Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 143, No. 1. Whole No. 868, January 2014

Murder and the Spiderbrusher by Amy Myers

In March 2013 Severn House released (in print) the fourth book in Amy Myers’s Jack Colby classic-car mystery series, Classic Mistake. And readers who are fans of the protagonist of this short story, Victorian chef Auguste Didier, will be glad to know that nine of the Didier novels will soon he reissued as e-books from Headline. But the Colby and Didier series form only a portion of Amy Myers’s large and consistently satisfying output in both our genre and that of historical fiction.

“There’s been murder done at Hathertree Hall, Mr. Auguste.”

Auguste Didier gulped. He had unwisely agreed to visit the Hall with his mother’s old friend Mary Bacon, who had been in service as a housemaid there for well over half a century. She was now living in this small cottage on the estate with the help of a pension from her former employers, Lord and Lady Catsfield.

Auguste had been looking forward to experiencing the delights of the Hall’s kitchen, which Mary informed him was renowned throughout the county for its cuisine, and as a master chef himself he was naturally eager to try it. He had not expected to be plunged into another murder scene, and today an investigation of a soufflé de perdreau aux truffes was as far as he wished to stretch his powers of detection.

He could see Mary’s hopeful eyes fixed on him, however, waiting for some response. Sitting opposite him at the cottage fireside, she looked merely a very elderly lady asking no more of life than the occasional visitor, and yet in this small room, dominated by the photograph of a stern Queen Victoria on the mantelpiece, he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about the forthcoming visit.

“Terrible thing, murder,” Mary added conversationally.

“Whose murder?” he asked cautiously.

She thought this over. “The sixth earl, that would be. It was the countess did it. Spun her web and drew him in and ate him for his money. Like a spider,” she explained, perhaps noticing Auguste’s aghast reaction.

“You’re quite sure this story is correct?” he asked. He considered making a dash for sanity and the railway station, but refrained. After all, Mary might need his protection if Hathertree Hall was infested with violent aristocracy who preferred eating each other to the pleasures of its kitchens.

Mary looked offended. “My granny told me.”

Confused, Auguste replied without thinking. “Your grandmother is still alive?” That would make her roughly a hundred and fifty years old.

A frown. “Passed away three score years ago.”

Auguste relaxed and sipped some more of the undoubtedly good cowslip wine she had pressed upon him. This murder was safely in the past. There was nothing to concern him — save a faint recollection that his mother had warned him that Mary was considered to be a witch.

“Granny said she put a curse on the place, the countess did, as she was being taken,” Mary continued.

“Taken by the police?” A quick calculation, however, suggested that Mary’s granny must have lived in the days of the Bow Street Runners.

“By the Devil himself. I can see,” Mary said heavily, “you don’t believe me, but it’s true. As true as I’m spiderbrusher to Her Ladyship.”

It took a moment or two for Auguste to recall that ‘spiderbrusher’ used to be the colloquial word for a housemaid. “You’re still in service to the countess?” he asked incredulously. “Surely scrubbing and cleaning are too hard for you.” He was appalled. What kind of people were running Hathertree Hall?

He had said the wrong thing again, as Mary looked very grim. “I’m a real spiderbrusher, Mr. Auguste. I could show them housemaids up there a thing or two about blacking hearths, but it’s special spider duties that Her Ladyship calls on me for nowadays. Terrified of the little brutes, she is. If she so much as catches sight of one of the little critters, she puts a light in her window and I goes up to remove it for her. Won’t trust anyone else to get rid of spiders, she says. I know their cunning ways. I know where the little varmints like to hide. I make ’em run and then I have ’em, sure as my name’s Mary...” She fished around in her mind and came up with a triumphant “Pork.”

Auguste’s heart sank. The sooner this visit to the Hall was over the better, he thought, as he helped Mary to her feet.

“It’s best we go together when there’s murder done. I have the sight,” she added complacently.

