Melrose Plant, who had turned in his seat to look out of the bay window, saw his aunt stumping along the pavement with Lambert Strether, apparently headed in their direction. “Here comes Agatha. Not a word.” He tapped the Times. “Keep this amongst us.”

“Amongst us,” however, included the London Times. They were to discover this when Agatha and Strether entered, she with a copy of the paper taken from the doorstep of her neighbor, Mr. Simmons. As they sat down, she pointed out this little business-theory of relativity, saying, “The most absurd thing I’ve ever come across. It’s called ‘FamilyHire.’ Can you imagine anything worse?”

“Yes,” said Diane, “actually having to buy one.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Melrose. “Apparently, if you wanted, you could offer yourself for hire. I think it’s a rather good idea.”

“You’re just being argumentative, Melrose.”

“No, I’m just being available. Might someone not like to hire an earl? A viscount? Someone to lend one’s dinner party a bit of tone? Indeed, I’ve considered from time to time renting Ardry End. This way I could rent it and everything in it, owner, staff—I could hire out Ruthven, Martha, even Pippin. There are all sorts of possibilities. You could even hire a policeman. I wonder if Richard Jury would be interested. Or, if you wanted to smarten up your drinks party, you could rent an author.” He looked at Joanna Lewes. “My God, the possibilities are endless!”

“Well, don’t talk about ‘renting’ people. You don’t want to be considered a ‘rent boy.’ That’s what brought down Oscar Wilde.”

“Somehow, Diane, I can’t imagine anyone making that mistake with me.” Melrose’s mobile sounded its little chime, an event so rare that he looked all round the room and finally determined it was his own phone. He pulled it out. It was Richard Jury.

“Richard! Where are you?”

“Cornwall. I want you to get out your horse trailer and take Aggrieved to Bedford.”

Melrose took the phone from his ear and stared at it. “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s a farrier just outside of Bedford named Sydney Cooke. She’s got her own business, called ‘Horsepitality.’ Don’t blame me for the name. This might have some connection with a death on Bryher Island—you know, in the Scillies—”

“I don’t know what in hell you’re talking about, no.”

“Come on, don’t give me a hard time over this. Just do as I ask. You’re the one with the horse.”

“How about the Queen? She has a bunch—”

“Very funny. I’ve just been with Brian Macalvie on Bryher, where a woman was murdered who has some connection with—maybe this will get your interest—your Flora Flood.”

“She’s not mine, but it does get my interest, yes.”

“The victim is a French woman who looked after Gerald Summerston when he was ill.”