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shower. Have completed this, he returned once more to the lower floor. As he turned into the hallway from the foot of the stairs he was mildly startled when the door to the kitchen opened and Mrs Brent’s head appeared.

    “If you would care to go through to the dining room,” she said in much the same cold tones as she had used earlier, “your meal will be served in a few minutes.”

    Without waiting for a response she vanished within the precincts of the kitchen once more.

    He hadn’t even been aware of her entering the house; obviously the keys she had passed on to him were not the only set. From the brief glimpse he had caught of her he deduced that she had either finished or abandoned her decorating or whatever it was that she had been engaged upon when he had arrived. There were no longer any paint smudges visible, and her dark brown hair had been drawn back into what might have been a bun, although he couldn’t be sure. There was still nothing even remotely friendly in her manner or expression. He wondered briefly what it was that caused her to betray so much palpable resentment of his presence. He obediently entered the dining room, and noticed at once that she had set a place for him at the head of the polished mahogany table. He settled himself into the comfortable dining chair in his appointed position and a short while later she came into the room bearing a large tray, which she set down on the serving-table adjacent to where he was seated.

    “Cold chicken,” she announced, picking up a plate and placing it before him “Side salad, and a jacket-potato. There’s cheese and biscuits to follow, or fruit here if you prefer. The percolator is over there on the sideboard. Do you wish wine?”

    It was the same, cold, efficient and completely distant manner.

    “Thank you, no, this will be fine” he responded.

    “Very well; if you require anything else tonight, you know how to contact me,” she said, straightening up. “As I advised you earlier, the gates are controlled from the remote I observe you have not as yet collected from the hall-stand. There is a fixed control in the kitchen. Perhaps tomorrow you will let me know if you will be eating in or out, how long you propose remaining in residence, together with some idea of your tastes in order that I may prepare you meals as required.”

    “Will you not stay and talk for a while now?” he asked tentatively.

    “I’m sorry; I have a lot of work to do.” She said it without a trace of feeling.

    “I see; then I must not detain you,” he conceded. “Could you spare me a few minutes at, say, ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”

    For a moment he thought that she was going to refuse.

    “Would you like a cooked breakfast?” she asked, seemingly avoiding giving him a direct answer.

    “That would be nice.”

    “What time would suit you?”

    “Eight o’clock, if that is convenient?”

    “I will serve your breakfast at eight and you may say whatever it is you wish to say then. Now you must excuse me.”

    Without waiting for an answer she turned and left the room.

Chapter Three. Sunday Night to Monday Morning.

    If there was one thing that had always fascinated Martin right from his earliest childhood it was a mystery. As a young lad he had avidly read stories about Sherlock Holmes, and later Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, as well as Sexton Blake, Inspector Wexford and sundry other fictional detectives, and had imagined that one day he would emulate their achievements. It had never happened of course, although the interest had never entirely deserted him.   The latent hostility of the enigmatic Mrs Brent intrigued him and excited that latent childhood interest, because she was certainly like no other person he had ever come across. She wasn’t being pointedly rude to him, yet resentment seemed to prickle out her like a hedgehog. If, as he half suspected, she had simply taken an instant dislike to him, why did she immediately volunteer to