Hathertree Hall looked more like the eerie castle from Mr. Bram Stoker’s Dracula than the stately gracious mansion that Auguste had been led to expect. A bleak stone building, it was adorned with forbidding crenellations and towers that gave it the air of a fortress, and its windows looked like mournful eyes gazing out to a world of what might have been. They had approached it along an avenue over which tall trees arched to form a dark tunnel and Auguste could have sworn that bats were swooping overhead. Maybe vampires stalked these grounds at night. After that, arriving at Count Dracula’s Transylvanian residence itself was almost a relief, despite its offputting appearance. Nevertheless, it still felt as if he were leaving the modem world of 1890s England far behind him.

To his surprise, however, there was a very solid modem policeman on the front steps to Hathertree Hall, perhaps to reassure visitors that no vampires would be tolerated here. As Mary turned to lead Auguste round the side of the building to the trade entrance, he was alarmed to see someone he knew coming through the main entrance to the house. It was Inspector Egbert Rose of Scotland Yard.

“What are you playing hell and tommy here for?” Egbert asked, as taken aback as Auguste.

“Visiting the servants’ hall for luncheon.”

“I hope there’s no fish stew on the menu,” Egbert commented inexplicably. “The earl’s been murdered.”

Auguste saw no connection between the two, but his heart sank. He had been involved with murder cases before with Egbert, and despite his liking for the inspector the task of detection came a very poor second to his main love in life. He was after all a master chef, and cooking, not murder, was his métier.

“You are sure it was murder?” he asked cautiously.

“You don’t drown by accident that way, nor choose it for killing yourself.”

“Er — which way?”

“Head in a bowl of fish stew.”

Auguste gazed at him in disbelief. Egbert was fond of jests, and this must surely be one. He pulled himself together. “What kind of fish stew?” he asked with a serious face. Now surely Egbert would laugh.

But he did not. “Cook said it was...” Egbert consulted his notes. “Conger eel done with sherry, water, and herbs.”

Auguste reeled as he realised Egbert was entirely serious. Stewed eels and conger-eel soup had been among the famous cook Alexis Soyer’s recipes, but conger eels were hardly the kind of cuisine he would have expected at an earl’s table.

“One of His Lordship’s favourites,” Mary said approvingly.

Auguste found his voice. “But how could he drown in it?”

“Huge silver bowl, deep and wide,” Egbert replied. “Someone decided to hold his head down in it until he drowned. That’s my belief.”

Auguste struggled to find words to fit this terrible image, but his voice came out almost as a squeak. “Did not any of his fellow diners object?”

“There was no one with him. Wife dines separately.”

“Always does, do Her Ladyship,” Mary intervened. “Says His Lordship brings spiders into the Hall’s dining room to drive her away. Now His Lordship’s gone. I knew it. I have the sight.”

Auguste gazed around the cavernous dining room of Hathertree Hall, where the signs of the recent tragedy were all too evident, although thankfully the body of the late earl was no longer present. Nor was Mary, who had with some difficulty been despatched to the servants’ hall where Auguste would join her for luncheon. Luncheon had ceased to appeal to him, having seen the remains of the congealed conger-eel stew, but Egbert had been insistent he keep to this plan. “You understand how these servants’ halls work — very handy you being on the spot.”

Auguste did not agree. Lumps of cold eel floated in an ornamented silver bowl so splendid it deserved the most delicate of fare within it, and splashes of an ill-prepared stock still remained on the table together with a Worcester plate pushed to one side. More liquid had stained the upholstery of the surrounding chairs.

“Not like my dinner table,” Egbert remarked, seeing Auguste hastily turning his attention to the rest of the room.

Auguste saw his point. This imposing and elegantly designed room was about forty feet in length, with graceful eighteenth-century sideboards, cupboards, and table, the latter long enough to seat over twenty people. Hunting prints adorned the walls and gleaming silver covered the table. Although the earl always dined alone, it always remained fully set, Egbert told him. This formal dining room could have taken its place in hundreds of great mansions, Auguste thought. There were few signs of Dracula here or indeed of any eccentricity on behalf of the owners — and yet the earl had been drowned in stew. Not a frequent occurrence.

“Do you yet know who could have murdered the poor earl?” he asked Egbert, still grappling with the sheer frightfulness of the crime.

