‘Did you find the priest hole?’

  ‘Don’t tease me, Howie,’ said Veronica. ‘There’s one here, I know there is.’

  ‘I think it’s exciting,’ said Skins. ‘We got involved in some business with secret treasure in Mayfair a few weeks ago. I might have found a new hobby. I could become a finder of secret rooms.’

  ‘I did all the work there, honey,’ said Ellie. ‘Maybe it should be my new hobby.’

  ‘Fair enough. It can be a family thing. We can do it together. Oh, and we can send the kids into the nooks and crannies we can’t get to.’

  ‘Mayfair?’ said Howard. ‘Not that business at Tipsy Harry’s? That was you?’

  ‘It was us,’ said Skins, proudly. ‘We got ’em bang to rights. Joint effort. Us, the rest of the band and the rozzers.’

  ‘I say. Well done, you.’

  ‘So you know a thing or two about finding hidden rooms, then,’ said Veronica.

  ‘Ells-Bells does, certainly,’ said Skins.

  ‘Only I’m stumped. I mean, completely stymied. I swear I’ve looked absolutely everywhere, really I have.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘What makes you so sure there’s a priest hole here?’

  Howard grimaced. ‘Honestly, Ellie darling, don’t get her started. We’ll be here hours.’

  ‘No, I’m as interested as Ivor,’ she said. ‘You keep mentioning this secret room, but we’ve never given you a chance to talk about it properly.’

  ‘Up till now you’ve made entirely the right decision,’ said Howard. ‘She absolutely must not be allowed to bore new friends with wild tales of priests and their secret holes.’

  ‘She absolutely must,’ said Ellie with a laugh. ‘Go ahead, honey – bore away.’

  ‘Well,’ began Veronica. ‘Our story begins in 1572 when John Mattingly, the eighth Baron Elsfield, lived in this very house.’

  ‘I thought it was Georgian,’ said Ellie.

  Veronica nodded. ‘The present house was built in 1793, but there’s been a manor house here since the 1300s. Now, Lord Elsfield was a Catholic, and under Good Queen Bess, that was a frightfully dangerous thing to be.’

  She was warming to her role of storyteller. Howard was rolling his eyes and pouring more champagne.

  ‘The chapel where you’ve been staying was used for Catholic mass, and Lord Elsfield had a priest hole built within the house to hide his father confessor should the authorities come calling. Which they did. More than once. But the family refused to recant their faith and soon fell from favour. Their land was forfeited to the Crown and the house was bought and sold several times over the next two hundred years, with many additions and changes made to the building. Then it was bought by Charles Hopson, a local brewer with links to the East India Company, who decided to completely rebuild the old house. He left the chapel where it stood, but he wanted to impress his friends with his modern tastes, so he had the original house completely demolished and rebuilt it as you see it now. But he loved the idea of the priest hole, so he had a new one incorporated—’

  ‘So the rumour goes,’ interrupted Howard.

  But Veronica was not to be deterred. ‘So he had a new one incorporated into his design.’

  ‘But no one has ever found it?’ said Ellie.

  ‘It would be somewhat tricky for anyone to find it,’ said Howard, ‘what with it not actually existing.’

  ‘It would be fantastic, though, wouldn’t it?’ said Skins. ‘I mean, it would solve the conundrum of your father’s death, for one. And it would be . . . well, priest holes and secret passages are so “old house”, aren’t they? I wonder if we’ve got any at our gaff.’

  ‘You’re not to go looking,’ said Ellie. ‘And you’re not to encourage the children, either.’

  Skins grinned. ‘I’ll just have to see what we can find here, then, won’t I? I’ve got to say, though, Howard might have a point – I mean, it’s a long shot, isn’t it? You’ve lived here . . . how long?’

  ‘I was almost two when we moved in,’ said Veronica. ‘I don’t remember living anywhere else.’

  ‘So you’ve been here all your life, near as dammit, and you’ve never found it. It’s not really likely there is one, is it?’

  ‘You see, Ronnie?’ said Howard. ‘I love you dearly, but even when you meet new friends who have every reason to indulge you out of sheer politeness, they apologetically explain that you’re a loony.’

