Alfred seized the bitch’s collar and lugged it into the hall. A whistle sounded above. The animal barked joyously, flung itself up the stairs, skating and floundering as it went. Alfred sent a very raw observation after it and returned to the kitchen.

‘It’s too much,’ he said. ‘We never bargained for it. Never.’

‘I don’t mind a nice cat.’

‘Exactly. And the damage it does!’

‘Shocking. Your breakfast’s ready, Mr Belt. New-laid egg.’

‘Very nice,’ Alfred said. He sat down to it, a neat man with quite an air about him, Mrs Mitchell considered. She watched him make an incisive stab at the egg. The empty shell splintered and collapsed. Mrs Mitchell, in a trembling voice, said: ‘First of April, Mr B.,’ and threw her apron over her face. He was so completely silent that for a moment she thought he must be annoyed. However, when she peeped round her apron, he shook his egg-spoon at her.

‘You wait,’ he threatened. ‘You just wait, my lady. That’s all.’

‘To think of you falling for an old wheeze like that.’

‘And I changed the calendar too.’

‘Never mind. There’s the genuine articles, look. Under your serviette.’

‘Napkin,’ Alfred said. He had been in Mr Period’s service for ten years. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of the fact,’ he added, taking the top off his egg, ‘but April Fool’s Day goes back to pagan times, Mrs Mitchell.’

‘Fancy! With your attainments, I often wonder you don’t look elsewhere for employment.’

‘You might say I lack ambition.’ Alfred paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth. ‘The truth of the matter is,’ he added, ‘I like service. Given favourable circumstances, it suits me. And the circumstances here are – or were – very nice.’

A telephone rang distantly. ‘I’ll answer it,’ Mrs Mitchell offered. ‘You take your breakfast in peace.’

She went out. Alfred opened his second egg and his Daily Mail and was immersed in both when she returned.

‘Miss Cartell,’ she said.

‘Oh?’

‘Asking for her brother, “Oh,” she says. “Mrs Mitchell!” she says, “just the person I wanted to have a word with!” You know her way. Bluff, but doing the gracious.’

Alfred nodded slightly.

‘And she says, “I want you,” she says, “before I say anything to my brother, to tell me, absolutely frankly,” she says, “between you and me and the larder shelf, if you think the kweezeen would stand two more for lunch.” Well!’

‘To whom was she referring?’

‘To that Miss Moppett and a friend. A gentleman friend, you may depend upon it. Well! Asking me! As far as the kweezeen is concerned, a nice curry can be stretched, as you know yourself, Mr Belt, to ridiculous lengths.’

‘What did you say?’