Page 91 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

‘Very,’ said Afton, closing it hospitably. ‘The Riddle of the Sands, it’s called. About a man who goes on a yachting holiday in the Baltic, and discovers the Germans are up to something suspicious.’

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Webster. ‘Sort of an adventure story, then?’

‘That’s right. A bit like Rider Haggard. My previous master was very fond of Rider Haggard. Lots of African adventures in his books.’

‘Looks new,’ Mrs Webster noted.

‘His lordship bought it last year when it came out. We got talking about books one day when I was shaving him, and he suggested I borrow it – thought I’d enjoy it.’

Mrs Webster raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice to have that sort of relationship with your master.’

‘He’s an unusual gentleman,’ Afton observed. ‘Not a bit high and mighty, not with me, anyway. I wouldn’t have been comfortable serving someone who treated me like a member of another species. I’ve shaved gentlemen who look at you like you’re some sort of performing monkey, only not so interesting.’

‘You wouldn’t have liked his old lordship, then,’ Mrs Webster said. ‘Very high in the instep, the old lord.’

‘You’re a bit unusual yourself, Mrs Webster, if I might say. I’ve watched you, and there’s a great deal you don’t allow to be seen on the surface.’

‘You could say the same of any housekeeper in a great house,’ she said, a bit stiffly.

He was not rebuffed. ‘For instance, you’re worried at the moment, and I suspect it’s about this stamp collection of Mr Moss’s.’

‘You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work that out,’ said Mrs Webster.

He smiled. ‘You’re a reader yourself.’

‘I won’t deceive you, Mr Afton, books don’t often come in my way. I’ve always felt I could be a reader, and I was fond of a yarn when I was younger, but there’s always so much to do, and by the time I’ve finished my day it’s all I can do to fall into bed and sleep. But, of course, I’ve heard people talk about Sherlock Holmes stories. Very popular, from what I hear, so I suppose they must be good.’

‘There is a collection of them in the library here. A book called The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,’ Afton said. ‘I’m sure his lordship would have no objection to your borrowing it.’

The idea shocked her slightly, but when she thought about it, there was no reason why it should. Books were not for servants, that was what one grew up thinking, and of course some of the really old musty tomes were too precious to be touched, but the newer ones, maybe . . . with permission . . . if one was a trusted senior servant . . . Not, of course, that she would ever ask . . . ‘Perhaps one day,’ she said dismissively.

‘What do you think happened to the stamp album?’ Afton asked bluntly.

It was as if he had softened her up to get her to blurt out her true thoughts. But she was too canny for that. ‘It’s not in any of the public spaces, that I do know,’ she said.

‘The next stage would be to search the bedrooms, I suppose,’ Afton suggested.

‘And I wouldn’t want to have to do that,’ she concluded. ‘I can’t believe anyone carelessly threw it away – everyone must have seen Mr Moss tinkering with it at some time or another. They’d know it wasn’t rubbish.’

‘Which leaves deliberate theft,’ Afton said.

She looked at him sharply. ‘All the traders and delivery boys who come in here are well-known and trusted.’

‘But the outer doors are not locked during the daytime,’ he said, ‘so anyone could walk in. Or out.’

She met his eyes for a long, thoughtful moment. ‘It’s the uncertainty that’s the worst part. Suspecting innocent people. Makes for a bad atmosphere. We all live cheek by jowl here, and you have to trust each other.’

‘I’ll see if I can find anything out for you,’ Afton said. ‘I’ve time on my hands – his lordship isn’t a demanding master.’

She gave a tight smile. ‘Follow the clues, like Sherlock Holmes?’

‘Or just follow my suspicions,’ said Afton.

‘Well, don’t tell me your suspicions until you’ve proof,’ she said sharply. ‘I have to stay even-handed.’

She got up and walked away. An ally was a useful thing to have, especially for one in her position. For a moment her cautious nature made her wonder what he’d want in return, but as she lit her candle and trudged up the back stairs, she considered that perhaps he just felt the same, and thought she would be useful to have on his side. An alliance offensive and defensive, as the history books said.

Giles had stayed longer than he intended on the hill, helping with the shearing. He didn’t take the shears himself, though the men, grinning, sometimes urged him to try his hand. But he helped with moving the hurdles and funnelling the ewes towards the shearers, and he knew he gained respect from the men for ‘getting his hands dirty’. His father, who would never have dreamed of helping in that way, had won exactly the same respect from the men by holding himself aloof. It was a mystery.