JACK OF DIAMONDS

Nigel Bannister looked up from the sketch he was working on, watching the hallway closely. He could still hear the echo of the door slamming downstairs. He had the lights dimmed, thinking there was no need having all the lights on, not with everyone at the fair. It was the reason he’d volunteered to stay behind in the first place, to answer the calls coming in—knowing there’d be none because of the fair. It gave him a chance to sketch--something he’d been neglecting for far too long. He wasn’t planning on spending the rest of his life in the middle of Devon. He had his mind set on the London art world. And the only way he’d be noticed was to make a name for himself, and the only way for him to do that, was to paint. But he was easily distracted and soon found himself drawing another picture--a face in the crowd as he liked to call it.

“What the fuck, Charlie? Had enough of it then, have you?” he asked, hiding a grin as Charlie limped to a chair and sat down, pushing his shoes off and voicing a heavy sigh. “Been on your fucking feet all night, chasing down criminals, have you Charlie?”

Nigel didn’t even look up from the sketch he was drawing.

“I’d beg for new shoes if it weren’t for this bloody hemorrhoid I’m sitting on,” Charlie said with a quick wince as he shifted his weight on the chair.

“Oh Jesus fuck, Charlie! Thanks for putting that thought into my head,” Nigel said, throwing the sketchbook on the desk and leaning back in his chair, laughing. He put his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes.

“Honest to fuck, Nigel, I’m telling you, it’s the size of a bloody marble. I’m only telling you in case I bleed out on account of it.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You can’t die from a fucking hemorrhoid.”

“Bloody hell, you can’t!” Charlie protested as the telephone rang.

“Not now,” Nigel said, looking at Charlie. “All night Charlie, and not a single bloody call. You show up, and what happens? The fucking telephone rings,” he said, reaching across the desk to pick it up.

“Nigel Bannister, Devon Constabulary, Chumley Grove. How can I help?”

As he listened, his face suddenly became serious. He sat up in his chair and flipped the page over in the sketchbook, making quick notes. He didn’t say much, but he was nodding his head while he wrote, finally speaking up. Charlie tried to look across the desk and read what he was jotting down.

“Do you know what was taken?”

He nodded.

“A violin? A Stradivarius violin? The 1848? I can't say that I have, but I'm relatively new here. Do you know what else was taken? Your sister-in-law's jewels? And some money? Anything else? Coins? What kind of coins? Old ones, I see. A collection, then? And you say he scaled the wall by hand? Didn't he use a rope? No? But he had one wrapped around his waist, you say. More of a cord then? With a hook on it? A triple hook? And you saw it? I see,” and he began doodling different types of hooks he knew of. An avid fisherman before the War, he had a basic understanding of what would work.

“Now, you said you saw him running across the yard? Do you know where he was coming from? I mean, if you say he stole a horse when he left, how did he get there in the first place? Did someone drive him out there? Yes? No, that's alright, it's perfectly understandable. But he was in a truck, you say. Had you ever seen the truck before? No, of course not, I mean, do you think you'd recognize it if you saw it again. No? So you wouldn't recognize it at all? Of course, yes, well, it might help us find the man. No? Too bad. And what time did you say that was? Around eight o’clock. Yes, of course, it would’ve been too dark to see much at all.”

He looked at the clock on the wall.

“It’s shortly after ten, now. How long ago did he leave? Did you see him leave? Of course, I remember. You said he took a horse. Do you happen to know which way he went? I’m sorry. No madam, I assure you, I wasn’t trying to imply that you don’t know your east from your west—nor your left from your right. It’s just that, if we know which direction he went, we might find evidence he left behind. Well, his shoe size for one thing. They do remarkable things with science these days. Like what? Well, for instance, they can determine a man’s weight—approximate it—and sort out his height from it. I'm sorry, you didn't mention that, no. So you spoke with him, then? Well, that shines a different light on things, doesn't it? What would you say his height was? Six foot? And the colour of his hair? He was wearing a mask? What type of a mask? No madame, there are all sorts of masks he could've been wearing. A ball mask, for instance? Theatrical, maybe? A cloth mask? You mean like a hankie? No. A head scarf then? Like who? Zorro? I'm sorry madame, I havn't seen the placards in front of the cinema in Okehampton. So Zorro then? Thank you madame, yes. I'll have the doctor sent out immediately.”

“What is it? Someone let the cows out?” Charlie laughed, searching out a small bottle of whiskey inside his tunic. When he found it, he uncorked the bottle and took a short swallow, fighting the burn. He looked at the page of notes Nigel was writing, but was unable to read it, so he sat back and took another drink.

