Page 115 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

Giles was amused to know that a certain class of people – of which the chief constable was one – worshipped the very qualities that made his mother impossible to live with: granite self-assurance, an unbending determination to have her way, and complete indifference to the feelings of anyone else. It was how they expected a great lady to behave and, by a circular logic, confirmed in their minds that she was, indeed, great.

‘If I’d dismissed him, as I should have,’ he went on, ‘he wouldn’t have been where he was for the train to hit him.’

‘Well, my lord, if you’ll pardon me, nobody can ever know what might have happened if this or that was the case. It’s my opinion that he’d have come to a sticky end one way or another. Now, as to the stolen items—’

‘The ones we know about,’ Giles interpolated. ‘God knows what else he might have taken over the years.’

‘Indeed, my lord. But as far as we know it, I have some hope of recovering the silver for you, having had such excellent detailed descriptions of them.’

‘Won’t they have been melted down?’ Giles asked, from the vaguest idea of criminal activity.

‘Well, my lord, that is often the case, but with antique pieces the value lies in their age and rarity – the amount of silver in them wouldn’t make up for that. So it’s likely they were kept intact, which gives us a chance to trace them. We have a fair idea, within a hit or two, of the dealer involved. I wouldn’t say it’s a sure thing that you’ll ever see them again, but there’s a chance. The stamp album, now, I’m afraid that’s a different matter. Not much hope there.’

‘And what of the man, Pogrebin?’

‘Ah, yes. A shady character, without a doubt. Our local people have had their eye on him for a long time, but haven’t been able to nail him. This might just be the last straw for Mr Pogrebin and his sons – who are in it up to their necks along with him. If we find the silver dealer, we can put pressure on him to finger Mr Pogrebin. There is no honour among thieves, my lord.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

The chief constable finished the last morsel of Victoria Sandwich and daintily dabbed his lips on the napkin to remove possible crumbs. ‘May I ask after the health of your esteemed mother, my lord? She is not in residence, I apprehend.’

‘No, thank the Lord. The one good thing about this appalling business is that she and my sisters left for London and Paris the day before it happened. She would not have been amused by any of it.’

‘No, indeed! That is a blessing. Safe in Paris, eh? Viewing the collections?’ Giles looked blank. ‘Isn’t it in September that the great couturiers show their new designs? The House of Worth and so on.’

Giles was amused. ‘How in the world do you know that?’

The chief constable reddened slightly. ‘My wife is passionately interested in clothes, my lord.’

‘Ah!’

‘She reads a quantity of magazines. Not, of course, that I could afford to dress her in Worth gowns, but everyone needs a hobby, and she keeps a scrapbook of dresses she cuts out of the magazines.’

Giles felt suddenly sorry for him. ‘Do have another slice of cake,’ he said kindly.

Rose took the news down to Weldon House on her afternoon off. The weather was holding fine, and the paths were dry. September was nicer for walking than August – generally fresher. The sky seemed higher, pale blue veined with white, like the trails milk makes when a drop is spilled into water. The hedges were stuffed with sparrows making a cheerful racket, and she saw a blackbird sitting on top of a bramble bush, extracting berries from among the thorns with delicate, precise tugs. She picked one for herself, and it was sweet and tasted of childhood. Then she cursed herself for a fool, because there was a purple stain on the forefinger of her glove.

She didn’t think much about Hook’s violent death. He was gone, and that was that. She did wonder what would happen now, though. Hook had been only temporary butler – though he had arrogantly assumed he would keep the job for good – but a butler there had to be. She thought of a new man coming in, the friction that would inevitably occur until everyone settled into a new groove. Nothing had really gone right, she thought, since Mr Moss had left. She wished they could have him back. He’d had his faults, but so did they all, and better the devil you know, as the saying was. She didn’t suppose he liked it very much at Miss Eddowes’s, after the splendour of the Castle, but there was no way back, not with his heart being unable to stand the strain.

He was going to be upset about his stamp collection, but on the other hand, he’d be pleased that the police thought they might get the silver back. He was a very loyal old stick, she had to give him that.

Miss Eddowes was out, having tea with Mrs Brinklow at the Red House – Rose had some knowledge of her tea-visiting habits and had chosen the time accordingly – and Mrs Grape was ‘taking the weight off her feet’ in her own room until it was time to start dinner, so Moss was able to sit and talk to Rose without disturbing his conscience. There was a bench outside the back door, nicely shaded by one of the apple trees in the little orchard to the side of the house, and they sat there in the pleasant warm air, the sunlight dappling the ripening fruits, glowing dabs of amber and topaz.

Moss took the chief constable’s opinion about his stamp collection better than Rose had expected.

‘To be honest, I’d given up hope of ever seeing it again. I don’t suppose it was worth much in actual money, but it was worth a lot to me. Twenty years I’ve been collecting them.’ He sighed heavily. ‘But I shall be glad if they get the silver back. I feel guilty – I should have kept a sharper eye on what Hook was doing.’

‘Everybody feels something was their fault,’ Rose said impatiently. ‘What with Mr Afton blaming himself for Hook’s death. He was a bad lot, Mr Moss, and he came to a bad end. I shan’t shed a tear for him.’

‘We are all brothers and sisters in each other,’ Moss pronounced. ‘Which of us is without sin?’

‘I’ve never stolen anything in my life.’

‘Ah, but when we come before the Great Throne at life’s end—’

Rose had no patience with this line of speculation. It was bad enough having it on Sunday, without extra portions during the week. ‘What we’re all wondering,’ she interrupted him firmly, ‘is who is going to replace him as butler.’

Moss looked anguished. ‘Ah, Rose, I wish it could be me. I dream sometimes that his lordship has come down to ask Miss Eddowes for my return, and I walk up the hill and take my old place . . .’ His eyes were moist and he stopped to pull out a handkerchief and blow his nose. ‘But the doctor said it’s out of the question,’ he went on.