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t say that,’ said Skins. ‘But you must have been over every inch of the place by now.’

  Veronica harrumphed. ‘Well, I don’t care what any of you say. There’s a priest hole here and one day I’m going to find it.’

  ‘Let me know when you do,’ said Skins. ‘I want to see it.’

  There was movement on the other side of the table.

  ‘We’re all off to the salon for a sing-song,’ said Mickey. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Just try and stop us,’ said Howard.

  Ellie was puzzled by the party mood. The head of the household, as far as they knew, had taken his own life. A house guest had died in mysterious circumstances. And here they all were about to enjoy an evening of songs and music as though nothing had happened. All of them apart from Marianne, that is, who had not returned to the table. Her behaviour, at least, was easy to understand. Or most of her behaviour. Ellie still couldn’t quite work out why Marianne seemed to have such a cordial relationship with Charlotte, but everything else about her made sense. As for the rest of them, though, they seemed decidedly odd to her. Suspicious, even. But then again, perhaps it was yet another English thing she would never understand.

  Puddle was judged the most capable pianist – much to Eustace’s annoyance – and had ensconced herself at the piano. She played a few exploratory chords and pronounced the instrument more than satisfactory.

  ‘I could never be truly comfortable in a house where they don’t look after their piano properly,’ she said. ‘I was worried what it might be like, what with it living in here in this sunny room—’

  Veronica smiled, and winked at Ellie.

  ‘—but this is splendid.’ She played a little more. ‘So, come on, then – let’s be having you. Who’s first?’

  The Bilvertons nudged each other shyly, but no one volunteered.

  ‘I’ll give you one,’ said Benny.

  He had a brief, whispered conversation with Puddle.

  ‘You want something they can join in with,’ she said. ‘But something familiar to all of them. They’re not the hippest crowd, so . . .’

  ‘Gilbert and Sullivan?’ suggested Benny.

  ‘Perfect. Do you know “I Am a Pirate King”?’

  ‘It’s a role I was born to play. We’re all pirates at heart in the West Indies.’

  Puddle played the introduction and Benny’s mellifluous baritone brought the role of the Pirate King to life in a country house in Oxfordshire. They had chosen well, and the entire Bilverton clan joined in with ‘Hurrah for the Pirate King’ at the appropriate moments.

  With the ice well and truly broken, Puddle had to turn from chivvying them along to trying to persuade them to keep quiet and take their turn. Over the course of the next hour or so, everyone joined in with the singing while Eustace, Veronica, Charlotte and Elizabeth all took a turn at the piano.

  Skins leaned over and whispered into Ellie’s ear. ‘Elizabeth told me she could “just about peck out a tune”. She’s a damn sight better than she makes out.’

  ‘It’s that English understatement thing you all do,’ she whispered back. ‘I swear I’ll never understand it if I live to be a million years old.’

  ‘It doesn’t do to be too full of yourself – no one likes a show-off.’

  Ellie tutted but said nothing further. Instead she cast her eye about the room to see how the family were grouped. There was little to surprise her.

  Howard, as usual, was with Veronica, and they were giggling together like naughty children. Uncle Malcolm and his niece Elizabeth were deep in some earnest conversation Ellie couldn’t quite hear. She thought she heard the words ‘factory’ and ‘house’ but it probably wasn’t anything suspicious – the consequences of John’s death were on everyone’s mind, so of course they’d be talking about the future of both the family business and the family home. Gordon Bilverton was telling Peter a joke, and from the few words Ellie had heard so far, it was a filthy one. If it was the one she was thinking of, she vaguely remembered the punchline and hadn’t found it nearly as amusing as Skins had. Nor, it seemed, as amusing as Peter did – he roared with laughter and almost threw his brandy over himself in his delight.

  Ellie nudged Skins.

  He frowned and mouthed, ‘What?’

  ‘Did you see Marianne and Charlotte at the dinner table?’

  Skins was puzzled by the change of direction. ‘Can’t say I did. Why?’

  ‘They were sitting next to each other.’

  ‘It’s a big table, love, but sooner or later you’re going to end up sitting next to everyone.’

  ‘But Charlotte was furgling Marianne’s husband. You wouldn’t expect them to sit together.’

