9780141369792 by Smakprov Media AB

A MURDER

MOST UNLADYLIKE MYSTERY

The Ministry of Unladylike Activity mysteries:

the ministry of unladylike activity

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Murder Most Unladylike mysteries:

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Tuck-box-sized mysteries:

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The Ministry of Unladylike Activity mysteries: the ministry of unladylike activity the body in the blitz

Based on an idea and characters by Siobhan Dowd: the guggenheim mystery

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The Ministry of Unladylike Activity:

Based on an idea and characters by Siobhan Dowd: the guggenheim mystery

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Tuck-box-sized mysteries: cream buns and crime once upon a crime

The Detective Society Presents: THE MOST UNLADYLIKE PUZZLE BOOK

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Murder Most Unladylike mysteries: murder most unladylike

Based on an idea and characters by Siobhan Dowd: the guggenheim mystery

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a spoonful of murder

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A MURDER

MOST UNLADYLIKE MYSTERY

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First published by Corgi Books 2015

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Published by Puffin Books 2016

First published by Corgi Books 2015

Published by Puffin Books 2016

This edition reissued 2019

Published by Puffin Books 2016

This edition reissued 2019

Cover, map and illustrations © Nina Tara, 2015

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First published by Corgi Books 2015

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Cover, map and illustrations © Nina Tara, 2015

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To Boadie and the MBs, with thanks for years of kindness and friendship – and for giving Daisy her house.

I ntroduction

I think, for a lot of aspiring authors, being published is the end of the fantasy. You struggle for years to find a home for the world and characters you adore, and then one day you get the phone call you’ve been dreaming of. Someone wants to publish the story you wrote. You agree, the book gets printed, you see it in a shop, readers queue up to buy it, and you have your happily ever after. Roll credits. The story’s over.

But when you are actually published, that’s not really the end. Instead, something else happens – something much more confusing. You have to live your dream. And, as part of that dream, you have to write another book. Except this time you have to do it on a very short deadline.

It took me four years to write and rewrite Murder Most Unladylike. I had less than a year to write the book that was going to end up being called Arsenic for Tea. At the time I was living in Cambridge and commuting to London every day for my editorial assistant job. So I wrote on the train.

I wrote crammed in next to people in suits writing quarterly reports. I wrote on the floor when I couldn’t get a seat. Sometimes I wrote in the luggage rack. I wrote so I could pretend I wasn’t sitting on a train, near a toilet, with someone’s boots on the hem of my coat. I wrote so I didn’t have to focus on what was happening in my real life.

My dad was very sick, in 2014, with an illness that no one was able to diagnose. I knew there was something eerily wrong – it felt like he was slipping, but doctors kept insisting that there was nothing to worry about. So I wrote a loving, childish, potentially dangerously forgetful father into the story I was telling. I don’t often drop real people into my books, at least not without a lot of cover, but I did this time around – Daisy’s father is my father, silly affectations and all. A few years ago someone wrote to me asking whether I intended Daisy’s father to be in the early stages of dementia, which floored me – of course I did, and of course I didn’t. Stories are funny like that.

But all the same, this isn’t a sad book. I filled it with things I love – perhaps concerningly so. Creaky, creepy old English country houses! Deadly afternoon teas! Devastating family secrets! Mazes! Batty old aunts! Arsenic! I drew on some of my favourite country-house murder mysteries (Sad Cypress by Agatha Christie, Death and the Dancing Footman by Ngaio Marsh, Clouds of Witness by Dorothy L. Sayers), and some of my favourite weird old poems. The title is a play on a line from the Rupert Brooke poem ‘The

Old Vicarage, Grantchester’, one of the most triumphantly unsettling odes to English country life ever. I was thinking about it a lot, at the time; every day my train took me through Cambridge (‘Cambridge people rarely smile’), Coton (‘full of nameless crimes’) and Madingley (where ‘things are done you’d not believe’), and the poem would run through my head. Its final line is ‘And is there honey still for tea?’, which became arsenic for tea for the purposes of this book. By the way, for anyone wondering how to say Fallingford, it’s literally pronounced falling -ford – I named it using another line in the poem, ‘The falling house that never falls’. Poor Daisy and Bertie, growing up in a house that’s full of secrets, and metaphorically always about to crumble around their heads.

