dear,’ he said. ‘Always been a snob, our Joycie. Hope y’don’t mind too much, but you were the first person to be added to the guest list when she accepted the invitation to come down. We knew you’d get up her nose.’ He laughed again. ‘Scored a bullseye there, what? Can’t wait to see her face when you sit down with us at lunch tomorrow.’

He seemed so gleeful at casting me as the cat to be set among her pigeons that I found it hard to take offence.

Mrs Adaway’s eldest daughter, Alberta, and her husband, Sir Edward Chambers, made little immediate impression. I gathered from conversation that he was a KC, and he seemed charming enough, but in most respects he was like every other barrister I’ve ever met and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pick him out from a crowd in future. Their children, Letitia and Humphrey, had also been allowed to join the grown-ups, but made a beeline for their cousins as soon as they were able, so I didn’t get a chance to find out what they were like. The four children formed a suspiciously conspiratorial huddle in the corner of the library, and I was glad I wasn’t going to be around long enough to suffer the results of their machinations.

We were given reasons why assorted other brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces were unable to join the rest of the family in Gloucestershire, but I confess I can no longer recall any of the details. There were one or two ‘other family engagements’, at least one more ‘urgently required at work’ and, my definite favourite: ‘To tell the truth, m’dear, I can’t stand the man – gives me the absolute pip – so we never invite him.’

The final guest to blow exuberantly into the library, cigar in hand, was Julius Goodheart. He was introduced as a ‘terribly good pal’ of Sir Edward, and I could tell at once that he was going to be the one to enliven proceedings. He was moderately tall, with the build of a sportsman and the confident air of someone who has never met anyone who didn’t immediately like him. Even in the company of complete strangers – most of whom had known each other all their lives – his easy bonhomie made him the centre of whichever group he happened to be in.

It was shaping up to be a rather fun evening.

* * *

It turned out to be a most convivial occasion. The piano had been moved into the library from its usual home in the ballroom, which gave Lady Hardcastle an opportunity to show off. She provided an elegant accompaniment to a handful of Christmas carols which we sang together. Several of the company remembered the choral parts, which made the whole thing less of a hearty sing-song and more of a beautifully harmonic celebration of the season.

We eventually exhausted the Christmas repertoire, though. By and by, we were stood down in favour of Sir Hector’s sister, Mrs Adaway, whose rich contralto voice brought an unexpectedly tender touch to one or two sentimental songs. Perhaps she had a heart after all.

With the room thus blanketed in a mood of wistful melancholy, it fell to Sir Edward and his pal Julius Goodheart to revive the party spirit and set us back on the road to seasonal merrymaking. This they achieved by means of a medley of music-hall songs. After a brief confab with Lady Hardcastle, which made them look just as suspiciously conspiratorial as the children had earlier, they launched into a routine to rival many of the acts we’d seen at the professional theatre.

By the time they were done, the room was once more buoyant and jolly, and I swear I even saw Mrs Adaway clapping along at one point. With our spirits restored, the two men, who had taken on the role of ringleaders in the festivities, announced that it was time for games.

Hot Boiled Beans involved the hiding of a small object while one person was out of the room, and then encouraging them to find it by telling them they were ‘getting warmer’. This was followed, at Hattie Beaufort’s insistence, by a few rounds of The Minister’s Cat, a feline whose traits and characteristics were presented in alphabetical order. She had chosen it because it was ‘one that the children can play with us’. When their turn came and they pronounced that the Minister’s Cat was a flappy cat, a gargling cat, a Hungarian cat and an itchy cat, we knew it had been a good choice.

Time wore on, and the vicar and his wife had to excuse themselves so that he could prepare for Midnight Mass. This was taken as an opportunity to send the children off so that their nannies could get them ready for the trip to church. The self-appointed Masters of Mirth were keen that this interruption should not signal an end to the fun, though, and asked if anyone had any games we could play before we all set off for the service.

Earlier that year, Lady Hardcastle and I had spent a week at Codrington Hall in Rutland in the company of Lord Riddlethorpe and his family, notably his eccentrically badly behaved Uncle Algy. The old boy knew (or had invented) a number of bawdy parlour games, and Lady Hardcastle suggested two: St Uguzo’s Holy Cheese, and Jean-Pierre’s Magical Vineyard.

Having explained the simple rules of both games, she let the group choose. By unanimous vote, it was decided that St Uguzo’s Holy Cheese was the only game worth playing and we passed the rest of the evening playing that hilariously smutty game. Lady Farley-Stroud and her sister were every bit as racy as predicted with a few glasses of punch inside them, while Sir Hector seemed to be taking most of his enjoyment from observing his own sister’s mounting outrage.

By a quarter past eleven we were exhausted by the unceasing laughter, and it came as a relief when Sir Hector announced that it was time for coats and hats and the twenty-minute walk down the hill to the village church.

We left them to stagger back up the hill after the service, and instead made the much shorter journey back to the house. There would be ample opportunity to rejoin the festivities tomorrow, but for now the call of a cozy bed in familiar surroundings was too strong for me to ignore, and I knew Lady Hardcastle felt the same. We wished them all a merry Christmas for the umpteenth time and set off across the green.

TWO

As always, no matter that we’d had a late night, I was up at robin’s chirp (I was reasonably certain it was a robin), with the range lit and the kettle on long before Lady Hardcastle stirred. She had given Edna and Miss Jones their champagne and presents before they left on Christmas Eve, to their great surprise and evident delight. She had reassured them once more that they could take both Christmas Day and Boxing Day off – with full pay – to spend with their families.

I knew that by the time we sat down to Christmas dinner at The Grange we’d be eating enough to make a blue whale complain of feeling stuffed. Lady Hardcastle had told me one evening over dinner that the blue whale eats over three and a half tons of krill every day, and I could well imagine being fed close to that quantity of beef and roast potatoes before we even got to the mountain of vegetables. There’d be Christmas pudding as well. And mince pies.

With that in mind, I decided that a light breakfast was in order. Dear Miss Jones had bought some duck eggs, so I soft-boiled four of them and prepared a few rounds of toast which I cut into fingers, the easier to dunk them into the soft yolks. The addition of a coffee pot, cups, saucers, plates, cutlery and a salt cellar made the tray somewhat heavy and awkward. I had to set it down on the table on the landing in order that I could knock on the bedroom door.

‘Merry Christmas, tiny servant,’ said Lady Hardcastle as I heaved the bounteously burdened tray onto the bed.

‘And a very merry Christmas to you, too,’ I said. ‘I bring dippy egg.’

‘Dippy duck eggs from the looks of them. Join me.’

‘I thought it best that we stick to the minimum necessary to sustain life and revive the spirits,’ I said as I sat on the edge of the bed. ‘We’ll need all the room we can spare for the feast.’

‘Good thinking,’ she said. ‘Christmas lunch always promises to burst the bellies of even the most gluttonous among us.’

‘Is St Nicholas the patron saint of taxidermists?’ I asked.

‘Children, mostly,’ she said. ‘And brewers. And merchants. Fishermen, too, I believe. There are loads more on his docket – he’s quite a busy chap . . . Oh, and prostitutes.’

‘He sounds like the ideal saint to have with you on a night on the town.’

‘If you can get St Lorenzo to come with you – he takes care of cooks – and St Genesius for the actors and dancers, you’d be very well-looked-after.’

‘I’ll put them on the guest list,’ I said.

‘Talking of being looked after,’ she said as she finished another spoonful of egg, ‘I have something for you.’

She leaned over and took two ribbon-bound boxes from her nightstand.

‘Are we exchanging gifts now?’ I asked.

‘I know we usually wait until after lunch, but we’ll be at Gertie’s.’

I took the first box and gave it an investigatory shake. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll get yours in a moment.’

I pulled the bow and the ribbon fell away, allowing me to lift the lid. Inside was a miniature replica of the motor car I had so very nearly raced in at Lord Riddlethorpe’s home in the summer.

‘Fishy told me he had commissioned a model of his motor car to commemorate his first win, and I asked if he could get them to make one for you as well,’ she said.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Thank you so very much. Can we put it on the mantel in the drawing room? It will be nice to have a memento of our adventures. And a reminder that I still haven’t driven a racing car.’

‘I’m glad you like it,’ she said. ‘Open the other one. Go on. I had that made specially, too.’

The second box was somewhat flatter than the first, but no less heavy. Its silk ribbon came away just as easily. Inside, I found a knife.

‘It’s another scale replica,’ she said.

And it was. My father, whose real name was Joe Armstrong, had made his living as a circus knife-thrower called The Great Coltello. His knives had been ‘retired’ when he died – it was the tradition among his circus troupe that an act’s props and costumes would be respectfully put away when the performer passed on – and I had sometimes said that I would have loved to have had one of his throwing knives. In truth, his skill was such that he could throw any knife, but for the climax of his act he would stand my mother in front of a target and throw a matched set of decorated knives at her. The blades were elongated diamond shapes, and the handles were painted purple with a pattern of stars picked out in yellow. They would trace the outline of her body on the board, landing a fraction of an inch from her skin though he never once cut her. There, in the Christmas box, was a smaller version of one of those knives. The blade was of polished steel rather than the dull metal of the originals, and the purple handle was enamelled and set with tiny gemstones where the real thing had been painted, but it was definitely my father’s knife. I confess I shed at least one tear.

‘Oh,’ I said, still a little bit overcome. ‘That’s absolutely perfect. Thank you.’