“Restricted possibilities. He was getting on in years and on the dotty side, it seems to me. Only four people had permission to enter while he was dining. Anyone else was promptly thrown out. The footman found him when he came to serve the dessert. He was one of the four. The butler, a Mr. Hargreaves, was there as His Lordship arrived, and stayed until the stew was served, and then he left just after the footman, James. The housekeeper, Mrs. Parsons, was one of the four too, but denies she came anywhere near the dining room last evening. The earl’s wife was the fourth but she ate dinner in her rooms as she always does. When James realised the earl was dead he ran out screaming, which brought the butler running in, and he sent a messenger for the police. They called us in. Nothing like shifting over responsibility like a sack of potatoes.”

“Who inherits?” Auguste asked practically, trying to keep his eyes averted from the scene of this atrocious if incongruous murder.

“A second cousin, a Mr. Alfred Wheal, a farmer in Sussex, now the eleventh earl of Catsfield. Should be arriving any time now.”

“Did he spend a lot of time at Hathertree Hall?”

“None at all, I gather. Deceased couldn’t stand the sight of him. Forbade him the house until he was dead.”

And now he was. Could that be a line to follow? Auguste took another careful look at the room. Everything looked so conventionally grand but even in the best-kept rooms spiders lurked, just as passions raged within the most conventional of men. Spiders, like passions, were shy of the light and of human society. Spiders spun webs to trap unwary flies, just as humans too could be overtaken by the emotions of others.

The route to the servants’ hall revealed a far different picture of Hathertree Hall from the dining room. Dust was everywhere, in the air, on the floors, on the musty prints and hangings on the walls, and where doors were open, Auguste glimpsed the same neglected picture inside. Windows were shuttered and fireplaces and hearths were littered with ashes and charred coals. Carpets and furniture were dingy and uncared for. This did not bode well for what he would find in the kitchens and servants’ hall, he thought. It was perhaps as well that luncheon had already ceased to be appealing. Mary Bacon’s opinion of the cuisine might well have been formed through the rose-tinted spectacles of yesteryear.

The smells emerging from the kitchens slightly reassured him, however, and to his relief the servants’ hall, while hardly opulent, was of the same standard of cleanliness and comfort as the dining room. The lower servants — surely far too few of them for this large establishment — were already at the table and awaiting the arrival of the upper servants. Any lingering hopes Auguste might have had for the cuisine rapidly vanished. A meagre selection of cold meats and what might have been a shepherd’s pie for a particularly unfortunate shepherd were awaiting the moment to wreak vengeance on their consumers. Sitting on Mary’s far side was a footman, perhaps forty or so, who seemed more lively than the rest of the servants and proved to be James, who had discovered the body. Auguste looked at him carefully. Discoverers of the bodies were always of interest in an investigation.

Mary Bacon’s elbow dug painfully into Auguste’s ribs. “Here comes His Nibs,” she cried all too audibly.

His Nibs was obviously Mr. Hargreaves, the butler. On his arm was a severe-looking woman in black, and behind them four other upper servants. Together they made a formidable and depressing sight as they made their formal entrance and the lower servants rose to greet them. This must be a very formal household to maintain the custom of a full procession of upper servants coming to grace the servants’ hall for the duration of the meat course. Auguste took a careful look at the butler; he was not only as ancient as his master must have been but almost reptilian in the way his head moved back and forth on the long neck.

“That’s Mrs. Parsons prancing at his side,” Mary said scornfully. There was clearly no love lost between her and the housekeeper and Auguste could see why. Keys jangled at her waist as if to give warning that she would give no quarter. She was younger than the butler — perhaps a mere sixty — and her darting eyes flew suspiciously round the table.

Auguste decided he would not wish to be a chef in Mr. Hargreaves’ household, and was proved right when James became an instant target. “Where’s your livery, James?” thundered Hargreaves.

The footman went pale. “The police took it, and the wig too.”

Hargreaves frowned. “There are spare liveries and wigs in the livery room. No footman appears indecently clad under my jurisdiction. Kindly rectify this appalling situation immediately luncheon is over.”

“But no one will be visiting, Mr. Hargreaves. The police are here.”

The eye fell upon him. “Standards have to be maintained, James.”

Except in housecleaning, it seemed. Auguste decided to point out the priorities. “The tragic murder of His Lordship must surely disrupt routine procedures.”

