Mr Paravicini came down late. He had coffee and a piece of toast—a frugal Continental breakfast.
He somewhat disconcerted Molly when she brought it to him by rising to his feet, bowing in an exaggerated manner, and exclaiming, ‘My charming hostess? I am right, am I not?’
Molly admitted rather shortly that he was right. She was in no mood for compliments at this hour.
‘And why,’ she said, as she piled crockery recklessly in the sink, ‘everybody has to have their breakfast at a different time—It’s a bit hard.’
She slung the plates into the rack and hurried upstairs to deal with the beds. She could expect no assistance from Giles this morning. He had to clear a way to the boiler house and to the hen-house.
Molly did the beds at top speed and admittedly in the most slovenly manner, smoothing sheets and pulling them up as fast as she could.
She was at work on the baths when the telephone rang.
Molly first cursed at being interrupted, then felt a slight feeling of relief that the telephone at least was still in action, as she ran down to answer it.
She arrived in the library a little breathless and lifted the receiver.
‘Yes?’
A hearty voice with a slight but pleasant country burr asked, ‘Is that Monkswell Manor?’
‘Monkswell Manor Guest House.’
‘Can I speak to Commander David, please?’
‘I’m afraid he can’t come to the telephone just now,’ said Molly. ‘This is Mrs Davis. Who is speaking, please?’
‘Superintendent Hogben, Berkshire Police.’
Molly gave a slight gasp. She said, ‘Oh, yes—er—yes?’
‘Mrs Davis, rather an urgent matter has arisen. I don’t wish to say very much over the telephone, but I have sent Detective Sergeant Trotter out to you, and he should be there any minute now.’
‘But he won’t get here. We’re snowed up—completely snowed up. The roads are impassable.’
There was no break in the confidence of the voice at the other end.
‘Trotter will get to you, all right,’ it said. ‘And please impress upon your husband, Mrs Davis, to listen very carefully to what Trotter has to tell you, and to follow his instructions implicitly. That’s all.’
‘But, Superintendent Hogben, what—’
But there was a decisive click. Hogben had clearly said all he had to say and rung off. Molly waggled the telephone rest once or twice, then gave up. She turned as the door opened.
‘Oh, Giles darling, there you are.’
Giles had snow on his hair and a good deal of coal grime on his face. He looked hot.
‘What is it, sweetheart? I’ve filled the coal scuttles and brought in the wood. I’ll do the hens next and then have a look at the boiler. Is that right? What’s the matter, Molly? You looked scared.’
‘Giles, it was the police.’
‘The police?’ Giles sounded incredulous.
‘Yes, they’re sending out an inspector or a sergeant or something.’
‘But why? What have we done?’
‘I don’t know. Do you think it could be that two pounds of butter we had from Ireland?’
Giles was frowning. ‘I did remember to get the wireless license, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, it’s in the desk. Giles, old Mrs Bidlock gave me five of her coupons for that old tweed coat of mine. I suppose that’s wrong—but I think it’s perfectly fair. I’m a coat less so why shouldn’t I have the coupons? Oh, dear, what else is there we’ve done?’
‘I had a near shave with the car the other day. But it was definitely the other fellow’s fault. Definitely.’
‘We must have done something,’ wailed Molly.
‘The trouble is that practically everything one does nowadays is illegal,’ said Giles gloomily. ‘That’s why one has a permanent feeling of guilt. Actually I expect it’s something to do with running this place. Running a guesthouse is probably chockfull of snags we’ve never heard of.’
‘I thought drink was the only thing that mattered. We haven’t given anyone anything to drink. Otherwise, why shouldn’t we run our own house any way we please?’
‘I know. It sounds all right. But as I say, everything’s more or less forbidden nowadays.’
‘Oh, dear,’ sighed Molly. ‘I wish we’d never started. We’re going to be snowed up for days, and everybody will be cross and they’ll eat all our reserves of tins—’
‘Cheer up, sweetheart,’ said Giles. ‘We’re having a bad break at the moment, but it will pan out all right.’
He kissed the top of her head rather absentmindedly and, releasing her, said in a different voice, ‘You know, Molly, come to think of it, it must be something pretty serious to send a police sergeant trekking out here in all this.’ He waved a hand towards the snow outside. He said, ‘It must be something really urgent—’
As they stared at each other, the door opened, and Mrs Boyle came in.
‘Ah, here you are, Mr Davis,’ said Mrs Boyle. ‘Do you know the central heating in the drawing room is practically stone-cold?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Boyle. We’re rather short of coke and—’
Mrs Boyle cut in ruthlessly. ‘I am paying seven guineas a week here—seven guineas. And I do not expect to freeze.’
Giles flushed. He said shortly, ‘I’ll go and stoke it up.’
He went out of the room, and Mrs Boyle turned to Molly.
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs Davis, that is a very extraordinary young man you have staying here. His manners—and his ties—And does he never brush his hair?’
‘He’s an extremely brilliant young architect,’ said Molly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Christopher Wren is an architect and—’
‘My dear young woman,’ snapped Mrs Boyle, ‘I have naturally heard of Sir Christopher Wren. Of course he was an architect. He built St. Paul’s. You young people seem to think that education came in with the Education Act.’
‘I meant this Wren. His name is Christopher. His parents called him that because they hoped he’d be an architect. And he is—or nearly—one, so it turned out all right.’
‘Humph,’ Mrs Boyle snorted. ‘It sounds a very fishy story to me. I should make some inquiries about him if I were you. What do you know about him?’
‘Just as much as I know about you, Mrs Boyle—which is that both you and