She beamed. ‘I managed to track down one of your father’s former colleagues,’ she said. ‘From the circus. He drew me a sketch and I sent it to a cutler in Sheffield. He made the knife itself and then a jeweller in London enamelled the handle, set the stones and gave it that beautiful shine.’

I picked it up. ‘It feels an almost-perfect weight for its size,’ I said.

‘Yes, the cutler fellow was quite taken with the design. He said it should throw very well.’

I flipped it in my hand, caught it by the handle, and then flicked it towards the bedroom door where it stuck with a satisfying thud.

‘He’s right,’ I said.

She laughed. ‘I had thought we might keep it on display,’ she said. ‘It’s a reminder of your father, of course, but I thought it fitted with the racing car theme, as well, after your fruit-knife-flinging exploits at Codrington Hall.’

I fetched the knife from the door and set it back in its box.

‘But by all means use it,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should get you a sheath for it so you can carry it about your person.’

‘It’s funny you should say that,’ I said. ‘Wait there.’

I returned a few moments later with three boxes of my own.

‘You must open the largest first,’ I said as I plopped it onto the bed beside her. ‘Then the smallest, and then the heaviest.’

‘I can guess what this is,’ she said as she attacked the ribbon on the large box. ‘Hat boxes seldom contain anything other than . . .’ She lifted a large, dark blue hat from the box. The broad brim curled upwards on one side and the crown was decorated with a wide silk ribbon tied in an extravagant bow.

‘Well, isn’t that just the most perfect thing,’ she said, delightedly. ‘And just my colour.’

‘I thought so,’ I said. ‘Explore further.’

She frowned in puzzlement but obediently examined the hat in more detail.

‘Oh, I say,’ she said when she discovered its secret. ‘How wonderful. My daydream made flesh. Or made leather, felt and ribbon, at any rate. You’re quite the best friend a lady could have.’

The ribbon, which was glued to the crown of the hat to hold its decorative folds in place, was not a single piece. The ‘join’ fell near the back and marked the edge of a concealed flap, behind which was a small compartment.

‘How utterly wonderful,’ she said. ‘I bet I can guess what the other boxes contain now.’

As instructed, she first opened the smaller one, which contained a tiny, twin-barrelled Model 95 derringer pistol made by the Remington Arms Company of America. The heavy box held fifty .41-calibre Rimfire cartridges.

She fitted the tiny pistol into the tailor-made compartment at the rear of the hat, and put the hat on.

‘There,’ she said. ‘How do I look?’

‘Deadly,’ I said.

She reached up casually with her right hand, as though to adjust the fit of the hat, and the hand returned bearing the derringer.

‘I can’t count the number of times when something like this would have saved us an awful lot of messing about,’ she said. ‘Thank you so very much.’ She grinned. ‘Although it probably doesn’t speak well of us that we buy each other weapons for Christmas.’

‘It’s not always weapons,’ I said. ‘You bought me a brooch with picklocks in it for my birthday.’

‘That’s true.’ She took off the hat. ‘This is absolutely wonderful,’ she said. ‘And I promise not to accidentally shoot you.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said. ‘And I promise not to accidentally whip out my bejewelled knife and throw it into your heart in retaliation.’

‘Then we’re safe.’

‘We are. Shall I draw you a bath?’

‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘We’d better shake a leg if we’re going to get up to The Grange in time for elevenses.’

* * *

The weather was crisply cold as we made our way up the hill with the frost crunching beneath our boots. The skies were clear and the low sun made the frosted trees sparkle. The downside of the cloudlessness was that it dashed all hopes of a white Christmas.

‘To tell you the truth,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘I’ve never quite understood the attraction of snow. It’s beautiful for the first hour or so, but it soon degenerates into a filthy grey slush. Then it grimes up the hem of one’s dress or freezes overnight and turns even the shortest walk into a treacherous expedition across an arctic hell.’

‘Hell has ice now?’ I said.

‘Mine does,’ she replied. ‘And bagpipes.’

‘You’re not a fan of the skirl of the pipes, then, hen?’ I said in a bad Scottish accent.

‘No one is, dear. They say they were banned by George II, you know. They claim it was to suppress Scottish nationalism, but if it’s true – and, as a matter of fact, I don’t believe it is – I’m sure it had less to do with saving the Union from Highland insurrection and more to do with saving everyone’s hearing from the screech of that infernal instrument.’

I hummed ‘The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond’ as we passed through the gates to the drive. I’d moved on to ‘I Love a Lassie’ by the time we reached the great front door of the house.

‘That’s a new one, isn’t it?’ she said as we waited for someone to answer.

‘Harry Lauder,’ I said. ‘It’s a few years old now. It’s been doing the rounds in the music halls.’

‘It’s jaunty,’ she said. ‘I bet it sounds bally awful on the pipes, mind you.’

Jenkins, the Farley-Strouds’ butler, opened the door.

‘Lady Hardcastle,’ he said, warmly. ‘Miss Armstrong. Do, please, come in. Let me take your coats.’

‘Good morning, Jenkins,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘And a merry Christmas to you, too, my lady,’ he said. ‘Lady Farley-Stroud has asked me to take you straight through to Sir Hector’s study. She’s waiting for you there.’

Lady Hardcastle and I exchanged puzzled looks but followed him down the passageway to a heavy oak door. He knocked and entered.

‘Lady Hardcastle and Miss Armstrong, my lady,’ he said.

‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ came the familiar voice from inside. ‘Show them in.’

‘Very good, my lady,’ said Jenkins. He ushered us into the room and closed the door behind us.

‘Sit yourselves down,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, indicating the two armchairs beside the window. She perched herself on the edge of Sir Hector’s ornately carved desk as we made ourselves comfortable. The desk was of a dark wood, decorated with elephants and peacocks. A souvenir of India, I presumed.

‘Merry Christmas to you both,’ she continued. ‘Thank you for coming last evening. I had the jolliest time.’

‘We did, too,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Thank you for inviting us.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Thank you for inviting me, especially.’

‘Think nothing of it, m’dears,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Cook tells me there have been some unexpected deliveries to the kitchen, too. And Jenkins is clearing room in the wine cellar to store an uncommon amount of grog. You’re a very naughty girl, Emily, and I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Entirely my pleasure, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘But that’s not why I’ve closeted you here, away from the others,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I rather fear we’re in a bit of a bind again.’

‘Again?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Much as the last time I drew you away from company and brought you in here. Do you remember?’

‘I do indeed. Someone had stolen your emerald . . . I say, it’s not gone missing again, has it?’

Not long after we had first arrived in Littleton Cotterell, we were helping the police solve a murder while simultaneously trying to recover a stolen gemstone for the Farley-Strouds.

‘No,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘But something is missing. Last night someone broke in through the window of one of the bedrooms and helped themselves to a pearl pendant on a gold chain.’

‘Goodness me,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Whose room? Where? Are they all right? Were they hurt? Have you called the police?’

‘Hattie Beaufort – my niece. Or niece-in-law, if that’s a proper term. You met her last night. She’s in a room on the first floor, at the back of the house. She’s unharmed. Didn’t even know anyone had been in the room. And no, we don’t want the police involved for now. We – that’s to say Hector and I – would quite like to settle this amongst ourselves without involving the official police. It’s tiresome enough being at the centre of yet another robbery ourselves, but it will do poor Cornelius’s reputation at the bank no end of harm if it gets out that his wife was robbed.’

I didn’t follow this particular line of reasoning, but I’d never been particularly sensitive to scandal, so I was almost certainly missing some subtle nuance of the situation.

Lady Hardcastle pressed on. ‘Was anything else taken?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Were any other rooms searched?’

‘No.’

Lady Hardcastle paused a moment in thought. ‘Let me get this straight,’ she said at length. ‘You’re telling us that someone stole in through the window of an upstairs bedroom in the dead of night. They picked up a valuable necklace, leaving no indication that they had searched for anything else. And then they left again without troubling to snoop around the rest of the house. Oh, and they moved so silently that the occupant of the room was undisturbed.’

‘It sounds rather queer when you put it like that,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Doesn’t it just?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Well, I do love a puzzle. What say you, Flo?’

‘It beats playing Sardines as a way of passing Christmas morning,’ I said.

‘It does, rather, doesn’t it?’ She stood. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Lay on, Mac-Gertie. Show us the scene of the dirty deed.’

We trooped out of the study and set off upstairs.

* * *

The Grange was a beguiling hotchpotch of architectural styles. It had started its life as a Tudor manor house. A Georgian owner had added a Palladian section which became the main body of the house and gave it its elegant, symmetrical, front aspect. Shortly before the Farley-Strouds bought it, the last owner had added yet another new wing, this time in the Gothic Revival style, complete with turrets and towers.

The suite of rooms occupied by Hattie Beaufort and her children was in this Victorian part of the house and was provided with all modern conveniences. Sir Hector had installed an electricity generator in one of the old outhouses – the Elizabethan piggery, so one of the servants had told me. It was the Victorian wing of the house that most benefited from this wonderful modern invention, and here electric lights lit the passages and the rooms at the merest flick of a switch.

Lady Farley-Stroud was leading the way. She arrived at a door near the end of a passage and opened it without knocking. We followed her inside and found a decently appointed bedroom. The bed looked comfy and cosy, though the covers, in common with the furniture and decoration throughout the house, had clearly seen better days. A fire burned cheerfully in the tiled grate. There was a washstand with a porcelain bowl and jug, a scuffed wardrobe, and a small writing desk with a chair that didn’t match. A jewellery case sat on the bedside table, open and empty.