I am very proud of the plot of Arsenic for Tea – it remains one of the books that people still yell at me about all these years later. I think making anyone upset enough to write a strongly worded email is a real achievement. It published in February 2015, and in its first week it hit the charts. I was on my lunch break, walking through Trafalgar Square, when I found out, and I sat down on the side of the road and cried. That moment was the first time I really knew that my life had changed for ever. So, pour yourself some tea, get out the biscuits and enjoy Daisy and Hazel’s second adventure! Just make sure that’s definitely sugar you’re adding to your cup . . .

Robin Stevens 2025

Beinganaccountof TheCaseofMrCurtis, aninvestigationbytheWellsandWongDetectiveSociety.

WrittenbyHazelWong (DetectiveSocietyVice-PresidentandSecretary),aged13.

Begun Saturday 13th April 1935.

THE WELLS FAMILY

George Wells – Lord Hastings

Margaret Wells (née Mountfitchet) – Lady Hastings

Saskia Wells – Aunt of Lord Hastings

Felix Mountfitchet – Brother of Lady Hastings

Albert ‘Bertie’ Wells – Son of Lord and Lady Hastings

Daisy Wells – Daughter of Lord and Lady Hastings and President of the Detective Society

GUESTS

Hazel Wong – Vice-President and Secretary of the Detective Society

Katherine ‘Kitty’ Freebody

Rebecca ‘Beanie’ Martineau

Denis Curtis – Friend of Lady Hastings

Miss Lucy Alston – Governess to Daisy Wells

Stephen Bampton – School friend of Bertie Wells

STAFF

Chapman – Butler to the Wells family

Mrs Doherty – Cook and housekeeper to the Wells family

Hetty – Maid to the Wells family

DOGS

Toast Dog

Millie

Something dreadful has happened to Mr Curtis.

IamquitesurprisedtorealizethatImind.Ifyouhad askedmethismorningwhatIthoughtofhim,Ishould havetoldyouthatMrCurtiswasnotanicemanatall. But not even the nastiest person deserves this.

Ofcourse,Daisydoesn’tseeitlikethat.Toher, crimesarenotrealthingstobeupsetabout.She isonlyinterestedinthefactthatsomethinghas happened,andshewantstounderstandwhatitmeans. SodoI,ofcourse–Iwouldn’tbeapropermember oftheDetectiveSocietyifIdidn’t–butnomatterhow hard I try, I can’t only think like a detective.

Thefactis,DaisyandIwillbothneedtothinklike detectivesagain.Yousee,justnowweoverheardsomethingquiteawful;somethingthatprovesthatwhat happenedtoMrCurtiswasnotsimplyanaccident,or asuddenillness.Someonedidthistohim,andthat

canonlymeanonething:theDetectiveSocietyhasa brand-new case to investigate.

Daisyhasorderedmetowritewhatwehavefound outsofarintheDetectiveSociety’scasebook.Sheis alwaysonabouttheimportanceoftakingnotes–and alsoverysurethat she shouldnothavetotakethem.

Notesareuptome–IamtheSociety’sSecretary,as wellasitsVice-President,andDaisyisitsPresident.

AlthoughIamjustasgoodadetectiveassheis–I provedthatduringourfirstrealcase,theMurderof MissBell–IamaquitedifferentsortofpersontoDaisy. IlikethinkingaboutthingsbeforeIact,whileDaisy alwayshastogorushingheadoverheelsintothings likeadogafterarabbit,andthatdoesn’tleavemuch timefornote-making.Weareentirelydifferenttolook at,too:Iamdark-hairedandshortandround,and Daisyiswhippet-thinandtall,withgloriousgoldenhair. Butallthesame,wearebestfriends,andanexcellent crime-detecting partnership.

IthinkIhadbetterhurryupandexplainwhathas happened, and who Mr Curtis is.

IsupposeitallbeganwhenIcametoDaisy’shouse, Fallingford, for the Easter holidays and her birthday.

Springtermatourschool,Deepdean,hadbeenquite safeandordinary.Thatwassurprisingaftereverything thathadhappenedtherelastyear–Imeanthemurder, andthentheawfulbusinesswiththeschoolnearly closingdown.Butthespringtermwasquitepeaceful, withoutanyhintofdangerordeath,andIwasveryglad. Themostexcitingcasewehadinvestigatedrecentlywas the Case of the Frog in Kitty’s Bed.

IwasexpectingFallingfordtobejustascalm. Fallingford,forthisnewcasebook,isDaisy’shouse:a properEnglishcountrymansion,withwood-panelled wallsandacresofsprawlinggroundswithamazeand evenanenormousmonkeypuzzletreeinthemiddle ofthefrontdrive.AtfirstIthoughtthetreewasafake, but then I investigated and it is quite real.

