“Well, lovey,” she said, “I dare say that Elsie Trelawney’s old dad is not happy with the mooring fees, but that don’t make someone decide to kill, does it? No, if you make up your mind to kill somebody it needs to be a pretty important reason. Something that means life or death to you personally and I can’t think of anyone around here who could have so much hatred for Mr. Summers that they had to kill him.” She paused. “Unless, of course, he was having his way with one of the maids. He was a good-looking chap, wasn’t he? And I’ve heard how these lords of the manor behave—forcing themselves on young girls who would lose their jobs if they fought back. How did you say he was killed?”

“I didn’t. He was stabbed.”

“Well, there you are then.” She gave me a knowing nod. “Stabbed in self-defense. That’s what I’d be looking for.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Now, could you possibly change a half crown for some pennies? I have to make a couple of telephone calls and I don’t want to run out.”

“Of course I can, my lovey,” she said and obliged. I came out and went to the telephone box. I put in what I hoped would be enough pennies. “Broxham two five one,” I said when the operator came on the line. “Just a minute. I’ll connect you to trunk calls,” she said. I waited, then a voice said “Broxham two five one. Major Warburton-Stoke’s residence.” I pushed the button and heard the pennies drop before I said, “This is Lady Georgiana O’Mara. May I please speak to Major Warburton-Stoke?”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” the smooth male voice said. “This is Hextable, the butler. But the master and mistress are off at their lodge in Scotland. They’ve gone shooting with friends.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Do you happen to have the telephone number where I can reach them?”

“I’m afraid you can’t reach them. There is no telephone at the lodge. It is purportedly very remote.”

“When do you expect them home?”

“Not before next week at the earliest. The master said if the shooting was good they might stay on for a while.”

“This is awful,” I said. “Miss Belinda is in trouble. She has been wrongly accused of a crime and she begged me to telephone her father. Is there no way we can contact them?”

“We could send a telegram, I suppose. The post office would have to deliver it, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” I said. “Could you send it?”

“It would be more suitable coming from you, my lady,” he said in that expressionless and even voice that so many butlers have.

“Very well.” I tried to stay calm. “What is the address?”