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unease, the sense of something being not quite right that I’d felt as I entered the room. And now I knew why. There should have been two cups missing this morning – the mugs I’d given to Meg to give to Mr. Manfield and Miss Cleo, filled with hot milk. But – I could see it plain as day in my memory – all the cups had been on the hooks, first thing this morning.
    I made my cocoa and took it upstairs with me, frowning through the steam as I carried it all the way up the servants’ stairs. Why had those cups been put back? Not just washed up, but dried and hung back with the others? I reached my room, thankful that Annie was asleep already. I blew out the candle which was guttering, almost extinguished. I sipped my cocoa in the dark, tucked beneath the blankets, thinking hard.
    Meg must have collected the cups before she went to bed. Surely? That was the simplest explanation – but I knew it was wrong. Meg, sweet on Mr. Manfield as she had been, would never have gone back to his room after he retired for the night. Nor would any of the other servants. Even the valet that Mr. Manfield shared with the master wouldn’t have deigned to bring a cup down to the kitchen if he’d seen it – let alone wash it, dry it and hang it up. So who had it been? Surely not Mr. Manfield himself? Friendly as he was to the servants, I could not see him even thinking to do such a mundane, domestic thing, let alone doing it. Why was Miss Cleo’s mug here as well? Had she brought both cups down to the kitchen? Why would she? I couldn’t see it happening.
    I turned it over in my mind, trying to see how it could have happened, and more importantly, why . It was so late, I was so tired, but my mind would not let me rest. I felt that same strange pulling sensation as I had when I stood outside Madam’s door, the night before. The night she had died. “ Stop thinking about it ,” I whispered to myself. “ There’s nothing you can do now .” I put the empty cocoa cup down on the floor and wriggled further beneath the covers, shivering.
     
    I woke up early the next morning, despite a bad night’s sleep. I lit the stub of candle by my bed, reached for my writing paper and began a frantic letter for Verity. I was almost out of writing paper, so I crossed the sheet and put as much detail down as I could in the small amount of space that I had. It had crossed my mind to send a telegram but I didn’t have that much money, and I knew Verity would worry if she received one. It wasn’t as if I could put a lot of detail into a telegram. Instead, I wrote. I must see you, V – is there any way we can manage to meet up? Perhaps halfway between here and London? I need your help and advice.
    At breakfast that morning, Violet was the one bold enough to ask what we were all wanting to know. “What did the doctor say, Mr. Pettigrew? Why did Madam die?”
    Mr. Pettigrew harrumphed. He looked as though he was going to reprove Violet for her curiosity, but then he caught the eye of Mrs. Smith and probably came to the conclusion that we may as well know.
    “The doctor is of the opinion that Madam had a sudden attack of the illness that she’s been suffering, a severe attack.”
    “Is that all?” Violet said, the disappointment obvious in her voice. She caught Mrs. Smith’s eye and flushed.
    After breakfast, I asked Meg if she’d cleared away the cups she’d taken up to Mr. Manfield and Miss Cleo that night. She shook her head, mystified at my asking. “Why, Joan?”
    “It doesn’t matter,” I said. I began to hang the saucepans back on their hooks, my hands moving automatically. Why did I feel it mattered so much? She died of natural causes, I told myself. The doctor said so .
    When the police arrived that afternoon, it didn’t come as the shock it should have. I think part of me had been prepared for this, ever since it had happened. We clustered downstairs, whispering, while Mrs. Smith clumped upstairs, her face set, to receive them.
    “I