There was instant silence, broken at last by Mary. “I told him there’d been a murder in the house. I have the sight.”

“Such a pity that the sight forgot to inform you in advance that His Lordship would meet his death yesterday evening,” Mrs. Parsons said acidly.

“Spiders will crawl,” Mary retorted darkly. “That’s what I said, and crawl they did.” She gave a shriek. “I see it, I see it... He’s here in this house, that murdering spider.”

“More than we’ll be in a day or two,” James growled. “We’ve all been dismissed, remember? That’s what the old goat said.”

This caused more of a stir, and everyone began shouting at once. “Silence!” roared Mr. Hargreaves.

Auguste tried to take this in. Surely he had misunderstood. “You’re all leaving the household?”

“His late Lordship was given to such wild statements,” Hargreaves said loftily. “Of course he did not mean it.”

“He did, Mr. Hargreaves,” Mrs. Parsons said coldly. “Even I was not exempted.”

“But did he arrange for replacements? If not, surely the heir will wish to retain you all,” Auguste pointed out. Here was most certainly a motive for wishing His Lordship dead.

“If Her Ladyship lets him in the door,” James sniggered.

“He is the new owner of Hathertree Hall. How could she keep him out?”

“She’s clean off her onions,” James replied matter-of-factly. “Ain’t she, Mary?”

“I’m Her Ladyship’s spiderbrusher,” was Mary’s proud reply. “I won’t hear a word said against her.”

Her fellow servants seemed all too ready to say words against her, but the prolonged ringing of the bell disturbed them.

Hargreaves glanced at the line of bells. “Her Ladyship for you, Mary. No doubt a spider needs removal.”

It wasn’t just Her Ladyship off her onions, Auguste thought. The whole household seemed as dotty as Egbert had pronounced the late earl. Unable to resist the chance of meeting the countess, Auguste followed Mary as she set off carrying brooms, dusters, and dustpan through the servants’ corridor, up the dusty stairs, and along corridors so thick with cobwebs that he couldn’t blame the spiders for thinking they had a permanent home in Hathertree Hall. What would he find when they reached Her Ladyship’s rooms? A Miss Havisham sitting amidst the cobwebs like a big spider herself?

Far from it. It was an anticlimax to find that the room to which Mary led him was impeccably clean, although Spartan to say the least. Only one painting adorned its walls — to avoid homes for spiders? — and the furniture was sparse. Her Ladyship was at first sight unremarkable for an elderly lady well in her seventies. Small, grey-haired, she looked unusual only in that several necklaces hung around her neck, and three tiaras adorned her head.

“One should not wear jewels so early in the day,” she told Auguste gravely, “but I have always been a rebel.”

“My condolences, Your Ladyship,” he murmured, having been introduced by Mary as a chef to King Louis Philippe, who had left this earth well before Auguste had entered it.

“Thank you, Mr. Didier. Inhabiting a room ridden with spiders is far from pleasant.”

Auguste rapidly changed his first impression of comparative sanity. “I meant for your late husband’s death.”

“My husband? Ah yes, very sad. But he has only himself to blame.”

Auguste forced himself to treat this as rational. “Is that because he was going to dismiss all the servants?”

She looked puzzled. “Possibly, although he has explained to them that I could do all the work instead of them. He even refused at first to allow me to retain your services, dear Mary. I would have been most upset had not Mary foreseen that this would not come about.”

“Doom. I saw doom,” Mary explained.

“And this morning Algernon has changed his mind. Mary may stay. Is that not thoughtful of him?”

“I told you he would, Your Ladyship,” Mary said complacently. “I have the sight.”

Auguste struggled to ignore the fact that Algernon had died most horribly the previous evening. “But why should your husband have wished to make life so difficult for you both?” It could hardly be for financial reasons. That jewellery alone would pay the servants’ wages for many a long year.

“It’s quite simple,” she said kindly. “My husband has decided to be a hermit and to give his life to contemplation. That is why he always dines alone, and only Hargreaves, Parsons, and a footman may enter the dining room without instant protest. I am permitted to enter if I wish, but am not allowed to speak.”

“But a house this size...” Auguste began feebly.