‘That’s where the necklace was kept?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, pointing to the case.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘And this is the window that the thief used?’

‘We believe so, yes.’

Lady Hardcastle examined the window frame. ‘It’s locked,’ she said.

‘Yes, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘But it wasn’t last night. We snibbed it this morning in case the burglar returned.’

Lady Hardcastle unfastened the lock and lifted the lower sash. She stuck her head out and looked down towards the ground.

‘It’s quite a drop,’ she said as she pulled her head back inside. ‘But the drainpipe looks sturdy enough, and all that decorative brickwork would provide plenty of footholds. What do you think, Flo?’

I crossed the room and leaned out through the open window. The cast-iron drainpipe that ran down from the gutter on the pitched roof above us was very solidly attached to the wall. The wall itself wasn’t uniformly flat. At regular intervals, individual bricks – or sometimes whole courses – were set proud of the surface to give the wall a visual texture that made it look rather striking from the outside.

‘I’m not much of a climber, my lady,’ I said. ‘But I reckon even I could shin up here without any great difficulty.’

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘We need to take a look at that flowerbed down below. The quickest route up here would be across that rose border, onto the water butt and straight up the drainpipe. You never know – they might have left a footprint in the soil. They always do in the detective stories.’

I’d pulled my head back inside by this point and was reaching up to close the sash window when something caught my eye.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘What’s this?’

I reached down into the window frame and plucked a short length of thread from the protruding head of a nail. I examined it quickly before passing it to Lady Hardcastle.

‘It’s wool,’ I said. ‘A rather fine worsted. Dark blue.’

‘You know your fabrics,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud with a smile.

‘When you spend your working days up to your elbows in carelessly torn clothes in need of repair,’ I said with a pointed glance at Lady Hardcastle, ‘you quickly become familiar with all manner of tailoring styles. And cloths.’

‘She’s a worker of miracles when it comes to dressmaking and tailoring,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘I’m not all throwing-knives and kidney punches, it’s true,’ I said, ‘but miracle worker might be a bit of an exaggeration.’

‘Nonetheless,’ she said, ‘I’d have been hard-pressed to identify a thread like this.’

‘It’s not the sort of thing your average fly-by-night cracksman would wear,’ I said. ‘That was pulled from a gentleman’s suit.’

‘Gracious!’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You can’t mean it. A gentleman wouldn’t steal into a lady’s bedroom in dead of night and take her jewellery. There must be another explanation.’

Lady Hardcastle was beside me now, examining the window frame.

‘Whoever it was,’ she said, ‘and however he came by his expensive suit, the thread was most likely tugged from the knee of his trousers as he knelt here on his way in. And if I’m right, there should be . . .’ She pointed triumphantly to a mark on the inner sill. ‘A footprint where he brought his other leg in and stepped on the sill.

Sure enough, there was a faint impression in the dust on the white-painted window sill.

‘I say, Gertie,’ she said. ‘If we’re going to do this properly – like they do in the stories – I don’t suppose you have a glass I could use?’

‘A looking glass, dear? Whatever for?’

Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘A magnifying lens.’

‘Of course, m’dear, of course. Don’t know what I was thinking. Hector has one in his study. Refuses to admit he needs spectacles for reading but he has a lens the size of a tea plate to help him with the newspaper. I’ll get it for you.’

She crossed to the bed and tugged the bell cord.

While we waited for Dora, the housemaid, to answer the bell and then make the round trip to the study in search of the magnifying lens, we carefully examined the rest of the room. It didn’t seem as though anything had been disturbed, although I’m not sure how we would have known that something in an unfamiliar room was out of place. I did, however, spot a little ash on the floorboards near the window. Careful examination revealed a little more at the edge of the carpet.

‘Does Mrs Beaufort smoke cigars?’ I asked.

‘Does she what?’ asked Lady Farley-Stroud.

I pointed to the ash. ‘Cigars, my lady,’ I said. ‘Would Mrs Beaufort have left that ash?’

Both of them peered at the indicated spot.

‘You’re quite the bloodhound this morning, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Remarkable,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘No, dear, not to my knowledge. Although one never knows what young ladies are getting up to these days. They’re going out to work, demanding the vote . . . D’you know I saw a woman wearing trousers in Gloucester a little while ago? Trousers! I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that Hattie smokes cigars, but she keeps it a secret if she does.’

By this time Dora had returned with the magnifying lens. Lady Farley-Stroud had exaggerated its size, but it was still a substantial instrument. Lady Hardcastle gripped it by its silver-bound horn handle and studied the foot mark.

‘One doesn’t like to draw attention to the state of another lady’s housekeeping, dear,’ she said, ‘but it’s actually rather a good job your maids don’t dust too thoroughly.’

‘It’s that Dora,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, wearily. ‘She’s lazy and rude, but we never seem to quite get round to giving her the sack. But she’s done us a service this time, you say?’

‘She has indeed,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Look here. You see where the chap’s damp boot sole has stepped onto the windowsill? He’s left a remarkably complete print in the dust.’

Sure enough, when viewed through the magnifying lens, we could make out almost all the details of the man’s left shoe.

‘It’s a dress shoe rather than a boot,’ I said. ‘Probably an Oxford. Or do you call them Balmorals here? Either way, it would confirm the hypothesis that it was a gentleman’s suit.’

Lady Farley-Stroud looked a little puzzled.

‘It’s smooth, for a start, where a boot might have nails to provide grip on loose surfaces. And see how the sole is narrow and comes to a rounded point?’ I said. ‘It’s not an uncommon shape, but it’s too delicate for a boot. And there – you can see where the sole is cut in to accommodate the stitching of the welt. The sole of a workman’s boot might more usually be nailed on.’

‘Is there no end to your sartorial expertise?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

‘Tailor, cobbler, and all-round clever boots,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Or possibly cordwainer,’ I said.

‘Quite so, dear, quite so,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

Lady Farley-Stroud still looked puzzled.

‘Cobblers mend shoes,’ explained Lady Hardcastle. ‘Cordwainers make them.’

‘Well, I never,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Every meeting with you two is an education.’

‘It shouldn’t be too hard to match the print to the shoe if we should ever find a suspect,’ I said. ‘There.’ I pointed to a triangular notch in the print, near the toe.

‘He couldn’t have done better if he’d signed it,’ agreed Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ll have your niece’s pendant back in no time at this rate, Gertie. We’ll just need a bit of thinking time, and maybe some snooping. And food, definitely food.’

Lady Farley-Stroud turned to look at the clock on the mantel.

‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘Food. We’d best get back downstairs. Cook will be all on end if we delay her Christmas lunch.’

We hurried down to the library, where the household guests were already assembled for preprandial drinks. Somewhere along the way we lost Lady Hardcastle without either Lady Farley-Stroud or me noticing. She joined us again after a short while and gave the secret ‘I’ll tell you later’ signal in response to my questioningly raised eyebrow.

* * *

The champagne was perfectly chilled and the company seasonably merry. As on the previous evening, Mr Goodheart and Sir Edward were the self-appointed Masters of Mirth. They kept everyone’s glasses topped up and were ready with a quip or a snippet of song whenever anyone appeared to be taking themselves too seriously.

The four children had been invited to lunch, too, but they needed no encouragement from the Mirthmeisters. They were boisterously excited and I was worried that they might be sent back upstairs on more than one occasion. There was also an addition to the family group whom we had not met on Christmas Eve. Cradled in Henrietta Beaufort’s arms was a baby of indeterminate gender, dressed in a white gown decorated with embroidered holly leaves.

Mrs Beaufort approached us.

‘Aunt Gertie tells me that you’re going to be looking into the burglary for me,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I do so want to get the pendant back, but involving the police would bring exactly the wrong sort of publicity for Cornelius. Gertie never stops singing your praises. I’m so glad you’re on our side.’

‘Think nothing of it, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’re only too happy to help. And we always love a puzzle.’

The younger woman smiled warmly.

‘And who’s this little chap?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, indicating the infant. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

‘This is Prudence Charlotte Tessingham Beryl Beaufort,’ said the mother, proudly.

‘Tessingham is a family name, I presume,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Yes. Worst luck. By some peculiar tradition that was once explained to me but which I have long since ceased to understand, the third child born to a member of Cornelius’s family must face a hostile and bewildering world with “Tessingham” as one of its middle names. Her future husband will stumble over it at the altar, of course, but she’ll be pressured into saddling her own third-born with it in due course, nevertheless.’

‘I confess I rather enjoy that sort of thing,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile. She held out her arms. ‘May I?’

Mrs Beaufort handed her the baby, who immediately began to howl in protest.

‘It was worth a go,’ said Mrs Beaufort, taking her back and quietening her immediately. ‘Don’t take it personally; she always cries whenever a stranger so much as brushes against her. Cornelius insists it’s an important primitive survival instinct – keeps a baby from being abducted by evildoers from the neighbouring tribe or some such tommyrot – but I just think it’s rude.’ She kissed the baby’s forehead. ‘You’re a rude one, Baby Pru, aren’t you? Standoffish and rude. Yes, you are.’

The gong sounded from the hall, calling us into the dining room for lunch.

‘I’d better get this one back to Nanny,’ said Mrs Beaufort. ‘Don’t let them eat all the roast potatoes.’

