The postmistress, excited by the drama of the accident, noticed nothing amiss. “We’ve never known such a thing in these parts, not since…” She leaned close to Philomena and glanced round quickly to make sure John was too busy to hear. Lining up the brass weights like soldiers on the counter, he had no interest in the adult conversation. “Not since Lady Thatcham fell from that horse last year and killed herself,” the postmistress went on. “And what Lord Thatcham’s wife can have been about, riding alone in the early morning before anyone else was around, I will never know. And her, a lady of quality. They do say,” she whispered even lower, her voice hardly audible. “They do say that Lady Beatrice was running away, and, what’s more, someone was chasing her.” Stepping back, the postmistress reverted to a more normal tone and finished happily. “And of course, that was only one dead body.” The current disaster, comprising as it did the death of eight or nine unfortunate mortals, quite eclipsed the wonder of Lady Thatcham’s demise.

The postmistress followed Philomena out the door, still talking about the poor dead people and the terrible danger posed by those new steam trains until Philomena, once more in control of her emotions, wondered if the woman planned to walk with her all the way back up the hill to the Hall.

The air was still cold, with a north wind returning after the calm of Christmas day. The wind cut sharply through Philomena’s clothes and she hustled John along at a rapid pace. They must reach home before he became chilled. She did not wish to anger the Dowager by returning late. She did not want to endanger her plan for that evening, by attracting the Dowager’s notice.

As she walked, Philomena put the final touches to the plan. Her heart beat fast with anticipation. She intended to explore the East Wing this very evening, as soon as John slept.

She must satisfy her curiosity. Lord Thatcham had told her not to take John there, and she would obey that command, but nothing would prevent Philomena from venturing to the East Wing alone. Perhaps she would find a hidden clue to the mysterious disappearance of Lady Thatcham. There were a host of possibilities, any one of which could be true. Philomena would not worry about the postmistress’s version. The woman was obviously fond of gossip, the more unlikely the better. Lady Thatcham may not be dead at all. Perhaps the young bride lived tragically alone, locked away in the East Wing in the care of an old retainer.

More possibilities sprang to Philomena’s fertile mind. Perhaps Lord Thatcham used the wing for other purposes. She had heard whispers in London of shocking Hellfire Clubs. It seemed that bored members of the aristocracy had instigated these clubs many years ago solely for the purposes of drinking, carousing with women and worse.