“I agree with you, young man.” The countess nodded vigorously. “It is indeed a mistake when one considers the number of spiders my husband allows on the premises.”

“Perhaps his heir will take a different view.” Her constant use of the present tense in referring to her husband was confusing and he wondered whether mentioning the new earl was a step too far.

It was not. “I trust that he will. My husband cannot abide him. He has to leave the title and estate to him, but the money is all bequeathed to me in order that I might purchase more tiaras. I imagine that will be quite a surprise to this farmer non-gentleman called Alfred.”

Auguste imagined so too. “Why did your husband wish to be a hermit?”

“He is a great admirer of Paul of Thebes, who, as you doubtless know, lived in a grotto for ninety years. No doubt there were no spiders there. Mary — to work if you please. One of these monsters was spotted by myself at least fifteen minutes ago and I ordered it to remain behind the portrait. That, Mr. Didier, is the countess of the sixth earl.” She pointed to the one painting on the walls, that of a merry-looking lady who looked speculatively down at them. “She was a murderess and had little truck with spiders.”

Auguste hoped that the unfortunate spider had made his escape in time, as he himself should do. He had arranged to meet Egbert at two o’clock in the orangery, which he trusted might be reasonably airy and free of dust.

It was, and was by far the most pleasant place he had so far seen in Hathertree Hall. True, the trees looked bedraggled and in need of care, but its furnishings looked comfortable and almost attractive.

As he walked in, however, he could see that Egbert was not alone. Sitting with him was a thickset man with ruddy complexion and clad in a brown lounge suit and brown boots. He looked out of his depth, and must surely be the heir, Mr. Alfred Wheal, now the earl of Catsfield. Auguste pitied him for being pitchforked into this unexpected situation.

Egbert blandly introduced Auguste as a colleague from the French Sûreté Générale, which Mr. Wheal seemed to accept as a perfectly normal addition to Scotland Yard’s forces.

“I came this morning as quickly as I could,” the new earl said nervously. “By railway train. I’m not used to travel. It’s upset me.”

“Murder is always a shock,” Auguste murmured sympathetically.

Alfred Wheal nodded gratefully. “A terrible thing — and by a fish stew. I could hardly believe it. I like stew.”

He was rambling, but not, Auguste thought, because he too shared the dottiness of this household. And murder in this way was so unlikely that it was hardly surprising it was difficult for the heir to assimilate. He seemed to be blaming the stew itself. In former days the instrument of murder was believed to be as guilty as its user, and even now the law still occasionally adhered to it. Although logic told Auguste that the means of death was immaterial compared with the crime itself, his emotions could not be so controlled. To use food — man’s comforter and friend — as the means of murder was giving this case a personal aspect and it was imperative that the murderer be found.

“When did you last see His Lordship?” Auguste enquired.

“He never liked me and I don’t like travel. Must have been a year ago at least. Well,” Alfred Wheal said heavily, “if there’s nothing more, gentlemen, I should pay my respects to Her Ladyship. And,” he paused, “the lawyers. I suppose there will be a will and so forth. I can’t pretend I’m not interested in that, what with wheat prices slumping again.”

“He will shortly get an even greater shock,” Auguste observed, after he had left them. “The countess told me that the house and title go to Mr. Wheal, but the money has been left to her.”

Egbert whistled. “Makes you feel sorry for the fellow, doesn’t it?”

“Not too sorry,” Auguste said. “You should perhaps look closely into his movements, Egbert. Perhaps he was in this area last evening. He was wearing a brown suit. If he had left home this morning, as he claims, he would surely be paying his respects in black.”

At Egbert’s request, Auguste returned to the servants’ hall in the hope that he might pick up in conversation information that had escaped Scotland Yard. Most of the servants seemed to be there, as presumably their usual duties — meagre though they seemed to be at Hathertree Hall — had been abandoned owing to the police presence. He found Hargreaves in the butler’s traditional sanctum, Pug’s Parlour, where he was engaged in polishing heavily tarnished silver.

“This new earl,” he assured Auguste, “will need licking into shape. He’ll need me, won’t he? He won’t dismiss me.” His hands were shaking, and his eyes were full of a desperate hope.

