“Oh, good heavens no,” I said, with my “bright young London society girl” laugh. “I’m staying with friends nearby. I just popped over to show my support to Darcy as soon as I heard the dreadful news. I know this whole thing must be absolutely beastly for him.”

“It surely is,” she said. “For all of us. I’ve been with his lordship’s family for nearly forty years. Started out as kitchen maid and then took over as cook. And I can’t say I enjoyed the way things had become, however much that American man paid me. You wouldn’t actually call it cooking, what he wanted to eat: simple and plain, that’s what he liked. A good rump steak. I’d no problem with that. But bangers and mash. Pork chop and mash. No good pies or puddings or fancy sauces at all. Nursery food. That’s what I called it. And then Mr. Darcy’s poor father, hardly eating a thing at all. I’ve been bringing him leftovers from the big house to save me from cooking twice. I never exactly asked for permission but as my old father used to say, what the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve after.”

It was clear that she liked to talk. She delivered this monologue without stopping for breath.

“I don’t know what will happen to the castle now,” she said. “Have you any idea, Mr. Darcy?”

“I expect it will go to Mr. Roach’s next of kin. Whoever he has left it to in his will,” Darcy replied, stony faced.

“Did he ever have any relatives to visit him?” I asked.

“He never had visitors at all that I knew of,” she said. “No post. No cards. Never heard him speak of relatives either. Not that he was a great one for conversation. Sometimes I’d ask him questions about home, trying to be friendly and make him feel welcome in a new country, but he’d bite my head off and tell me to mind my own business.”

“Did he chat with his manservant at all?”