The Earl Maid

By Susannah Donim

Rob is a shy and reserved young man, but an unexpected inheritance suddenly makes him the centre of attention. His wife helps him find a way of hiding in plain sight.

Chapter 3

The Hadleighs start to host meetings of local societies to ease their financial difficulties. Rob gets drawn into a rather unusual demonstration at a meeting of the Pink Ladies.

Charlie Todd was the secretary of the Lavenden Amateur Dramatic Society. We invited him round for tea and to see all the period costumes we had to offer. We had met him briefly the year before when I was in Romeo and Juliet, but he hadn’t been involved in that show.

“I can’t do Shakespeare, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “I don’t understand all those iambic pentameters. I did enjoy your performance in Romeo and Juliet though, My Lord.”

“Call me Rob, for God’s sake,” I said. “That whole ‘your lordship’ thing is so nineteenth century.”

Being ‘your lordship’ made me more uncomfortable every time someone said it to me.

“And I’m Susie,” added my wife.

Martha moved amongst us dispensing refreshments, which rather gave the lie to my attempts to make out I was still one of the common people.

“Thank you, My Lord; er, I mean, Rob,” Charlie continued. “Will you be trying out for another show? Personally, I concentrate on light entertainment: Ayckbourn, musicals, and the annual Christmas Panto.”

“I’m sure they’re more popular,” said Susie, with a grin. “Your shows probably recover the losses the others make on the classics.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment, My Lady, er Susie,” he smiled.

“I think my performing days are over,” I said. “At least for now. The Estate is taking up all of my time at the moment.”

“We’d love you to stay involved though. Maybe as a Patron?”

“That would be wonderful, wouldn’t it, dear?” said Susie, before I could get a word in.

“I’ll certainly think about it,” I said, giving her a reproving look which I hoped Charlie didn’t see.

Just because I was shy with strangers didn’t mean I was going to give in to my wife every time. Maybe sensing potential discord, Charlie changed the subject.

“We’re very grateful for the costumes, er, Rob. They’ll save us a lot of time and money. Actually, there is one other matter I’d like to speak to you about… er, if you’ll forgive the impertinence…?”

If people are going to talk like that, I really don’t think I’m going to like being an Earl. I nodded as encouragingly as I could.

“We have to find somewhere new for our rehearsals,” Charlie continued. We’ve always used the church hall in Lavenden village, but the diocese has just got a new bishop, and she’s decided it’s not an appropriate use of church property.”

“She sounds a bit puritanical,” said Susie. “Perhaps the Earl might have a word with her?”

I hoped she was joking. Arguing with a fearsome lady bishop wasn’t my idea of fun at all. Besides, I’d probably just freeze up, like always when I tried public speaking.

“That would be really helpful,” Charlie said, dunking a custard cream in his tea, “but what I actually had in mind was maybe using your Great Hall? It would make a fantastic rehearsal space, with the side rooms and the great staircase. It would be much better for our needs.” He paused to check our reaction. “We’d pay you rent of course,” he added hurriedly. “We have our own insurance in case anything gets broken or somebody falls and hurts themselves; and we’d always be careful to clear up afterwards.”

“That would be excellent, wouldn’t it, dear?” Susie said. She turned to Charlie and continued in a confidential tone, “Between ourselves, we could really do with the money. The previous Earl left the Estate in a pretty bad way, financially.”

“We couldn’t afford much, I’m afraid,” Charlie was quick to say. “The church hall was really cheap.”

“Every little helps,” Susie said happily, “and it wouldn’t cost us anything, would it?”

“I noticed an old piano in the corner of the Hall, by the way,” said Charlie. “Does it work?”

“I believe so,” said Susie. “None of us play though. It probably needs tuning.”

“Would you mind if I arranged that – at our expense, of course? Only our next production is going to be a musical, and we’ll need a piano for rehearsals. That will be in October. Then we start work on our annual Panto, which also has music, of course.”

“That would be fine,” Susie said with a smile. I could almost see a little metaphoric light bulb come on over her head. “By the way, do you do open air productions in the summer? Our back lawn would be perfect. There are a couple of nice little stands of trees to attach scenery to, and to use for entrances and exits.”

“We do, actually.” Charlie was clearly excited by that idea. “We’ve always used the town’s Pleasure Gardens, but it’s been a nightmare, to be honest. We have to pay the council most of our proceeds – we made a loss in July this year – and we can’t stop the public wandering through when we’re rehearsing. Oh, and our stage and scenery were vandalised a couple of years ago.”

“Well, why don’t I show you the layout?” Susie said, taking his arm and leading him out of the drawing room French windows toward the lawn. “Perhaps we could take a percentage of the profits, rather than a flat fee? That way your risk would be reduced, and the Hadleigh Estate would be motivated to help you make it a success.”

“That sounds brilliant!” Charlie was saying as they stepped outside.

I left them to it, marvelling at my wife’s imagination and energy. I hoped Charlie would be happy with the Countess of Hadleigh as the Society’s new patron.

* * *

Susie was right, of course. There were ways to utilise the Hall and its gardens to raise money that my father had never tried – and probably would have hated. But giving strangers the run of the Great Hall, the kitchens, and a couple of underused ground floor reception rooms wouldn’t interfere with our lives at all, and the money would be very welcome. So we told Charlie that he could go ahead.

As he had said, it wasn’t a fortune, but it was steady income for Bill to add into the Estate’s revenues. I checked with Smythe that there were no legal impediments to these short-term rentals, and he confirmed that as long as we complied with fire regulations, provided enough toilets and washing facilities, and had appropriate insurance in place, there would be no problem.

Our guests used the front entrance which led through a small vestibule directly into the Great Hall. We gave Charlie a set of keys and the code to the burglar alarm. Susie and I could come and go through the back door between the kitchens and Bill’s office. Since we always parked round the back, we rarely came in through the front anyway.

There were servants’ entrances to both side wings from the kitchen area at the back. We put ‘Private’ signs on the doors to the Library, the drawing room, and the study, where Susie camped when she was ‘working from home’. The only minor inconvenience for us was that we had to give visitors access to the two ground floor bathrooms, so we had to ‘go’ upstairs.

We soon got used to LADS taking up residence on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and throughout the weekend as Opening Night approached. They cheerfully welcomed Susie and me in to watch them rehearse whenever we liked.

“It always brings out the best in them when they have an audience,” Charlie said, “even if it’s only two.”

