Page 60 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #3)

Afton had built up a useful reputation below stairs for being chatty and approachable, so when he drifted up beside a servant and asked in general terms about their colleagues, no-one saw anything to suspect, or any reason not to gossip – which was what they liked doing anyway.

The missing stamp album was much talked about, and while most held that Mr Moss had been getting forgetful of late and had probably mislaid it somewhere, the minority view was that if it was in the house it would have been discovered, so Somebody must have taken it.

As to who Somebody might be, no-one wanted to say, but there were sidelong looks, and very oblique hints that it would not surprise if a person who was generally disliked turned out to be involved somehow.

As he had already observed, Hook was shunned as bad-tempered and feared as a vindictive bully.

He learned that there had recently been disapproval, though no surprise, that Hook had had a lock put on the door to the bedroom behind the butler’s room, which he had taken over as his own.

Servants were slow to embrace change, and it was obscurely felt that the butler’s room and bedroom were still Mr Moss’s, and that Hook was taking liberties in his absence.

Also, if Mr Moss had not needed a lock, why should he?

Why, indeed, was Afton’s unspoken reaction.

If he was a thief, he would have to have somewhere to cache things until he could dispose of them, somewhere he could be sure they would not be discovered.

And a thief, in Afton’s experience, did not stop at one thing.

Once they had got away with it, they would do it again.

He was interested to discover that, in Mr Moss’s later days, Hook had suggested a thorough inventory of the household silver.

Everything had been taken out, catalogued, cleaned and replaced, with the frequently used pieces to the front of the cupboards and the antique, fragile and seldom-seen to the back.

William was eloquent on the subject, since he had had to do a lot of the cleaning.

Cleaning silver was dirty work, and Hook had kept his hands clean doing the cataloguing, a nice, easy job.

‘I’d have thought Mr Moss would be the one to write everything down,’ Afton said innocently.

No, he had been in and out, doing other things, and when he was there he had just sat and watched, half asleep most of the time as far as William could see.

Hook had bossed the show – which, as he’d only been footman James in those days, and technically under William, was a flaming liberty. But that was him all over.

Yes, Afton thought, that was a very good way to cover your tracks.

If an obscure piece of silver went missing, who would ever know?

And if a question was ever asked – there was the inventory to prove it had never existed, or must have gone missing back in historical times.

Nothing to do with anyone currently in the house.

If silver had been stolen (and why else would Hook have initiated the inventory?

Not for the love of extra work), it could not have been disposed of locally.

But there had been the recent stay in London: Hook had been one of those taken up to Pelham House.

The stamp album, however, had not been missing at that time.

Either it was still here, or had been disposed of locally.

Thus far Afton’s Sherlockian logic took him. But he had no proof against Hook. He wanted it to be him; but being a shifty, unpleasant bully didn’t necessarily make you a thief.

And talking of bullying, where did Rose come into it?

Afton had witnessed the attack on Rose – the twisted wrist and the threatening words.

Was that a case of accomplices falling out?

Had she been demanding a better share of the dibs than he was willing to part with?

Had he been reminding her that she was as guilty as him?

There was something enigmatic about Rose – he couldn’t quite make her out.

She had been at the Castle a long time, and was therefore trusted, presumably with good reason.

But a person could change: for instance, passing time might bring the realisation that one had nothing saved against old age, a frightening prospect.

The chance to lay something by, perhaps by the theft of something no-one would ever miss, might be too much temptation.

Of course, Moss’s stamp collection didn’t fall into that category – but perhaps that was what the quarrel had been about. Had Rose objected that it was a theft too far, and had Hook reminded her she was all in and had better not think about peaching?

From talking to the other servants, he gathered that Rose had always held herself somewhat aloof, and while she was not disliked, she was not regarded with any great warmth, either.

‘Oh, she’s all right. She’s been here for ever,’ was the usual comment about her, and ‘She’s very strict. You got to do the job properly.’

He hoped she wasn’t involved – he rather liked the look of her – but her long service bestowed a lack of scrutiny on her that would be useful in smuggling stolen goods out of the house.

The other day, for instance, she had gone out on her afternoon off, carrying a covered basket, without telling anyone where she was going.

Mrs Webster was absolutely right: trust was essential in a big house. You couldn’t watch everyone all the time; and suspicion would destroy the lives of all.

So where did Hook go on his days off? From William he learned only that Hook had been accustomed to frequent the Dog and Gun, but that he hadn’t been going there lately.

He had to take his investigation slowly: too many questions all at once would provoke suspicion – ‘What you want to know that for?’ He must just make himself available for comfortable chat, gossip, and the opening of hearts.

He wished he could take a peek into Hook’s room, but that was not possible.

And he wished he knew about Rose.

Rachel curled in the corner of the first-class carriage pretending to look out of the window in order to avoid having to talk to her mother, who sat opposite her, grimly scrutinising her.

Uncle Stuffy, who had provided them generously at King’s Cross with sweets, chocolates and reading matter, had lowered the ear-flaps on his curious travelling-cap against draughts from the window, and had gone to sleep.

He was not a great one for reading, conversing or admiring the scenery on journeys.

He took train travel very seriously, and as well as the travelling-cap (and, despite the heat, a rug over his knees), he had beside him on the seat a leather-covered case containing everything to counter what Fate might throw at him.

Rachel knew it featured a Johnson but lots of girls didn’t , and it wasn’t as though she was old .

A second Season might not be so grand – she couldn’t expect the same sort of money to be spent on it – but she saw no reason why it shouldn’t be as much fun.

Or possibly even more because, in fact, it seemed to her that getting engaged meant all the fun must cease: no more dancing and flirting and playing off one suitor against another.

She supposed if you were in love, that sort of made up for it, and you didn’t mind giving up the fun for married bliss.

But she liked all the boys pretty much as well as each other.

One or two she didn’t like, such as the Prince of Usingen with his coffin breath, and Mr Archbold with his sly, pinching hands.

But she’d always had plenty of choice. It was a shame that Frittie Landau hadn’t made an offer for her – she wasn’t in love with him, but he was fun, and she felt they would have got on well together.

She had had two offers, just enough to salve pride, though she was glad that her mother had refused them, because she hadn’t cared for either.

So now they were on their way to Scotland.

The Season had been very tiring, and it would be nice to be out of the public eye for a while, to see the cousins, to relax for a few weeks.

She was determined not to think about what would happen after that.

She was going to enjoy Kincraig. She was going to let down her hair and play games.

She was going to pretend to be Alice, and romp.