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“My dear, I am hardly here to judge you,” Constance said. “My only concern is with who was in the house on the evening of your father’s return.”

“Oh, no, he wasn’t in the house,” Jemimah assured her with relief.

“You met him in the garden?”

“Well, yes, just for five minutes.”

“I suppose he calls on you often,” Constance said neutrally.

“Well, he has been quite attentive in the last few months, but we have known him forever. He and Sydney went to school together, and he frequently stayed with us.”

“What does he do now?”

Jemimah shrugged. “His father wants him to join the family firm—they are involved with cotton mills in the north—but Ben wants to be a great writer.”

“A worthy ambition.”

Jemimah beamed at her. “I think so.”

*

Barnabas Lloyd was glad to see the back of all his guests. Admittedly, Grey and Mrs. Silver had only gone as far as the kitchen to interview his servants, but at least Ben Devine was out of the house. Jumped-up puppy.

He waited until the children and Audrey had gone off about their own business and the tea things had been taken away. His wife sat by the fire, opposite him, busying herself with embroidery work. He folded his newspaper.

“How long, Christine, have you permitted young Devine to run tame about this house?”

“Run tame?” she said a little nervously. “I would not call it that, my dear!”

“Would you not? He appeared to wander in here off the street.”

“Not without Garrick’s knowledge. There’s no need for such a fuss, Barnabas. He has stayed here in the past, and his parents are friends of ours.”

“Acquaintances,” he corrected her. “I hope you have not encouraged him to sniff around Jemimah.”

“They are children, Barnabas.”

“You were barely a year older when I married you. I expected you to have more sense than to allow this.”

“Allow what?” she asked with irritating defiance, her needle poised.

“Utter impropriety. She will be ruined at the age of sixteen! She’s a child, and yet you let her put up her hair and let down her hems. What were you thinking of?”

“That she is a young lady and must learn to behave as one,” Christine said tartly.

Barnabas rose and walked the few paces toward her, watching the courage fade from her eyes and the nervousness turn to alarm. He halted and bent over her deliberately.

“You are at fault, my love. Grievously so. Were she three years older, I would not give my daughter to Ben Devine. You are responsible for chaperoning her at all times.”

“He is not her only admirer,” Christine said defensively. Her breathing had quickened, as it always did when she was frightened. “As you will see when you escort us to the opera tomorrow evening.”

“I’m not sure either of you are fit to be allowed out.”

Her eyes fell. “If I have made a mistake, then I am sorry for it. I only did what I thought was best for a restive girl. I took her to tea with me a few times when I knew other young ladies and gentlemen would be present. That is all.”

“Am I likely to come upon her swains prowling about the house?”

“Of course not.”

He straightened and heard her sigh of relief. “Then we shall say no more about it for now. I’ll speak to Garrick and put a stop to young Devine treating the house like his own.”

*

The Lloyds’ staff seemed to be everything good domestic servants should be, loyal and close-mouthed to strangers, even under instructions from their master to co-operate.

Constance and Solomon spoke first to Garrick, the haughty butler, whom they found in the kitchen conferring with the cook, a grim-faced woman of middle years who looked more likely to curdle the milk than produce food to make the senses sing.

Garrick’s nostrils flared at sight of them in his domain. The cook turned away, banging the rolling pin in her hand down on the table with unnecessary force.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Constance said amiably. “We shall not disturb you for long. I believe Mr. Lloyd has already informed you we are looking into the mystery of his missing treasure.”

“Indeed,” Garrick uttered.

Constance persevered in the face of his obvious discouragement, bestowing an understanding smile upon him. “It would help us enormously to know what you observed on the evening and during the night of Mr. Lloyd’s return.”

Garrick said nothing.

“When did you first see the treasure chest?” Solomon asked.

“When it was brought into the house. Sir.” There was just enough of a pause before the sir to be insolent.

Solomon ignored it. “Who brought it in?”

“Harry and John. Footmen.”

“Where did they take it?”

“Upstairs, to the drawing room.”

“Directly? Or did it lie in the hall for a while.”

“Directly.”

“How was it closed?”

“It was bound with rope.”

“What happened once the chest was in the drawing room?”

“You must ask the master. I was not there.”

“Then the family was already in the drawing room?”

“Indeed.”

“When you brought wine to the drawing room, was the chest open or closed?”

“Closed.”

“Bound still with the rope?”

For the first time, Garrick hesitated. “I couldn’t say.”

“And when you announced dinner?”

“I didn’t notice. Mr. Lloyd asked for Harry to help carry it up to the strong room.”

“May we speak to Harry?”

“According to the master. Harry.” There was no change in his tone as he summoned the footman—the same brawny young man who had admitted them into the house.

Constance left Solomon with his thankless task and sidled up to the cook, who was snapping at the kitchen maid chopping vegetables beside her. The girl looked frightened enough to cut her fingers by mistake.

“I’m Mrs. Silver,” Constance said pleasantly. And when the cook did not trouble to reply, merely continued rolling her pastry with brisk brutality, she asked, “What is your name?”

“Mrs. Smith,” the cook said without looking up.

Constance turned to the maid. “And you?”

The girl dropped her knife. “I’m Rosie, ma’am. Kitchen maid.” She bobbed a quick curtsey and picked up the knife again.

“I was wondering if anyone not of the household visited the kitchen the evening before last.”

The cook cast her a glance of contempt. “We got no time for visitors.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t stop them dropping in at inconvenient moments.”

“Not here, they don’t.” Mrs. Smith threw down her rolling pin and lifted the pastry with surprisingly delicate hands, to place it in the waiting pie dish.

“Then a simple yes or no will suffice,” Constance snapped, tired of the attitude. “Did anyone visit the kitchen that night?”

“No,” the cook answered, snatching up a knife with which to trim the pastry.

“What time did you retire?”

“Half past ten, when the family did.”

Constance glanced at Rosie the maid, who said hastily, “Ten o’clock, ma’am, on account I have to get up early to see to the fire.”

“Where do you sleep?” Constance asked.

“Attic, ma’am.”

Constance sighed and looked at the cook. “And you?”

“Attic. We all sleep in the attics.”

“Were you disturbed at all by any unusual noises in the house? Or outside the house?”

“No,” said Mrs. Smith.

Rosie shook her head.

Constance was not really surprised. Most hardworking servants were so tired that they slept soundly until wakened by someone else or by their own trained body clock.

“What time did you rise in the morning?” she asked the maid.

“Five o’clock, ma’am.”

“And did you see or hear anything unusual then? Was the back door locked?”

The maid’s eyes widened. “I never checked, ma’am. It was closed. So was the area door at the front.”

“And no one else was moving about?”

“Not until about six, when everyone else came down.”

In this case, “everyone” appeared to mean the other servants. “Then none of the family was up and about at that time?”

“Course not,” said Rosie. “Even the master don’t rise that early.”

“And you used the back stairs to come down to the kitchen?”

“Of course,” Rosie said again, clearly shocked at any other possibility.

Constance smiled. “Even so early when no one would see you? I would be tempted.”

“You,” said Mrs. Smith, “ain’t her. She uses the back stairs, and she’d be dismissed for anything else.”

Constance let it go.