Still clutching our champagne glasses, we strolled through to the dining room in an informal gaggle. I paused in the hall for a few moments to admire the enormous Christmas tree which had appeared there overnight. It stood easily twelve feet tall and was bedecked with so many ribbons, glittering glass baubles, ornaments and garlands of tinsel that it was hard to tell, in some places, that there was a tree there at all.

We found our places at table and settled down to a sumptuous feast. The oak-panelled room was festooned with yet more greenery, ribbons, tinsel and baubles, while an enormous holly centrepiece dominated the table.

Mrs Beaufort slipped back in before the soup arrived, but even had she been detained until after the main course was served, she needn’t have worried about a shortage of roast potatoes. Or of anything at all. Over the next two hours there was enough soup, fish, turkey, beef, roast potatoes, boiled potatoes and vegetables to keep us all well-fed far beyond Easter. The arrival of mince pies and Christmas pudding brought groans from the already overfull company, but no one refused a helping of one or other – or both – of them. Only the cheese board escaped relatively unscathed, although the accompanying port decanter took a bit of a bashing.

The adults sat quietly contemplating the consequences of gluttony, either longing for a quiet nap or, in the case of the ladies, wishing it were possible to discreetly loosen a corset while sitting at the dining table. Meanwhile, however, there came a mutinous murmuring from the children. The tradition in the Farley-Stroud household was for gifts to be exchanged immediately after lunch, and it seemed that this wasn’t happening immediately enough for Humphrey, the group’s self-appointed leader.

‘Father Christmas worked hard last night to bring presents for all the good boys and girls,’ he said, loudly, when his mother tried to shush him. ‘And I think that the least we can do is to show our appreciation by opening them.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed his elder sister.

‘Presents, presents, presents,’ chanted the two remaining Beaufort children.

‘He’ll be taking silk like his father, that one,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Come on then, you lot. Back to the library with you. Let’s see what Father Christmas has brought us all.’

THREE

We stayed through the gift-giving. We had already wrapped presents for Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud, but Lady Hardcastle had also somehow managed to buy, wrap and deliver gifts for the rest of the family, too. I was going to have to look out for my job if she were able to organize that sort of thing without me.

But by the time Lady Farley-Stroud began mumbling about how lovely it would be to have some of that cold beef in a sandwich – or perhaps the turkey – we simultaneously gave the secret ‘it’s time to leave’ signal and began saying our goodbyes.

With Sir Hector’s blessing, I went below stairs to wish my pal Maude Denton, Lady Farley-Stroud’s lady’s maid, a merry Christmas. I extended the season’s greetings to anyone I bumped into, and made an effort to pop my head into the kitchen. Rose, the kitchen maid, smiled and nodded before getting back to washing the pots and pans. Mrs Brown, the Farley-Strouds’ ill-tempered cook, bustled over to us and I feared I had earned poor Rose a ticking off for slacking. Instead, she wrapped me in a warm and matronly hug.

‘A very merry Christmas to you, m’dear,’ she slurred. She was a great deal more agreeable with a few festive sherries inside her. ‘I don’t say nearly as often as I should what a fine, fine woman you are. All best wishes for the new year, too.’ She swayed slightly. ‘Here,’ she said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Come over here. Come on.’

She beckoned me over to one of the huge pantries and huffed her way inside. She emerged a moment later with a cloth-covered basket.

‘Shhhh,’ she said as she lifted the cloth to reveal at least a dozen mince pies. She replaced the cloth and tapped the side of her nose.

‘Mum’s the word,’ I said.

I thanked her and said my goodbyes, but not before I’d been treated to yet another hug and a kiss on the cheek.

We turned down the offer of a lift down the hill. This was partly because we felt a desperate need to walk off the after-effects of the enormous lunch, but mostly because Bert was in no condition to drive us. I had last seen him snoring in a wing-backed chair below stairs, with three empty beer bottles on the table beside him.

The sun was setting as we let ourselves back into the house and I put the kettle on for tea.

‘You know,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she settled into a kitchen chair, ‘I think I probably could force at least one of those mince pies down.’

‘I’m so glad you said that,’ I said. ‘I was thinking exactly the same but I didn’t want to appear swinish.’

‘We shall be little piggies together,’ she said.

I set down the teapot and flopped into the chair opposite her.

‘Oink,’ I said, and poured two cups of tea.

‘What do you make of this pendant business?’ she said.

‘I’m sure it’s not the oddest thing we’ve encountered,’ I said. ‘But it would definitely get an honourable mention.’

‘Quite so, quite so.’

‘I presume you went to look at the flowerbed when you disappeared just before lunch,’ I said.

‘I did indeed. It’s a beautifully tended bed save for a set of very clear, very obvious footprints which lead, exactly as predicted, from the grass to the water butt. There are marks on the lid, too, as well as a couple on the wall where he took his first few steps.’

‘If I understand correctly, then,’ I began, ‘a well-dressed gentleman wearing a dark blue worsted suit and dress shoes made his way unseen to the rear of The Grange at dead of night on Christmas Eve. Sir Hector’s insane springer spaniels weren’t alerted, nor were any of the household. The thief crossed a flowerbed, leaving very obvious footprints and shinned up a drainpipe to a first-floor window. The window was unsnibbed, meaning that he was able to lift the sash and enter the room – again without waking anyone, not even the occupant of the room. He left a footprint on the windowsill and a thread from his suit on the frame, as well as a sprinkling of ash at the edge of the carpet. He went straight to the bedside table and took a pearl pendant from a jewellery case there.’

‘And that’s all,’ she said. ‘He disturbed nothing else as far as we know and nothing else is reported as missing. The pendant must have been his target, and somehow he knew exactly where it was.’

‘It’s an inside job, isn’t it?’

‘I can’t imagine it being anything else,’ she said. ‘Pass the mince pies.’

* * *

Boxing Day morning followed much the same pattern as Christmas Day. The duck eggs needed to be eaten and the loaf was on its last legs, so toast was the only reasonable option there. I briefly contemplated baking a fresh one for later, but I wasn’t sure we’d have the time – we were expected back at The Grange, after all.

So we enjoyed the same companionable breakfast as before, but this time without presents.

‘I wasn’t sure I was ever going to eat again after yesterday’s blowout,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she set to work on her second egg. ‘But it’s just made me even hungrier.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘I confess I looked at the tray on my way up and wondered if there was enough food for us both.’

‘We oughtn’t to overdo it, though. It’s likely that Gertie will want to push the boat out again today, even if it’s just so that nothing goes to waste. I think she’d rather see one or more of us burst than let any food spoil for want of eating.’

‘It’s the villagers’ bean-feast today, though,’ I said. ‘We can let them carry the burden.’

She laughed. ‘Listen to us talking about being well fed as if it were a burden. We should be thankful for the bounty. There are still many who go without.’

‘There are,’ I agreed. ‘And I’ll stand beside anyone fighting to make it so that we never have to say that again. But for now my tummy aches at the mere thought of another spread like yesterday’s.’

‘You could always exercise a little restraint, dear.’

‘I could, but we both know that neither of us shall. Our only hope is tying our stays a little looser than fashion demands, and hoping they’ll contain the blast if we do explode.’

‘Best foot forward, then,’ she said. ‘And let’s not forget that we need to keep our eyes open today. You know, I’m not certain how best to proceed with the pendant investigation. Ordinarily we’d be free to draw people to one side and ask them a few searching questions, but I don’t think that option is open to us this time. I have no idea who knows what’s going on, nor who is supposed to know.’

‘That’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what to make of Lady Farley-Stroud’s pleas for discretion. Would news of a burglar pinching his wife’s necklace really scupper Cornelius Beaufort’s banking career?’

‘I wondered about that, too. Sometimes we just have to take these things at face value, though. If Gertie says it’s so, let’s proceed as though it is. I know nothing of the arcane world of the City of London. People make up stories about sinister secret societies controlling our lives – shady, seldom-glimpsed cabals of the rich and powerful. But the City is an honest-to-goodness secret society hiding in plain sight. Who knows what might constitute a scandal in their eyes?’

‘Who indeed?’ I said. ‘And speaking of an arcane world of mysterious traditions, is there a Boxing Day hunt in these parts?’

‘There’ll be one at Berkeley, I think, and Hector and Gertie used to join it, but they’re past all that sort of energetic caper now. They don’t even keep horses these days.’

‘A shoot, then?’

‘Again, Hector used to organize one. Quite a grand one by all accounts. But his eyesight’s not what it was and Gertie says he knocked it on the head before he hurt someone. I think that’s why they make such a fuss of the bean-feast – it’s the only tradition they can uphold.’

‘The local pheasants and the local peasants can both rejoice,’ I said.

‘Just so. But enough distraction – we must gird ourselves for the fray and sally forth. There’s no shooting, but I think we should dress for the outdoors nevertheless.’

I tidied away the breakfast tray and we were ready to leave within the hour.

* * *

Lady Hardcastle’s instinct had been correct. When we arrived at The Grange, we found the family dressed in tweeds and stout boots as though ready for the non-existent shoot. They met us on the drive, where they stood sipping spirits from pewter cups.

‘Ah, there you are, Emily,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘We were beginning to worry that you might not be here in time.’

‘In time for what, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘In time to greet the villagers,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It’s something Hector dreamed up last year. He says he misses the hunt, but most of all he misses milling about with old chums and taking a nip of something warming before setting off. So he insists we all come out here and stand about in the cold with our stirrup cups to welcome the estate workers and villagers. Of course, we’d prefer to greet them in the hall, and they’d prefer to be in the warm, too, but it keeps the old boy happy so we’ve just accepted it.’

