and mop. She looked to be in her late twenties: slim, with chin-length mousy hair and a tight-lipped nondescript face. Her floral apron was faded, her shoes serviceable lace-ups, her gaze indifferent.
“I thought the kitchen would be clear by now,” she said, to no one in particular. “But then I’m not used to coming on Sundays. I guess I can get started somewhere else. Makes me no mind.”
“Please don’t let us upset your routine,” I said quickly, and Ben agreed that we would instantly get out from underfoot.
“I’m guessing you’re Mavis.” Mrs. M eyed her in a comradely sort of way. “I’m Roxie Malloy from the Chitterton Fells Charwomen’s Association. I’m staying here with Mr. and Mrs. H, who are cousins of the Hopkinses.”
“Is that right?”
Ben and I smiled and said yes.
“The way things has worked out,” Mrs. M continued, “you and me’ll be working together for the best part of this week. You won’t find me interfering.”
Did she have her fingers crossed behind her back? Mavis, still holding the bucket and mop, was not moved to reply, let alone register any noticeable interest.
“Mrs. Cake seems to think we’ll get on like a house afire.”
“Is that so?”
“Mr. H, who’s a proper chef, will be doing the cooking for her while she’s laid up. A real shame, her taking that fall downstairs.”
“Wasn’t it?” Mavis walked over to the sink, to stand with her back to us while turning on the tap and sticking the bucket under it. A gurgle, a sputter, and then a full rush of water put up a barrier of sound that Ariel ignored.
“How’s your little boy?” she swallowed a mouthful of toast to ask.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just wondering. I think it’s sad you can’t bring him to work with you.”
“Yes, well, that’s not on, is it?”
“What’s his name?”
“Eddie.” Mavis turned off the tap. The bucket was full. “So do I start in here or don’t I?”
The rest of us cleared out of the kitchen in a swoop, to stand in the hall and ponder our immediate future. Ben said he would go and have a word with Mrs. Cake, whom he had seen earlier hobbling into the sitting room next to the conservatory. I would have to delay talking to her in an attempt to discover what she could tell us about the Gallaghers. Ariel wandered away, hopefully to go upstairs and wash her hair. Mrs. M, after remarking that Mavis was a rare ray of sunshine who had cheered her up no end, headed upstairs to give herself a manicure.
I found the phone and rang Ben’s parents to see how the children were doing and spoke to all three in turn. It was lovely hearing their little voices, and great to know they were having such a wonderful time with Grandma and Grandpa. Feeling dial-happy, I tried my own number in hope of getting Freddy and asking if all was well with him and Tobias, but the voice mail came on instead. Either he was at Abigail’s or still in bed. I was thinking of following Mrs. Malloy’s example and doing my nails on the off chance that one of the vicars would be of the courtly hand- kissing sort when Ariel materialized beside me, still with hair needing shampoo, to ask if I would like to go exploring.
“Where?” It was another lovely day and I enjoyed a walk.
“Here in the house. Would you like to see the west wing?”
“Very much.” Indeed, I thrilled to the prospect of taking on the role of intrepid governess venturing into murky chambers haunted by history.
“It’s the part of the house that dates back to Elizabethan times.”
“So Madam LaGrange, as Nigel, made mention.”
“You can get to it only from inside on the upper floors. It’s separated on ground level by the exterior arched passageway constructed at the time of the Georgian addition.” Ariel was in her best tour-guide mode. “There’s an outside door, but nobody ever uses it,” she explained, while leading me along the gallery past the portraits on the wall, including the one of Lady Fiona as a young woman. “Mrs. Cake says that door has never been locked for as long as she can remember. If there’s a key, no one knows where it is. Isn’t it fun to realize that anyone could break in at any time?”
“I prefer the idea of a new lock.”
“So does Dad, but Betty’s dead set against it. She’s hoping Lady Fiona will break in to retrieve some vital piece of evidence that would prove she murdered her husband. What did you think of the seance? Dad and Betty won’t talk about it.”
“I wonder why?”
“Didn’t Madam LaGrange do a super job?”
“Marvelous.”
“You’d think Betty would stay grateful instead of going on about my hair.”
“It could do with a wash.” I followed her around a corner and up a short flight of steps.
“Ellie, you’re supposed to be unraveling the mystery of who’s been pulling the spook stunts.”
“Someone who’s staked Betty out, either because she’s the most susceptible or on account of a grudge against her?”
“Maybe. I thought we were going to be a team.”
“Are you worried or just out to amuse yourself?”
“I told you: it’s like being in a book. Last night made a really good chapter. But I wrote that one, so it really doesn’t count in getting us to the revealing conclusion. Why won’t you tell me what you’re thinking?”
“Because I haven’t had time to think.”
“We are now entering the west wing.” Ariel opened a door at the end of a short shadowy passage. “Careful, we go down a couple of steps. Hold on to me if you like; I’ll find the light switch. Oh, good! Here it is. Okay?”
“Fine,” I said, appreciative of her solicitude. We were in a wainscoted hall, vast enough to have been used in bygone days as a ballroom. In addition to the electric wall sconces, mullioned windows brought sunlight flooding in like golden waterfalls rippling across the time-polished floor. The furniture was limited to an armoire taking up one corner, which looked as though it had been designed for the gentleman whose wife insisted he hang up his suit of armor before getting into bed, and a couple of thronelike chairs with tapestry seats. Easy to picture Sir Walter Raleigh sitting in one of them, ruminating on whether or not to take his cloak to the dry cleaners-the one he no longer felt quite so sentimental about Queen Bess having walked on, now that she had decided to chop off his head. It was not a particularly grim thought. Indeed, there was nothing in the space to re-create the feeling of gloom I had experienced on entering Cragstone House yesterday before Betty turned on the hall lights. There was no rotting bride’s veil of cobwebs, no reek of despoiled antiquity, no stealthy scratching behind the paneling to suggest an infestation of rodents. Even so, had I in truth been a Victorian heroine intent upon meeting up with unkindly fate in the form of a skeleton wearing only the remnants of his ruff, I would have preferred to do so somewhere else-the British museum being my first choice. They have curators eager for that sort of thing to happen, who would insist on having first dibs on Mr. Bones Jangles and palm me off with a nice cup of tea.
“Why are you looking nervous?” Ariel wanted to know.
“I didn’t like the way that door groaned shut behind us.”
“It’s a very heavy door.” Did she say that with unnecessary relish?
“Good for keeping drafts out.” I shivered nevertheless.
“I expect we could scream our heads off and no one would ever hear.”
“Probably. Did you hear that creaking sound?”
“No. When Betty’s being particularly hateful I think about her being stuck up here and wailing uselessly for someone to come and rescue her. Oh, don’t look so shocked!” She danced down the center of the hall and spun back to face me. “I wouldn’t lure her here and run away. There wouldn’t be any point. There’s no lock on the door. Besides, well… I just wouldn’t.”
“I should hope not.”
“You don’t think she’s vile, do you?”
“No one’s perfect.”
Ariel gave me one of her disgusted looks before flouncing down onto one of the throne chairs. “Do you want to know why she won’t let Mavis bring her little boy with her? It’s because she thinks anyone who can afford to drive
