“What was Miss Despond doing there?”

“Leading a snappy little art appreciation group, if you can believe it. Subject: ‘Dada and all the other -isms … How to hold your own conversational end up when all about are losing their marbles’ sort of stuff. James Truelove was not only a fellow guest—he was in the front row, lapping it up! Without the missus, this time. Ho, ho! I see where you’re going with this! You clever old sod! Those two knew each other before the wife died. Good enough, Joe?”

“It’ll do, Cyril. Many thanks!”

“Have I just hammered a nail in some poor sod’s coffin?”

“No, no! But you may just have saved a girl from a fate worse than death—a life with James Truelove. I owe you a pint in the Cock when I get back to civilisation, old mate!”

THE PHONE RANG as he left the room. Joe looked about for Styles, then, thinking it might be his superintendent ringing him back with an afterthought, Joe closed the door and picked up the receiver himself.

“Hello. This is Melsett Hall here,” he said carefully.

A young woman answered. “That’s not Mr. Styles,” she said in a voice slow with suspicion.

“No indeed, Miss. Will you wait until I find him or will you leave a message? I think he’s officiating at the teapot in the east parlour at the moment. Sudden influx of thirsty guests.”

“Who are you?”

Joe explained who he was.

After a long pause, she began to talk. “I’ve only got threepence and I’m ringing from Mrs. Crispin, the grocer’s next door so I’ll have to talk fast. It’s Grace. Grace Aldred.”

“Oh, hullo, Gracie! I was just talking about you with Ben. How are you getting on? Or, more to the point, I ought to ask—how’s your mother doing?”

“Mother? Oh, she’s fine, thank you for asking, sir. She’s back on her Iron Jelloids and her Pink Pills. Look, can you tell Mr. Styles or Mrs. Bolton I’ve decided to come back? There was no need to stay here a whole week. Monday’s my busy day and I ought to be back at Melsett. And now my sister’s here with her two little ’uns … well, it’s a bit crowded and I’ve never got on with my ma. Not like Sarah, they’re thick as thieves those two …”

Joe listened to at least sixpenn’orth of family intrigue and drew his conclusions. He cut her short: “So, you’re packed and ready. What time is the next bus?… Two o’clock … In half an hour … Get on that bus, Grace. What time do you expect it’ll arrive in Melsett?… Right. I’ll come and collect you myself at the bottom of the drive. Don’t worry. I’ll tell those who need to know.”

FOUR O’CLOCK FOUND Joe lurking in the shade of a chestnut tree at the end of the drive. The bus braked, pulled over and parked. Joe leapt forward to greet the sole descending passenger with a smile and an extended arm. He introduced himself briefly. “From the Hall, Miss Aldred. I’m a friend of Adam Hunnyton. My name’s Joe Sandilands. We spoke on the telephone earlier. Let me take your bag.”

Grace was self-possessed enough to smile back and pause to wave a showy goodbye to the gaggle of young faces peering at her from the bus with astonishment and speculation. She claimed his arm, enjoying the intrigue of being seen in the company of such a smart gentleman and, without further ado, set off with him up the drive.

“You got away with no trouble, then?” he asked politely.

“Yes. They were quite glad to get shut of me. I’d rather be here with the other girls. We get time for a good gossip on Sunday afternoons. I’d miss that, Mr. Sandilands.”

As soon as the bus had rattled out of sight, Joe pulled her to the side of the drive into the shade and put down the bag. He turned to face her. Neat, brown-haired Grace had the plain but bright features of a robin, he thought, and she carried her head slightly cocked to one side, which increased the illusion.

“Listen carefully to me, Grace. I must give you my full title and explain why I’m here at the Hall at the invitation of Cecily, Lady Truelove.”

Grace nodded without surprise to hear his explanation.

“Now tell me—who exactly gave you permission to be away from the Hall?”

“It was Mrs. Bolton, sir. Last Tuesday … She asked me how my mother was getting along and I told her she’d been having these pains in her chest … Yes, it was Mrs. B. She’s strict but she’s a kind-hearted lady. She told me to take the whole week off if I wanted to. I said no need for that—I’d got behind with my gophering and would never catch up. I expect she’d cleared it with Lady Cecily. Nothing happens without her ladyship knowing.”

“I’ve visited your room, Grace. Thank you for so discreetly preserving the evidence. Were you expecting someone like me to come along and rake it over?”

“No. Can’t say as I was, sir. No one so grand as you. I had hoped Adam Hunnybun might come and set everything straight. I wasn’t sure quite how he’d manage it—he doesn’t often visit these days. I was waiting for him to come back.”

“How did you come by the rain cape your mistress was wearing that night?”

Grace looked affronted at the question. “I was her personal maid, sir. Who else would have the sorting out and cleaning of her things? It came back from the hospital with the rest of her clothes. They went on the bonfire.”

“Cleaning? You had preserved the cape in its uncleaned condition. Why?”

“I wasn’t happy about that rubbish she was meddling with. Witchcraft, she called it. Monkey-business, I thought. I had bad feelings about the whole silly scheme. I didn’t want to get the blame. They always go for one of us when someone high and mighty takes a tumble and I was the one who’d been to Mr. Harrison’s and bought the stuff she had me smear on that gingerbread. I thought someone ought to know the truth of the matter. How I tried to put it right. Tried to stop her getting hurt.”

Grace frowned and paused, wondering whether to go on.

“Tell me what happened that night, Grace. I should like to know what you did to protect Lavinia from herself.”

“She swore me to silence, sir. Told me what she was planning—to tempt that great savage horse out of its stall where it had been holed up for a week and attract it to her with those oriental spices. Horses love them, she said. They call them ‘drawing herbs.’ Sounded a bit dangerous to me so I …” She sighed and was uncomfortable in telling the rest of her story. “So I disobeyed the mistress. First time I’d ever gone behind her back. I told someone. Someone I could trust and who knew all about horses. ‘Can that be safe?’ I said—luring a beast towards you like that? She’ll get herself killed. And I don’t want to be blamed for it.”

“What advice were you handed, Grace?” Joe proceeded with caution. Gentling. Leading her on. She knew where she wanted to go; all he had to do was reassure her that she was on the right path.

“Good advice!” she said defiantly. “It made sense to me. Lady Lavinia must have gone and done something wrong … The horse wasn’t supposed to even come out of its stall …‘He must not be drawn,’ I was told. ‘You’re right, Grace, that’s madness. That animal has a bad record. What you need is something to keep it well away from the mistress. A smell that will repel it, not encourage it to venture out. Leave it to me. I know just the thing that’ll have it backing off. You must find a way to smear the substance I’ll give you onto the cake instead of the spices from the chemist. Can you do that?’ Well, of course I could. Nothing easier. It was handed to me sealed up in an old jam jar. I did all that nonsense about making a paste of the spices from the chemist and smearing the gingerbread I got from the pantry like the mistress told me to. She wasn’t paying much attention because she doesn’t like strong smells and—mixing and cooking—all that’s servants’ work and she wasn’t interested. I chucked the spicy slice away in the pig pail and put the muck from the jam jar on another slice. That’s the one I stowed away in her pocket ready for the morning. It smelled disgusting, even to me. ‘That’ll keep anything at a safe distance, man or beast,’ I thought. Was I to blame, sir?”