Honestly,Fallingfordisjustlikeahouseinabook. Ithasitsownwoodsandlake,foursetsofstairs(Daisy

thinkstheremustbeasecretpassagewaytoo,onlyshe hasneverdiscoveredit)andawalledkitchengarden justashiddenasMaryLennox’sinthebook.Fromthe outsideitisagreatgrandsquareofwarmyellowstone thatpeoplehavebeenbusilyaddingtoforhundreds ofyears;theinsideisamagicboxofroomsandstaircasesandcorridors,allunfoldingandleadingintoeach otherthreewaysatonce.Therearewholeflocksof stuffedbirds(mostespeciallyastuffedowlonthefirstfloorlanding),agrandpiano,severalSpanishchests andevenarealsuitofarmourinthehall.Justlikeat Deepdean,everythingistreatedsocarelessly,andis sooldandbattered,thatittookmeawhiletorealize howvaluableallthesethingsreallyare.Daisy’smother leavesherjewelsaboutonherdressingtable,thedogs aredriedoffaftermuddywalkswithtowelsthatwerea weddingpresenttoDaisy’sgrandmotherfromtheKing, andDaisydog-earsthefirst-editionbooksinthelibrary. NothingisyoungerthanDaisy’sfather,anditmakesmy family’sglossywhitewedding-cakecompoundinHong Kong look as if it is only pretending to be real.

Wearrivedinthefamilycar,drivenbythechauffeur, O’Brian(whoisalsothegardener–unlikeourfamily, theWellsesdon’tseemtohavequiteenoughservants, andIwonderwhetherthisalsohassomethingtodo withthefadingstateofthehouse),onasunnySaturday morning,thesixthofApril.Wecameoutofthelight

intothebigdarkhallway(stone-floored,withthesuit ofarmourloomingoutatyoualarminglyfromthedimness),andChapman,theWellses’oldbutler,wasthere togreetus.Heiswhite-hairedandstooping,andhehas beeninthefamilysolongthatheisbeginningtorun down,justlikethegrandfatherclock.Thetwodogswere theretoo–thelittlespaniel,Millie,bouncingaround Daisy’sknees,andthefatoldyellowLabrador,ToastDog, rockingbackandforthonhisstifflegsandmaking groaningnoisesasthoughhewereill.Chapmanbent downtopickupDaisy’stuckboxwithagroanjustlike ToastDog’s(hereallyisveryold–Ikeptworryingthat hewouldseizeupinthemiddleofsomethinglikearusty toy) and said, ‘Miss Daisy, it’s good to have you home.’

ThenDaisy’sfathercameboundingoutofthelibrary. LordHastings(LordHastings iswhatDaisy’sfather iscalled,althoughhislastnameisWells,likeDaisy–apparently,whenyouaremadealord,youaregiven anextranametoshowhowimportantyouare)hasfat pinkcheeks,afatwhitemoustacheandastomachthat strainsagainsthistweedjackets,butwhenhesmiles,he looks just like Daisy.

‘Daughter!’heshouted,holdingouthisarms. ‘Daughter’s friend! Do I know you?’ Daisy’s father is very forgetful.

‘OfcourseyouknowHazel,Daddy,’saidDaisy, sighing. ‘She came for Christmas.’

‘Hazel!Welcome,welcome.Howareyou? Who are you?Youdon’tlooklikeDaisy’sfriendsusuallydo.Are you English?’

‘She’sfromHongKong,Daddy,’saidDaisy.‘She can’t help it.’

Isqueezedmyfingerstightaroundthehandlesof mytravellingcaseandtriedtokeepsmiling.Iamso usedtobeingatDeepdeannow–andeveryonethereis sousedtome–thatIcansometimesforgetthatI’mdifferent.ButassoonasIleaveschoolIrememberallover again.Thefirsttimepeopleseemetheystareatmeand sometimessaythingsundertheirbreath.Usuallythey saythemoutloud.Iknowitisthewaythingsare,butI wishIwasnottheonlyoneofme–andIwishthatthe me I am did not seem like the wrong sort of me to be.

‘MynameisLordHastings,’saidLordHastings, obviouslytryingtobehelpful,‘butyoumaycallme Daisy’s father, because that is who I am.’

‘Sheknows,Daddy!’saidDaisy.‘Itoldyou,she’sbeen here before.’

‘Well,I’mterriblypleasedyou’rebothherenow,’ saidherfather.‘Comethroughtothelibrary.’He wasbouncingupanddownonhistoes,hischeeksall scrunched up above his moustache.

