The wedding took place at the parish church of All Saints (Early Perpendicular and as vast as a small cathedral) with due pomp and ceremony, and the newly-married couple spent Saturday night in the best of the guest-rooms at Douston Hall and left after dinner on Sunday evening to deliver Nicholas to Saint Crispin’s School and Fenella to the comforts of the More to Come. Earlier – directly after lunch – on the same day, Dame Beatrice returned to her own home, the Stone House at Wandles Parva on the edge of the New Forest, and Miriam and Hubert, having bidden the guests au revoir, resumed their kindly and peaceful existence.
Three days later Dame Beatrice received a letter from her great-niece. An extract from it was as follows: ‘I can’t tell you how happy I am. Of course, when I met Nicholas again, after the springs, I knew I was fated, but I was afraid it was going to be one of those yearning, unhappy, unfulfilled sort of fates, like those of heroines in romantic stories of the past. How on earth did you guess? Sometimes I think you must be a witch! And I know you got him this plummy appointment.
‘Talking of witches, a most strange, unaccountable thing has happened. Perhaps you remember that when I stayed the night here, only just over a fortnight ago, there were five people living in the house. Well, now there are seven. So what, sez you? Well, I’ll tell you. Every one of them is different from those who were here before. Instead of Mr Shurrock there’s a manager whose name I don’t know; instead of the gipsy Sukie there’s a chef (a man) and there’s another kitchen-maid in place of Clytie; there’s a proper reception desk with a woman in charge of it, and a numbered board for the keys of the rooms and a register to sign; there’s a chambermaid, a waiter for the new dining-room – a conversion from the saloon bar – and a barmaid who lives out and comes in for the opening hours.
T made some remark about all this to the woman at the reception desk yesterday when I asked whether there were any letters for me, and was met by a very blank stare and an “Oh, really, madam?” which seemed to make further inquiries impossible. There was no suggestion of the Shurrocks’ going when I was here before, but, of course, all the circumstances then were unusual and I stayed only the one night, so there was no reason why they should say anything, especially as I don’t suppose they ever expected me to stay there again – certainly not so soon – but, all the same, it seems extremely odd that the servants have gone as well.
‘Nobody but myself is staying in the house as a guest, but there seem to be five bedrooms prepared. They open off that long corridor with all the up-and-down steps which I had to traverse to get to the priest’s room, and I’ve got one of them and am informed that the priest’s room is no longer used except as a storeroom.
‘Nicholas is producing a weird and wonderful pageant at the school, and I’ve been lugged in to help with the costumes, so I see much more of him during the week than I ever expected to do, and it’s all perfectly heavenly and the boys are absolutely charming, but I feel there’s something very fishy about this new set-up at the More to Come’
Dame Beatrice had a number of other letters which came by the same post as Fenella’s. Laura Gavin, her secretary, always sorted the letters out and made three piles of them. Dame Beatrice’s personal correspondence came first, then such letters as were personal in that they came from her London clinic with its cypher on the flap of the envelope, and thirdly there was the rest of the mail. This consisted of begging letters, advertisements, and invitations to open bazaars or to lecture to learned societies. Laura invariably carried these off after breakfast and read and vetted them before passing on the few with which she was not competent to deal.
On this particular morning there was among Dame Beatrice’s personal letters an envelope on which she recognised the handwriting of Assistant Commissioner Robert Gavin, Laura’s husband. Laura was naturally intrigued, and hoped that, when it had been perused, Dame Beatrice would disclose some, if not all, of its contents. She was not disappointed.
‘Well,’ said Dame Beatrice, as she re-inserted the last of the personal letters in its envelope, ‘two interesting communications by one post are more than we have a right to expect. This one—’ she handed Laura the letter from Gavin – ‘you will like to read for yourself. The other is from the great-niece who was staying here and left us to go to Douston Hall to be married. I will outline its salient points when you have absorbed what our dear Robert has to say. The letters have some slight connection with one another and, taken together, they open up a wide field of interesting speculation.’
Laura read her husband’s letter and handed it back.
‘Shall you go?’ she asked.
‘Most certainly. It will be a professional visit, as our dear Robert is at some pains to point out, and should be an intriguing experience. I wonder why Lady Bitton-Bittadon is so anxious to have me stay in the house?’
‘I suppose there’s no doubt that this Sir Bathy Bitton-Bittadon has been murdered? If so, she may well feel very nervous.’
‘No doubt at all. Robert has enclosed a short report of the inquest, which I shall study.’
‘Do you want to take a Doctor Watson with you?’
‘I would not dream of equating your undoubted intelligence with that of Sherlock Holmes’ faithful but somewhat obtuse amanuensis. However, as I shall be going disguised as a psychiatrist and not as an amateur detective, I think it will be better if
