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“Let’s hope I never have to test that,” he replied, and she chuckled. As they proceeded down the stairs, he asked, “Is the house tidy?”

“Mostly,” Enid said. “We scrubbed up the blood and hid the explosives.”

“Don’t make that joke to the inspector, Enid,” he said.

She let out a laugh that bordered on a cackle.

As they reached the landing of the entrance hall, John was conscious of Inspector Grindal’s intent gaze on them. He set Enid down carefully, making sure she was steady on her feet. Norman and Belinda came from the servants’ stairs, accompanied by Alan.

Appearing to sense the gravity of the situation, the dachshund was unusually sedate, although his tail wagged in a near-blur.

“Inspector Grindal,” John said, “this is Mr. Goodluck, who serves as Miss Martin’s private secretary.”

Grindal paged through his notebook. “I was under the impression he was a footman.”

“He was,” John said, “but when Miss Martin discovered Mr. Goodluck’s secretarial skills, she promoted him.” He turned next to Enid. “This is Miss Enid Mox, a housemaid who also serves as Miss Martin’s lady’s maid when necessary. And this is Miss Belinda Claw, a maid-of-all-work who also assists with food preparation.”

“I’m pleased to make your . . .” Grindal fell silent with surprise as Belinda stepped forward and sank into a deep and majestic curtsey.

They all watched with widening eyes and slackening jaws.

This went far beyond the ordinary social curtsey. It was the grandest and most formal of curtseys, appropriate for being presented at court or being announced to a roomful of ranking nobles and dignitaries. An internationally renowned opera singer might perform such a curtsey from the stage to an especially generous royal patron. The grand welcome was so categorically wrong for this occasion, Grindal could have been forgiven for assuming it was pure mockery.

But as Belinda straightened and gazed at Grindal hopefully, it was obvious she’d made her very best effort to please.

If the inspector made fun of her, John was going to have to kill him.

As Grindal met Belinda’s gaze, the fluffy mass of his mustache rose and fell briefly, like someone billowing a sheet onto a mattress. It could have been a smile or a sneer. No—it was a smile. In a response to Belinda’s curtsey, he executed a deep formal bow. He even held his hat in one hand and swept it in accompaniment, like a courtier.

“Miss Claw,” he said.

Belinda was clearly delighted.

The inspector straightened, his gaze falling on Alan. “What kind of dog is that?”

“A dachshund, sir,” John replied. “Alan is employed as the house ratcatcher.”

“We call ’im a sausage dog,” Belinda volunteered, and the inspector gave a huff of amusement.

“He certainly resembles one.” He gave Belinda a pleasant glance. “Miss Claw, I would be obliged if you would take me on a tour ’round the house. We’ll have a nice chat while I perform a preliminary inspection. I will be interested to hear all about your work—and everyone else’s work too.”

Both Enid and Norman spoke at the same time. “Don’t—”

They fell silent as the inspector turned to regard them with raised brows.

John finished for them. “Don’t forget to take Alan,” he said. “In case of rats.”

He and the other two watched, aghast, as Belinda walked away with Grindal, while Alan trotted at her heels.

“She’s going to tell him everything,” Norman predicted darkly, “sure as the devil shits fiery coals.”

John would have reproved him for the profanity, but he was too busy listening to Belinda describe her daily chores to Grindal.

“. . . and then I clean under the beds, where there’s all these dirty fluffs. Enid says they’re dust mice, but I call ’em ghost turds. Anyhow, I’m the one what crawls under the bed to sweep ’em up, ’cause one of Enid’s legabone’s a bit short, on account of one day she ate a sausage roll that weren’t quite done in the middle. Sausage is full of tuberculosis if it ain’t cooked proper. Now, see that landing up there, that’s where I tried to rip off Mr. Pembroke’s face with me claw glove. After that, June started teaching me butchery work in the kitchen. With big knives . . .”

“I’ll be in my room,” Enid said dourly, “packing up my box to go back to Millbank.”

“I’ll talk with the supervisor before he leaves,” John said, “to provide context.”