Ware met him in the hall, and looked a question.

‘Nothing much,’ Hemingway said. ‘Young Stephen’s the heir all right. You have any success?’

‘Well, I can’t say I have,’ Ware replied. ‘Can’t get much out of the servants – much sense, I mean. But one thing struck me as a bit funny. I was having a look round, and went into the billiard-room, and I found an old lady there. Mrs Joseph Herriard, I believe.’

‘I don’t see anything funny about that.’

‘No, sir, but she was fair turning the room upside-down, looking for something. I watched her for quite a minute before she saw me. One end of the room’s fitted out like a small lounge, and she was looking under all the cushions, and running her hands down the sides of the chairs, as though she thought something might have slipped down between the upholstery. She gave a bit of a start when she saw me, but of course that’s nothing in itself.’

‘Hunting for something, was she? Well, that might be interesting.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought, but when I asked her if she’d lost something I’m bound to say she didn’t seem at all discomposed, as you might say. She said she’d lost her book.’

‘Well, I daresay she had, but I’d like to meet her,’ said Hemingway.

‘She’s still there, sir.’

When Joseph had begun to dismantle the Christmas tree, he had had a small wooden tub brought into the billiard-room. It was half-full of tinsel decorations and crackers, and when the Sergeant showed Hemingway into the room, Maud was engaged in turning these over in her search for the Life of the Empress of Austria. She acknowledged the Inspector’s arrival with a nod and a small smile. She seemed to think that the Sergeant had fetched him to assist her, for she thanked him for coming, and said that it was extraordinary how things could get mislaid.

‘A book, is it, madam?’ asked Hemingway.

‘Yes, and it is a library book, so it must be found,’ said Maud. ‘Of course, I expect it will turn up, because things very often do, and in the most unexpected places.’

‘Such as in a tub full of Christmas decorations?’ suggested Hemingway, with a quizzical look.

‘You never know,’ said Maud vaguely. ‘I once mislaid a shoehorn for three days, and it was eventually found in a coal-scuttle, though how it came there I never could discover. I daresay you will be searching the house yourself, and if you should happen to come upon my book I should be very grateful if you would tell me. It is called the Life of the Empress Elizabeth of Austria. A most interesting character: really, I had no idea! It is most annoying that I should have lost it, because I hadn’t finished it. She must have been very lovely, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her husband. He seems to have been a handsome man when he was young, but of course he grew those whiskers in later life. And then so fat! Not that I think that excused her altogether. No, the book isn’t here. So tiresome!’