We were confident Charlie knew how to let his team in and out and lock up after themselves, which was just as well as they were often still hard at it when we retired for the night. Our bedroom in the West Wing was upstairs and along a corridor, so they didn’t disturb us, even with the old re-tuned piano banging away and voices raised singing Tonight and America.

We were happy to let them make full use of the kitchens for their refreshments. Some members of the cast, who had presumably come straight from work, even took to cooking their evening meals there (usually nuking TV dinners in our microwave). Many of them brought their own booze – mostly canned lager and cheap wine. As Charlie had promised, they did what they could at cleaning up after themselves, taking the rubbish and empty beer cans and wine bottles out to our recycling centre round the back of the house, and filling and starting the dishwasher. Unfortunately, this still left quite a mess.

It wasn’t reasonable, we understood, to expect the actors, who had been sweating blood all evening over West Side Story, to start wiping down tables and scrubbing carpets at eleven o’clock at night. Charlie suggested we hired a professional cleaning firm for the mornings after rehearsals and promised LADS would pay their share of the costs. Knowing we would soon need to be making alternative arrangements when Martha left, we agreed, and he recommended a firm that many of their members used.

* * *

One good thing about being an Earl is that when you ask a company for help, they tend to send the boss. The Managing Director of J & J Home Counties Housekeeping came to the Hall personally. Her name was Sally Jackson. She was tall, pretty, and elegant in a black businesswoman’s skirt suit. She was also fearsomely efficient. She reminded me of Susie in that respect, and the two of them hit it off immediately.

We had arranged for her to visit the day after a rehearsal, so she could see the extent of the job for herself. She brought an assistant with her, a tall swarthy girl with a big bust and a broad backside in a cheap blue pant suit. Susie led the way, identifying all the places the LADS people used, and finishing with our private areas. I followed at a discreet distance.

Every now and then Sally called over her shoulder to the plump girl, who scribbled something in her notebook. These instructions were in a foreign language – Spanish, I think. The girl, whose name appeared to be Maria, made only monosyllabic replies, also in Spanish, and in a husky voice that made me wonder if she had a cold or something.

After the brief tour we returned to the drawing room where Martha had laid out coffee and biscuits. Sally and Susie continued their chat while Maria sat quietly, presumably because her English wasn’t up to following the conversation. Apparently she was doing sums on a calculator and recording the results in her notebook. Eventually she passed it to her boss, who took it, nodded, and passed it back.

“We’d be delighted to provide cleaning services for you, My Lady,” Sally said. “I’m afraid most of the areas we’ve seen will require a very extensive spring-clean. The kitchen in particular is in a poor condition, as are some of the bathrooms. I suggest a small team for a full day. That will be a once-off price of… Maria, muestre a Señora su estimación.”

The plump girl held out her notebook for Susie to see. She tutted.

“That is a lot, but I suppose we have no choice,” she said. “You know we’ve only just taken over? The old Earl, my husband’s late father, cut back dramatically on the staff, and poor Martha… well, there just aren’t enough hours in the day for her to keep everything shipshape.”

Apparently, I didn’t get to see the estimate. Well, we’d agreed that the house was Susie’s responsibility. I had the rest of the Estate to worry about.

“I understand, My Lady, but after that initial effort it will be much easier to keep everywhere in good condition. If you can give us sufficient notice, we will always try to be available the day after you’ve had clients in. I think we will usually need to allocate two girls to be sure of completing the work in a sensible time for you. We charge for complete hours, so I suggest our girls clean up the public spaces first, and then if there’s any time left over, they can do some work in your private accommodation. They do laundry and ironing too, if you would like that.”

“That would be excellent,” Susie confirmed. “I’ll just need your girls to itemise how much time they spend in each area, so that I can charge LADS the right amount.”

Sally promised to do so, and the two ladies chatted amiably while they finished their coffee. Maria and I listened quietly, although the former was gazing placidly out of the French windows and gave no sign of understanding the conversation. She did glance in my direction occasionally. Maybe she was wandering why I wasn’t contributing to the discussion. She’d probably never met a real Earl before, and certainly not one as bashful as me.

Susie asked about the company name.

“It stands for ‘Jackson and Jenkins’ – my husband’s name and my maiden name. We merged with Home Counties Housekeeping a year or so ago. Well, it was more of a takeover really. J & J were much more profitable, so I was able to dictate terms. The joint company now cleans homes and offices all over the Home Counties, north of London. We have clients in Berkshire, Bucks, Herts, Bedfordshire and Essex. I’m looking to buy companies in Cambridgeshire and Northants next.”

What a ball of fire this woman was! And here was I, nervous about taking over running the Hadleigh Estate!

“And what does your husband do?”

“Oh, he’s a software engineer.”

She seemed more hesitant now. Was it my imagination, or did Maria seem to perk up at the mention of Sally’s husband? Perhaps she fancied him.

“He used to work for a big city bank,” Sally continued, after a slightly awkward pause. “He made a lot of money from a trading app he developed and went freelance. Now he helps me out with the company. In fact, I couldn’t have done any of it without him. I needed his financial investment, and his personal support too.”

“‘Behind every successful woman’, eh?”

They both laughed. I joined in, dutifully. Maria stared blankly, although she seemed to have gone a bit red, for some reason.

* * *

J & J Home Counties Housekeeping were not cheap, but they were very good. They sent in three girls, including Maria, for their initial blitz. The dishwasher and at least two vacuum cleaners seemed to be running all day. We hardly recognised the place afterwards. We’d made sure they came on one of Martha’s days off, and when she arrived the next morning, she was most impressed, if a little embarrassed that she’d been unable to keep the place up to that standard. We assured her we understood. We knew she was an incredibly hard worker, but she was just one woman.

Through the Autumn we came to rely on J & J more and more as Martha started to cut her hours back. Their girls were thorough and conscientious, perhaps because Mrs Jackson had a habit of turning up unannounced to check up on them. It was a good thing we had entered into that arrangement with them, because enquiries were coming in fast now, regarding the use of the Hall and the grounds. The word had got around that the new Earl was keen to be part of the local community, unlike his taciturn father. Not that anyone ever saw the Earl himself. It was always the Countess, supported by the ever-vigilant (and ever-expanding) Martha who welcomed the visitors. I was always ‘somewhere out on the Estate’ with Bill. Sometimes that was even true.

