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staff?” Royston asked.
    “Twelve,” the footman said without hesitation, leading the way up a second flight of stairs.
    “Mrs. Simons the housekeeper, seven housemaids, Mrs. Smollett the cook—undercook presently, of course, being as
    Mrs. Richardson is here—two kitchenmaids, and myself.”
    “So the butler and the cook come down from London?” Carmichael asked, intrigued by this glimpse of upper-class life.
    “Yes, sir, they travel in advance of the family. And some of the kitchen staff too, as well as the family’s personal attendants.”
    “Another dozen then?” Royston asked.
    “I’m not rightly sure who exactly is here this time,” the footman said, more confidingly. “That’s about the right figure, but it’s been proper chaos downstairs the last two days. I haven’t known if I’ve been coming or going myself.”
    “Worse than a normal houseparty?” Carmichael asked.

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    “Much worse—well, normally we have more notice.”
    Interesting, Carmichael thought, and possibly worth following up later.
    “I’d have thought it would have taken more than seven maids with seven mops to keep a place like this in this condition,” Royston said as they reached another landing. This time they did not continue up; the footman led them down the corridor.
    “They work very hard, sir, and of course we have girls from the village who come in to do the rough work as needed. I suppose I should also mention the stable staff and the garden staff, who do not live in.
    You don’t think—I mean you don’t suspect any of the staff, do you, sir?”
    “We’ve only just got here, we don’t suspect anyone yet,” said Carmichael, amused at the supernatural powers of detection attributed to Scotland Yard. “We just want to get a feel for the situation.”
    “I see, sir,” the footman said, as he paused before one of the doors.
    “And your name?” Royston asked, taking out his notebook.
    “Jeffrey, sir,” he replied.
    Royston rolled his hand in the air. Jeffrey frowned, unsure of what was wanted. “Would that be Something Jeffrey, like Judge Jeffrey, or would it be Jeffrey Someone?” he asked.
    Carmichael almost laughed. Royston was constantly surprising him. Fancy him knowing anything at all about Judge Jeffreys, even the name!
    “Jeffrey Bartholemew Pickens,” Jeffrey said, with a faint air of being put upon.
    Royston wrote it down carefully. “I’ll remember that if I need you,” he said.
    “Yes, sir,” Jeffrey said, and tapped gently on the door.
    It was opened abruptly by a uniformed bobby. “Two gentlemen from Scotland Yard,” Jeffrey announced, his voice now a clear imitation of the haughty butler below.
    “Good, good, come in,” came a voice from inside the room. The footman and the bobby stepped out of the way and Carmichael and Royston stepped inside.
    The corpse lay sprawled across a narrow bed at the far side of the little room. He had apparently been stabbed, for there was bright red blood all over his chest and the handle of a knife sticking out.
    Something didn’t look right about him. Carmichael frowned, took a step towards him, and was intercepted by Yately, a tubby little Inspector from Winchester. He insisted on introducing the bobby, who rejoiced in the name of Izzard, and a thin police doctor called Green.
    “This is a bad business,” Yately said. “I haven’t moved him or done anything, though they moved him a little before we got here, trying to determine whether he was dead, that sort of thing. I could see at once that it was a case for Scotland Yard and had you called right away.
    You’ve made very good time down from London. I’m glad you’re here—once you’ve had a good look we can get on with things.”
    “When did you get here?” Carmichael asked.
    “The body was found just before nine,” Yately said. “They telephoned for us immediately, and we arrived at nine-forty. I then telephoned Scotland Yard.”
    “We left at ten and arrived at the gates at