‘Is there no end to your sartorial expertise?’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.

  ‘Tailor, cobbler, and all-round clever boots,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Or possibly cordwainer,’ I said.

  ‘Quite so, dear, quite so,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  Lady Farley-Stroud still looked puzzled.

  ‘Cobblers mend shoes,’ explained Lady Hardcastle. ‘Cordwainers make them.’

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Every meeting with you two is an education.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to match the print to the shoe if we should ever find a suspect,’ I said. ‘There.’ I pointed to a triangular notch in the print, near the toe.

  ‘He couldn’t have done better if he’d signed it,’ agreed Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ll have your niece’s pendant back in no time at this rate, Gertie. We’ll just need a bit of thinking time, and maybe some snooping. And food, definitely food.’

  Lady Farley-Stroud turned to look at the clock on the mantel.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said. ‘Food. We’d best get back downstairs. Cook will be all on end if we delay her Christmas lunch.’

  We hurried down to the library, where the household guests were already assembled for preprandial drinks. Somewhere along the way we lost Lady Hardcastle without either Lady Farley-Stroud or me noticing. She joined us again after a short while and gave the secret ‘I’ll tell you later’ signal in response to my questioningly raised eyebrow.

  * * *

  The champagne was perfectly chilled and the company seasonably merry. As on the previous evening, Mr Goodheart and Sir Edward were the self-appointed Masters of Mirth. They kept everyone’s glasses topped up and were ready with a quip or a snippet of song whenever anyone appeared to be taking themselves too seriously.

  The four children had been invited to lunch, too, but they needed no encouragement from the Mirthmeisters. They were boisterously excited and I was worried that they might be sent back upstairs on more than one occasion. There was also an addition to the family group whom we had not met on Christmas Eve. Cradled in Henrietta Beaufort’s arms was a baby of indeterminate gender, dressed in a white gown decorated with embroidered holly leaves.

  Mrs Beaufort approached us.

  ‘Aunt Gertie tells me that you’re going to be looking into the burglary for me,’ she said. ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I do so want to get the pendant back, but involving the police would bring exactly the wrong sort of publicity for Cornelius. Gertie never stops singing your praises. I’m so glad you’re on our side.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’re only too happy to help. And we always love a puzzle.’

  The younger woman smiled warmly.

  ‘And who’s this little chap?’ asked Lady Hardcastle, indicating the infant. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’

  ‘This is Prudence Charlotte Tessingham Beryl Beaufort,’ said the mother, proudly.

  ‘Tessingham is a family name, I presume,’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘Yes. Worst luck. By some peculiar tradition that was once explained to me but which I have long since ceased to understand, the third child born to a member of Cornelius’s family must face a hostile and bewildering world with “Tessingham” as one of its middle names. Her future husband will stumble over it at the altar, of course, but she’ll be pressured into saddling her own third-born with it in due course, nevertheless.’

  ‘I confess I rather enjoy that sort of thing,’ said Lady Hardcastle with a smile. She held out her arms. ‘May I?’

  Mrs Beaufort handed her the baby, who immediately began to howl in protest.

  ‘It was worth a go,’ said Mrs Beaufort, taking her back and quietening her immediately. ‘Don’t take it personally; she always cries whenever a stranger so much as brushes against her. Cornelius insists it’s an important primitive survival instinct – keeps a baby from being abducted by evildoers from the neighbouring tribe or some such tommyrot – but I just think it’s rude.’ She kissed the baby’s forehead. ‘You’re a rude one, Baby Pru, aren’t you? Standoffish and rude. Yes, you are.’

  The gong sounded from the hall, calling us into the dining room for lunch.

  ‘I’d better get this one back to Nanny,’ said Mrs Beaufort. ‘Don’t let them eat all the roast potatoes.’