‘I think it sounds charming,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It feels like an ancient tradition even if it’s just an idea he had last Christmas.’

‘You’re right, m’dear, as always. No one complained. Apart from me. And who listens to me?’

In truth, everyone listened to Lady Farley-Stroud. No one was in any doubt about who controlled life at The Grange, and there were few in the area who would attempt to thwart her will on anything. It might have been Sir Hector’s idea, but we wouldn’t have been out there if Lady Farley-Stroud didn’t secretly approve.

I expected the villagers to arrive in dribs and drabs, straggling in over a period of perhaps half an hour. I was very wrong.

We’d just accepted our scotch-filled cups when I began to perceive a growing sound, coming from the direction of the road. As it grew, it formed a more coherent shape, and I soon realized it was the sound of a large group of people singing ‘God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen’ at the top of their lungs. By the time they reached the drive they were exhorting us to ‘Deck the Halls’. It was a sight too ambitious for such a large group, with only the waving of the vicar’s walking stick to keep them in time, and the fa-la-las were a shambles.

It was a merry shambles, nevertheless, and they cheered as Sir Hector welcomed them and offered them each a glass of beer from a barrel set on a trestle stand beside the door.

Daisy soon found me.

‘Merry Christmas,’ she said as she put her arm across my shoulder in a half-embrace. The other arm, of course, was attached to the hand that held her beer and was unavailable for hugging.

‘Nadolig Llawen to you, too, fach,’ I said.

She harrumphed, as she always did, at my use of Welsh. ‘And to you, as well, Lady H,’ she continued, raising her glass.

‘Thank you, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How has 1909 treated you?’

‘A sight more exciting than usual,’ said Daisy, ‘thanks to you. We’ve had people collapsin’ into pies, séances, stolen trophies, a cart race down the big hill, a moving-picture show that played out in real life . . . and all of it because of you.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That makes me sound awful.’

‘Oh, no, m’lady,’ said Daisy quickly. ‘Not awful. Life was borin’ till you two showed up.’

‘Hmm,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’m sure it’s not the sort of excitement that most people crave. But thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Daisy. ‘Are you on a case now? I bet you are. You’re always up to sommat.’

Lady Hardcastle smiled. ‘I can’t say, dear. But if we were, whom should we look out for?’

Daisy cast around the assembled villagers for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, slowly, ‘I reckon that Hilda Pantry must be up to sommat.’ She indicated the surly proprietor of the village grocery. ‘I don’t reckon you could be that miserable for that much of the time unless you had some great weight on your mind. Maybe she did her husband in, after all.’

‘Was there talk at the time?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘There’s always talk in a village like this,’ said Daisy. ‘But I reckon it was probably unfounded, really. Who else . . . The boys from the rugby club and the cricket club? They’re always up to sommat between ’em.’

I turned to Lady Hardcastle. ‘Some of them have jobs in Bristol,’ I said. ‘They might own a worsted suit.’

‘It’s possible,’ she said. ‘But not a dress shoe. A junior clerk would wear practical boots, even if he could afford the cloth for a suit like that.’

Daisy looked puzzled, but was undeterred. ‘I reckon Sergeant Dobson must have a fiddle or two on the go,’ she said.

‘They do wear blue,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile.

‘It’s too coarse,’ I said. ‘The thread was from a much finer fabric. And can you imagine Wallie Dobson doing anything quite that acrobatic?’

She laughed. ‘No, not at all.’

‘What are you two on about?’ asked Daisy.

‘Nothing for you to fret over,’ I said. ‘It’s a good turnout, isn’t it?’

‘Free food,’ said Daisy, knowingly. ‘Our ma’s married to a butcher so she never goes short of meat, but even she wouldn’t turn her nose up at some free grub.’

‘Who’s that lot over there with Mogg?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, pointing to the group huddling round the Farley-Strouds’ estate manager.

‘They’s the estate workers,’ said Daisy. ‘Mostly they lives in the cottages down towards Woodworthy so they don’t come over our way much.’

‘Aha,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I see.’ She turned to me. ‘Not a blue worsted suit among the lot of them.’

‘That would be a little too much to hope for,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think we need look to the rude mechanicals anyway.’

‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ said Daisy. ‘I knows that one, at least. Our ma wanted a bit of culture a few summers back so we saw it up at Berkeley Castle one evenin’ and sat on the grass.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘I was only little,’ said Daisy, ‘so I barely understood half of it. But the bloke in the ass’s head made I laugh.’

‘Bottom,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘He loved a bum joke, old Shakespeare,’ I said.

‘Yes, that’s right. Do you like Shakespeare, m’lady?’ asked Daisy.

‘Sometimes,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I love the Christmas one. What’s that?’

‘Twelfth Night,’ I said.

‘That’s the chap.’

‘I’m glad you said that,’ said Daisy.

‘Why’s that, dear?’ asked Lady Hardcastle.

‘We’s doin’ a scene from it in tonight’s show. I’m playin’ Viola.’

‘Oh, I say,’ said Lady Hardcastle, with evident delight. ‘I’d forgotten there would be entertainment. What sort of show is it?’

‘The vicar’s runnin’ it,’ said Daisy. ‘What did he call it? A revue, that’s it. Like the music hall only less smutty, our ma says.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

Jenkins appeared on the front steps and sounded the dinner gong.

‘Luncheon is served,’ he intoned, eliciting cheers from the assembled throng.

We hung back to let the stampede clear before joining everyone inside.

* * *

Whereas the family had eaten their meal the day before in the dining room, the villagers were directed to the ballroom. The huge space had once been the great hall of the original Tudor house and still bore many of the original features, including a minstrels’ gallery. In more recent times it had been the setting for some of the region’s more famous parties, but the Farley-Strouds seldom used it these days. To my knowledge, the last time it had seen anything of that nature was a party in celebration of their daughter Clarissa’s engagement, shortly after our own arrival in the village.

Today, it had been transformed by Mr Jenkins and his staff into the most Christmassy place it was possible to imagine. The area directly below the minstrels’ gallery had been curtained off, but the rest was magical. The walls were hung with evergreens – holly, yew, laurel and ivy – along with the ubiquitous ribbons and tinsel. There were candles everywhere.

The room was filled by three long tables, set with enough chairs for all the villagers and the household’s own servants. By the time we arrived, the family had already begun serving the food.

Lady Farley-Stroud caught sight of us lurking by the door and bustled over to us.

‘Come on, you two,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to muck in, I’m afraid. Aprons are over there.’

From the look of things, the family thought this a great lark. They were enthusiastically dishing up hearty helpings of food to the assembled throng and seemed to be having a whale of a time. I saw slightly less novelty in it, but I reasoned that it was the price I had to pay. If I were to be treated as ‘part of the family’ for Christmas lunch, I was going to have to be part of that same family on Boxing Day. I would serve the villagers their lunch with everyone else, no matter that it wasn’t so very far removed from my regular work.

The two sides of the family seemed very comfortable in each other’s company. I supposed that the Farley-Strouds had become the heads of the extended family and that they were all used to spending time together. Hattie Beaufort and Alberta ‘Bertie’ Chambers seemed more like sisters than second cousins, and their children had formed a strongly bonded pack. Even Sir Edward’s friend, the roguish Julius Goodheart, was pitching in. At one point, Hattie passed him her baby and he continued chatting to his pal as though he were merely holding a friend’s coat.

For their part, the villagers were also in fine spirits. There was enough goose to go round and, thanks to Lady Hardcastle’s spending spree, quite a bit of beef, too, which they thought a tremendous luxury. There was plenty of ale, as well, but although the mood was boisterous and lively, things never threatened to get out of hand.

By the time the last of the Christmas pudding and mince pies had been eaten, things had become a good deal quieter. A blanket of lethargy had settled warmly over the guests, who were every bit as stuffed as we had been the day before. It was going to take quite some effort to rouse this lot from their torpor and send them on their way, I thought.

Not nearly so much effort as I imagined, as it turned out.

I had taken off my apron and was leaning on one of the tables. I was chatting to Mr Holman, the baker, when the hall erupted into raucous cheering. I looked round to see that a plump man dressed in a long, red robe had entered the hall. He was sporting a preposterously long white beard, but the thing causing the commotion was the bundle he was hauling behind him. Closer inspection revealed that it was Sir Hector in his Father Christmas costume and that the sack contained presents.

Without having to be told, the village children got up from the tables and formed a neat and orderly line in front of Sir Hector, who, with a few hearty chuckles and assurances that he knew they’d all been frightfully good, handed each of them in turn a small package. Having been thus rewarded for another year of good behaviour – something which, to judge by the look of them, some of them had barely managed – they scampered back to their parents and began playing with the toy motor cars, spinning tops, toy soldiers and dolls that they had been given. None of the gifts were large, but they seemed to be greatly appreciated.

Lady Hardcastle came over to join me.

‘Gertie says there’s a buffet in the dining room for the family if you’re hungry,’ she said.

‘I’m surprised to say that I’m famished,’ I said. ‘But isn’t there more gift-giving?’

‘The staff and tenants have already had their presents,’ she said. ‘This is just for the little ones of the village.’

‘Ah, I see,’ I said. ‘In that case shall we slip away and get something to eat?’

We joined the family in the dining room and helped ourselves to sandwiches and a cold collation, all of which had been put together from the leftovers of Christmas lunch.