  ‘Well, when you put it as delicately as that . . .’ He grinned.

  ‘If I’d had an affair with Elk, would you sit next to him at dinner?’

  Skins laughed. ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Hardly. But do you see what I mean? It doesn’t make sense. They’ve been almost pally.’

  ‘I think you’re seeing stuff that isn’t there. We don’t know whether they were friends before. Maybe they got past the whole furgling thing.’

  ‘I still think it’s suspicious.’

  The mood was fully relaxed now, and there was a lot of movement as people nipped discreetly out and returned a few minutes later looking a great deal more comfortable.

  Mickey was clearly enjoying himself and seemed worried that the party might break up.

  ‘Anyone else for a turn on the old Joanna?’ he called. ‘What about you, Mrs M? You play lovely – we’ve heard you.’

  Ellie put down her gin and stood up. ‘Well, if you insist.’ She walked slightly unsteadily to the piano and sat down, swaying a little. ‘I think someone put something in my drink.’

  This got the laugh she’d been hoping for.

  ‘Now, what can I play for you lovely ladies and gentlemen?’ she said. ‘Something from the Old Country? I can do you “Yankee Doodle”? “Home on the Range”? Oh, who knows “Camptown Races”?’ She played a few bars. ‘No, wait, I’ve got it. “He’d Have to Get Under”. Help me out, boys and girls.’

  She launched into the intro and Puddle dutifully joined in with the opening verse in her beautiful contralto voice. By the time they reached the chorus, the whole room was singing about how poor Johnny O’Connor had to get out and get under to fix up his little machine.

  The mood was extremely jolly by now, and Ellie no longer had to feign drunkenness to keep them on her side. She had decided to accept the oddly cheerful mood as some sort of defence against the horrors of the weekend and had thrown herself enthusiastically into a selection of popular tunes which made the mood jollier still.

  After a particularly spirited rendition of ‘McNamara’s Band’, she spotted Malcolm returning to the room, having been the latest one to be absent for a couple of minutes.

  Howard noticed him. ‘You’ve been terribly quiet so far, Uncle M,’ he said. ‘Come on. Do your party piece. You know you want to.’

  Malcolm grinned. ‘My party piece, you say?’ he said loudly.

  ‘Yes,’ chorused the family.

  ‘I should give you a little song, d’you think?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle Malcs,’ said Veronica. ‘Do the song.’

  The other Bilvertons joined in. ‘Sing the song.’

  With a theatrical flourish, Malcolm approached Ellie at the piano.

  ‘Do you know “Modern Major General”?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I think Puddle’s your girl for Gilbert and Sullivan,’ she said. ‘Puddle, honey, can we prevail upon you for your D’Oyly Carte expertise?’

  Puddle resumed her seat at the piano, and after a brief consultation with the singer, began to play.

  The Bilvertons were giggling and nudging each other, and Ellie was wondering what the gag might be. But as soon as Malcolm opened his mouth, she knew.

  He was awful. Truly, ear-shatteringly, teeth-grindingly dreadful. He had the words down pat, and the performance was gleefully exuberant, but he was entirely unable to get anywhere even close to the melody.

  The Bilvertons were in fits. Malcolm, meanwhile, pretended not to understand what all the fuss was about and continued to bellow tunelessly.

  He finished to rapturous applause from the family and the band, but instead of sitting back down, went straight into an equally terrible rendition of ‘Tit Willow’.

  By the time he’d finished, Howard and Veronica were wiping their eyes.

  Gordon stood up and raised his hands for silence. ‘On that note—’

  ‘Which note?’ called Howard. ‘He didn’t hit a single one.’

  ‘On those many delightful notes,’ continued Gordon, ‘I think it’s about time I turned in. Goodnight, everyone.’

  He left.

  ‘I’d quite like to call it a night,’ said Ellie. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Skins. ‘I’ll join you. Any of you lot coming?’

  ‘Oh, don’t go,’ said Malcolm. ‘The party’s just getting started.’

  ‘I’ll stay up for a bit,’ said Elk.

  ‘Me too,’ said Vera.

  ‘I’ll keep you all company,’ said Dunn.