  Still clutching our champagne glasses, we strolled through to the dining room in an informal gaggle. I paused in the hall for a few moments to admire the enormous Christmas tree which had appeared there overnight. It stood easily twelve feet tall and was bedecked with so many ribbons, glittering glass baubles, ornaments and garlands of tinsel that it was hard to tell, in some places, that there was a tree there at all.

  We found our places at table and settled down to a sumptuous feast. The oak-panelled room was festooned with yet more greenery, ribbons, tinsel and baubles, while an enormous holly centrepiece dominated the table.

  Mrs Beaufort slipped back in before the soup arrived, but even had she been detained until after the main course was served, she needn’t have worried about a shortage of roast potatoes. Or of anything at all. Over the next two hours there was enough soup, fish, turkey, beef, roast potatoes, boiled potatoes and vegetables to keep us all well-fed far beyond Easter. The arrival of mince pies and Christmas pudding brought groans from the already overfull company, but no one refused a helping of one or other – or both – of them. Only the cheese board escaped relatively unscathed, although the accompanying port decanter took a bit of a bashing.

  The adults sat quietly contemplating the consequences of gluttony, either longing for a quiet nap or, in the case of the ladies, wishing it were possible to discreetly loosen a corset while sitting at the dining table. Meanwhile, however, there came a mutinous murmuring from the children. The tradition in the Farley-Stroud household was for gifts to be exchanged immediately after lunch, and it seemed that this wasn’t happening immediately enough for Humphrey, the group’s self-appointed leader.

  ‘Father Christmas worked hard last night to bring presents for all the good boys and girls,’ he said, loudly, when his mother tried to shush him. ‘And I think that the least we can do is to show our appreciation by opening them.’

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed his elder sister.

  ‘Presents, presents, presents,’ chanted the two remaining Beaufort children.

  ‘He’ll be taking silk like his father, that one,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Come on then, you lot. Back to the library with you. Let’s see what Father Christmas has brought us all.’

  THREE

  We stayed through the gift-giving. We had already wrapped presents for Sir Hector and Lady Farley-Stroud, but Lady Hardcastle had also somehow managed to buy, wrap and deliver gifts for the rest of the family, too. I was going to have to look out for my job if she were able to organize that sort of thing without me.

  But by the time Lady Farley-Stroud began mumbling about how lovely it would be to have some of that cold beef in a sandwich – or perhaps the turkey – we simultaneously gave the secret ‘it’s time to leave’ signal and began saying our goodbyes.

  With Sir Hector’s blessing, I went below stairs to wish my pal Maude Denton, Lady Farley-Stroud’s lady’s maid, a merry Christmas. I extended the season’s greetings to anyone I bumped into, and made an effort to pop my head into the kitchen. Rose, the kitchen maid, smiled and nodded before getting back to washing the pots and pans. Mrs Brown, the Farley-Strouds’ ill-tempered cook, bustled over to us and I feared I had earned poor Rose a ticking off for slacking. Instead, she wrapped me in a warm and matronly hug.

  ‘A very merry Christmas to you, m’dear,’ she slurred. She was a great deal more agreeable with a few festive sherries inside her. ‘I don’t say nearly as often as I should what a fine, fine woman you are. All best wishes for the new year, too.’ She swayed slightly. ‘Here,’ she said in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Come over here. Come on.’

  She beckoned me over to one of the huge pantries and huffed her way inside. She emerged a moment later with a cloth-covered basket.

  ‘Shhhh,’ she said as she lifted the cloth to reveal at least a dozen mince pies. She replaced the cloth and tapped the side of her nose.

  ‘Mum’s the word,’ I said.

  I thanked her and said my goodbyes, but not before I’d been treated to yet another hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  We turned down the offer of a lift down the hill. This was partly because we felt a desperate need to walk off the after-effects of the enormous lunch, but mostly because Bert was in no condition to drive us. I had last seen him snoring in a wing-backed chair below stairs, with three empty beer bottles on the table beside him.

  The sun was setting as we let ourselves back into the house and I put the kettle on for tea.