We’d been there for a while before Sir Hector joined us. He had removed the dark red robe but was still wearing the long beard.

‘That was great fun, what?’ he said. ‘Always enjoy Boxing Day.’

‘You seem to be enjoying the beard, too, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

He stroked it contemplatively. ‘Suits me, don’t y’think? Only ever had a moustache, but I could see meself with one of these johnnies. Distinguished, what?’

‘You’d be forever dangling it in your soup, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud, who had appeared silently behind him. ‘You’d better take it off so you don’t ruin it. You’ll want it again next year.’

‘Right you are, my little sugar plum,’ he said. He winked at us. ‘Best do as the memsahib says. Key to a happy marriage, that. Always do as you’re told.’ He left us, but didn’t make it as far as the door before he fell into conversation with Alberta Chambers.

‘Thank you so much for coming again today, m’dears,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I know it wasn’t much of a change for you, Armstrong, having to wait at table like that, but it’s greatly appreciated.’

‘Thank you for inviting us,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thank you. It was great fun.’

‘I’m so pleased,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You’ll join us again this evening, I hope.’

‘For the entertainment?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘If you’ll have us. Daisy Spratt told us a little about it – it sounds frightfully jolly.’

‘Splendid,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘You must come. Don’t dress – the gentlemen will be in lounge suits. We try to keep it as informal as possible with so many of the villagers taking part in the proceedings. Don’t like them to feel out of place, you see?’

‘Very thoughtful,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But we’d still better go home and change. When does the fun start?’

‘Eight o’clock sharp. If you arrive any time after seven you can join us in the library for a livener before the show.’

‘We’ll see you then,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Come on, Flo, let’s go and get out of these togs.’

We slipped out, unnoticed, and made our way home.

* * *

We arrived back at The Grange at half past seven, suitably attired as though for a quiet evening in with friends. We could hear the murmur of pre-show activity coming from the ballroom as we were led across the hall and into the library by the eternally unflappable Jenkins.

Sir Hector noticed our arrival at once and beckoned us over to the drinks cabinet.

‘Fizz?’ he said, indicating an open bottle of champagne.

‘Oh, rather,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Do you know, I’m not sure I’ve ever declined an offer of champagne in my life.’

He chuckled. ‘And one for you, m’dear?’

‘Yes, please,’ I said. ‘I know for certain that I’ve never turned one down.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ he said. ‘Experience shows that it’s best to approach the Boxing Day show with a snifter or two under the belt. Helps liven things up, what? And if things get too bad, it can help you snooze through the worst parts instead. Good health.’

He raised his glass.

‘Cheers,’ said Lady Hardcastle and I together.

We left him to his barman’s duties and stood for a while, surveying the small gathering.

‘Well, that’s frightfully irritating,’ said Lady Hardcastle after a few moments.

‘I was thinking that,’ I said. ‘Apparently, dark blue worsted is this season’s “in” fabric.’

Baden Beaufort – Lady Farley-Stroud’s brother-in-law – Julius Goodheart and Sir Edward Chambers were wearing suits in a variety of styles, but they were all cut from a high-quality, dark blue cloth. Even Dr Fitzsimmons was sporting a blue suit.

‘The only one we can definitely rule out is the vicar,’ I said. Reverend Bland was wearing his customary ecclesiastical black.

‘Although Jag is dressed in blue,’ she said.

I looked in the direction she indicated and saw that the vicar’s wife, Jagruti, was wearing a dark blue saree run through with golden thread in a broad pinstripe.

‘You’d not shin up a drainpipe in a formal saree,’ I said.

‘Pyjamas come from India, though, don’t forget. They’d make a much more practical outfit for clambering up walls in the dead of night.’

‘True, but we know nothing of Mrs Bland’s collection of pyjamas. Although I doubt she wears size nine Oxfords.’

‘Yes, that’s a point – shoes. Have you seen any that might fit the bill?’

‘It’s a room full of gentlemen wearing dress shoes,’ I said. ‘They all fit the bill.’

‘Remember Hanover?’

‘Oh, really, my lady,’ I said. ‘Here? No.’

‘It’s the only way.’

‘Bags not me,’ I said.

‘You’re the one who knows so much about shoes.’

‘But I did it last time. They already think you’re a clumsy eccentric. You do it. It won’t be convincing if it’s me – I have a reputation for grace and agility.’

‘Which is why you’ll manage it without hurting yourself. Come on, let’s get it over and done with before the show starts.’

I sighed. ‘Very well. But we only get one shot, so let’s make it count.’

I scouted around. Mr Goodheart was talking to Hilda Beaufort. Baden Beaufort was on his own and on the way to fetch another drink from his brother-in-law. Dr Fitzsimmons and Sir Edward were standing together. They were our target – we could eliminate two at once.

I indicated them to Lady Hardcastle and we began walking towards them. When I was a little over a body’s length away, I feigned a trip, then a stumble, and fell flat on my face directly at their feet. From this prone position I was able to check the soles of both their shoes for the tell-tale notch before they hurried to help me up.

‘Ups-a-daisy,’ said Sir Edward. ‘Are you all right, Miss Armstrong?’

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I said. ‘I must have tripped on the carpet.’

‘No harm done, though?’ he said.

‘None at all, thank you.’

‘Good-oh. You managed to keep hold of your glass, too. Got your priorities straight.’

The doctor’s priorities were slightly different. ‘Wrists all right?’ he said. ‘Elbows? Knees? Can you bend them for me?’

I demonstrated that all my limbs were working exactly as designed.

‘Are you feeling dizzy at all?’ he continued. ‘It’s most unlike you to be clumsy. This is the young woman who brought down a fella outside a pub in Chipping Bevington when he was trying to outrun the law, you know. Very stable on her feet – usually.’

I gave Lady Hardcastle an ‘I told you so’ look. ‘It must be the shoes,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to them.’

Sir Edward smiled. ‘More likely to be the fizz, what? Damned good idea if you ask me. I fully intended to get at least half-swizzled to see me through the show, but we didn’t get here in time. Have to watch the bally thing sober, now.’

The gong sounded from the hall, indicating that it was time for us to take our seats.

‘Come on, Flo,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Let’s get you sitting down before you fall down again.’

I glared at her, but followed anyway.

We had to pause for a moment at the door to wait for some others to get through. Julius Goodheart went first, followed by Hattie Beaufort, then it was finally our turn.

As we walked through the hall, she said, ‘Well? What did you see?’

‘Feet and carpets,’ I said. ‘Oh, and my employer implying that I’m a slush.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘And the soles of their shoes were in perfect order.’

‘Well, that’s two eliminated, at least.’

‘Assuming they only have one pair of shoes each,’ I said.

‘You’re a glass-half-empty sort of girl, aren’t you, dear?’

We found our seats and sat down.

The entertainment proved to be a good deal better than Sir Hector and Sir Edward had led us to believe. The curtains below the minstrels’ gallery turned out to be concealing a small stage. Cast members sat in the audience when not performing, which added a pleasingly chaotic feel to the proceedings as they dashed for the wings in time for their cues.

Septimus Holman, the village baker, opened with a dramatic monologue of uncertain provenance, expounding the unknown poet’s thoughts on the true meaning of Christmas. Eunice Spratt and our housemaid, Edna Gibson, sang a duet. There was Daisy’s promised excerpt from Twelfth Night, followed by a surprisingly clever cross-talk act performed by the vicar and Joe Arnold, the pub landlord. Joe’s toothless delivery added a pleasing low-comedy contrast to the slightly-too-highbrow wordplay from the vicar. There were more poems, more songs, and a comedy skit which presented the outgoing year’s events in the form of a Gothic horror story, featuring our own cook, Blodwen Jones, as me. The show closed with a rousing rendition of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ performed by the cast and the audience, accompanied by Jagruti Bland on piano, Fred Spratt on violin and Constable Sam Hancock on trumpet.

We stayed for quite a while after final curtain. Conversation was informal and friendly, with family and villagers chatting like old friends. I saw for the first time what an important part the Farley-Strouds played in village life.

By the time we left, I genuinely was more than a little swizzled. Fortunately, so was Lady Hardcastle, and our mutual need to see the other home without letting them pitch headfirst into a hedgerow sobered us a little.

* * *

‘We should have a cup of cocoa before bed,’ said Lady Hardcastle when we finally reached the front door. ‘Stave off the hangover a little.’

‘I’ll get the milk on,’ I said.

Once it was ready, we sat together at the kitchen table.

‘We don’t do this enough anymore,’ she said as I set down the cocoa.

‘Get drunk and drink cocoa?’ I asked.

‘No, silly. We used to have adventures and then come home and sit at the kitchen table setting the world to rights. We’ve talked about a lot of things at kitchen tables.’

‘It’s the centre of the house,’ I said.

‘I’m not sure it is, you know. The geometric centre would be somewhere on the first-floor landing outside the bathroom. Near the ceiling.’

I raised my eyebrows.

‘What do you make of this pendant business now?’ she continued. ‘What have we got?’

‘We’ve got every man in the Farley-Strouds’ social circle wearing blue worsted,’ I said. ‘And we’ve got both Sir Edward and Dr Fitzsimmons wearing impeccably maintained shoes.’

‘But we’ve got so many clues. So many. We’ve never had this many clues before and we’ve managed to solve much more convoluted mysteries.’

‘We’ve solved this one already, though, haven’t we?’

‘We have, but it’s really not terribly satisfying, is it? It’s obviously Julius Goodheart.’

