Her voice had the clarity and enunciation of a governess, which he understood from Ben that she had been earlier in her life. “Schoolmaster’s daughter or some such,” he’d reported, “fallen on hard times. The old story! But with Mrs. Bolton it’s likely true. If she catches you running she’ll grab you by the ear and growl ‘Festina lente!’ at you. The old dear’s got a good head for figures what’s more. None of the tradesmen try it on with Mrs. B.,” Ben had finished with pride.

She had followed her mistress Cecily from the Midlands when she came as a bride to Melsett and in later years had taken over the duties of housekeeper. She was now looking at him expectantly.

For a moment Joe was at a loss. Where to start? They’d all recited their stories to other interested parties and must have reached that stage of tedium when people either clammed up or began to embroider on the original to avoid further boredom. Always a difficult moment.

Joe sipped, savoured, and put his cup down. Grey eyes stared into grey eyes. “Mrs. B. I’ve had a rough day.” From the glancing focus on his sticking plaster and the accompanying twitch of the corner of her mouth, Joe gathered his encounter with Virbio, servant of Diana, had not gone unreported. “Why don’t you tell me what help I need? I’m sure you know.”

The twitch became a smile and the enlivened face took on the radiance of the goddess Minerva. Joe saw suddenly why the staff spoke of this woman with such respect.

“If you’ve just been upstairs with Ben I’m thinking you’ll be wanting these.” She hauled on a key chain attached to the belt of her skirt and selected a key ring. “Here you are. The big one unlocks Grace’s room. I doubt you’ll find anything helpful in there—it has been cleaned out regularly since the awful event and Grace has nothing to hide. She was caught up in all innocence in the machinations of others, Commissioner. Grace is not … a plotter or an evil-doer by nature. She’s a Suffolk girl with all their admirable qualities. There’s nothing more I can tell you. Mistress Cecily gave her leave to go home to Bury. It’s not an excuse, though I’m sure you must be suspecting—collusion? Would that be the word? No—her mother is very ill—not expected to live out the summer, I’d say. Heart trouble. Grace has arranged for her sister to go down and mind her mother next week and we’ll see her back on duty then. But that’s not much help to you. I’ll give you her mother’s address in Bury, should you wish to pursue her. Meantime—as for me—I can only report impressions. Do you want to hear them in the absence of hard evidence?”

Joe was thinking that any impression coming from the firm mouth of Mrs. Bolton was worth ten times most people’s idea of evidence and he accepted gratefully.

“It was the gingerbread that made me suspicious. Grace came in here and asked for a slice for the mistress. Just before midnight. With her cocoa. Lady L. didn’t like spicy things. Grace didn’t deny it when I guessed it was a craving of someone about three months gone, if you know what I mean. We had a bit of a laugh over it. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard as much hinted at but this was the first concrete clue.”

“How much gingerbread did she take away?”

“I gave her enough for three normal portions. Her ladyship had quite an appetite. I didn’t want to risk her putting Grace to the trouble of coming downstairs again for more. I was going to put it in the pig slop bucket anyway. It had gone hard and no one fancied it much.”

“Was anything left of it?” Joe asked, feeling foolish.

“Not a crumb. No idea what she did with it and Gracie’s not saying but by morning it had all vanished. Betty, who does out the rooms on that floor, reported that there was a strange smell in her ladyship’s room and she had to fling all the windows wide open to clear it.”

Joe nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Bolton. I think I know what that was. And no—it wasn’t your gingerbread! Can you tell me why the room is still in its original state?”

“Mistress Cecily’s orders, sir. ‘Touch nothing,’ we were told. ‘You may clean surfaces but that’s all.’ ”

“Mistress Cecily, ah, yes …” Joe said, speculation in his eye. “Back in the saddle again. Things are moving more smoothly with the old mistress in charge again, would you say?”

Mrs. Bolton’s chilly expression warned him she would say nothing of the sort. Discretion even after death was the rule for housekeepers. She unbent so far as to confide, “Mistress Cecily and I understand each other well, Commissioner. Indeed, we arrived here at Melsett on the same day, over forty years ago. She brought me down with her from her father’s household when she married. I was given a position of rising authority here with the task of raising the level of domestic discipline and capability. Under Sir Sidney—the bachelor Sir Sidney—things had become regrettably lax.”

Joe smiled. “What I see is a credit to your efforts, Mrs. Bolton. As well run a household as I ever saw, I do believe.”

Enid Bolton seemed pleased by the compliment

“Well, thank you Mrs. Bolton.” Joe began to get to his feet, the interview over. “Just one more thing.” He touched his plaster and grimaced. “How much per week do you pay the Green Man of the Woods to heave logs at your house guests?”

If he had thought to catch her out he was disappointed. She chuckled. “You’ll not find that villain’s name on my books, sir! You rightly guess I do all the payments for indoor and outdoor staff. That’s been the way since we lost Steward Hunnybun and he was replaced by a Farm Manager. Albright is very good in his way, but he doesn’t have Adam’s insight and tact. Adam calls by and gives a hand still if ever I need him but luckily I have a head for figures and it’s no trouble. You may inspect the household accounts if you wish.”

Mrs. Bolton got to her feet and selected a large red leather-bound ledger, the last in a series, from the bookshelf. She placed it on the table. “Help yourself,” she invited. “Lady Lavinia could never be bothered. I can’t be certain she quite followed the calculations when I insisted on having her signature at the month’s end. I don’t believe she knew the price of a packet of pins! But no—to answer your question—‘Goodfellow,’ as he likes to call himself, among other things, is not on the house payroll. Never has been. ‘It’s a personal contribution, Enid, and none of your business,’ Adam said when I asked him where the buffoon got his beer money. I don’t think Adam knows either.”

“Can you tell me in what ways Mr. Goodfellow bothers the household?” Joe asked as though merely requiring confirmation of knowledge he already had.

“Peeking and prying!” The answer came at once. “The maids don’t like to be working in the dairy and see his ugly face leering at them through the window. They don’t feel free to kick off their shoes these hot days and dabble in the moat to cool off as they’d like to. He’s always drawn by the sight of a bare leg. He pushed Rose off the edge last summer and stood by laughing as she sank under—in the afternoon uniform she’d just put on all fresh from the laundry press. Just as well Ben heard her scream and came running. Pest! It’s like having a hornet buzzing about all the time. Never knowing where it’s going to plant its sting.”

“Don’t the men take some action?” Joe cast a sideways look at Ben, noting his suddenly clenching fists. “Did no one step forward to remonstrate on Rose’s behalf?”

“He’s too slick to do anything when the men are about. Though I do recall that Goodfellow fell into something less salubrious than moat-water shortly after Rosie’s escapade.”

Ben reddened and grinned.

“The men servants work hard for their pay, Commissioner, and they don’t like to see him louting about, pretending to do a bit of coppicing here and a bit of fencing there when all he hangs about for is dressing up, scaring people and getting sozzled down the pub of an evening. But their hands are tied. He has the master’s ear, you might say. Lady L. couldn’t stand him, though she couldn’t get him dismissed either. Heaven knows—she tried often enough!”