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.”