He looked at Nigel again, offering him a drink, waiting for him to hang up the telephone. But Nigel continued with his questioning, only pausing briefly for a quick swallow. He fought the burn as he passed the bottle back to Charlie.

“And would the Lord of Bedlo—I’m sorry? Baron Geurnsey? Third Earl of Aylebury? How can a man be a Baron and an Earl at the same time? No madam, I wasn’t being facetious. It was just curiosity. No madame, I wouldn’t say I have a morbid curiosity…Yes...I’ll stop talking, now. Thank you, Madame. I’ll call the doctor right away.”

Charlie was doing all he could not to laugh.

“Morbid curiosity? My God, man! That's one for the books. Possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard anyone say to a woman. Was it one of the sisters? Which one was it?”

“There’s been a fucking robbery at Bedlo Manor. Why the fuck is she calling here? What does she think I'm gonna do about it?” Nigel asked.

“I got that part from your scribbling FUCKING BEDLO. See? It's right there, underneath all those scribbled 'FUCKs" and "FUCK OFFs" and he pointed at the words on the page. "It’s fucking posh is what that is,” Charlie said with a slow, low whistle. “Baron fucking Guernsey’s a big man about these parts, Nige, but you already know that," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"His Grandfather supplied the steel for most of the fucking tracks around here. He was one of them fucks what built this town up from the tiny village it was. His son--the second fucking Earl of Aylebury--he bought the fucking railroad later. But his daughters? He has two of them—Jenny and Maggie—either one of whom I'd fuck using your dick if I had to. So which one was it?”

“You seem to know a lot about the family?” Nigel said, standing up. “She said for me to send the fucking doctor. I hate that old bastard. He talks to me like I'm a fucking child. But she said her husband was shit-kicked by this fuck, and she says he's beat up pretty bad. She’s afraid he’ll die. But they all fucking say that, don’t they?” he said as he picked up the telephone again, waiting for the operator to come on the line. He sat down again.

"They do. But that doesn't mean you don't tell fucking Doc Evers. That shit would haunt you something fierce if someone did die, but I think facing that old bastard would be worse."

Nigel looked at the telephone and rattled the cradle. “Where the hell is she? I heard they were talking about an automated system. You put in a fucking number, and you're put right through. You don't have to wait because someone's run off to to take a shit.”

“Have you been reading those comic books again?”

"I'm thinking I might try one." He shrugged, and then sat up as if the woman could see him. “Ruth, be a darling,” he said, “and put a call in to Doc Evers. Ask him to meet me at Bedlo Manor. No wait, have him call me first. Why not just wait while you to put the call through? Yes. Yes, I suppose I could do that,” he said, sorting through the papers on his desk with the telephone cradled against his shoulder.

He opened a drawer and took out his service revolver. He checked it and put it in the holster hanging on the coat rack behind him. He stood up again, one hand holding the handset of the telephone, the other trying to slip an arm into the sleeve of his coat; he switched the telephone to his other hand and pulled the coat tight.

“Doctor Evers, sir? Yes. It's Nigel Bannister—Constable Bannister. Yes. There’s been a break-in at one of the manor houses; I’m afraid someone’s been hurt. Bedlo Manor. Do you know it? Of course you do, what am I thinking? Shall I meet you there, or will you come here first? Why? Well, I don’t know. I can’t say I know what the proper procedure is. What? No. I have a motorcycle. I can be there in twenty minutes. Thank you. Of course,” he said, placing the telephone back on the hook.

“So you’re off?” Charlie said.

“She said he stole a violin, and a horse. Who steals a fucking horse?”

“Yes, I heard that. What do you want me to do?”

“Phone Okehampton and ask them to send help. I've never done this; I don't know the first thing about this shit.”

“Of course,” Charlie smiled. “Be careful. There’s not much of a moon, and, well, with the rain, the roads're fucking bad.”

“I’ll be fine, Charlie. Can’t be any worse than last week. Or the fucking week before that, for that matter.”

*

The roads were a boggy mess. Nigel was grateful he took the Triumph, rather than Charlie’s Austin. There were times he’d had to get off the motorcycle and push it out of the mud, reminding him of his time as a motorcycle courier. It was much the same as this on a good night, he told himself. He couldn’t imagine what the trip to Bedlo would’ve been like in Charlie's Austin. He hoped the doctor wouldn’t have any trouble because it would make his night even worse. The man was too old and frail to be pushing an automobile out of the mud. Still, the night was as clear as it was going to get. Any threat of the rain they’d had for the past three days was blown out to sea by a calm wind coming up from the south. A waning moon lighted his way as if it was a dull street lamp lost in the distance. At least he could see and avoid the larger puddles and potholes. He wondered how long it would take the current government to deliver on their promise of roads connecting all of England. It was a project that would literally be years in development, and cost millions, but it was a cost well worth it, he thought.