Daisylookedathimsuspiciously.‘Ifthisisoneof your tricks...’ she said.

‘Oh,comealong,tiresomechild.’Heputouthisarm

andDaisy,grinning,tookitlikealadybeingescortedin to dinner.

LordHastingsledheroutofthehallandintothe library.Ifollowedonbehind.It’swarmerinthere,and theshelvesarelinedwithbatteredandwell-readleather books.Itisoddtocompareittomyfather’slibrary, whereeverythingmatches,andisdustedtwicedailyby oneofthevalets.Fallingfordreallyisasuntidyasthe inside of Daisy’s head.

LordHastingsmotionedDaisyintoafatgreenchair, scatteredwithcushions.Shesatgracefully–andthere was a loud and very rude sound.

LordHastingsroaredwithlaughter.‘Isn’titgood?’ hecried.‘Isawitinthe Boy’sOwnPaper andsentoff for it at once.’

Daisygroaned.‘Daddy,’shesaid,‘youareanawful fool.’

‘Oh,comenow,Daisydearest.It’sanexcellentjoke. Sometimes I wonder whether you are a child at all.’

Daisydrewherselfuptoherfullheight.‘Really, Daddy,’shesaid,‘Ishouldn’tthinkthere’sroomfor another childinthishouse.’Butshewasgrinningagain, and Lord Hastings twinkled back.

‘Now,comealong,Hazel,Ithinkweoughttogoup to our room.’

And off we went.

LordHastingskeptonplayinghumorousjokesall week.‘Daddy,’groanedDaisyasshepickedasplashof fakeinkoffherdinnerplateonTuesday,‘youarean embarrassmenttome.’ButIcouldtell,fromtheway shelookedathimashegiggledintohishandkerchief, thatshedidn’tmeanit.Althoughthecareful,goodshowDaisywasstillinplacewheneverhermotherwas watching,Inoticedthathersecretside,cleverand fiercelyinterestedineverything,keptpoppingout aroundLordHastings–andthat,Iknew,meantsomething.Daisyonlyshowsherrealselftopeopleshetruly likes,andtherearenotmanyofthematall.Atdinner thatday,though,LadyHastingswasthere–andso Daisy was careful to be absolutely proper.

‘Really,George,’snappedLadyHastings,glaringat her husband.

Weallcringedabit.Therewassomethingvery

wrongbetweenLordandLadyHastingsthishols.At ChristmasIhadthoughtDaisy’smotherperfectlynice, ifslightlyvague,butthistimeshewasquitedifferent–allbrittleandangryateverything.Shewasstilljustas tallandblondeandglamorouslybeautifulasshehad beenatChristmas,butnowherbeautywaslikeaporcelainvasethatmustnotbetouched.EverythingLord Hastingsdidseemedtobewrong.Stayinginthehouse withthemwasabitlikebeingstuckinthemiddleof awar,withtroopsoneithersidesendingshellsover ourheads.Iknowallaboutparentsnotspeaking–at homethereareweekswhenmymotherandfathertalk toeachotherthroughme,asthoughI’malivingtelephone–butthisseemedtobesomethingelseentirely. PoorLordHastingsdrooped.Hopefulpresentsofsaggingflowersandsquashedchocolateskeptappearing outsideLadyHastings’room,andthenwerebanished straightdowntothekitchens,whichbegantolook verymuchliketheinsideofahot-house.DaisyandI atemostofthechocolatesforourbunbreaks(Daisy insistedonhavingbunbreaksinthehols,‘inhonourof Deepdean’, and I saw no reason to argue with her).

‘Helovesher,’saidDaisy,munchinganorange cream,‘andsheloveshimtoo,really,onlyshesometimes doesn’t show it. She’ll come round in the end.’

Iwasn’tsosure.LadyHastingsseemedtospendall hertimeeitherlockedawayinherbedroomoronthe

telephoneinthehall,whisperingawayintoitandfalling silent when we came too close.

It was not just Daisy and I who had been turned into hostagesoftherowbetweenherparents.Daisy’sbrother Bertie,whowasinhisfinalyearatEton,washomefor the holidays too.

BertielookedunnervinglylikeDaisy–aDaisy stretchedoutlikeIndiarubberandshornofherhair –butifDaisyfizzedlikearocket,Bertiehummedwith rage.Hewascrossallthetime,andassoonashearrived hebegantocrashaboutthehouse.Hehadapairof brightgreentrousers,anout-of-tuneukulelewhichhe insistedonplayingatoddhoursofthedayandnight (accordingtoDaisyhecouldonlyplaythreesongs, andtheywereallrude),andafriendwhosenamewas Stephen Bampton.