Pete Dobson, one of the LADS players (Officer Krupke in their forthcoming production of West Side Story), approached us one evening before a rehearsal. He was the secretary of the local model railway society. They were looking for a suitable venue for their Christmas exhibition, having been ejected from the Church Hall by the new lady bishop. They would need a full four days – the Thursday to set up and then Friday, Saturday and Sunday for visitors. Some of their members were in the trade; others were amateur modellers who were keen to sell their work to enthusiasts. The first week in December was ideal as people would be actively looking for Christmas presents.

Pete met regularly with the secretaries of other clubs in the area. He was confident the Hall would be much in demand. As he predicted, many local societies soon followed suit, literally so in the case of the local Bridge Club. They wanted to run a one-day tournament for players across the county. We could squeeze forty tables into the Great Hall and the adjoining reception rooms. The event wouldn’t interfere with us any more than LADS rehearsals did, although we would have to make more lavatories available. It was a good thing we were overflowing with them (as it were).

We had a Collectors’ Fair on a weekend in early October. Serious-looking gentlemen and a very few ladies (nerds of both sexes) turned up bearing boxes of books, magazines, comics, and stamps. They conducted earnest debates about the value of a 1972 Practical Electronics or issue #100 of The Amazing Spider-Man (September 1971). Most of the boxes left with different owners, to clutter up other people’s lofts and garages.

In all these cases, the societies brought their own equipment and did their own catering using our kitchens. We could add the costs of water, gas, electricity and cleaning onto our charge for the hire of the Hall. After that, it was all profit. Who needs the National Trust?

* * *

“I had a very interesting phone call at the office this morning,” said Susie. “It was on my personal mobile, so I knew it was to do with us – I mean, the Estate – not work.”

We were eating at one corner of the enormous table in our enormous kitchen. Susie usually came back for lunch and worked from home whenever she had no meetings in the afternoon.

“Another possible client for the Hall?”

“And a very interesting one,” she repeated, “particularly for you.”

She was grinning now, so I knew I was in for a teasing.

“Go on then,” I sighed.

“Did you know there was a local crossdressers society?’”

“No, I didn’t, and why should it be ‘especially interesting’ for me?”

“Because of your history, of course.”

“What history?”

“Lady Bracknell, Juliet’s Nurse…”

She was ticking my exploits in transvestism off on her fingers.

“Those were legitimate acting roles,” I protested, “and, as I keep saying, I did far more male parts.”

“…and most recently, Martha the maid.”

“That was… different,” I stuttered to a halt. “For God’s sake, Susie, that was about sex, and it was your idea.”

“Still makes you a crossdresser, sweetie,” she smirked.

“No, it doesn’t!” I was getting worked up now. “Are you impugning my masculinity?”

“Of course not!” She might have realised she had gone too far. “I have no complaints at all on that score. But there’s nothing wrong with dressing-up games between consenting adults – especially if it spices up their sex life, and as long as no one gets hurt. According to Doris…”

“Who the hell’s Doris?”

“The man who called me this morning. They don’t tell each other their real names; they just use their ‘femme’ names. They call themselves the ‘Pink Ladies’.”

“Sounds like a gin drinking club.”

“Anyway, he said that most transvestites are heterosexual males. A desire to dress in the clothes of the opposite gender has nothing to do with sexual preference – or masculinity.”

“I just assumed they’d all be sissies, or at least gay.”

“Doris says that’s what most people think, but it’s just ignorant prejudice. Obviously, some crossdressers are gay, but no more than you’d find in any cross-section of the male population. We had a lovely chat actually. He said that one of their members is in the Army and another plays for the Police national rugby team.”

“Don’t the Pink Ladies have any women members?”

“I asked that,” she said. “They don’t at the moment, but quite a lot of the wives come to their get-togethers. He said there’s a sort of competition between them to see who can make their husbands prettiest.”

Not liking the sound of that.

“And now they want to hold their meetings at our place?” I hurried on.

“That’s right. They used to meet at Doris’s house. Then they grew too big – there’s about twenty of them now – and they had to hire the local Church hall, but the new bishop put a stop to that when she found out. Apparently, a squad of brain-dead thugs from the village attacked some of the ‘ladies’ in the car park, so I suppose the bishop was justified. Can’t have punch-ups on Church property.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Not very Christian though, was it? Anyway, their loss is our gain.”

“Yes, but we’ll have to be discreet. We can’t tell anyone about it. They’re not at all ashamed of what they are, Doris said, but they’d rather avoid trouble with the local Neanderthals. Actually, that’s probably an insult to Neanderthals… Anyway, the Army sergeant broke one boy’s arm and put another in hospital. He was lucky not to lose his job. Presumably the little ratbags were too embarrassed to admit they’d been beaten up by someone in a twinset and pearls.”

“What did the Pink Lady policeman do?”

“Nothing. He didn’t see the fight. He was still inside fixing his make-up.”

* * *

I steered clear of the Pink Ladies’ meetings, for fear of Susie getting any more crazy ideas. I still enjoyed the sexual thrill of being Martha the maid in private (especially afterwards), but I wasn’t keen to participate in any ‘pretty husbands’ competition. I was afraid I might win.

So the first time they met at the Hall, I hid in the Dacia Duster at the far end of the building and watched them arrive in a small fleet of cars.

It occurred to me that if I was curious, and had access to the appropriate database, I could identify all the ‘ladies’ from their car registrations. Against a really determined potential blackmailer, using aliases wouldn’t really give them the anonymity they wanted.

There were more like thirty than twenty of them, so I guessed that the surplus women were supportive wives. I wondered if they merely tolerated their husbands’ fetish, or joined in enthusiastically, as apparently my own wife did. Or would, if my occasional maid play were a fetish. Which it wasn’t. Obviously.

It seemed that most of the Pink Ladies made their transformations in the privacy of their own homes. If they were seeking anonymity that made sense, but I admired their courage in driving – or being driven – here in full drag. I doubt I could have done that.

I was astonished to see that well over half of the ‘lady visitors’ were indistinguishable from actual women. They couldn’t all be supportive wives, so I supposed that just showed how accomplished the club members were at their female impersonation. The way most of them moved, walked and gestured was feminine to the core. The only ‘tell’ was that they were taller than average for a group of women. Having said all that, a handful of them looked like men in dresses, exactly as I had expected.

Only a couple of the visitors were dressed as men – presumably they were ‘out’, at least in this company. They were carrying suitcases and other paraphernalia, presumably intending to dress in one of our side rooms. The group had rented the Great Hall, plus the kitchen, two bathrooms, and two small reception rooms.