He crested a low rising hill and saw the manor house standing in the distance, swathed in pale moonlight. How anyone could even consider calling such a massive monstrosity a home, was beyond him. He shut the motor down for a moment, taking his muddy goggles off just to take in the sight. The silence was noticeable. It was the kind of silence you only find in the countryside, where a murmur is nothing more than the humming of cicada. He could see that most of the lights in the manor were on, and he supposed whatever clues he may have found would be gone by the time he got there.

I should’ve told her not to let anyone touch anything.

He kick-started the Triumph, feeling the vibration of the machine in his arms before sitting down in the saddle and pulling his muddy goggles down. He couldn't see a thing so he spat on them and cleaned the lenses. When he was ready he readjusted his hat. He wondered if the vibration he felt in his arms was a possible factor leading to motoritis. It was a topic all the medical journals were clamouring about—all brought on by riding a motorcycle. A totally ludicrous idea as far as he was concerned. Where were all these medical specialists during the Great War?

All the same, I’d like to ride these hills when the weather clears, maybe get a little painting in?

The countryside was wide open, much like the fields of France had been before the big guns desecrated the landscape. The trees that skirted the horizon were dark shadows against the pale moon behind them, but the stars were a brilliant cascade of light that ran as far away as forever. They looked as if they were falling right out of his grasp. There was something enchanting, almost romantic about looking up at the night sky. It was Cosmos. It was beyond enchanting when he considered how the ancients mapped out the skies with all their gods and goddesses. It made one wonder. All the myths of Mankind are in the night sky, his father used to say to him while teaching him to read the stars with a sextant. He used the stars when he was alone one night, lost in the fields looking for some obscure location to deliver a message.

It always seems to come back to the War, doesn’t it? I suppose it's only natural to think about it, it played such a big part in my life. But The War To End All Wars is going to lead us right into another fucking one, because it's failed to live up to its promises. We didn't End All Wars, we just got better at it. You could say objective fucking acquired, Sir, if its task was ending fucking wars the way we knew it.

So many of his friends were gone. There were friends from here, of course, and the ones he’d made over there. But his only brother was killed flying over Flanders—shot from the ground, no less—back in 1917, the bloodiest month of the war they said, as if that made allowances. That was the year both sides were making their big push, both thinking the other side would break at any moment. Thank Christ he wasn’t in the Trenches and never had to go over the top. It must’ve played Hell on your nerves, all that fucking waiting—waiting to die no less—like Archer.

He turned onto the circular path of a cobblestoned drive, and shut the engine down. For a moment, he simply sat on the bike and took in the magnificence of the structure as it rose into the night sky. The mansion was done with a Gothic touch Charlie told him as he left; he said to keep that in mind. Nigel couldn’t picture it in his mind’s eye, but clearly saw what Charlie meant by ‘a Gothic touch.’ He stepped off the bike, feeling a familar pain in his leg as he pulled it up on the stand. He slowly took his goggles off, laying them on the saddle; then took his hat off—a flat-cap he stuffed into his back pocket—and tried to straighten his hair.

He searched out his pipe and began stuffing it from a pouch he took out of a pocket. He lit it, enjoying the taste of it, feeling the pain subside as he let his muscles relax. Maybe there was something in that medical journal afterall? He turned and looked up at what he assumed was the front entrance. There was a sense of awe looking at it, not at the architecture with all its ghoulish figures, but knowing that a man climbed those dizzying heights without a rope.

And even though he had a rope, he didn’t use it. Well, that’s what she said. How true it is, I guess we’ll have to see.

He walked along the front of the drive, looking down at the ground for any signs of evidence the intruder may have left behind. He didn't really know what he was looking for. It was too dark to see properly, and he told himself he'd probably have to come back in the morning to go over it again. He ran back to the motorcycle and opened the saddle bags where he carried a spanner for emergencies; he hoped he remembered to pack the torch as well. He laughed to himself when he found it. He turned it on, hit the casing once or twice, and then snapped his head back when the beam bit into his eyes. As he waited for his eyes to adjust he puffed his pipe back to life. He was about to walk back to the far side of the house when he noticed a man standing at the front entryway, watching him.