“He would be very foolish to do so,” Auguste told him reassuringly. Unless, he thought, Hargreaves had murdered the new earl’s predecessor. He braced himself in Egbert’s interests. “I am, as you know, a friend of Mrs. Bacon. I am also with the Sûreté, working with Scotland Yard. Would you tell me what happened yesterday evening?”

He looked nervous. “I did nothing wrong, monsieur. I waited in the dining room as usual until His Lordship entered at seven o’clock. I then pulled the bellrope for James to bring in the fish stew. His Lordship rarely partook of soup, but was a great lover of stews, whether of game or fish or poultry. Even though there was only him to eat it, the silver bowl was always filled to the brim. I can assure you, monsieur, James didn’t kill him, I’d have seen that. Besides, I trained that boy. When James left, I had a quick word with His Lordship before I followed him. I asked whether he still wished to dispense with my services at the end of the week. He told me he did. His future way of life was to be devoted to nature and contemplation like Paul of Thebes.”

“Who was to do the cooking?” Auguste asked with interest. “His Lordship himself?”

A fierce and shocked eye. “Naturally not. Her Ladyship was to do it. Berries and so forth.”

Auguste rapidly moved on. “And when did you leave?”

“Shortly after James, sir.”

“And James would later have returned to take the empty dishes and bring the next course.”

“Only after His Lordship rang.”

“Did he ring last night?”

“If so, I was not aware of it. His Lordship was dead, of course.”

Quite, Auguste thought. So why had James returned to the dining room?

Mrs. Parsons also appeared eager to impress the new owner of Hathertree Hall. She was in her stillroom surveying empty jars as if considering with which delicacies she might fill them to appeal to a farmer. She eyed Auguste with deep suspicion when he announced his mission on behalf of the Sûreté.

“Why should the French police be so interested in Hathertree Hall?” she demanded.

“I am not at liberty to reveal that,” Auguste informed her grandly.

She was clearly not convinced, but at least made no more demur. “I most certainly did not enter the dining room last evening. Why would I?”

“His Lordship was going to dismiss you. Perhaps you might have wanted a quiet word with him.”

“No one had a quiet word with his late Lordship. He was deaf,” she snorted.

“So he might not have heard if someone had come in unexpectedly?”

Trapped, she hesitated. “He always heard that perfectly. He was merely deaf when he chose. But I did not go there last evening. I was in this stillroom and then retired to my own rooms.”

Where no one could vouch for her presence, Auguste thought.

Unlike the housekeeper, footman James was impressed to be visited by the Sûreté and all too eager to tell his side of the story.

“No, I didn’t hear the old geezer ring the bell,” he told Auguste blithely. “I reckoned he’d had time enough to empty the whole blasted bowlful down his gullet, so I went to collect it anyway. And then I saw him. Gave a yell likely to wake the dead. Only it didn’t. I lifted up his head, saw he was a goner, and dropped it back in. That’s how my livery got fishy stew on it.”

“Did you see Mr. Hargreaves or Mrs. Parsons during the evening?”

“No sign of him; saw her, though. She was outside the door as if she was going to go in, then she saw me and scuttled away like the crabby old bitch she is.”

“Could she have come out of the dining room rather than be waiting to go in?”

James shrugged. “Might have been like that.”

“And you were in full livery every evening?”

“His Lordship’s idea — and him going to be a humble hermit,” James sneered. “Every evening I goes to the livery room and puts on those daft breeches, that smelly old wig, powder and all, and prance in like a fairy. I’m hoping this new earl will see sense.”

“If he keeps you all on,” Auguste pointed out.

“He will, all right. We’ll see to that.” James grinned smugly. “After all, could have been him that done it. Barmy Mary reckons she saw him in the grounds last night.”

“I saw him all right,” Mary said complacently.

“Where, Mary? Where?” Auguste was fuming that he had not questioned her closely earlier.

“Don’t know exactly,” she said doubtfully.

“Walking towards the Hall?”

“Doom’s what I saw, Mr. Auguste. Doom. I have the sight, you know.”

Auguste tried to cling on to his patience. “Did you see him through your window, Mary? Or did you see him in a vision?”