From my vantage point I could just see Martha, in uniform, opening the front door, and Susie, in full Countess mode, welcoming her cross-dressed visitors. Finally the door closed. I started the Duster and went off to meet Bill at one of our outlying farms. I was late.

* * *

“Don’t you want to know how the Pink Ladies spent the afternoon?” Susie asked as we sat down to dinner that evening.

“Not really… Hang on, does that mean you joined in?”

“Doris invited me to watch a couple of their demonstrations. He lives as a woman 24/7 now and he’s really convincing. But aren’t you curious about what they were doing here?”

“No, but I can see you’re dying to tell me, so I’m happy to listen. Well, I say happy…”

“They’re a lovely bunch of boys and girls,” she said, and rattled on quickly in case I changed my mind. “They split into groups. In the Hall they ran a slide show of their members’ best photos en femme. Then in one of the side rooms there were demonstrations – make-up, hair, wigs, and so on. In the other room Doris was selling crossdressers’ merchandise: gaffes, cosmetics, shapewear with built-in padding… oh, and breast forms. I nearly bought a pair.”

“What! What on earth for?”

“For you. I mean, for Martha No. 2, my part-time lady’s maid. It would be easier than padding your bra with panties or toilet roll – and more realistic. But they were quite expensive.”

“This is getting too serious. I think my Martha will be retiring soon, like the other Martha.”

“Oh, don’t say that! We still have lots of clearing out to do, and I love doing it with you, with us dressed as two maids!”

“You didn’t actually buy anything, did you? What would they think? They’d assume your husband is one of them – a transvestite!”

“Why should we care what they think? It’s none of their business.”

“But what if they told someone? I could be – I don’t know – blackmailed!”

“For what? We’re not rich – well, not in terms of ready cash. Anyway they’d never do that. They know the importance of discretion. They trust us and we can trust them.”

I hoped she was right. I hoped we never had to find out.

* * *

The Pink Ladies met fortnightly. Lots of things happened before their next gathering. Several more groups rented our ground floor rooms for their meetings. We hosted the Choral Society, the Decorative and Fine Arts Society, the Camera Club, the Local Historians, and the Detectorists.

We decided not to go after the wedding reception trade, not having a liquor licence and not wanting to get involved with catering, but we did host a couple of eighteenth birthday parties. The J & J cleaners had their work cut out after those, and Martha, Susie and I spent most of the following morning picking up beer cans, wine bottles and crisp packets from the gardens.

A group of local ladies ran a yoga class every other Tuesday evening. They took it in turns to provide an evening meal afterwards. (The competition for who was the best cook quickly undermined all the good done by the exercise.)

As the Opening Night of their production of West Side Story approached, LADS picked up the pace of their rehearsals. The last few were noisy and frantic, but the show was a triumph. Susie and I had complimentary front row seats for the Saturday night and were invited to the cast party afterwards. I don’t do well at boisterous parties. I tried my best to be anonymous, but Susie made sure I was introduced to everyone, including various local dignitaries like the Mayor and Mayoress. There was some embarrassed bowing and scraping. It seems I’m not the only one who doesn’t know how to behave in the presence of an Earl. Susie was in her element, of course. In the end I quite enjoyed myself, but that might have been the cheap wine. (We got a taxi home.)

As we were getting ready to leave the party, Charlie thanked us for our hospitality over the last six weeks and I thanked him for his money. Laughing, he said he’d see us next week. Rehearsals for the Christmas pantomime would be starting immediately.

When Bill and I sat down with the Estate’s accountant, the extra income was very satisfying. We were more than meeting our expenses now, so we wouldn’t need to dip into the emergency fund anytime soon. Which was just as well, because Probate finally came through at the end of the month. It was much as Smythe had anticipated. Bill and Martha were delighted with their windfalls, but when all the bequests and debts had been paid off and tax bills settled, we had about forty-eight thousand left. That money was ours to use now, but as long as we had Susie’s salary and continued to raise additional income by renting out the Hall, our contingency fund was safe.

We’d been in touch regularly with my mother through Skype. She was still having a whale of a time in the States. Esme was always quick to introduce her to everyone as ‘the Dowager Countess of Hadleigh’ which impressed the Americans no end. (“Gee, Her Ladyship is just like normal folks!”)

In fact, she was having such a good time that she had decided to stay on for a while. Esme’s son was hospitable and generous; so much so, that Esme decided to sell up in England and buy a little house near her family in Atlanta. She asked my Mum to stay and help her with the move. It now looked as though she might not be back till Christmas.

So after six months of upheavals, the most disruptive period of my life so far, it seemed like we were finally on an even keel.

Then the Pink Ladies came back for their early October meeting, and life was never the same again.

* * *

The main event of the crossdressing society’s second meeting at the Hall would be a demonstration by a team from Transformations, who were specialists in changing one’s appearance. They had recently developed technology which enabled them to disguise their clients’ faces as well as their bodies. Sometimes they could even disguise them as other – real – people.

I suggested to Susie that this sounded a little dubious ethically. I could see why it might all be harmless fun for members of the Pink Ladies, but surely the process could be used for fraud, or for helping fugitives on the run from the police? Susie saw my point and promised to find out more about this strange company before letting them into Hadleigh Hall.

“Doris said they’re very careful,” she said, reporting their telephone conversation back to me later. “They refuse to help anyone who is obviously crooked, but their MD admits they occasionally sail a little close to the wind. Apparently, they have well over a hundred clients now, many regulars, and by the Law of Averages a couple of them may have been illicit in some way. They don’t inquire about a client’s reason for their transformation. That way, they can’t be done for conspiracy if the customer’s motivation is criminal.”

“I suppose that’s reasonable. So what will this demonstration entail?”

“Doris wasn’t sure of all the details, but apparently they have a trailer with a hairdressing salon and a sort of mobile laboratory. They use a 3D printer to make prosthetics and masks, and then fit them and add wigs and make-up. They can do it all in the trailer. They have a contract with one of the big film studios and the trailer spends most of its time on their site. It sounds really interesting.”

“Presumably they’re hoping to drum up more business from the Pink Ladies?”

“I guess so. Doris says they’re pretty expensive though. He doubts he could afford them himself.”