“Am I to understand that you're the inspector?” the man asked.

“I’m with the local constabulary out of Chumley Grove, yes, but hardly an inspector,” Nigel said as he stopped, offering the man a smile. “Someone rang me on the telephone. I was talking with your Mrs…I’m sorry, I can’t remember her name without referring to my notes,” he added, pulling his notebook out of a pocket. He cradled the torch in the nook of his shoulder and began flipping through the pages.

“I believe the name you are looking for is Mrs. Ashcroft,” the man said with something of a severe tone.

“Yes, that’s her,” Nigel laughed, snapping the notebook shut, but keeping his finger in it to save the page. “I see the doctor made it?”

“He arrived shortly before yourself, sir.”

“So tell me, were you at the fair tonight, with everyone else?”

“I was, sir.”

“And you came home...where? By which way?”

“Which way?” the man asked, taken by surprise at the question.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Mr. Berry. I’m the Senechal, here.”

“The what?” Nigel asked; it was his turn to be taken by surprise.

“The Senechal. I’m in charge of—”

“I know what a Senechal is, or was,” Nigel smiled, looking up as he wrote the man’s name in his notebook. “It's just, the title's a little archaic, one could say. "

"Archaic, sir?"

"I didn’t know they still had them in this day and age. So what was that you said? Barry…? You have another name I assume?”

“Murray,” the man replied, rather stiffly.

“Barry Murray?”

“Murray Berry, sir,” he corrected him. “That's Berry with an E, sir. And your question?”

“My question?” Nigel asked, scribbling in the notebook. “Oh yes! Yes. Which way did you come home? By that, I mean, did you come down the lane, over did you walk over the grass?”

“The lane, of course, sir.”

“Did anyone cross over the grass?"

"That would be grounds for dismissal, I should think."

"Dismissal?"

"Yes, sir."

"Somewhat harsh. So, presumably, any footprints I find in any hedgerow, or garden, will belong to our thief?”

“That may well be a possibility, sir,” he conceded.

“Well luckily, if we can see where he stepped, all we need do is retrace his steps to the window he entered by—”

“Mrs. Ashcroft says he came in through the third floor balcony.”

Nigel painted the torch up the wall, searching until he got to the open French doors on a third floor balcony. The lace curtains were hanging partially outside, blowing in a gentle breeze. The light from inside Bedlo Manor lit up the garden area, as well as the lawn. Nigel stepped underneath the window, thinking he might see something from a different angle.

“Who’s room is it?” he asked, straining his neck to see.

“Unoccupied at the moment, sir,” Mr. Berry said.

“And she says this is where he climbed up? This way?”

He started to look at the ground, where they were standing. He shone the light along the manicured lawn where he could almost picture the man in his mind’s eye running across the lawn and leaping up the wall. He’d seen it done once or twice in exhibitions at county Fairs. But nothing to this extent. He looked at the dirt and then stopped, holding his arm out in case Mr. Berry should be following too closely.

“There’s a foot print,” he said, pointing it out.

“I see nothing, sir.”

“It’s an indentation. It's hard to see, but there all the same. Do you have a rag in your pocket?”

“A rag, sir?”

“Something I can mark it with and then come back tomorrow in the day light, hopefully we'll be able to see a little better. We may have enough to make a cast of his foot.”

“And what would be the purpose of that, sir?”

“We can determine the man's height and weight.”

“Would it not serve just as well if you ask Mrs. Ashcroft to provide you with a description of the man? She did see the man."

"She what? She didn't tell me she saw him. She said he was wearing a mask, over his head, like he was Zorro. But she definitely didn't tell me that she saw him."

"Will you not be asking her to give you a description, sir?”

“Will she even see me? Isn't she with the doctor seeing to her husband's needs? I can't go in there like this, that old bastard would throw me out of the room. I'll see her tomorrow if need be.” Nigel was looking down at his muddy clothes. His riding boots were splattered with mud; at least his jodhpurs were somewhat clean, he thought, well, for the most part.

“We’ll go in through the kitchen and wash your boots off if that would make you feel more comfortable, sir? And maybe if you gave me your coat while we're at it?”

“My coat? What's wrong with my coat?”

“I’m almost certain I can find you a replacement if you’d wish, but you do not want to go in there wearing that, sir. Most embarrassing for you, I should say, sir.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“The back is covered in mud, sir.”

“And you’ll give me another to wear?”

“I may have something.”

