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This has been a shock to us all.”
    “I’m going to write a mighty stiff letter to the Metropolitan Boston Transit Authority, I can tell you.” No question about it, here was a Quiffen. “Now would you show me his room?” the nephew added almost in the same breath.
    “Your uncle had the suite directly across the hall.” Sarah was about to add that he wouldn’t be able to get into it, but the man was over there trying the knob before she had a chance, so she merely sat down and waited. In a moment he was back, his nose twitching as his late uncle’s would no doubt have done in a like circumstance.
    “I can’t get in. What’s wrong with the door?”
    “Naturally I instructed my manservant to lock it as soon as we got word of your uncle’s death,” Sarah replied calmly.
    “Then would you kindly instruct him to unlock it again?”
    “Certainly, as soon as Mr. Protheroe arrives with the other executor. I assume you have made the necessary arrangements to meet him here?”
    “Protheroe? That old—why, I never—”
    The nephew began gobbling like an infuriated turkey. Sarah touched the small silver bell at her elbow. Charles, who had been lurking in the wings enjoying the show, entered on cue.
    “You rang, madam?”
    “Charles, would you telephone the Protheroe residence? Present my compliments and inquire whether Mr. Protheroe plans to come here this morning. If so, find out what time we may expect him to arrive, and give Mr. Quiffen that information. Mr. Quiffen will then either wish to make a proper appointment and return later or wait here in the library, depending on Mr. Protheroe’s plans. If he chooses to wait, have Mariposa bring him some coffee. And now, Mr. Quiffen, I must ask you to excuse me. I have some things to do.”
    Giving his comeuppance to this not very pleasant man who had so obviously expected to barge in and stamp all over her afforded Sarah no cause for rejoicing. She’d sent Charles out for the morning papers and found as she expected that they’d pulled out all the stops. The late Barnwell Quiffen had “fallen or jumped” in front of the train. Altogether too much was made of the fact that he’d been staying with Sarah Kelling, to whom they’d already given more publicity than anybody but a movie starlet could ever want.
    The brief statement she’d reluctantly made last night had been twisted beyond recognition. “Penniless Socialite Forced to Turn Ancestral Mansion into Boardinghouse” was among the less offensive headlines and “Kelling Murder Curse Strikes Again” undoubtedly the worst.
    Sarah had made a formal apology to the survivors at the breakfast table, and assured them that their privacy would be guarded in every way possible. However, they’d all known her recent history before they’d agreed to take up residence with her and she got the distinct impression they were not particularly bowed down by being in the midst of another sensation, especially Professor Ormsby, who’d only grunted and helped himself to yet another fried egg.
    Miss LaValliere and Mr. Porter-Smith were no doubt basking in the interest they could stir up among their respective classmates and fellow employees by now. Mrs. Sorpende, on the other hand, had looked genuinely distressed and expressed a fervent hope that the late Mr. Quiffen’s fellow boarders would be able to avoid any personal contact with the press. Mariposa and Charles applauded the feelings of this true gentlewoman and Sarah again felt a private surge of gratitude at having Mrs. Sorpende to set an example for the others.
    Having wadded up the papers and thrown them away and dealt with the importunate Mr. Quiffen, Jr., she turned her attention to more pressing matters. She was cleaning an upstairs bathroom when Charles ascended the stairs three at a time without losing a jot of his Hudsonian aplomb to announce that Mr. Protheroe was on his way, that a cousin of the late Mr. Quiffen had already joined the nephew in the library,