  ‘You know,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she settled into a kitchen chair, ‘I think I probably could force at least one of those mince pies down.’

  ‘I’m so glad you said that,’ I said. ‘I was thinking exactly the same but I didn’t want to appear swinish.’

  ‘We shall be little piggies together,’ she said.

  I set down the teapot and flopped into the chair opposite her.

  ‘Oink,’ I said, and poured two cups of tea.

  ‘What do you make of this pendant business?’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not the oddest thing we’ve encountered,’ I said. ‘But it would definitely get an honourable mention.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so.’

  ‘I presume you went to look at the flowerbed when you disappeared just before lunch,’ I said.

  ‘I did indeed. It’s a beautifully tended bed save for a set of very clear, very obvious footprints which lead, exactly as predicted, from the grass to the water butt. There are marks on the lid, too, as well as a couple on the wall where he took his first few steps.’

  ‘If I understand correctly, then,’ I began, ‘a well-dressed gentleman wearing a dark blue worsted suit and dress shoes made his way unseen to the rear of The Grange at dead of night on Christmas Eve. Sir Hector’s insane springer spaniels weren’t alerted, nor were any of the household. The thief crossed a flowerbed, leaving very obvious footprints and shinned up a drainpipe to a first-floor window. The window was unsnibbed, meaning that he was able to lift the sash and enter the room – again without waking anyone, not even the occupant of the room. He left a footprint on the windowsill and a thread from his suit on the frame, as well as a sprinkling of ash at the edge of the carpet. He went straight to the bedside table and took a pearl pendant from a jewellery case there.’

  ‘And that’s all,’ she said. ‘He disturbed nothing else as far as we know and nothing else is reported as missing. The pendant must have been his target, and somehow he knew exactly where it was.’

  ‘It’s an inside job, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t imagine it being anything else,’ she said. ‘Pass the mince pies.’

  * * *

  Boxing Day morning followed much the same pattern as Christmas Day. The duck eggs needed to be eaten and the loaf was on its last legs, so toast was the only reasonable option there. I briefly contemplated baking a fresh one for later, but I wasn’t sure we’d have the time – we were expected back at The Grange, after all.

  So we enjoyed the same companionable breakfast as before, but this time without presents.

  ‘I wasn’t sure I was ever going to eat again after yesterday’s blowout,’ said Lady Hardcastle as she set to work on her second egg. ‘But it’s just made me even hungrier.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘I confess I looked at the tray on my way up and wondered if there was enough food for us both.’

  ‘We oughtn’t to overdo it, though. It’s likely that Gertie will want to push the boat out again today, even if it’s just so that nothing goes to waste. I think she’d rather see one or more of us burst than let any food spoil for want of eating.’

  ‘It’s the villagers’ bean-feast today, though,’ I said. ‘We can let them carry the burden.’

  She laughed. ‘Listen to us talking about being well fed as if it were a burden. We should be thankful for the bounty. There are still many who go without.’

  ‘There are,’ I agreed. ‘And I’ll stand beside anyone fighting to make it so that we never have to say that again. But for now my tummy aches at the mere thought of another spread like yesterday’s.’

  ‘You could always exercise a little restraint, dear.’

  ‘I could, but we both know that neither of us shall. Our only hope is tying our stays a little looser than fashion demands, and hoping they’ll contain the blast if we do explode.’

  ‘Best foot forward, then,’ she said. ‘And let’s not forget that we need to keep our eyes open today. You know, I’m not certain how best to proceed with the pendant investigation. Ordinarily we’d be free to draw people to one side and ask them a few searching questions, but I don’t think that option is open to us this time. I have no idea who knows what’s going on, nor who is supposed to know.’

  ‘That’s a bit peculiar, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know what to make of Lady Farley-Stroud’s pleas for discretion. Would news of a burglar pinching his wife’s necklace really scupper Cornelius Beaufort’s banking career?’