* * *

I didn’t plan to be around when the Pink Ladies and the Transformations team arrived that day, but plans change. In the morning Bill and I had been inspecting some broken fencing at the far edge of the Estate. It was only a small job so we decided we could do it ourselves, rather than calling in one of our contractors. We’d gone across the fields in his old Land Rover, made the repairs, and only then discovered that we’d parked in a boggy area. It was a fine day but there had been a lot of rain recently and the car was well and truly stuck. Four-wheel drive doesn’t help much if all four wheels are spinning helplessly in the mud. We had a few spare fence posts left over, and by jamming one under each wheel, we eventually managed to get the car free. Of course we’d both got covered in mud in the process, me more than Bill as half the time he was warm and dry in the driver’s seat.

A boozy lunch at the nearest pub, sitting outside because of the state of our clothes, restored our sense of humour. Afterwards Bill dropped me back at the Hall to get cleaned up. There was a large white camper van in the courtyard round the back. I assumed that was what Doris meant when she told Susie about Transformations’ trailer. Thick electricity cables snaked their way out of the van and in through the back door. I stepped over them and went inside.

Several of the Pink Ladies were milling about in the kitchen organising refreshments. They looked at me and my muddy overalls with alarm. I’d kicked my boots off and was just about to start up the back stairs when Susie came bustling in. She took me to one side, out of earshot of any of our guests.

“Good, you’re back!” She looked more closely at me. “Heavens, what happened to you? Did you fall in a ditch?”

“Car trouble,” I began. “We got stuck in a bog…”

“Oh… well, never mind that now,” she said, rather brusquely, I thought. “We need your help. The Transformations people need someone to demonstrate on.”

“What? No way! No one’s going to demonstrate anything on me.”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t be difficult,” she wheedled. “There’s no one else.”

“Why can’t they transform one of the Pink Ladies?”

“They all came in full drag this week. It seems no one remembered that one of them would need to be in male mode for the Transformations people to transform.”

“Sounds like a massive cock-up somewhere. Not my problem.”

“Look, you’ll be completely unrecognisable when they’ve finished.”

“Susie, I really don’t want to do this. Even if I weren’t… you know… personally…”

“As shy as a squirrel?”

I winced at that cruel but accurate assessment.

“There’s my public position to consider,” I insisted. “You can imagine the headlines: ‘The Cross-dressing Earl of Hadleigh’. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

“God, pompous much? All right, all right! I’ll introduce you as one of the Estate workers who’s volunteered to help out. That certainly fits with the state of you. Earls aren’t supposed to do manual labour or roll in mud. I’ll find you a hat and some dark glasses. Please, Rob! These are good customers. We need them to go home happy.”

I hesitated. She seized the initiative and dragged me upstairs to get cleaned up.

* * *

Half an hour later Susie led me into the Hall wearing only a clean pair of underpants, slippers, an old dressing gown (which I wrapped around me and clutched tightly), dark glasses, and a baseball cap bearing the legend, ‘I Love NY’ (which I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t). She indicated I should sit down on a chair facing the audience, which I did, desperately wishing an abyss would open up beneath me and conduct me straight to Hell, which could hardly be worse than what I was currently facing.

A respectable-looking middle-aged lady in a pink top and a white pleated skirt stepped up beside me. She had short, permed, obviously dyed blonde hair, and wore a pearl necklace and matching earrings. If I passed her in the street, it would never have occurred to me that she was anything other than what she seemed – until she opened her mouth.

“This is Tom, everyone,” she announced in a clear baritone which she made no attempt to lighten. “He has volunteered to be Transformations’ subject for today out of the goodness of his heart, and because Her Ladyship has promised him overtime.”

Sniggers.

“He is a little shy, as you will see from his attempts to conceal his features, but I think you can tell from what you can see that he is a typical, reasonably good-looking young man. There is nothing feminine about him.” She turned to me. “Are you married, Tom?”

I nodded sullenly. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“To a woman?”

I nodded again, with an even filthier look.

“Anyway,” she continued, unfazed, “my point is, he bears no resemblance to our other volunteer for this afternoon.”

She gestured towards a figure to my right whom I hadn’t previously noticed. Martha got to her feet, smiling, and gave an elaborate mock curtsey to the audience of ladies and ‘ladies’. For some reason she was wearing one of the antique maid’s uniforms from our attic store. It was a floor-length black dress with a frilly bib apron and matching cap. The combination successfully concealed her expanding waistline.

“But, as you will soon see, that is about to change. Over to you, Annie, I think.”

She sat down. A pretty young woman – definitely an actual woman – got up and moved towards me.

“Thank you, Doris,” she said. “Good afternoon, everyone.” I noticed she was careful not to say ‘ladies and gentlemen’. “My name is Annie Jones. I am Principal Consultant at Transformations. I and my colleague, Vera, who is waiting for us outside in our trailer, will shortly begin work on Tom here. We’ll be filming the process, and you’ll be able to watch everything on the live link to the big screen behind me. We’ve already taken high-definition photographs of Martha from every angle. We just have to do the same for Tom, then we can use our proprietary software and 3D printer to create facial prosthetics that will enable us to change him into Martha.”

She turned to me with a smile.

“Don’t worry, Tom, it’s not permanent.”

I was still too tongue-tied to respond. Annie looked concerned that perhaps her test subject was less than a hundred per cent willing. Very observant of her.

“One last thing,” Annie said. “I have a little badge here for Martha, so that we don’t get her mixed up with her soon-to-be twin.”

Everyone laughed. They clearly couldn’t imagine not being able to tell the difference between the Hall’s plump housekeeper and Tom, the rough labourer. She pinned a cardboard badge like they use at conferences onto the left shoulder strap of Martha’s apron. It read ‘Martha No. 1’ in large, bold letters.

“All right, Tom?” she said. “Let’s go then.”

I got up and followed her gloomily. Susie led us to the kitchen and out of the back door.

I heard Annie say, “Are you sure he’s happy to go along with this, My Lady? He seems very downcast.”

“Happy, no,” Susie replied. “Content, maybe? No, resigned, I’d say. I’m sure he’ll be happy with the extra money.”

Annie wasn’t reassured and nor was I, especially as I knew there wouldn’t really be any financial reward.

* * *

The trailer was air-conditioned and brightly lit. At one end it was like an office. There was a desk with two small laptop computers on it and a big 3D printer. The desk chair was clamped to the floor, presumably to stop it rolling around when the van was on the move. At the other end was a hairdressing salon, except with no washbasin and presumably no running water. The table below a big wall mirror was cluttered with cosmetics, tissues, hairbrushes, combs, and other hairdressing paraphernalia.