*

Mr. Berry led Nigel to the East Library, guiding him soundlessly through a wide hallway hung with Classic paintings, Renaissance sculptures, and wall hangings he wished he had the time to examine. He knew he'd give his left nut to sit in one of the hall chairs making endless sketches.

All the same, fucked up, isn't it?

Like the jacket Mr. Berry gave him to wear, it was all a little long in the sleeves.

Quick to admire the paintings, they only reminded him that the people working the farms paid for most of these treasures with their toil. He'd always thought of it as just another example of the extravagance of wealth. People, monied people, he'd been quick to discover, seldom think of anything but their own welfare. Still, he couldn't help but thinking how so much wealth should be in any one man's hands. The taxes on his land were paid by the rent he collected from his tenants.

How long do you think it'll take before the whole fucking thing explodes? Look at what it’s done to Russia. The fucking tsar dead. People turning against neighbours, and family. Total anarchy. It looks good on paper as a treatise, but the reality of revolution’s quite fucking different.

“You have electric lights?” Nigel said.

“Yes. Almost done.”

“And you had workmen come in to do it?”

“Three.”

“Know them?”

Mr. Berry stopped to look at him for a moment as he considered the question.

“The Baron has offered to educate anyone willing, or should I say, with an aptitude for this kind of work.”

“You mean in the village?”

They began walking again.

“On the farms. He felt that such an opportunity should be given to the most willing and capable of his own people. It is a growing industry, and while we are one of the first manors in the area to consider changing to electricity, he’s quite certain the others will follow. It is only a matter of time. There’s money to be made, and he wanted to help all those he could.”

“But only three?”

“It seems they were the only ones able to grasp the mathematics involved.”

“Is it that difficult?”

“It can be very dangerous.”

“Do you think it’s possible one of the three may have been involved?”

Mr. Berry shook his head.

“I’ve known the three young men in question since they were children, Mr. Bannister. I highly doubt they were involved.”

“Are involved.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation, Mr. Berry. And until the investigator arrives from Okehampton tomorrow, I'm afraid everyone will have to be treated as a suspect, until that suspicion is dismissed.”

“I do not envy you your task, Mr. Bannister.”

“Why’s that?”

“If you treat everyone as a suspect, you make everyone an enemy.”

“Even as I dismiss them one by one?”

“People will always resent being suspected for something they did not do.”

They arrived at the Library doors and Mr. Berry opened them with an elaborate sweep, stepping in and quickly announcing Nigel to the family.

“Inspector Bannister, my Lord.”

“I told you I’m not an inspector,” Nigel said under his breath.

“Forgive the indiscretion,” Mr. Berry said, nodding his head slightly as he turned to close the doors; all but sealing me in, Nigel thought.

He turned to face the room.

Baron Geurnsy was on his feet, approaching with his hand extended and an inviting smile that was obviously forced. Strain, Nigel thought, and shook the man's hand, looking him directly in the eye and offering his best smile. He looked around the room, not surprised by the opulence, and not overly overwhelmed at all that he saw. Admittedly, he’d never been in a room as large. I'll bet the fucking outhouse is bigger than my flat. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high, the windows made of frosted glass etched with gold filigree designs; they blocked the soft, creamy light of the fading moon. There was a large crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room, and he marvelled at the workmanship, each crystal shard reflecting and refracting the light. As well, several lamp stands on both the tables and the side boards. The room was well lit.

There were endless shelves of books, of course—row upon tedious row of them, but then, Nigel told himself, it is a library. A large spiral staircase led up to a second storey landing that surrounded the entire room. He wondered how a man could have so many books. There had to be thousands--tens of thousands. He could see the tops of several wing-backed chairs and reading tables set with what he was certain were Tiffany lamps. In the center of the room, in front of a large, leather couch, was a square table with two wing-backed chairs set off to the side, delicately balancing the room. A large fireplace occupied one wall, where a fire burned low. Above it, a portrait of the First Earl of Aylesbury, a stern looking gentleman with a high starched collar and the same thin face inherited by Baron Geurnsy.

In the chairs, his family. A son and daughter-in-law; a daughter and son-in-law; a daughter-in-law—so obviously widowed and mourning—as well as the Baroness, sitting straight-backed and looking for all the world as if she'd been violated.

Your run of the mill, stick up your ass, aristos.

The Baron himself was a tall man, well-groomed, and well into his sixties. His hair was fashionable, grey, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that was mostly white. His eyes were such a dark colour they almost appeared black; but there were rings under his eyes and a sallow colour to his skin that made Nigel think the man hadn’t slept in days. The added intrusion of a thief and his son-in-law's beating were probably not helping his already taut nreves. He wondered what that might be about.

