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rules of the house,” Mrs Routledge snapped at her two guests. “We had a spring clean, Colonel. And we all need some variety sometimes. So there we are, I’m afraid.”
    Miss Briggs came down the stairs, followed closely by Miss Scranton. They, too, stopped at the threshold of the dining room, but as both were acquainted with Cridge’s basement odours it was the double shock of seeing a new resident at the best table by the door and a look of implacable hatred on the face of Mr Poynter which brought them to a halt. Mrs Routledge bustled at them and ushered them to their respective seats. This was even more surprising. Miss Scranton sipped at her scalding tea and Miss Briggs, still stunned by the behaviour of her Queen the night before, stared vacantly around her.
    â€œThis is Miss Scranton. Miss Scranton, Mrs Houghton. And this is Miss Briggs.” Mrs Routledge escaped to the reception desk in the hall after effecting the introductions. She sat on the high leather stool behind the desk and pretended to sort through mail, but she felt shaken and was unable to bring herself to look up and meet the eye of either Mr Poynter or Cridge. Something would have to be done about this woman with her gold cigarette case and illusions of royalty in the hotel; her impossible recognition of Cridge. Mrs Routledge wished her husband was alive, then remembered how she had dealt with these problems before. A call to Mr Rathbone’s office. Get through and speak to Mr Rathbone personally, if necessary. As the chairman of the company which owned the property, he would be as anxious as she to evict undesirable persons—potential arsonists, possibly—from the premises. She slid her hand into a cubbyhole under the desk and pulled out her address book, running a ringed finger down to the letter R. Yes, there he was. But she must wait until tea was over and the residents safely back in their rooms before making the call.
    Slight murmurs of conversation drifted in from the dining room. Mr Poynter appeared to have discovered thathe knew some relations of Mrs Houghton’s. Miss Briggs also claimed she had met them at a recent garden party. Cridge was refilling the cups and handing bread and butter as if nothing had happened. Mrs Routledge wavered. Anything to avoid trouble; and if Mrs Houghton’s family was important enough to compensate Mr Poynter for the terrible new position of his table it would perhaps be better to leave well alone and see how things went for another day or two. Mrs Routledge risked a searching glance into the room where her guests were sitting. Miss Briggs was hushed and effusive. Cridge limped frequently to Poynter, bringing with him, she saw, an unallowable quantity of sugar. Mrs Houghton’s bag was now upright and she smiled and chatted and lit up cigarettes by pressing the little sapphire button.
    Only Miss Scranton was silent. Mrs Routledge gazed at her. Her eyes grew wide, then closed in horror and disbelief. Miss Scranton’s legs and feet were bare and thickly coated with what appeared to be sand. It was too much. Mrs Routledge wondered whether Mrs Houghton had noticed and, if so, whether she would lodge a complaint to the company over the standards of hygiene in the hotel. She imagined an inspection of the basement, and shuddered. Miss Scranton finished her tea and pulled a couple of exercise books from her satchel. She leant back in her chair, her sandy legs sticking out on the carpet. But the others seemed to have seen nothing as yet. Mrs Routledge felt a headache coming on. She slipped out unobtrusively from behind the desk and went up to her second-floor bedroom to take an aspirin and lie down.

Chapter 6
    When tea was over Mr Poynter went up to his room trembling with excitement. He sat down on the edge of his bed and put his head in his hands, staring out through bony fingers at the lumps under the lino, and the greasy film of curtain against the closed window, and the