  ‘Well, if they’re staying,’ said Puddle, ‘it would be rude to leave them without a decent pianist.’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ said Malcolm eagerly. ‘Let the old fuddy-duddies take to their beds. We’ll party till dawn.’

  Ellie and Skins, though, set off towards the second floor and a more comfortable night’s sleep.

  They only had to climb up two floors, but the journey seemed much longer at the end of the day. Skins was used to late nights, but the increasingly alarming circumstances surrounding their stay at Bilverton House were making him wearier than usual.

  As they plodded along the first-floor gallery, it belatedly occurred to him that they had no idea where they were going.

  ‘How will we know which is our room?’ he said. ‘We’ve not even been up there.’

  ‘If the worst comes to the worst, we can just try every door until we find our bags. It’s not like we’re going to be disturbing anyone – they’re all downstairs singing.’

  They arrived at the top of the stairs and looked out on to the second-floor landing. The carpet running along the centre of the corridor was the same as on the floor below, and the walls were painted the same shade of pale green. There was no view down into the hall, though, just a wall hung with more paintings.

  There was something else pinned to the wall opposite the staircase. In what they presumed was Veronica’s neat hand, it said, ‘Dizzy Heights Luxury Accommodation – This Way’. Underneath was a list of the band members’ names with arrows indicating the quickest route to their rooms.

  They turned to the left and found the door labelled ‘Mr and Mrs Maloney’ at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Isn’t John and Marianne’s room below us?’ asked Skins.

  Ellie turned the handle. ‘Yes. Looks like we got the luxury suite.’

  They went inside.

  As with the rest of the house, the furniture was old but not shabby. Skins surprised himself by recognizing its style.

  ‘Nice Georgian furniture,’ he said. ‘Must be worth a few bob.’

  Ellie was no less surprised. ‘How on earth do you know that?’

  ‘My Uncle Billy had a junk shop. See all that dark wood? Walnut, that is. And look at the elegant curves. The marquetry inlays on that chest of drawers. Typical Georgian. And see that sofa down the end – all spindly legs and high arms? Definitely made for looking at, not for sitting on.’

  Ellie smiled. ‘You have hidden depths, Ivor Maloney.’

  ‘This bed is a bit of all right, though.’

  He flopped down on to the huge bed. Its sturdy wooden frame was of the same dark wood as the chest of drawers, with the same skilful inlays.

  ‘I’m disappointed by Veronica’s flimsy story about the priest hole,’ said Ellie as they settled into bed in the darkness. ‘I honestly thought that would explain John’s murder.’

  ‘She said she’s never searched the study, though. There might be one there. I’m still going to look for it.’

  ‘Of course you are, honey. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.’

  He smiled in the darkness and the faint clicking sound of his lips moving against his teeth made Ellie smile, too.

  ‘You know I can’t see you smiling, right?’ she said.

  ‘But you know me well enough to know I am.’

  ‘I do. Malcolm is a hoot, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not half. I would have put money on a bloke so obsessed with music being able to at least sing in tune. I don’t know where he gets his confidence from.’

  ‘It’s a class thing, I bet. Don’t they teach that sort of thing at your public schools?’

  ‘Confidence? No idea. Probably. The officers I met were never short of it. Some you wouldn’t trust to lace up their own boots, but they’d arse it up with such confidence they’d make you think you were the stupid one.’

  ‘And what were Charlotte and Marianne doing?’

  ‘Chatting.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Ells-Bells?’

  ‘Yes, honey.’

  ‘Go to sleep.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Monday, 29 June 1925

  Skins woke to the rattling of a teacup on its saucer.

  ‘Rise and shine, little drummer boy,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Blimey, Ells. You made me tea? That’s lovely of you.’

  ‘I’d like to take the credit, but I wandered down to the kitchens and once they’d got over the shock of having a guest in their midst, they made me some tea. The butler guy – Dunsworth – offered to send someone up with it but I stood my ground. Actually I sat my ground. I had what you would have described as “a good old chinwag” at the kitchen table. Mrs Radway, the cook, is lovely. And young Lily the kitchen maid is perfectly charming once she gets past her shyness. And she makes great tea, apparently. She loves jazz. You guys should go say hello.’