‘Lord Ormsbury’s gone,’ Mr Period informed him.

‘Gone, sir?’

‘Died. Yesterday it seems. Motor accident. Terrible thing. Fifty-two, it gives here. One never knows. “Survived by his sister – ”’ He made a small sound of displeasure.

‘That would be Desirée, Lady Bantling, sir, wouldn’t it?’ Alfred ventured, ‘at Baynesholme?’

‘Exactly, Alfred. Precisely. And what must these fellows do but call her “The Dowager”. She hates it. Always has. And not even correct, if it comes to that. One would have expected the Press to know better.’ He read on. A preoccupied look, indeed one might almost have said a look of pleasurable anticipation, settled about his rather babyish mouth.

Below, in the garden, a dog began to bark hysterically.

‘Good God!’ Mr Period said quietly and closed his eyes.

‘I’ll attend to her, sir.’

‘I cannot for the life of me see – however!’

‘Will there be anything further, sir?’ Alfred asked.

‘What? No. No, thank you. Miss Cartell for luncheon, you remember. And Miss Maitland-Mayne.’

‘Certainly, sir. Arriving by the ten twenty. Will there be anything required in the library, sir?’

‘I can’t think of anything. She’s bringing her own typewriter.’ Mr Period looked over the top of his paper and appeared to come to a decision. ‘Her grandfather,’ he said, ‘was General Maitland-Mayne. An old friend of mine.’

‘Indeed, sir?’

‘Ah – yes. Yes. And her father. Killed at Dunkirk. Great loss.’

A padded footfall was heard in the passage. A light tattoo sounded on the door and a voice, male but pitched rather high, called out, ‘Bath’s empty. For what it’s worth.’ The steps receded.

Mr Period repeated his sound of irritation.

‘Have I or have I not,’ he muttered, ‘taken my bath in the evening for seven uncomfortable weeks?’ He glanced at Alfred. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Alfred rejoined and withdrew.

As he crossed the landing, he heard Mr Cartell singing in his bedroom. ‘It won’t answer,’ Alfred thought, ‘I never supposed it would,’ and descended to the kitchen. Here he found Mrs Mitchell, the cook; a big and uninhibited woman. They exchanged routine observations, agreeing that spring really did seem to have come.

‘All hotsey-totsey in the upper regions?’ Mrs Mitchell asked.

‘As well as can be expected, Mrs M.’

A shrill yelp modulating into a long drawn out howl sounded outside. ‘That dog!’ Mrs Mitchell said.

Alfred went to the back door and opened it. An enormous half-bred boxer hurled itself against his legs and rushed past him to the kitchen. ‘Bitch!’ Alfred said factually, but with feeling.

‘Lay down! Get out of my kitchen! Shoo!’ Mrs Mitchell cried confusedly.

‘Here – Pixie!’

The boxer slavered, ogled and threshed its tail.

‘Upstairs! Pixie! Up to your master.’