IfeltverygratefulthatStephenwas not acrossperson. Hewasshortandstocky,withsmoothreddishhair,and heseemedgentleandslightlysad.Helookedatmeas thoughIwerea person ratherthanTheOrient,andI liked him at once.

Iwasgladhewasthere,becausethishols,Fallingford feltforeign–orperhapsitremindedmehowforeign I was.Bertiejangledawayonhisukulele,musicallyangry, andLordandLadyHastingsargued,andDaisywent bouncingaroundthehouse,showingmesecrethiding placesandhouse-martinnestsandaswordthathad

belongedtohergreat-grandfather,andIbegantobe hungryformyownHongKonghouse’sglueyheatand fake flower arrangements.

Thelastpersoninthehouse–apartfromthecook andhousekeeper,MrsDoherty,andHettythemaid–wasMissAlston,Daisy’sgoverness.Therewasalwaysa governessintheholidaysatDeepdean,tohelpDaisy withprepandkeepheroutoftrouble–andtohelp LordHastingswriteletters.‘Hegetsmuddledwhenhe triestodoithimself,poordear,’Daisytoldme,byway of explanation.

Thishols,though,dull,droningMissRose,whowe’d hadtosufferatChristmas,hadquiteinexplicably goneaway.‘Withonlythebriefesttelephonecall!’said LadyHastings,ascrossasever.‘Really!’Instead,wehad Miss Alston.

MissAlstonwas,asourDeepdeandormmateKitty wouldhavesaid,afrump.Shewastheveryimageof aspinsterbluestocking:sheworeuglysquareclothes withoutawaist,herhairstoodoutfromherforehead inaheavyclump,andshealwayscarriedanenormous handbaginuglybrownpigskin.Onfirstacquaintance, sheseemedverysafeandverydull,butthatwasmisleading.Themorelessonswehadwithher,themore werealizedthatMissAlstonwasnotdullatall.Shewas interesting.

MissRosehadsimplymarchedusthroughour

Deepdeanpreplikeanarmygeneralwithnotimeto waste,butMissAlstonwasnotlikethatatall.Ifwe wereworkingonaLatintranslationaboutHannibal, shewouldstoptotalkabouthiselephants.Ifwewere learningaboutwater,shetookusoutsidetolookat theclouds.IfwewerereadingaShakespeareplay, sheaskeduswhetherwefeltsorryfortheMacbeths. Isaidyes(thoughtheyshouldn’thavedoneit),and Daisysaidabsolutelynot,ofcourse.‘Explain,’said MissAlston,andforalmosthalfanhourwebothquite forgotthatweweredoingprep,intheholidays,witha governess.

Theoddestthingwasthat,aroundthegrown-ups, MissAlstonwasverydifferent.Shewasperfectlyordinary.Whenshewasn’tbusywithus,shesatwithLord Hastings,draftinghislettersandmakinglistsand orderinghimyo-yosandfakemoustachesfromhis Boy’s Own catalogues.HethoughtMissAlstondeadlydull, justasDaisyandIhadbeforeshebeganteachingus. ‘She doesn’t even laugh at my jokes!’ he complained.

‘Ishouldn’tthink that wasasurprise,’saidDaisy,pattinghimontheheadasifshewerestrokingToastDog. ‘Mummy, where did you find Miss Alston?’

‘Goodness,howshouldIremember?’askedLady Hastings,whowasbusytryingtobrushdoghairoff hercape.‘Theagency,Isuppose.Therewasaletter ...Heavens,Daisy,whymustyoucomplainaboutyour

governesses?YouknowperfectlywellthatIcan’tlook after you.’

‘Quiteobviously,’saidDaisyicily.Iknewwhatlay behindthequestion.DaisywantedtounderstandMiss Alston,andwhatmadehersodifferent–butthere wasnoeasyanswertothat.MissAlstonkeptonbeing privatelyinterestingandpubliclydull,andDaisyandI became more and more curious about her.

LadyHastings,whenshewasnotmysteriouslyonthe telephone,spentallhertimeorganizingDaisy’sbirthdayparty–althoughitwasquiteobviousthattheparty was really going to be Lady Hastings’, not Daisy’s. ‘Achildren’stea!’saidDaisyscornfully.‘Howold does she think I am?’