I noticed a curly pepper-and-salt wig on a stand. It was already styled in a tidy bun to resemble Martha’s hairdo for work. No doubt I would soon be wearing that. A big woman in a hairdresser’s smock was bending over it. She looked up and waved cheerily as Annie and I entered.

“Here’s our guinea pig, Vera,” Annie said. “This is Tom.”

“Bashful, eh?” said Vera, pointing at my hat and glasses. “You’ll have to take those off, you know.”

Annie was logging into one of the laptops.

“It’s all right,” she said, reassuringly. “We’ll keep the webcam off your face until Vera’s stuck some of the prosthetics on. Sit down, Tom.”

Vera span the chair round for me and I took my seat. I was now facing away from the salon mirror.

“First job: I need to get photos of you from every angle,” said Annie. I must have looked apprehensive. “Don’t worry. No one else will ever see them. Just sit up nice and straight, please.”

She relieved me of my cap and glasses and for the next five minutes walked around me, snapping away with what looked like a top-of-the-range digital camera.

“The pictures are transmitted directly to the laptop,” Annie said. “The software puts them together to make a 3D model of your face and head. That is then compared with a similar model of Martha’s. The prosthetics we need are constructed from the differences between them.”

She sounded very proud of this technology. “My husband wrote these programs,” she said. “He’s brilliant.” Which explained her pride, I supposed.

“Next, a really close shave,” said Vera when Annie had finished. She proceeded to lather my face.

“I’m running the program now,” Annie said. “It will print the facial prosthetics while Vera is doing that.”

I had shaved that morning as usual with my electric razor, but it was old and the blades were dull. My chin and neck were like sandpaper. Susie was always nagging me to get a new one. Vera used an old-fashioned cut-throat razor, and it was sharp.

“Keep still now, dear,” she said. “I don’t want to nick an artery.”

She was clearly expert at this, and very careful. When she finished, she gently massaged a sweet-smelling balm into my smarting skin. I had never had such a close shave. My skin was now more like glass than sandpaper.

The printer suddenly whirred into life and started spewing out some fleshy-looking objects, which Annie removed and put on the trolley next to my chair.

The laptop speaker was now making crowd noises. Annie had established a link to the computer in the Hall. I could see our audience of Pink Ladies and their wives, chatting amiably. I hurriedly turned my face away.

“Can you hear me over there?” Annie said into the laptop microphone.

“Yes, you’re coming through loud and clear,” Doris replied, her voice rising above the background hubbub, which quickly died away as the audience realised the demo was about to begin.

“Right, I’m going to put the camera up on the shelf here so that you can see what Vera is doing.”

She propped the laptop up behind me. The webcam was now focused on Vera. The audience would see only the back of my head.

Annie provided continual narration for the benefit of the unseen audience in the Hall.

“Vera will now apply the facial prosthetics. For those of you who are interested in how the technology works, our software creates high resolution models of Martha’s and Tom’s heads and then prints flesh-like pieces based on the differences between them. It also provides a template to help the operator fix each piece in precisely the right place.”

Vera held a thin piece of plastic up to the camera.

“Obviously this process works best when the subject’s head and features are smaller than those of the target, but it’s effective as long as the shapes of the two heads are similar, and the subject’s features aren’t too pronounced, which fortunately is the case with Tom and Martha.”

What she was too tactful to say was that my head was small and narrow compared to Martha’s which was big and round. She was a little on the chubby side (to put it kindly), so no part of my face would protrude beyond her plump rosy cheeks and double chin.

“You’ll need to close your eyes now, dear,” said Vera, “and breathe through your nose.”

I did so, and she pressed the wafer-thin plastic mask over my face. She was careful to align the template’s breathing holes over my nostrils so that I didn’t suffocate – so no way out there.

“Vera is now pressing the template down over Tom’s face,” Annie said. “It exactly matches the contours of his features, so it stays in place by static electricity. No adhesive needed.”

Vera leant in closely and started to mark out her work on my face. I could feel a light touch, like a pencil, pressing into my flesh.

“She is now going over the guidelines on the template with a fine stylus,” said Annie to the rapt audience. “The underside of the template is like old-fashioned carbon paper, so the impression of the nib makes fine blue markings on Tom’s face to show her where to glue the prosthetic pieces.”

Vera finished tracing the guidelines from the template, and gently peeled it away.

“I think we can turn him round to the webcam now, Vera,” said Annie, muting the laptop microphone for a moment. “No one could possibly recognise him now with all those blue lines on his face.”

They span the chair round. I saw Vera picking up the first of the flesh pieces and applying what I assumed was adhesive to its back. I shut my eyes again.

For the next twenty minutes she glued lumps of skin to my face while Annie kept up her running commentary. The last pieces went around my neck. I now had a wobbly double chin like Martha’s, and my Adam’s Apple was completely concealed. Vera used a damp tissue to wipe away the few remaining blue lines.

“You’ll notice that the colours of the prosthetic pieces are a close match to Martha’s skin tones,” Annie said, “which are a little different from Tom’s. So Vera now has to touch up those parts of his face not covered by prosthetics.”

There didn’t seem to be many of those, and indeed it didn’t take Vera and her paintbrush very long to make my new face a uniform Martha colour.

“You can open your eyes now, dear,” she said, stepping away, thereby exposing me clearly to the webcam.

There was an immediate increase in the noise level from the Hall, mainly gasps of astonishment.

“We haven’t finished yet,” said Annie. “Vera will put her wig on now.”

Her?

As instructed, Vera reached for a nylon wig cap from the table and pulled it over my head, tucking my own hair underneath. She then lowered the Martha wig down over the cap, straightening it out carefully and tightening the internal straps. I watched, as awestruck as anyone in the Hall, as she brushed and smoothed the wig. She secured the sides with hairpins and gave the whole coiffure a good spraying.

I stared aghast at my image in the mirror. I had Martha’s head on my body! There was a spontaneous round of applause from the Hall.

“That’s all we have to show you over the link, everyone,” said Annie. “We’re going to help Martha No. 2 here to get dressed and then we’ll bring her over to the Hall.”

She closed the laptop.

“We do make prosthetics for the entire body,” Annie said. “So we could make you an exact match to Martha’s figure, but that would take much too long for an afternoon’s demonstration. We have a padded girdle and a bra with breast forms which will get you close enough.”

Meanwhile Vera was approaching me with the bra and a couple more unpleasant-looking lumps of plastic.

“You need to take your dressing gown off now, dear,” she said. “We would normally shave our client’s chest and stick these on with medical adhesive, but I imagine you’d rather keep your chest hair?” I nodded firmly. “In that case, let me help you on with this. The forms will just have to sit freely in the cups.”