‘It can’t be anyone else,’ I said. ‘It’s not any of the servants or villagers because the thread is from an expensive cloth of the sort they would never wear. Nor would they go a-burgling in smooth-soled dress shoes. It’s none of the women because it was a man’s shoe.’

‘Agreed,’ she said.

‘It can’t be Sir Hector, or Baden Beaufort – even if we could conjure up a motive, neither of them could climb that wall. It’s not likely to be Sir Edward Chambers because his left shoe doesn’t match the print – although we can’t completely rule out the possibility that he has brought more than one pair of Oxfords with him. That only leaves Mr Goodheart.’

‘The cigar-smoking, blue-worsted-wearing Julius Goodheart,’ she said. ‘He’s the only one it can be. He’s not a family member, he only has Sir Edward to vouch for him, and although we’ve not seen his shoes, I’d lay a tenner that the left sole has a notch cut out of it.’

‘I confess I’ve suspected him all along,’ I said.

‘Me too. So why doesn’t it feel right? What’s wrong? What are we missing?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘Might I respectfully suggest that we turn in and approach it fresh in the morning?’

‘It’s a splendid suggestion. They say that the unconscious mind can unravel the most complex mysteries. A good night’s sleep might be just what we need to help us make sense of this one.’

FOUR

By the time I arrived in the kitchen the next morning, Edna and Miss Jones had already arrived and begun work.

‘Mornin’, Miss Armstrong,’ they chorused.

I mumbled something that was intended as a friendly greeting but which could have been interpreted as anything at all.

‘Overindulged a bit, did you?’ said Edna.

‘Of course I did. Why didn’t you?’ I said.

‘Oh, I did, my lover,’ she said. ‘But I gots the constitution of a horse, me. I can drink all night and be right as ninepence in the mornin’.’

‘You lucky thing,’ I said. ‘How about you, Miss Jones?’

‘I were performin’, weren’t I?’ she said. ‘Gots to stay sober when you’s on the stage.’

I could name more than half a dozen music-hall performers I’d seen doing their acts while thoroughly bung-eyed, and at least one well-known Shakespearian actor who was so drunk he had to be helped off stage by one of his fellow thespians. But I decided not to contradict her.

‘How are we off for coffee?’ I said instead.

‘Fresh pot brewin’ now,’ she said. ‘I put some eggs and bacon on when I heard you stirrin’.’

‘You’re a marvel, Miss Jones,’ I said. ‘We’ve missed you terribly. I trust you both had a splendid Christmas?’

‘Very nice indeed, thank you,’ said Edna.

‘Lovely,’ said Miss Jones. ‘Our ma’s sister – my Auntie Elsie – come over from Woodworthy. She’s such a card. We had a right old time.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ I said.

‘How was it up at the big house with the nobs?’ asked Edna.

‘I’m happy to report that we had a right old time, too,’ I said. ‘Lots of food, good company, and a mystery thrown in.’

‘Oh-ah,’ said Edna. ‘I heard about that. Bit of a busman’s holiday for you, then.’

‘Well, quite. But always fun.’

‘Here you goes,’ said Miss Jones. ‘Eggs, bacon and toast for two.’

‘Let me put that on a tray for you,’ said Edna. ‘And you can take it up to Herself.’

The bedroom door was ajar and Lady Hardcastle was sitting up in bed by the time I arrived with the fully laden tray.

‘Oh, goodie,’ she said. ‘Eggs and bacon. I’m absolutely starving.’

I set it down and sat in my usual spot at the edge of the bed.

‘How’s your head?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely fine, dear, thank you. Still a bit woolly, but nothing that this grub won’t cure. How about you?’

‘Much the same – no real ill effects at all. We should drink champagne all the time.’

‘I remember a timid seventeen-year-old girl who’d never so much as touched a drop of beer, let alone champagne. And now look at you.’

‘You’ve led me astray,’ I said. ‘You and your fancy, society ways.’

‘I’m a corrupting influence and no mistake.’

‘You’re an absolute shocker.’

‘I am. I have, though, solved our conundrum. Or at least I think I have.’

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘A good night’s sleep worked its magic, then?’

‘As predicted. We’ve not been at this sleuthing lark for long, so we don’t have much data to go on, but did you not notice something terribly unusual about this case?’

‘Not really,’ I said.

‘What about the clues?’

‘They all point to the one man?’ I suggested.

‘Well, there is that. But what about the quantity and clarity of the clues?’

I sat and thought for a moment. She was right. There was something terribly unusual about the clues.

‘Oh . . .’ I said as it finally dawned on me. ‘You mean . . . ?’

‘I do. And I’ve an idea what we can do about it. Let’s finish this delicious spread, then we can get me dressed, make a telephone call and get ourselves up to The Grange.’

We spent the rest of breakfast discussing the details of her plan and wondering how we could have been so dense.

I left Lady Hardcastle to her own devices while I went downstairs to make the necessary telephone call. By the time I returned there was a little bit of lacing and buttoning to take care of, as well as brushing and pinning her hair. We went downstairs to find something to occupy ourselves until it was time to go.

* * *

We split up when we arrived at The Grange. Lady Hardcastle and our newly recruited accomplice went to ring the front doorbell while I slipped around the side of the house and down the steps to the servants’ area.

Dora Kendrick, the housemaid, let me in. She didn’t seem especially pleased to see me, but then she never was. I said hello to Mr Jenkins, who actually was pleased to see me, and got his permission to seek out my friend Maude.

I knocked on her door.

‘Yes?’ came the familiarly imperious voice.

‘It’s me, Maude. It’s Flo. Let me in.’

The key rattled in the lock and the door opened at once.

‘Hello, old pal,’ she said. ‘Fancy seeing you down here with the common folk. Cup of tea?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘No time. I need a favour.’

‘Something wicked?’

‘Always. I need directions to Julius Goodheart’s bedroom.’

She adopted a look of exaggerated shock. ‘Florence Armstrong!’ she said. ‘I never thought you were that kind of girl. I expect that sort of thing from Dora. But you . . . ? Well . . .’

‘Stop beggaring about and tell me where he sleeps,’ I said. ‘I haven’t got much time.’

Still chuckling at her own antics, she told me what I needed to know and I set off at full pelt.

Once upstairs, I adopted a more stealthy and circumspect approach. I didn’t want to have to spend ages explaining myself to servants or guests if I were seen charging about on the first floor of someone else’s house.

I found Mr Goodheart’s door and pressed my ear to it. I could hear no sounds of life, so I tried the handle. The door was unlocked.

Inside, things were much as Lady Hardcastle had predicted they would be. I cast around and quickly found the pearl pendant, sitting alone on the bedside table. I took it up and placed it in the pocket of my uniform. Leaving the room almost exactly as I had found it, save for the missing jewellery, I made my way to the stairs to await my cue.

As we had planned, the family and their houseguests were beginning to assemble in the hall. I heard the voices of a few of the servants, too. There was an expectant murmur, as though at the beginning of a play. Mr Goodheart and Sir Edward were the last to arrive.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ began Lady Hardcastle. ‘I expect you’re wondering why I’ve called you all here. Do you know, I never get tired of saying that. It always makes one sound like a proper detective. I’m sorry, where was I? Oh, yes. It seems that there has been a dastardly robbery. On Christmas morning, Gertie enjoined me and my trusty right hand, Miss Florence Armstrong, to solve a puzzle. A precious jewel had gone missing, she said. We couldn’t involve the police, we were told, because the scandal would hamper the career of a promising young banker. But I’m sorry to have to say that what we have uncovered has so shocked and horrified us that we have had to involve the police. Gertie and Hector already know Inspector Sunderland from the Bristol CID.’

There was a gasp from the assembled onlookers, followed by some urgent muttering.

‘We followed the clues wherever they led us, but we needed one last piece before we could declare the puzzle solved. Armstrong, are you there?’

That was my cue. I began walking down the stairs.

‘Yes, my lady,’ I said.

‘Was it there?’

‘Everything was exactly as we predicted,’ I said, and produced the pearl pendant from my pocket. I held it aloft as I completed my journey and stood by her side.

‘Inspector?’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s in your hands now.’

‘Julius Goodheart,’ said Inspector Sunderland solemnly, ‘I am arresting you in the King’s name on suspicion that on the night of Christmas Eve you did steal into the bedroom of the sleeping Mrs Beaufort and purloin her pearl pendant. I shall also be questioning you in connection with a series of similar burglaries that have taken place in London over the past six months. Anything you say may be taken down in writing and may be used against you at your trial.’

The hall erupted. Everyone began clamouring at once, and the small group surged towards the inspector with waving hands and wagging fingers. I was braced to defend us if things got rough but it wasn’t needed. Amid the cries of ‘now look here’, ‘wait just a moment’ and ‘you’ve got it all wrong’ was the sound of laughter. Lady Hardcastle was giggling, fit to burst.

‘All right, all right,’ she eventually managed to say. ‘Settle down. Calm down.’

The hubbub subsided.

‘You really are the most frightful bunch of ninnies,’ she said. ‘And I’m very disappointed in you. Disappointed most of all that you thought you could pull the wool over our eyes with this shabby load of old guff. I thought we were pals.’

‘I told you it wouldn’t fool her,’ said Sir Hector from the back of the crowd. ‘Too damn clever by three-quarters, our Emily.’

‘Quite right,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I think it’s about time for tea in the drawing room, don’t you?’

Lady Hardcastle nodded her agreement.

