Better still, James had a big networking event, which I was required to attend alongside him, and knowing how much he loved my dressmaking skills, I set to with the sewing machine.
I made an evening dress from old velour tracksuits and made sure we were running late when we left, so that he didn’t have time to scrutinize my outfit beforehand. When we arrived at the venue and I took off my expensive, shop-bought coat to reveal the creation beneath it, his jaw nearly hit the floor, for all the wrong reasons.
“Did you make that yourself?” he hissed and I smiled what I hoped was a mysterious smile. Then I sailed off into the crowd, where, actually, my dress was greeted with:
“What a unique dress.”
“Is it custom made?”
“Is this velvet?” followed by, “Oh, no.”
“Very sustainable.”
And “How thrifty.” “Thrifty” being to James as kryptonite is to Superman.
“Do you recognize this?” I asked one evening, pulling at the lapels of the loose waistcoat I was wearing over a patchwork blouse. He shook his head. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Look carefully.”
Then I told him it was made out of his own favorite green T-shirt. I didn’t follow him as he ran off to look, because I knew what he would find: I spoke the truth.
Chapter Eighteen
On Monday morning I waited for Mrs. Billings in vain, standing by the kettle, teabags at the ready, expecting to hear the crunch of Mr. B’s van on the gravel at any moment. When she was more than half an hour late, I went up to the top floor, looking out of the windows for any sign of her. There was none, but what I did see was a bright pink head bobbing around in the fields: Emma Beddoe, no doubt looking for something scandalous to put in her article. I didn’t care, she wouldn’t find anything there. Those fields were part of the east farm, tenanted by the Tate family, and I hadn’t been near them for years. She was wearing a purple T-shirt, and it was as dire as all her other outfits.
Just as I was starting to worry about Mrs. B, my phone rang and I learned that there was, indeed, something to be worried about.
“Lady Langley, it’s Eric Billings,” the voice at the other end said. “Brenda and I won’t be in today. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of trouble.”
“Is Mrs. B alright?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Well, she’s not been taken poorly, if that’s what you mean. The thing is, we had the police here this morning, wanting to ask her a few things. She’s gone down to the station. I’m going to go down and wait for her.”
The phone! They’d tracked it back to her. To us. Then I remembered all the kleptomania; maybe it had caught up with her. Decades of stealing must have racked up quite a long list of crimes. But the phone seemed more likely.
“I’ll get James to get her a solicitor,” I said, remembering her own advice to me. “Tell her not to say anything until they get there.” It may well be an untrustworthy solicitor that he sent, but this affected both of us, so James would probably tell him to do a decent job.
“Well, she’s there now. I can’t really tell her anything,” Mr. B said.
“I’ll tell him it’s urgent.”
The news had put me into such a dither, my fingers fumbled as I tried to call James; we needed a solicitor fast, before that chatterbox overcame her nerves and started talking. I wondered again if I should have polished Mrs. B off when I had the chance. Had I hesitated too long and sealed my fate?
“What now?” James said, as he answered the phone.
The solicitor was soon sorted after that, and I made myself a cup of tea.
***
Mrs. B was back at work on Thursday.
“Lord James got me a state-of-the-art solicitor,” she said proudly, dunking her custard cream into her tea. “I’ll have to thank him for that.”
“What did they ask you?”
Mrs. B looked pensive. She took another biscuit and dunked for so long that some of it broke off and sank to the bottom of the cup, and I gagged slightly.
“I’m not allowed to divulge information about an ongoing inquiry,” she said in the end.
“You told them that?”