AtleastDaisyhadbeenallowedtoinviteguests. KittyandBeanie,fromourdormatDeepdean,were comingfortheweekend,whichmademeglad.Being atFallingfordwasmakingmethinkalmostlongingly ofDeepdean’sscratchyblanketsandsmellofwashed clothes and boiled food.

OnFridaymorningwewereinthediningroom, andIwashalfwaythroughapieceoftoast(plumjam fromFallingford’swalledgarden,butterfromitsherd ofcows)whenweheardthegrowlandcrunchofacar on the drive outside.

Daisystoodup,leavingherkipperhalfeaten.‘Kitty!’ shesaid.‘Beanie!’Sheshovedbackherchairandwent rocketingoutintothehall.Ifollowedher,stillchewing andlickingjamoffmystickyfingers,turnedleftthrough thedining-roomdoor–andwentthumpingstraight into her back.

Iyelpedandgrabbedathercardigantostopmyself falling over. ‘Daisy!’ I said. ‘Whatever—’

Daisyhadfrozen,justlikeMilliewitharabbitinher sights. ‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

Icranedroundhertoseewhoshewasspeakingto. There,standinginthearchofthestonedoorway,was aman.Hewasquiteyoungforagrown-up,withwide shouldersandanarrowwaistjustlikeamaninanadvertisement.Hecameintothehall,slouchingfashionably, andIsawthathisfacewasgood-looking,hisdarkhair verysmoothandhissmiletoothpaste-wide.Hedidnot lookatallthesortofmanwhomightbelonginthefront hall of Fallingford House.

ThemanshonehisteethatDaisy.‘Youmustbe Daisy,’ he said. ‘The little birthday girl.’ ‘Yes,’saidDaisy,comingforwardtoshakehishand withherprettiestsmile–thoughIcouldtellthatshewas burningupwithfuryatbeingcalled little –andburning withcuriositytoknowwhothismanwas,andhowhe knewherwhenshehadnevermethim.Daisy,yousee, hates to be at a disadvantage with anyone.

Thenthedining-roomdoorbangedopenagain,and Daisy’s mother appeared behind us.

‘Mummy,’ said Daisy lightly, ‘who is this?’

‘Goodheavens!’criedLadyHastings.Hervoicehad goneveryshrillandhercheekswerepink.‘Howlovely! Iwasn’texpectingyouuntillater,Denis.Daisydear,this ismyfriendDenisCurtis.He’shereforyourparty.Be nice to him.’

‘I always am,’saidDaisy,beamingupatMrCurtis, and I knew that inside she was absolutely seething.

‘YourmummyandIare very goodfriends,’saidMr Curtis,whoseemedtobeundertheimpressionthatwe were seven.

‘Denisis tremendously clever,’saidLadyHastings, battingatMrCurtis’sarmwithherfingers.‘He’sin antiques,youknow.Heknowsallaboutbeautifulthings. He’sgoingtolookatsomeofthethingsatFallingford this weekend. But ... Daisy, I want all this to be a lovely surprise for your father. You mustn’t tell him.’

Despiteherself,Daisy’seyesnarrowed.‘Really?’she asked.

‘Yes!’LadyHastings’voicewasshrillerthanever. ‘Youknowhowsentimentalhecanbe.Butjustthink –howexciting,ifsomeofthosehorridoldpaintings turnouttobeworthsomethingafterall!Icangetridof them and buy lovely new ones instead!’

Thisworriedme.Butwhatworriedmeevenmore

wasthewayMrCurtiswassmilingatDaisy’smother,and thewayhekepthishandonherarmforfarlongerthan wasnecessary.Itwasthesortofnastygrown-upthing thatIdonotunderstand...orunderstand,butwishI didn’t.

Thenthedrivecrunchedagain–cartyresandfeet–but whenthedooropened,itwasstillnotKittyorBeanie. Averylargeandbroadoldladywasstandingthere,her hairalldoneupinapuffaroundherhead,abedraggledfurandseveralscarvesaroundherneckandnone of her clothes matching.

‘MARGARET!DAISY!’sheshrieked,wavingher arms and her scarves in the air. ‘I’M HERE!’

LadyHastingsturnedroundandlookedather,lips pinchedtogether.‘Hello,AuntSaskia,’shesaid.‘Oh no,don’tbothertoasktocomein.Denis,thisisSaskia Wells, George’s aunt.’

AuntSaskiacamebarrellingintothehall,shedding multi-colouredglovesandbitsoffur,andsquashed Daisyagainstherbosom.Shedidnotseemtohave noticed me.

‘DAISY!’shecriedagain.‘Whereisyourbrother?