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‘Just the six of us,’ he said, squeezing in beside me. ‘Come on, make some room!’

I had to stand up to let him in, and by the time I’d sat back down Mr Benson was gone. I looked through the front windows just in time to see the top of his head sail away above the frosted glass.

‘Right! What we playing?’ said the footman, shuffling some cards. ‘Rummy?’

‘We need four to make it worth it,’ said the man next to me.

‘We’ve got four!’ said the footman, clapping me on the back. ‘Stuart’s playing.’

I glanced at Peter, who was attempting to talk to some valets about national insurance contributions while they set up a game of tiddlywinks. ‘I should really talk to –’

‘What say we make things a little bit interesting?’ said the man beside me. ‘Best of three rounds. Winner gets the drinks!’

‘And some scratchings, too, I’m starving.’

‘You’re on!’ said the footman, dealing out the cards. ‘Tell you what, this union idea might not be so bad, eh?’

I looked down at the pint I wasn’t supposed to be drinking, and at the cards I wasn’t supposed to be playing. I should have been questioning Peter, like Miss Decima had asked. I should have been following Mr Benson to find out what had happened on Saturday. I should have been solving a murder.

But the truth was, for the first time in months, I was actually enjoying myself. Miss Decima didn’t need me home for another six hours. Peter could wait; so could Mr Benson. I picked up my glass and took a long, deep swig.

‘Go on, then,’ I said. ‘Count me in.’

19

Sunday, 18 June, 11.46 p.m.

I was still enjoying myself five hours later.

‘Thing is,’ said Derek, staggering into the table with four sloshing pints – great lad, Derek – ‘they’re bored old spinsters with nothing better to do.’

We’d been talking about the murder for the last three hours. Servants love gossip. Not sure if I’ve mentioned that.

‘You saw ’em on that march!’ said Derek, slamming a new pint next to my half-empty one. ‘No jobs, all the time in the world. What have they got to complain about, eh? It’s just kicking up a fuss for –’ He took a swig from his glass and grimaced. ‘Christ, that’s not mine. Whose is this?’

Walt – great lad, Walt – frowned. ‘I thought this was my round.’

‘That’s your round. I’m with these two here.’

‘I thought it was Stuart’s round.’

‘Stuart’s in my round.’

I’d somehow found myself in three different rounds. The pub was supposed to shut at ten o’clock but the barman had agreed to a lock-in. ‘My name’s Stephen,’ I said.

Derek glared at his glass. ‘Well, whatever this is, it’s not mine. It’s … some kind of apples.’

‘If it’s cloudy, it’s scrumpy.’

‘I think that’s just the glass.’

‘Stuart! What you having?’

Someone hit me. I had no idea what his name was, but I was pretty sure he was a great lad. ‘I’m grand, thanks,’ I said, pointing at my two drinks.

‘What?’

‘I said I’m grand.’