  ‘I wondered about that, too. Sometimes we just have to take these things at face value, though. If Gertie says it’s so, let’s proceed as though it is. I know nothing of the arcane world of the City of London. People make up stories about sinister secret societies controlling our lives – shady, seldom-glimpsed cabals of the rich and powerful. But the City is an honest-to-goodness secret society hiding in plain sight. Who knows what might constitute a scandal in their eyes?’

  ‘Who indeed?’ I said. ‘And speaking of an arcane world of mysterious traditions, is there a Boxing Day hunt in these parts?’

  ‘There’ll be one at Berkeley, I think, and Hector and Gertie used to join it, but they’re past all that sort of energetic caper now. They don’t even keep horses these days.’

  ‘A shoot, then?’

  ‘Again, Hector used to organize one. Quite a grand one by all accounts. But his eyesight’s not what it was and Gertie says he knocked it on the head before he hurt someone. I think that’s why they make such a fuss of the bean-feast – it’s the only tradition they can uphold.’

  ‘The local pheasants and the local peasants can both rejoice,’ I said.

  ‘Just so. But enough distraction – we must gird ourselves for the fray and sally forth. There’s no shooting, but I think we should dress for the outdoors nevertheless.’

  I tidied away the breakfast tray and we were ready to leave within the hour.

  * * *

  Lady Hardcastle’s instinct had been correct. When we arrived at The Grange, we found the family dressed in tweeds and stout boots as though ready for the non-existent shoot. They met us on the drive, where they stood sipping spirits from pewter cups.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Emily,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘We were beginning to worry that you might not be here in time.’

  ‘In time for what, dear?’ said Lady Hardcastle.

  ‘In time to greet the villagers,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘It’s something Hector dreamed up last year. He says he misses the hunt, but most of all he misses milling about with old chums and taking a nip of something warming before setting off. So he insists we all come out here and stand about in the cold with our stirrup cups to welcome the estate workers and villagers. Of course, we’d prefer to greet them in the hall, and they’d prefer to be in the warm, too, but it keeps the old boy happy so we’ve just accepted it.’

  ‘I think it sounds charming,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It feels like an ancient tradition even if it’s just an idea he had last Christmas.’

  ‘You’re right, m’dear, as always. No one complained. Apart from me. And who listens to me?’

  In truth, everyone listened to Lady Farley-Stroud. No one was in any doubt about who controlled life at The Grange, and there were few in the area who would attempt to thwart her will on anything. It might have been Sir Hector’s idea, but we wouldn’t have been out there if Lady Farley-Stroud didn’t secretly approve.

  I expected the villagers to arrive in dribs and drabs, straggling in over a period of perhaps half an hour. I was very wrong.

  We’d just accepted our scotch-filled cups when I began to perceive a growing sound, coming from the direction of the road. As it grew, it formed a more coherent shape, and I soon realized it was the sound of a large group of people singing ‘God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen’ at the top of their lungs. By the time they reached the drive they were exhorting us to ‘Deck the Halls’. It was a sight too ambitious for such a large group, with only the waving of the vicar’s walking stick to keep them in time, and the fa-la-las were a shambles.

  It was a merry shambles, nevertheless, and they cheered as Sir Hector welcomed them and offered them each a glass of beer from a barrel set on a trestle stand beside the door.

  Daisy soon found me.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said as she put her arm across my shoulder in a half-embrace. The other arm, of course, was attached to the hand that held her beer and was unavailable for hugging.

  ‘Nadolig Llawen to you, too, fach,’ I said.

  She harrumphed, as she always did, at my use of Welsh. ‘And to you, as well, Lady H,’ she continued, raising her glass.

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘How has 1909 treated you?’

  ‘A sight more exciting than usual,’ said Daisy, ‘thanks to you. We’ve had people collapsin’ into pies, séances, stolen trophies, a cart race down the big hill, a moving-picture show that played out in real life . . . and all of it because of you.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘That makes me sound awful.’