It was now or never. “And I heard a most odd story, of a body discovered on the rhubarb express. If it’s true, that surely ought to have made the papers?”

Benjie seemed suddenly on edge. “You didn’t hear it from me, Kate, because it’s a sordid business, not to be repeated in polite company.”

That was telling me. I waited, in case of more. There was more.

“If you want my view of that matter, it didn’t happen here. That train stopped farther down the line. I could speculate, but I won’t. We may never get to the bottom of it.”

I had touched a raw nerve.

Gertrude spoke soothingly. “It’s natural for Kate to be curious. It’s one of those mysteries that eventually will become embellished and turn into folklore. Gives me the shudders to think of it.”

“Then don’t!” Benjie forked the last morsel of pudding.

It was my guess that having been asked to keep quiet about this shocking event, he expected everyone else to do the same.

Raynor deftly whipped away the plates, and brought roast beef. Benjie gave the carving of the joint his complete attention, while Gertrude passed the vegetables.

Later, in the music room, Gertrude said, “I’m sorry Benjie was sharp with you over that business. He is very sensitive about it. As deputy Lord Lieutenant, he takes personally crime on his doorstep—a blot on his own copybook.”

*   *   *

Milly, still as a statue, was seated in the oak chair in my bedroom. It surprised me to see her there. “Hello, Milly.”

“I can’t stay here.”

Somehow, I knew she did not mean in the oak chair. It was ridiculous to ask if something had upset her. She had stood outside that dreadful prison, thinking of her sweetheart incarcerated for the worst of crimes, and given a statement that must have cost her dear.

“You’re thinking of Stephen?”

“No. Well, yes but no.”

“What then?”

She explained. It was about her bedroom. Something strange was going on.

“Let’s go see.”

“You won’t want to.”

“Yes I will. Mr. and Mrs. Brockman are resting after dinner, but I’m not tired.”

*   *   *

The backstairs of a fine house are sometimes not just shabby but grubby. All effort and labour goes into the parts of the house that owners and guests see.

Milly led the way. The place was clean, but the narrow carpet worn to its threads. Yellowing distemper covered the walls of the corridor.

Milly’s room was tidy, with two single brass bedsteads, a chest of drawers with basin and jug, table and chair and a clothes rail. On the walls were a couple of enormous old pictures, those dark oil paintings of a gloomy Scottish landscape hunting scene, banished to the attics when tastes changed.

Milly kept her eyes averted. “I try not to look, but the stags stare at me.”