“That’s right. Both of them.” She nodded vigorously. “I often gets the sight, especially after a drop of cowslip wine.”

“She might not be as dotty as she sounds,” Egbert remarked, when Auguste relayed what he had gleaned from the servants’ hall, including Mary’s “evidence.” “You were right. Alfred Wheal wasn’t at home last night. He’s now admitted having travelled here yesterday in order to appeal to His Lordship’s better nature, then thought better of it and decided to leave it until today, so he stayed overnight in the village pub. This morning he heard the gossip about the murder, got worried, and turned up at the Hall’s lodge telling the local police he’d travelled up from Sussex. They thought nothing of it, as they knew a telegram had been sent to his home.”

“Nevertheless, he could not have killed the earl,” Auguste pointed out, “because he would not have been permitted to enter the room. Even if His Lordship had relented and allowed him to do so, he would have been facing him, talking to him, and Wheal’s most certain method of murder would have been to strangle, not drown, him.”

“True enough. My money’s on that footman then. Nasty piece of work, if you ask me. The earl wouldn’t worry about him, so James goes back to do him in and then screams out that His Lordship’s dead.”

“But if it’s true that the housekeeper told James she had not been into the room, and if James himself is not lying, then Hargreaves could have killed the earl. If Mrs. Parsons did enter the room, she could have killed him and then scuttled away when James saw her.”

“A pretty stew indeed and we’re in one all right,” Egbert said gloomily. “Pity having to rule out Wheal. He had motive all right — or thought he did. He’s been raising hell ever since he found out about the will. Her Ladyship was very amused. But there’s no doubt that if he entered that room the earl would have been on his guard, not in a position to be pushed face downwards into the stew.”

“There’s one way he could have got into that room unnoticed,” Auguste said thoughtfully.

“And how’s that?”

“There were spare liveries and wigs in the livery room. If His Lordship had thought it was just the footman coming in—”

Egbert groaned. “Don’t tell me. Been down this road before. Remember how you used to tell me no one looks twice at a postman in uniform? You’re suggesting that to the earl all footmen looked the same. He would have thought it was James.”

“Yes,” Auguste said simply. This theory fitted and yet he realised he could not wholly believe in it. Mary had probably seen Alfred Wheal... She had the sight...

He and Egbert walked out into the neglected gardens, lit by the September sunshine. Roses struggled for survival and bushes fought for air, spilling over onto the ill-kept lawns. There was nothing like the smell of autumn, Auguste thought, and nothing to compare with a Kentish September, full of the rich promise of harvest. Fruit ripening on the trees, dropping onto the lush grass, spiders’ webs shimmering with dew where the sun had not yet caught them...

Spiders’ webs. Surely that was the clue? His excitement grew as he grasped what could have happened.

“It was the countess,” he said to Egbert, once he was sure he was right. “She had been driven to desperation by the actions of her husband and took matters into her own hands. As she saw it, she would be able to arrange life as would make her happiest. She knew Mary had foreseen that she would be able to do so. The earl was going to leave his money to his wife — money that would buy her more tiaras and allow her to keep her spiderbrusher.”

“She’s off her chump, Auguste. Sure you haven’t joined her?” Egbert said caustically. “Any proof?”

“Some. The earl would have let none of the other four steal close enough to him without suspecting something amiss. Only his wife, whose presence and well-being he totally ignored, could have turned so speedily and fatally on him. Like the sixth countess, she was the spider in the web.”

“It was Her Ladyship, wasn’t it?” Mary asked, as he walked with her to her cottage much later that day.

“You knew all the time?” Auguste asked her.

“I have the sight,” she said proudly. “But I didn’t believe it, not at first. You don’t see it clear all at once. You see the web first, and then you sees the spider lady. It was just how the sixth countess did it. She trapped him in the dairy and pushed him into the butter vat. You’ll find the gloves her present Ladyship used in her room, stuffed in her jewel box, all stained with stew.”

“Do you mind very much, Mary?”

“I can’t brush her away, can I?” she said sadly. “She’s stuck fast in my heart.”

“Even though she murdered her husband?”

A pause, then: “Ah well. They say spiders eat their husbands, don’t they?”