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 6

Rob is enjoying life as Martha, the maid and cleaning lady, but now (s)he has to search Beckett’s house for evidence.

Mrs Beckett was one of Fleur’s regulars – presumably that was why Sally Jackson had paired me with her. While I drove us over to Langdale, I asked about the layout of the house. I would need to prioritise my search for incriminating evidence in case I was short of time, so I tried to find out as much as I could. Fleur seemed a little sleepy this morning and she didn’t show any surprise at my question.

“Just the usual four-bedroom detached that you get in that neighbourhood. Downstairs there’s the kitchen, utility room, lounge, dining room, study and cloakroom,” she said, ticking the rooms off on her fingers. “Upstairs: four bedrooms, one with en suite, and a family bathroom. Mrs Beckett will want us to do the kitchen and all the bathrooms quite thoroughly, and dust and vacuum everywhere.”

“What are they like, the Becketts?”

“She’s quite elderly, and not a bad old stick,” Fleur said, “but her son lives with her, and he’s a creep. He’s tried it on with me a couple of times, so Chloe and I always try to make sure neither of us is ever alone with him. We should do the same.”

“Oh, I doubt he’d try it on with me. Too fat, too old.”

Actually I was hoping – desperately – that Treacher’s intel was right and Beckett wouldn’t be around while we were there. If he saw me, sexual assault would be the least of my worries.

“Don’t you believe it! There’s plenty of men who prefer the fuller figure. ‘Voluptuous’, they call it.”

“That’s just a euphemism for ‘fat’.”

“Well anyway, watch yourself if he’s around when we get there.”

I certainly would. They wouldn’t see me for dust. I had a sudden thought.

“OK, but could you do me a favour?” I said. “If we do see him, don’t tell him my name’s Martha. Call me Mary, or something. That’s my sister’s name.”

Fleur looked puzzled.

“Well, if he does er… take a shine to me, obviously I’m not going to give him my number or anything, and I don’t want him to be able to get hold of me through the company.”

It sounded lame, but just about plausible.

“All right,” she said, doubtfully, “but he usually leaves the house at about half-past eight, so let’s try not to get there any earlier than that.”

* * *

But we didn’t want to be late either and just to spite us, the traffic in town was a little lighter than usual, so it was 8:25 when I pulled up opposite the Beckett house. To my dismay there was a big black Estate car parked in the drive. Now what was I going to do?

“We can wait for a little while before going in,” Fleur said, to my relief. She yawned.

“Late night?” I asked, with a smile.

“Early morning, in fact.”

“Peter?”

“Yes.” I waited to hear more. She grinned. “He was quite pleased when I suggested we might see a little more of each other.”

“OK, good,” I said. “Now I’ll want regular reports…”

“OK, Mum.” She laughed. “You know it’s funny; my real mother says much the same things as you did on Monday. It’s just that you gave me motherly advice, while she just told me what to do.”

“Which made you want to do the opposite.”

“Exactly!” She reached across to hug me. “See? You’ll be a great Mum one day!”

The car’s clock ticked over to 8:29.

“Oh well, we’d better show willing,” Fleur sighed and opened her door to get out.

I was about to stop her when I was jolted by a loud ringing noise. Fleur leant on the top of the open passenger door and put her head back in.

“Isn’t that your phone?” she asked. “Hadn’t you better answer it?”

I quickly rummaged through my handbag for the ringing mobile. The screen said ‘Treacher’.

“It’s my mother,” I lied. Now I had to get rid of Fleur so I could speak to the detective. “Why don’t you go on in?” I said. “I’ll only be a minute. I’ll bring the basket.”

She nodded and set off across the road. I was determined that Fleur shouldn’t know about my spying. Firstly, I didn’t want her involved, in case it all went South. Secondly, I didn’t want her to think that our developing friendship was based on deception, which of course it was. I wondered whether I should continue as a J & J cleaning lady after this week, so that Fleur wouldn’t find out it was all a lie…

I accepted the call.

“What are we going to do?” I said. “Beckett’s car’s still there.”

“Don’t panic, Martha,” came the detective’s calm voice. “He usually leaves at around half-past. He’ll probably be off any minute. Still, it’s good that you’re wearing a headscarf…”

“You mean you can see me? Where are you?”

