"Whatever for?"
"I don't know! They're talking to Mrs Fairacre."
Roberta eyed the poker. "Do you fear for your life, Mr Jones? Did you think a chimney sweep or a brush salesman intended you harm, perhaps?"
I was still gripping the poker in one hand, my knuckles white on the handle, and belatedly I realised that springing from the breakfast table and gathering up a weapon had not been the actions of an innocent man. "I don't know what I was expecting," I said quickly. "With so many strange happenings recently, I—" I broke off as I heard footsteps approaching. It was not Mrs Fairacre, who barely made a sound, but the heavy tread of the two policemen. Hurriedly, I replaced the poker, and then I took a seat at the table and busied myself with my plate.
"Miss Twickham," said the housekeeper, "I'm sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but these gentlemen from the police would like to interview you."
I glanced up to see the two policemen standing behind Mrs Fairacre. Both had removed their helmets, which were now tucked under their arms, and I felt a stab of alarm at their businesslike manner. One of the men was in his mid-fifties, his face weathered and his sideburns laced with grey, while the other was a ginger-haired man in his late thirties. The older man bore the uniform of a sergeant, while the younger man's dark blue coat was devoid of insignia. In the brief moment I was looking at the new arrivals, the ginger-haired policeman met my gaze, but his expression altered not a whit.
"Me? But of course!" Roberta indicated the table. "Will you take a seat, gentlemen?"
"Thank you, Miss," said the sergeant. "We'll stand, if you don't mind." He cleared his throat with a loud noise, then reached into his coat for a well-worn leather notebook. "I'm Sergeant Parkes, and this 'ere is Constable, er, Smith."
"Good morning," said the constable, with a nod.
The sergeant took a moment to study the sideboard, his gaze running over the plates laden with bacon and sausages. "Sorry to interrupt your breakfast, Miss. This won't take long, I'm sure." Despite the courteous words, his expression said it would take as long as necessary.
"Sergeant, there's no need to be so formal," said Roberta. "Why don't you help yourself to breakfast, and then we can answer your questions at the table in a civilised manner."
The sergeant glanced at Smith, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. At that point I realised 'Smith' was no more a constable than I was, and I knew instantly we were in more trouble than I'd suspected. This was someone with real authority, and I guessed he was pretending to be a lowly constable to set us at ease.
"Thank you, Miss, but rules are rules." The sergeant opened his notebook, licked his thumb and leafed through the pages. "Now tell me," he said, "what was your reason for visiting Lady Snetton yesterday afternoon?"
Chapter 15
I expected Roberta to quail at the sergeant's question, but instead she drew herself up, confronting him. "Lady Snetton invited me to high tea."
The sergeant eyed his notebook. "They say you used the servant's entrance."
"The front door was unattended," replied Roberta promptly.
"You informed the maid, Annie, that you was there to catch rats." The sergeant looked Roberta up and down, beset not so much by doubt as complete disbelief. "And you was accompanied by a tall young man of…" he peered at the notebook, then looked at me, "…bookish appearance."
The constable now spoke, indicating the poker in the grate before addressing me. "Is that your weapon of choice when hunting rats? Or do you only take it up when the police come knocking?"
I swallowed.
"Your name, sir?" the sergeant asked me.
"S—Septimus Jones," I whispered.
"I'm sorry, would you repeat that?"
"His name is Septimus Jones, and he is my father's bookkeeper," said Roberta sharply. "Why do you question him?"
Constable 'Smith' strolled to the table and sat down, resting his elbows on the polished surface. He steepled his fingers, tilting his head forward until the tips were brushing his moustache, and then he regarded us both coolly, without emotion. "Let us dispense with this charade," he declared at last, and I could not say whether he spoke to the sergeant, or to us. His next words, though, made it clear enough. "My name is Inspector Cox from F division, Kensington. I'm investigating the murder of Lady Snetton, and when you've both finished playing verbal games you will tell me the true reason why you paid her a visit yesterday."
I gaped at him in shock. Murder?
"But the newspaper—" began Roberta. "The story said she died in her sleep!"
"Indeed she did, but not of natural causes." The inspector regarded her. "There were signs of struggle in the lady's bedroom, with the furniture in disarray, paintings damaged, and the curtains torn from the very walls. The maid informed us that you left the room in that state."
"But Lady Snetton was not home at the time! The maid surely told you that."
"So you felt the need to destroy her property in her absence? Tell me, Miss Twickham, have you been feuding with Lady Snetton?"
"No, far from it!" Roberta hesitated, and I perceived her internal struggle. She could not tell the policemen about capturing spirits and phantasms, even if she felt she could share her father's secrets, for these staid, ordinary men would not believe a word of her story. How, then, would she avert their suspicion? "Might I ask one question?"
"Proceed."
"Do you believe Mr Jones or I… do you think we killed Lady Snetton?"
"Miss Twickham, my investigation is only just begun. I merely seek facts, so that I might order them and gain clarity." Cox leaned back in his chair. "Let me be frank. The more trouble I have obtaining straight answers, the more I'm going to suspect your motives."
"It was a seance," declared Roberta suddenly. "There! The secret has been revealed, and you may laugh at her Ladyship's folly."
"A