Vera held the bra out for me and I stuck my arms through the straps. It suddenly occurred to me that I had worn a bra a lot more often than most men my age. What did that say about me? Vera closed the three hook-and-eye fastenings behind my back. Then she slipped a breast form into each cup and adjusted them until they sat properly in place.

“They won’t move realistically, of course,” said Annie, “but they should be fine for our purposes today. Just try not to shift around too sharply. You don’t want your bust to fly away.”

“Lower half now,” Vera said.

She reached up to pull a curtain across at the end of the trailer. She handed me yet another complex piece of feminine underwear. It was surprisingly heavy.

“This is a padded pantiegirdle,” she said. “Go behind the curtain and slip it on. Take your underpants off first, of course!”

She laughed, but it’s just as well she’d added that, because I had been about to pull the thing up over my Y-fronts. I retired to follow instructions. I had to admit that I was impressed with the Transformations experience so far, and was now becoming curious as to just how close to Martha they could make me.

I kicked my slippers off, stepped out of my pants, and reached for the girdle.

“There’s been a certain amount of guesswork involved,” Annie called from the other side of the curtain, “but we think it should expand your hips and backside to approximately the same dimensions as Martha.”

If that was right, then she was bigger in the tummy and nether regions than I had previously realised. When I’d pulled the thing up as far as it would go, it was like someone had wrapped several sheets of thick bandage round me. I felt like I stuck out a mile in all directions, especially behind.

I stepped nervously out from behind the curtain. Vera pulled it back again and tied it up. I tossed my discarded underpants onto the chair with my dressing gown.

I had never felt so embarrassed in my life, but the two ladies were far too professional to let any amusement show, which helped a little. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Apart from the faint masculine hair on my arms and legs, there was nothing to see of me – Tom or Rob. The face and figure were entirely Martha. In her underwear.

I calmed down a little. This was like playing a part on stage. It was OK as long as no one could connect this ridiculous figure with Lord Marsham, Earl of Hadleigh.

The facial prosthetics felt like I was wearing a mask, but they weren’t uncomfortable, and they seemed to move with my expression easily enough. I tried smiling and frowning. The Martha in the mirror smiled and frowned quite naturally.

The two women were evaluating their work carefully. They seemed satisfied.

“She really needs a corset or a waist cincher,” said Vera.

“It’ll be all right as long as the dress fits,” said Annie. “Martha No. 1 is – ahem – a little thick-waisted.”

It seems Martha was still trying to conceal her pregnancy.

Vera unzipped a tall garment bag that had been hanging on the back of the trailer door. It contained, as I had expected and feared, a full-length maid uniform. There was the usual long black dress, and various frilly white accessories.

“We decided on the old-fashioned long dresses because they will conceal your hairy arms and legs,” Annie said, “and save you the bother of putting on stockings. It’s lucky Martha and the Countess were able to find two identical ones.” She took hold of my hands and examined them. “Not too bad,” she decided. “I doubt anyone will notice the difference.”

Vera handed me yet another voluminous undergarment.

“Here,” she said. “That dress needs a petticoat. You just step into it.”

I did so. It had a single hoop at about ankle height. It also had an elasticated waist, so it wasn’t authentic. Thanks to Susie’s Gran I now knew that when maids wore petticoats like these, the waists would have had a drawstring. The hem fell to about an inch above the trailer floor. Vera straightened it out and reached for the dress.

“Hands above your head,” she ordered, sounding exactly like my mother did when I was little, and she was struggling to get me to put on a sweater.

The dress fastened with buttons down the front. As it dropped into place, and I pushed my arms into the sleeves, it moulded itself nicely around my bust, waist, distended hips and bum. Vera started fastening the buttons. As she was finishing, Annie took a large white apron out of the garment bag and handed it to her.

“This is a bib apron,” Vera said. “Put your head through here.”

The two sides of the top of the apron were already fastened with a button, making a hole for my head. She went behind me gathering the waist strings as she went and fastening them in a big, tidy bow. The apron now hung from my neck; straps over each shoulder; a wide bodice across my bust; and a full-length section from the waist down, protecting the front of my dress and falling all the way to the floor.

“Sit down again, dear,” Vera said.

I did so, remembering from my previous outings en femme to smooth my skirt down under me. That might have been a mistake, I realised too late. Why would Tom, the farm labourer, know how a woman sits down in a long skirt? But if Vera noticed anything odd, she didn’t react or comment.

“I’ll attach your cap,” she continued. “I’ll need to use hairpins to keep it in place. I did the other Martha’s earlier, so you should look exactly alike.”

The other Martha?

“You’re about an inch taller,” said Annie, while Vera was playing with my headgear, “so we asked her to put on some black pumps with one-inch heels. We’ve got a pair of ballet flats for you. We keep a selection of ladies’ shoes in large sizes. I think these should fit.”

She knelt in front of me and slipped a nylon sock onto each of my feet, followed by a flat black shoe.

“Hopefully you will be close enough in height. With your dresses floor-length, no one should notice your shoes are different.”

By this time Vera had finished with my cap. At her instruction I tried shaking my head, but nothing moved. My wig was firmly attached to the wig cap, and my maid’s cap was firmly attached to the wig by hair grips.

I stood and examined my new self incredulously in the mirror. Annie and Vera watched me, with smug expressions. Well they were entitled. I really did look exactly like an Edwardian edition of Martha.

At that moment there was a knock at the trailer door.

“Ah, perfect timing!” said Annie and went to open it.

Martha – the real Martha – came bundling in. I wondered whether Susie had told her who was under the disguise. I was pretty sure she would know there was no Estate worker called Tom.

“Is she ready?” she said. “Can I see her?”

At which point, she caught sight of me and gasped.

“That’s amazing,” she said. “We could be twins!”

“That’s certainly the idea,” said Annie. “Now one last thing…”

She removed the ‘Martha No. 1’ badge from Martha’s apron and pinned it on me. Meanwhile Vera pinned a ‘Martha No. 2’ badge on Martha.

“That might catch a few people out!” Annie said. “Now I’ll lead you back to the Hall. Real Martha, follow behind me, and Fake Martha behind her. Fake Martha, please try and imitate Real Martha as closely as you can – without letting people see you’re doing it. Watch what she does with her hands. Take little steps. I noticed you know to smooth your skirt underneath you when you sit down. Do you think you can curtsey?”

