Page 112 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

Hook glared at him glitteringly. ‘What the hell are you babbling about?’

Mrs Webster intervened, ‘Language, please, Mr Hook. We don’t use that word in the servants’ hall.’

Hook opened his mouth to tell her to go to hell, then shut it again abruptly. He sawed savagely at the remaining slice of pork on his plate. Rose looked at him for a moment, then at Afton, and reached thoughtfully for the dish of green beans. The rest of the table had broken off into other conversations, but she was interested in the atmosphere between the two senior males of the below-stairs house.

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘You going out, Mr Hook?’ Rose always pronounced the honorific like an insult.

‘Mind your own business.’

‘Just a civil question. No need to get narky.’

‘I’m butler in this house,’ Hook said, with a look like black frost. ‘The day I have to explain myself to the likes of you . . . Get back to your work!’

She turned away without a word. She found Afton in the valets’ room, sitting at the table polishing the silver pieces from his lordship’s dressing-table. Silver-backed hairbrush, hand mirror, and two clothes brushes. Stud bowl, bud vase, pomade pot, pen-holder. Large and small trays. She knew them all from the days when she dusted the room. All but the hairbrushes had been his old lordship’s before.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ she commented from the doorway. ‘It’s not a valet’s job.’

‘I like cleaning silver,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It’s peaceful. Promotes thought.’

She leaned against the door jamb, folding her arms. ‘What do you think about?’

‘You’d be surprised. All sorts of things. Don’t you think?’

‘I think there’s something going on between you and Hook,’ she said conversationally. ‘And since he’s a nasty piece of work, and you seem like a nice sort, I’m guessing you suspect him of something.’

He looked at her cautiously, not knowing how far she could be trusted. She seemed to see it in his eyes, because she snorted, drew herself upright, and said, ‘It’s no skin off my custard. I mind my own business. But I don’t like strife below stairs – everybody suffers. And he’s just gone out somewhere, in a right snotty mood. At a time he shouldn’t be going anywhere, with upstairs lunch nearly due.’

Afton jumped to his feet. ‘Did he say where?’

‘Not to me he didn’t. I’m lower than dirt. You can catch him up if you hurry.’

‘I don’t want to catch him up.’

‘But you do want to know where he’s going,’ Rose said, with a twisted smile. ‘Don’t tell me – I don’t want to know. And I never told you anything.’

‘Of course not,’ Afton said, and was gone.

Hook had gone the back way towards the village, down Mop End – Afton saw him just disappearing behind the hawthorns that lined the path. There was no way to follow him on the same path without being seen. He would have to take a chance that the village was his destination, and go down the main drive. If he ran most of the way, he could get to the high street first and wait for him to appear from the footpath to Cherry Lane. There were always people around in the high street, and it would be easier there to follow covertly.

A valet’s life did not include a great deal of running, but he was lean and wiry in build and had always walked a lot, so he was fitter than might have been expected. All the same, he was red-faced and sweating when he reached the bottom of the hill. He crossed the bridge and turned into the high street, not running now – it would have attracted attention – but walking fast. When he came in sight of the stile to the footpath, he took up position behind a large elder-bush, and pretended to inspect his nails. No-one looked at him more than casually, and he had time to cool down. Too much time? Had Hook got there before him? Was he long gone? Time seemed to drag, and he felt like a fool. If he’d missed him . . . And what if he had a perfectly normal reason for going out? Or what if Rose was in league with Hook and had sent Afton on a wild-goose chase while Hook got up to mischief elsewhere?

But, no, there he was at last, the tall, thin figure unmistakable with its curiously jerky gait. Afton drew back entirely behind the bush and watched as Hook sprang nimbly over the stile, crossed the road, and headed up Church Lane towards New Ashmore. Afton’s heart lifted, and he followed, letting Hook stay well ahead – his height made him easy to keep in sight. He was ready to jump into hiding somehow if Hook looked back, but he never turned, strutting rapidly up the hill . . . the hill he had said led to nothing worth climbing for.

Afton followed. He was relieved when his quarry turned in the opposite direction to the railway station, and elated when he stopped at Pogrebin’s, pushed open the door and went in.

Pogrebin was not pleased to see him. His jetty brows drew down alarmingly. ‘I don’t want you in here,’ he snarled at Hook. ‘You’re trouble.’

‘I’m trouble?’ Hook said in outrage. ‘What’ve you been telling folk about me? I thought you were supposed to be discreet, Mr P. Now I’ve got people looking at me funny and asking questions.’

‘You’ve been flapping your mouth off,’ Pogrebin said. ‘I shoulda known better than deal with a amateur like you. I had a feller in here asking about that stamp album, said you wanted to buy it back.’

‘Buy it back? Course I don’t!’

‘How’d he know about it in the first place, eh? Tell me that, Mr Blabbermouth!’

‘What did he look like, this feller?’