I went to find Queenie to try to instill in her the fear of God and dismissal from my service, but she seemed pleased with herself that she was going to act as lady’s maid to all and sundry. “They don’t have no more proper maids like me here, so her ladyship actually begged me to help them get dressed.”

“She had no idea what you’re like, Queenie. Please try not to do anything too stupid, for my sake.”

“I always try, miss. It’s just that sometimes things happen.”

At least she hadn’t been asked to dress the dowager countess.

I went through the dressing-up box and found my red scarf and gold earrings, then I noticed a long black wig and added that. It’s amazing how a difference in hair color changes a personality, isn’t it? When I tried on the costume I looked quite sultry, like a Mediterranean temptress. I was rather pleased with my choice, especially as Darcy would be my gypsy partner.

Lady Hawse-Gorzley served a high tea at five, as we would be having a late supper at the ball. This included boiled eggs and Welsh rarebit as well as the usual tea fare and took me back to nursery days when Nanny and I would share such a meal in our own little world. How long ago that seemed now.

Around seven everyone dispersed to prepare for the ball. I told Queenie I could dress myself and sent her off to help the other ladies. As I stood alone in my room I realized that the day was almost over and nobody had died. Maybe our surmise had been true after all—the farmer’s wife had been an accident and Wild Sal had been responsible for at least some of the other deaths. I felt a great wave of relief sweep over me. I realized that I had been almost holding my breath, waiting for the next stroke of doom to fall. I was almost ready, only fiddling with tying the scarf around my false locks, when I heard an awful scream. I came flying out of my room, as did those around me. The scream was coming from the far end of the hallway and we raced down it, flinging open a door.

The sight inside was not a pretty one. Mrs. Upthorpe was standing in front of a mirror, wearing a Marie Antoinette costume and screaming her lungs out while Queenie stood behind her with a look of terror on her face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“The stupid girl has zipped me,” she shouted, her broad North Country vowels coming through in this moment of stress. “Now she can’t get it open again.”