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all the ladies’ maids,” said Giles.
    “We?”
    He had said it out of force of habit, but it struck him that she might be a useful assistant, and there was something about the way she had hurried across the hall to meet him that suggested she was eager to assist him.
    “If you can spare the time. I would not wish to impose.”
    “It would be no imposition. It would be...” she hesitated a moment, choosing the right word, “interesting to assist you, Major Vernon. You are staying tonight, I think? I have had them make a room ready for you.”
    “Thank you, it would be a pleasure.”
    “My mother and sisters are in the drawing room. As is Lady Warde.”
    “I think I ought to make myself presentable first.”
    She nodded and signalled to the liveried man who had opened the door to him.
    “Henry, show Major Vernon to the Wellington room.” She turned back to Giles. “If you have any messages, give them to Henry. He will see you have everything you need. And he will look after your man.”
    As they followed the footman down up a great gilded staircase and then along a broad passageway, Holt said, in a quiet voice, “Did she say Wellington, sir?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you suppose it is where he sleeps when he comes here, sir? I suppose he does come here, sometimes?”
    “He may do,” said Giles.
    “Lord preserve us,” murmured Holt, as Henry opened the door and showed them into a room with a impressive canopied bed in the centre of it, hung with watered blue silk. On the writing table in the window was a bust of the Duke himself.
    “Does he –?” Holt ventured to ask Henry, who was drawing up the blinds. “His Grace the Duke, I mean?”
    “Oh yes,” said Henry. “He comes once a year, for four nights.” Holt looked for a moment he might fall on his knees, like a peasant entering a particularly celebrated and holy pilgrimage chapel. “I’ll just get you some hot water, sir. If you’ll come this way, Mr –?”
    “Holt,” Holt managed to say.
    Henry and Holt departed, leaving Giles with the Duke of Wellington’s bust and a view of the peerless parklands of Holbroke.
    -0-
    Giles found the most noble Marchioness of Rothborough sitting in her vast drawing room on a low chair, occupied with a piece of plain sewing. Three fashionably dressed young women sat with her, one of them Lady Charlotte. They were all busy with their needles. Patches of grey flannel and white calico lay spread over their brightly coloured skirts.
    A handsome, young clergyman, tall and commanding in his figure, was walking up and down the room, reading aloud with great earnestness from what sounded like an evangelical sermon.
    If this was how she was expected to spend her days, it was no wonder Lady Charlotte was eager to assist him, Giles thought.
    “For the truth is evident, that whoever does not freely allow the Lord Jesus to enter into his heart, then –” The clergyman broke off, catching sight of Giles. At the same time, Lady Charlotte leapt up, throwing her work down onto the floor and came over to greet him.
    The Marchioness looked quizzically at Lady Charlotte.
    Lady Charlotte made the introductions.
    “You are a friend of my husband?” Lady Rothborough said, putting out her hand. He took it and bowed over it.
    “I have the honour of his acquaintance,” he said.
    “Major Vernon is a policeman,” said Lady Charlotte. “He has come to help us with some rather unpleasant business.”
    Lady Rothborough frowned.
    “You are from Northminster, I think,” she said.
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She frowned again.
    “I do not like Northminster,” she said.
    “These are my sisters, Major Vernon,” said Lady Charlotte. “Augusta and Maria.” Giles noted that these young women did not resemble Mr Carswell quite as much as their elder sister.
    “I wonder, if I might speak to Lady Warde?” Giles said.
    “Lady Warde?” said Lady Rothborough. “Yes, of course, but –” She glanced about her.
    “She is not here, Mama,” said