“What exactly happens?”

“On New Year’s Eve every year, everyone goes from house to house around the village, banging on pots and pans and drums, making noise to drive out evil spirits. It’s supposed to be the reenactment of the time when they chased the witch around the village before they caught her on Lovey Tor. Always great fun.”

“But dangerous,” I said. “How can you protect people out in the dark?”

She shrugged. “We’ll have to enlist the help of the police, won’t we? We can’t stop the festival. It’s been going for two hundred–plus years.”

She peered into the sitting room. “Oh, God. What are we going to do with them? Look at them—just sitting there, waiting to be entertained. I do wish I hadn’t undertaken this stupid farce.” She looked at me for understanding. “You’ve probably heard by now that they’re all paying guests.”

I nodded.

“We needed the money, you see. Things have not been going well and this seemed like such a good opportunity.” She sighed. “But I wish to God we had never done it. I even began to wonder whether these deaths were some kind of punishment for not accepting our lot.”

“I’m sure they’re not,” I said. “Look, why don’t I go and set up another skittles tournament for them? And maybe we could ask Mr. Barclay to give them an organ concert in the church. He plays very well.”

“What a splendid idea. Thank you, Georgiana. You’ve been a big help to me.”

I didn’t think I’d been that much of a help at all and I suddenly felt awkward about accepting money from her. After all, I was having a far better Christmas than I would have had at Castle Rannoch. Actually, I’d have paid her to be away from Fig!

* * *

AFTER LUNCH I took Mrs. Upthorpe, Ethel and Mrs. Wexler for a walk with me to see Mr. Barclay. I didn’t feel like going anywhere alone anymore and they all seemed at loose ends. All the way down the drive they chatted about fashions and dressmakers and ladies’ magazines until I felt quite left out. Sometimes it’s hard to be penniless.

Mr. Barclay’s eyes darted nervously when he saw us standing on his doorstep.

“Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. A peeress of the realm in my humble cottage,” he said, but he didn’t look very pleased. He invited us into a neat, old-fashioned front parlor that looked as if it hadn’t been touched since his grandmother’s day, and offered us tea. It seemed rude to refuse and we sat uncomfortably while he kept apologizing for not having anything suitable to offer us to accompany the tea. If only he’d known we were coming, he said, he’d have baked something. When he heard the reason for our visit he perked up no end.