I could actually. I hadn’t needed to as Lady Bracknell of course, but Juliet’s Nurse had to curtsey a lot.

“I can try,” I said, in a soft voice, and demonstrated. All that training by Alice Parr came back to me easily.

“Excellent!” said Annie. “Whenever did you learn to do that?” She didn’t wait for an answer, and I wasn’t going to give one. “OK, so I’ll lead you in,” she continued. “You each stop at one of the chairs at the front; curtsey in unison; and sit down. No need for either of you to say anything…”

* * *

It went brilliantly. There were more gasps as we paraded into the Hall.

I managed to duplicate Martha’s movements with no giveaways – little steps, girly hand movements. We took hold of our bulky dresses and curtseyed. We sat down together, smoothing our long skirts like we’d both been doing it all our lives. Now that I was thoroughly disguised and completely unrecognisable, I was able to enter into the spirit of the deception. I was even starting to enjoy myself. I caught a glimpse of Susie at the back of the Hall, chuckling quietly.

Annie challenged the audience to guess which was the real Martha. They were hesitant, and their guesses were close to 50-50. In fact, Annie’s little deception with the badges led the more gullible visitors to nominate me as the real Martha, so slightly more than half got it wrong.

With Susie’s encouragement Annie decided not to tell anyone which of us was which, so I had to pretend to be a maid for the rest of the afternoon, which I actually quite enjoyed. Susie ordered both of us Marthas to pass round coffee and the refreshments that the Pink Ladies had brought for themselves.

After the Transformations demonstration Annie and Vera were swamped by Pink Ladies wanting more details and to make appointments. I kept wondering when they were going to take me back to the trailer to change me back, but Martha and I were kept busy with the catering, feeding the dishwasher, and doing the tidying-up.

At about five o’clock, the Pink Ladies started to pack up and make their way to their cars. I was standing at the door with Susie and the real Martha seeing them off, when Doris sidled up to us.

“I knew which of you was which from the beginning. That one’s Tom,” she said proudly, pointing at me.

Martha and I maintained a discreet silence while Susie responded. “Go on then, Doris,” she said with a smile. “How could you tell?”

“The lips,” Doris smirked. He stepped closer to me, examining my facial prosthetics closely. “The face is amazing, but Martha’s lips are plumper, more feminine. Tom’s are noticeably thinner.”

He was quite right of course. Susie congratulated him.

“Mind you, you have to know what to look for to spot the difference,” Doris continued, “and Tom gave a remarkably good impersonation. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?”

I shook my head, a little ashamed of the falsehood.

“Well, you should definitely come along to one of our meetings. You’ll have a great time.”

I didn’t have to reply, as Annie and Vera were coming out and looking for help in carrying their equipment to their van. I quickly volunteered, to reaffirm my masculinity and greater strength. Doris thanked Susie for her hospitality and took her leave.

Annie came over to Susie to thank her and discuss how she thought the meeting went. With a moment to relax, I realised that my boozy lunch and coffee had gone through me and I couldn’t hold out any longer. I rushed to the… well, it would be the Ladies, I suppose.

It took me a little longer than usual, being encumbered by the dress, petticoat and pantiegirdle. When I got back, I was just in time to see the Transformations van disappearing down the lane up to the main road – without Vera turning me back to Tom!

Another one of my wife’s practical jokes. For how long was I going to have to be Martha?

* * *

Susie finished fiddling with my apron, smoothed down my dress for me, and stood back to take in my whole appearance.

It was seven o’clock. All our guests had departed. My maid duties were finished for the moment. The place was as tidy as the other Martha and I could make it, and she had gone home. We were up in our bedroom. I was trying to persuade Susie to help me undress.

“You look great,” Susie said approvingly. “Just like her. I doubt Martha’s own mother could tell you apart.”

“It is impressive, I admit,” I said, looking in the mirror inside the wardrobe door. “But I’d really like to change back now. They did give you the solvent for these prosthetics, didn’t they?”

“Oh yes,” she said reassuringly, “but there’s no hurry is there? There’s only the two of us here. I thought you might like to take a turn as my lady’s maid – properly.” She stepped up to me and slid one hand across my bottom and the other up to my bust. “You know – help me get undressed and bathed and… so on. It will be even more fun than usual, with you looking like a real lady’s maid.”

I regarded her sceptically. In return she did her best to look seductive. Susie is brilliant and beautiful and I love her to bits, but Mae West impersonations are not her strong suit. I struggled to suppress a giggle.

“The real Martha doesn’t do any of that for you,” I said.

“No, but Martha two-point-oh could… if she played her cards right.”

I hugged her to me and was moving in for a passionate kiss, when our growing excitement was interrupted by a harsh, jagged ringing – the front doorbell.

“Who on earth can that be?” I said.

“No idea,” she said. “We’re not expecting anyone, are we?”

“Could one of the Pink Ladies have forgotten something? Or maybe one of the Transformations people?”

“Well, you’d better go and answer it, hadn’t you?”

I looked at her, horrified.

“Well, why not? You’re the maid. You don’t expect the Countess to open her own front door, do you?”

“But I’m the Earl!”

“Not at the moment you’re not. You’re my maid, so go and answer the door, Martha!”

She tried to make that sound like an order, but I didn’t move.

“Oh, go on,” she pleaded. “It’ll be fun. Nobody will recognise you.”

“I realise no one will recognise me as me, but what if it’s someone who knows Martha?”

“Then you’ll just have to give the best impersonation of her that you can. You’ll be fine,” she said reassuringly. “People see what they expect to see – in your case, a housemaid answering the door.”

I don’t know how I let her talk me into these things. I hurried out of the bedroom and down the stairs. I paused at a large mirror just inside the porch. Martha the maid gazed back at me, a justifiably worried look on her plump face, but she was unmistakably Martha. There wasn’t the slightest sign of Robert Marsham. I tucked an errant strand of greying hair under my cap and went to open the door.

Two huge men stood, unsmiling, on the doorstep. They must have sneaked in when the gate opened to let the Pink Ladies out. One was the thug we had seen with Eleanor at the reading of my father’s will – her brother, Smythe had said. The other was even bigger. His aura of menace was exacerbated by a bright red scar that ran down the right-hand side of his face.

“What’s this then?” Scarface said, when he saw my outfit. “Bloody fancy-dress party?”

“No, it’s Martha, the maid, isn’t it?” said the other, pushing past me. “We’re here to see the so-called Earl, love.”