‘Inspector?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘I take it “Julius” isn’t really under arrest?’

‘No, my lady,’ said the inspector. ‘Can’t arrest a man who doesn’t exist.’

‘Jolly good,’ she said. ‘You’ll join us for tea and cake, of course. I’m sure you’ll want to hear Emily taking us down a peg. Or three.’

‘That would be most agreeable, my lady,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

* * *

The household servants reluctantly retreated downstairs while the rest of us trooped into the drawing room. The table by the wall was already set for tea and people began helping themselves while they waited to hear what Lady Hardcastle had to say.

Eventually everyone was settled and Lady Hardcastle clinked the side of her cup with her teaspoon.

‘I suppose I ought to thank you all first,’ she began. ‘For going to so much trouble to provide us with our own private Christmas entertainment.’

There was a little ripple of applause at this.

‘Now, ordinarily, I’m expected at this point to lay out the clues one by one and explain how I tied them together to find the answer. But in this case, I’m afraid – for reasons that you all know – it has to be a two-part explanation. So let’s start with the “crime”. Footprints on the flowerbed, on the wall and on the windowsill indicated that someone had entered Hattie’s room in the night and made off with her necklace. A thread from an expensive cloth and the details of one of the footprints indicated that it must be someone from above stairs. The cloth was blue so in the end that didn’t help much. It was a nice touch making sure that everyone was wearing a blue suit last night, by the way. Well done on that one. We knew it was neither of the older gentlemen – no offence, Hector and Baden, but we couldn’t imagine you shinning up drainpipes. We eliminated you, Edward, when Armstrong managed to examine the edge of the sole of your shoe.’

‘Oh,’ said Sir Edward, ‘so that’s what the trip was all about. You’re dashed clever, the both of you. Never occurred to me for a moment that I was being sleuthed while Miss Armstrong was lying prostrate on the floor.’

‘I have my moments, sir,’ I said.

‘She does. She’s an absolute marvel,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But that left us only with jovial Julius. In case we were in any doubt, the cigar ash on the carpet sealed his fate. Julius was the only one of you smoking cigars. So I sent Armstrong up to his room and, lo and behold, there was the pearl pendant, plain as . . . as . . . Help me out, dear. I want a plain thing beginning with “p”.’

‘I know you do, my lady,’ I said. ‘But it’s much funnier to watch you flounder.’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘It was in plain view, anyway. So it was confirmed that Julius Goodheart had stolen the jewellery, and we invited our good friend Inspector Sunderland to make the arrest.’

‘But how did you . . . ?’ began Hattie Beaufort.

‘I’m coming to that, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That much is what we were supposed to see, and the puzzle we were expected to solve, but it didn’t quite ring true. The first thing to trouble us was the abundance of clues. Footprints, threads, cigar ash. It was almost as if someone had sat down and wondered what evidence a burglar might leave behind. In one way it was far too thorough. In another, though, it was far from thorough enough.’

‘What did we forget, then?’ said Sir Hector. ‘I was quite proud of all that.’

‘You only showed us how the burglar got in,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘But how did he get out? I checked the flowerbed quite thoroughly and the only footprints led towards the house. How did he get away without leaving a fresh set of prints? If we were to assume that even a guest at the house would burgle a room through the window, rather than slipping in through the door when no one was looking, then we had to assume he wouldn’t use the door to leave.’

‘I told you,’ said Hector’s sister. ‘I mentioned it quite early on, but no one listened. No one ever listens to me.’

‘The ash was a step too far, too,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘What sort of burglar would sneak into a room smoking a cigar? And of course there was Gertie’s passionate plea that we were not to involve the police. The “scandal” story never quite rang true, but if there was never an actual burglary and nothing was missing, then of course the police mustn’t be troubled. It had to be a put-up job.’

‘That’s all very well,’ said Sir Edward. ‘And I have to applaud you for not only solving the “crime” but also for seeing through our little ruse, but I’d be willing to bet you don’t know who Julius really is.’

‘He’s Cornelius Beaufort,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘Well, dash it all,’ said the man we’d been calling Julius Goodheart. ‘I thought I’d played that one to perfection. How the dickens . . . ?’

‘You were magnificent, dear,’ she said. ‘And as far as we noticed, you only slipped up twice. Or perhaps three times. Once was last night just before the show in the ballroom. We were queueing to get out of the library and you went out before Hattie. Julius was a lively cove, but he had always been a gentleman. He would have let Hattie go before him. Between husband and wife, though, all bets are off. Things get a little less formal and they tend not to bother about that sort of thing. It was always first come, first served with Roddy and me when it came to doorways.’

‘You oaf,’ said Sir Edward, punching his cousin in the shoulder. ‘Schoolboy error.’

‘Armstrong noticed the other inconsistency. Prudence Beaufort is absolutely the sweetest tempered little thing, but she howls like a banshee whenever a stranger touches her. Flo saw you holding her in the ballroom during the bean-feast yesterday, and she was as calm and placid as anything. Neither of those things would stand up in court, you understand, but for our purposes they did rather point to you being Cornelius rather than Julius. The third possibly wasn’t your fault, but that of your co-conspirators. When Armstrong went to search your room for the missing pendant she found the room, as we had predicted, to be bare and unoccupied. There was an old sponge bag by the washstand, and the pair of incriminating shoes on the floor, but none of the little things that would indicate that someone had been staying there for a few nights. Clearly “Julius Goodheart” was sleeping somewhere else. Blame the set designers for that one, dear.’

‘I told you she was a clever old stick,’ said Sir Hector. ‘But we gave it our best shot.’

‘You did,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile. ‘But I don’t think the world has much to fear from your criminal endeavours.’

There was another round of applause, which we took with a theatrical bow.

I held out the pearl pendant.

‘I think this is yours,’ I said as I handed it to Mrs Beaufort.

‘Oh no, dear, I’m afraid that’s the one part you got wrong.’

I frowned in puzzlement.

‘It’s yours, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘We’ve got one for you, too, Emily.’

She produced a jewellery case from behind her back. Lady Hardcastle opened it to reveal an identical pearl pendant on an identical gold chain.

‘We wanted to give you both a special present for bringing so much light and laughter to the village,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Everyone chipped in, but we didn’t think you’d accept them unless you earned them. I reckon you earned them, don’t you?’

‘You’re really too kind,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We really can’t. This is too much.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ I said. ‘I’m absolutely thrilled. Thank you so much, everyone.’

Another round of applause was followed by Sir Hector calling for three cheers for us both. And that, in turn, was followed by one of the best cups of tea I’ve ever tasted.

FIVE

We were persuaded to stay for lunch, and agreed only on the condition that Inspector Sunderland could join us. We’d dragged the poor man all the way from Bristol just to put the wind up the people who had been trying to hoodwink us, so we thought it only fair. Lady Farley-Stroud agreed. Her sister-in-law, Mrs Adaway, looked as scandalized as ever, and that sealed the deal.

‘You know, sis,’ said Sir Hector, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing your face go purple like that. Never change, m’dear, never change.’

At first there was only one topic of conversation at the table as everyone talked over each other trying to explain their part in the deception. Planning had begun in November, it seemed, with a lengthy exchange of letters and wires between the various family members as they thrashed out the details of the scheme.

‘Footprints leading out,’ said Mrs Adaway. ‘I said it time and again. “How did he get away?” I asked. But no one listened.’

‘I did listen, Aunt Joyce,’ said Cornelius, ‘but it was hard enough getting up the drainpipe without having to get back down it as well. We just didn’t think she’d notice such a tiny detail.’

‘Could have just left marks with your shoes from the ground,’ she insisted. ‘No need to actually climb down. Footprints was all that was needed, not circus acrobatics.’

‘Joyce, dear,’ said Sir Hector.

‘Yes, Hector? What?’

‘Shut your tater-trap, there’s a good girl.’

‘Well, I never!’ she harrumphed, but she was drowned out by the laughter.

As lunch went on, more general chatter resumed. Inspector Sunderland became involved in an enthusiastic conversation with Sir Edward, who specialized in criminal law. Lady Hardcastle and I were persuaded to tell a few tales of our adventures as agents of the Crown.

‘. . . and so she grabbed him by the wrist, worked some sort of magic with feet, knees and elbows, got the knife out of his hand and threw it at his accomplice. The first chap went down like a sack of potatoes and the other was bellowing in rage to find that the searing pain in his shoulder had been cause by his mate’s knife,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

I do like to tease her about her storytelling, but she always makes me look the hero so I wouldn’t want her to stop.

With lunch over, we said our goodbyes and wished everyone a safe journey home. Hattie Beaufort brought down the case for my new pendant, and we left, clutching our spoils.

‘Can I give you ladies a lift down the hill?’ said Inspector Sunderland as we drew up beside his motor car.

‘No, thank you, Inspector dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I think it’s a lovely day for a walk. Do you agree, Flo?’

‘Lovely,’ I said. And we set off for home together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

T E Kinsey grew up in London and read history at Bristol University. He worked for a number of years as a magazine features writer before falling into the glamorous world of the Internet, where he edited content for a very famous entertainment website for quite a few years more. After helping to raise three children, learning to scuba dive and to play the drums and the mandolin (though never, disappointingly, all at the same time), he decided the time was right to get back to writing. Christmas at The Grange is the fourth story in a series of mysteries starring Lady Hardcastle.

You can follow him on Twitter – @tekinsey – and also find him on Facebook: www.facebook.com/tekinsey.

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