Part 1

They sat in the morning room of the Pembroke dower house. The dampness seeping from the stone walls had robbed the estate and its mahogany furnishings of their former lustre.

“I think you may need an exterminator rather than a private detective,” said Arthur Bellamy before sipping his Mazawattee tea. Delicate roses and indigo-and-gold ornaments covered the antique teacup inside and out. Despite a hairline crack in the porcelain, its rim fit his lips perfectly. He found himself wondering how the shape of tableware could heighten the pleasure of something as simple as tea.

He tapped a cigarette against the silver cigarette case and put it in his mouth.

Lady Pembroke swiftly removed it from his lips and handed it back. “I will not have that in the house. It took a good decade to get rid of that smell after my father passed.”

“My apologies,” said Bellamy, collected his cigarette, and continued. “But, still…”

“But nothing, Mr. Bellamy. The exterminator found nothing in the attic. And this is not some fancy of a senile old woman. Each night, at midnight, there is noise coming from the attic.”

“Footsteps?”

“No. More like scraping. Metal scrapes, maybe. But certainly scraping.” She paused. “Scraping with a purpose.”

“‘Purpose,’ you say? Very well,” Bellamy made a note. “Have you noted anything out of place in the attic, perhaps?”

“I wouldn’t know. A Lady, even a penniless one such as I, doesn’t wander around estates to attend to such matters.”

“May I inspect the attic?”

“Certainly. Mr. Fletcher will accompany you.”

“Thank you, madam. Who else lives in the house?”

“Just me. You met Mr. Fletcher, who stewards the household. And then a part-time cook and two maids.”

Bellamy made another note.

“Thank you, madam. I would like to see the attic now,” said Bellamy.

Lady Pembroke rang the tea bell. Mr. Fletcher and a maid appeared in the door. Lady Pembroke handed Mr. Fletcher a large brass key. Bellamy finished his tea and got to his feet.

“This is the master key. It opens every lock in the house. The other keys were made for particular rooms, so each person can enter only the places permitted to them. My late husband designed the system, and it still works better than any alarm: you always know who can access what room without worry.”

“Your late husband was a tinkerer, I take it?” Bellamy nodded with respect.

“Yes. I suppose he was.”

***

“How long have you been working for Lady Pembroke, Mr. Fletcher?” asked Bellamy as they passed entrance to the kitchen. The cook kneaded dough while a young boy brought in a coal scuttle and started throwing large coals into the stove.

“Going on fifteen years, sir. She may be the last aristocrat who maintains the old traditions.”

“Must be hard and expensive to do so these days.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see you are still using coal stoves in the kitchen.”

“Yes. For now. Until we upgrade sometime in the future,” answered Mr. Fletcher, but he seemed doubtful.

“Does the cook live here as well?”

“Since we replaced the coaches and horses with a car, the staff have lived in the coach house. They work three days a week in exchange for room and board. The cook prepares the main meals, the maid keeps up appearances, and the boy sometimes comes along to help. The house is more of a family operation.”