Lily walked past the Dedhams’ house and went to tug on the door bell of the residence of Mr Ingleby Mountfitchet.
She didn’t much like the look of the manservant who answered. Untidy, unwashed she suspected, and displaying all the cold cunning of a polecat. She told him she’d been sent to meet Mr Mountfitchet. His master would be expecting her, she added, dropping her voice to a confidential purr and putting a foot over the threshold.
‘Don’t be daft,’ was the rude response. ‘He’s said nothing to me. It’s six o’clock on a Sunday. He’s in his room. Recovering. And he’s not asked for one of your kind as far as I know. You’ve got the wrong day. It’s Fridays he’s frisky.’ He began to swing the door shut.
This was exactly what Lily wanted to hear. Her calculations and wild theories had been on the right lines. She wasn’t withdrawing now. She decided to make a scene. In her loudest cockney screech and waving her arms about, she pretended to lose her temper. ‘What the ’ell’s going on ’ere? I’ve come halfway across town for an encounter with Mr Mountfitchet … This is number thirty-nine, isn’t it? Well then, muttonhead, I’m the replacement for that last little disappointment. Besides, he owes us and I’m here to collect. Let me in or I’ll have to stand in the street an’ shout fire an’ rape an’-’
‘For God’s sake get her in off the doorstep, Warminster!’ The voice from the shadows at the end of the hall was lazy and amused.
The manservant stood aside, slammed the door behind her and grumpily moved off down the hallway.
Lily looked around to get her bearings. She was remembering a conversation with the ageing tart patrolling the Baze. ‘Before yer takes yer ’at off, dearie, yer checks yer exit. In case ’e turns nasty.’ Lily located the door knob and noted that the door was not locked.
The space in which she found herself hadn’t changed since Victorian times. She had an impression of tiled floor, mahogany furnishings, drooping drapery and dust-filmed plants struggling for survival in ornate pots. A grandfather clock whirred and clunked and began to strike six. There was about everything a sweet smell of rotting foliage.
The source of it moved quietly forward.
‘Well, well, let’s take a look at you, shall we?’