The Baron was quick to make introductions.

In addition to the family, and Mr. Berry, standing steadfast at the large double doored entrance, were two footmen on opposites sides of the room from each other. They’re no older than me, he thought.

“This is my son, Gerald,” the Baron said as Nigel made an effort to pull the notebook out of his pocket. “His wife, Daphne. My daughter, Margaret and her husband, Simon. My late son’s widow, Agatha. Of course, Jennifer’s upstairs with the doctor, seeing to Roger.”

“And you were all at the Fair tonight?” Nigel asked.

“Yes,” the Baron spoke up.

“The staff as well?”

“We go as a group every year. The villagers put on a wonderful Fair, and it would be remiss of us not to go. We arrived home shortly after ten, just after Jenny ended her call to the constable—you, I imagine?”

“Yes. Do you know what’s been taken?”

“He took the violin, I can tell you that,” Gerald said angrily.

“Oh yes, the violin. Your daughter mentioned it when she telephoned.”

“It’s a Strad,” he added, sounding petulant.

"Oh Gerald, please," his mother said. She looked at Nigel and gave him a regal nod.

“A Stradivarius?” Nigel asked. “And where would he have found that?”

“In the Music Conservatory.”

“That would be the music room, I take it? Silly of me not to have thought that, myself. How many rooms are there here?”

“Eighty,” the Baron said with a sigh.

“Eighty? A bit much, isn’t it?”

“It served as a hospice for officers and gentlemen during the Great War. All the big manors of the area did,” he added.

“Besides the violin, what else was taken?”

“He took my jewels,” Agatha said softly. “All of them. Everything Andrew ever bought, or gave me. He took my grandmother’s coins as well. That was the only thing I had to remember her by. He went through my things.”

“Your things?” Nigel asked, at a loss to know what that meant.

“My things,” she said again.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow—”

“My God, man! Are you not married?” the Baron said with a tone of impatient exasperation. “Her undergarments!”

“Oh,” Nigel said softly, feeling the flush mounting and wishing he could be anywhere other than where he was. He could hear his voice trailing off.

“Good God, I think the man’s still a virgin,” Daphne said with the trace of a laugh.

“That’s hardly proper, Daph,” Gerald said with a grin, so obviously tongue in cheek. Nigel didn't think he could loathe a man as quickly as he loathed the future Earl of Aylebury.

“I think it’s sweet that a man his age would blush at the mention of a woman's so-called unmentionables,” she said, laughing at her wit.

“I’m not--” he said to a moment of silence in the room. They all of them turned their heads to look at him. “I mean to say, I’m not finished with my line of questioning.”

“Of course you're not,” the Baron said in a solicitous tone that reminded Nigel of a man he knew during the war. A captain, or something like that. A very smug man, even though there’d been more than forty thousand dead that morning. He wanted to send a message requesting more cookies for tea.

That’s smug.

The man died the next day and Nigel kept the cookies, giving them to a whore he knew in town.

As a motorcycle courier, he'd lived a different life.

And it always comes back to the War.

“Can I see the room? I mean, it hasn't been cleaned, has it? Have the maids gone through it? With your approval, my Lord? I mean, is that what I'm supposed to call you? I don't know too much about this side of life. But if I could see the room, I might find a clue or get an idea of how the man’s mind works.”

“And what could you possibly think to find going through her room?” Simon asked.

“More than I'd be able to determine were I not to see it,” Nigel said, looking up from his notebook and stating a fact; he was so obviously a man who obviously never understood what it means to use tact. He paused, reading something in his notebook from the statement he took earlier.

“I’m more than curious about several things, my Lord. There was no one home except for your daughter?”

“As far as I'm aware, everyone was present and accounted for,” the Baron replied.

“Exactly. And then Roger came home. Drunk, I believe she said.”

“My daughter?”

“Yes,” Nigel said, looking up as if distracted.

He could see Gerald looking at Daphne. Smiling.

Yes, I can see how this might be embarrassing.

“The room?”

“I can not say that is my choice to make,” the Baron smiled.

Nigel looked at Agatha.

“Let’s go,” she said getting out of her chair without hesitation.

Mr. Berry quickly opened the doors and stepped aside as Agatha left the room. Nigel hesitated, and then followed. Daphne was soon behind him followed by Gerald, Simon and Margaret.

“Surely you’re not all going?” the Baron said.

“We’re not going to miss this for anything,” Daphne laughed.