Page 2

‘Finally!’ she huffed, dropping the book. ‘I was under the impression that boiling an egg was a quick job, but apparently you’re rearing the chicken by hand and fetching the water from fucking Spain.’

I winced. Despite being engaged as Miss Decima’s servant for over a year, I still hadn’t grown used to the … vocabulary she employed. You’d never expect it, to look at her: she was a refined lady of eighty, with a wicker bath chair and summer bonnet. You’d think she was ready to take tea and talk gladiolas with a vicar. Instead, she had a mind like a steel trap and a mouth like a sailor being bitten by a dog.

‘You could learn some patience, Miss Decima,’ I muttered, setting down the tray. ‘I’ve only the one set of hands.’

I shifted aside her previous evening’s work. Unlike other refined ladies, Miss Decima didn’t sleep in a bed: she worked, ate and slept in her study, sitting up in her bath chair. After forty years of living in a tiny nursery in the corner of the same country mansion that she grew up in, it was what she was used to. Discomfort is the cater-cousin of brilliance, she often said, which I am willing to admit I did not understand on several levels.

‘And you can stop shouting like that, too,’ I said. ‘It’s not fair on the neighbours. We’re not in Cornwall any more – there are people living on every side of us here, and they don’t need to hear you going on about your blessed egg.’ I handed over the newspaper. ‘There! Looks like we’re in for another scorcher today – near eighty in the shade, if you can believe that. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some important dusting that I need to –’

She tossed the paper to one side. ‘Not so fast! It’s time for your training.’

My heart sank. She never forgets anything, Miss Decima. ‘Can we take a day off from that?’

She glared at me imperiously. ‘Crime does not take days off, Stephen! Ergo, neither do you. Tell me what you have noticed this morning, please. Every last detail.’

I groaned. ‘There was nothing to notice! I was barely awake for two minutes before you started going on about your egg –’

‘There are always details to be found, no matter how small,’ she insisted. ‘A detective agency thrives on them: within them lies, more often than not, the answer to the entire mystery.’ She thinned her eyes. ‘You should know that better than anyone.’

I blushed. She was referring to the unfortunate incident last May, when her nephew was murdered with a crossbow and we spent a week trying to work out who did it, before it turned out I’d forgotten to mention a single detail that was the key to how it had all been done. ‘That was a mistake.’

‘It was a fucking disaster,’ she corrected. ‘Hence the need for your training. You have proved yourself to be a capable young man, with a keen eye and a reasonably sharp mind, but you’re still somewhat rough around the edges. I consider it my responsibility to buff those edges until they shine.’

I glowed. She knew how I felt about polishing. ‘That’s kind of you, Miss Decima.’

‘Quite. Now stop stalling and tell me what you’ve noticed.’

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. You have to pick your battles with Miss Decima, but it had been getting harder to do that recently. I’d never known her to be so argumentative, so rude, so short-tempered. What’s more, it was getting worse and worse.

‘The milk-cart’s late,’ I began. ‘Two days in a row. The heat must be getting to the horses.’

She turned to her egg. ‘A reasonable deduction. Carry on.’

I ran back through the morning. ‘Er … there’s red and white and blue bunting hanging from the street lamps. Someone must have put it up overnight, for the coronation.’

‘You don’t say,’ she said, tapping her egg with a spoon. ‘Continue.’

I racked my brains. ‘There was a dead pigeon on the pavement beneath my window. And a new beggar out front, by the railings.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Well, his feathers had –’

‘The beggar, Stephen.’

I frowned. ‘I only saw him for two seconds.’

‘And?’

I groaned. ‘Er … well, his beard had some grey in it. He’d be in his fifties or sixties. He probably arrived yesterday. The police must be moving them all on from Westminster, before the coronation ceremony, so he spent the night in the park, where he’s least likely to be spotted. That was why he was wearing an old hat and had a tartan blanket over his shoulders, even though it’s so hot out.’

Miss Decima hacked off the top of her egg with triumph. ‘Nothing to notice, eh?’

I hated it when she was right. The worst part is that she’s always right.

The doorbell rang. I stood frozen for a moment, baffled. It was the weekend – it was barely half past six in the morning. Who on earth would be visiting Miss Decima at a time like that?

Then, with a heart full of dread, I realized what day it was. The third Saturday of the month. Which meant that I was about to make twenty-seven cups of tea.