“A few cars down on the other side.” A white BMW 1 series flashed its headlights once. “I can see into the forecourt of the Beckett house, because of the bend in the road. Now, have you got any dark glasses?”

“Yes, good idea!”

I hurriedly got my sunglasses out of the Polo’s glove compartment and put them on.

“That’s good,” he said. “I see your mate has gone to the door. Stay in the car for a minute. Pretend you’re on the phone to your Mum or something.”

How did he know I was pretending he was my mother? He really was a good detective.

Beckett had opened the front door and was now talking to Fleur. He asked her something. She turned and pointed at me. I waved, hoping that my scarf and dark glasses were sufficient disguise. I pointed at the phone in my other hand, trying to suggest I would only be a minute.

Beckett disappeared inside and Fleur followed him, leaving the door open. A minute later he reappeared wearing an outdoor coat and carrying a briefcase. He made for the Merc, pointing something at it. Its boot opened. He threw his case in and went round to the driver’s door. I pretended to be engrossed in my phone conversation.

“There you are, you see,” said Treacher at the other end of the line. “He’s off. All clear. Good luck!”

“If he’s gone, you could come in and help, couldn’t you?”

“No way,” he said, a little crossly. “The old lady’s still there, isn’t she? The whole point of this is to get the information we need without raising suspicions. Anyone watching – including Mrs Beckett – should see two cleaning ladies going in and two cleaning ladies leaving two hours later. That way, if we do find something and tip off the cops, Beckett may look elsewhere for the leak. But if any strangers are seen going into the house this morning, that’s where he’ll look first – and he’ll be suspicious of you two as well, since you let me in.”

“OK, I get it,” I sighed.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be here watching,” he said reassuringly, though l didn’t see what he could do if Beckett were to return, maybe with a couple of his men. “Keep your headscarf and glasses on until you’re inside, just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” I asked, but he’d rung off.

I put the phone back in my handbag and got out of the car. I fetched our basket of cleaning materials from the boot, locked up, and crossed over the road to the Beckett house.

The front door was still open. I closed it behind me and took my coat off. I put my sunglasses in my handbag and hung it on a hook next to my coat. Fleur appeared.

“Mrs Beckett’s ill in bed,” she said. “That’s why the creep was still here – to let us in. He was expecting Chloe, of course, so I had to explain that she’s on maternity leave. He asked about you, but don’t worry – I said you were called Mary, that you’d been working with me for a few days now, and that you were very good. I’m just taking Mrs Beckett a cup of tea and some toast. Can you dust and vacuum downstairs first? She might want to sleep later, so we don’t want to be using the vacuum after, say half past nine. You can do the ironing last.”

She went back to the kitchen to finish getting the old lady her breakfast. I could smell burning toast. I looked around for the likely location of the vacuum and correctly guessed it was in the cupboard under the stairs. There was also a little shelf with various cleaning materials. I slipped on a pair of new yellow rubber gloves. My fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere (as far as I knew), but better safe than sorry. Also, I wouldn’t leave tell-tale greasy marks about. I picked up a clean duster and an aerosol can of furniture polish.

I looked around the ground floor. I’d seen Fleur go into the kitchen. The doors to the lounge and dining room were open. So the two closed doors must be the downstairs bathroom and the study. I tried the nearer one; it was the bathroom. So the other must be the study. I’d go in there first; that was the most likely place to find useful documents.

Now, should I switch the vacuum on, to cover any noise I might make opening drawers or rustling papers on the desk? No, then I wouldn’t hear anyone approaching. They might catch me red-handed. Should I close the door? It might look a little suspicious to Fleur or the old lady if she came downstairs, but at least if I was disturbed it would give me time to stop doing whatever I was doing and get back into innocent cleaning lady mode.

I went in, dragging the vacuum, and closed the door behind me. The room was a crushing disappointment. There was a filing cabinet in the corner. The only furniture was a desk and a swivel chair. Worst of all: not only was the desk surface clear of any papers, but the computer equipment on it included a desktop scanner and a shredder. Treacher had been spot-on when he said Beckett was careful, but wrong in suggesting that he kept his records in paper form. He clearly scanned any incriminating documents and kept the images on his computer, or maybe even in the Cloud. Then he shredded the paper originals.

This whole expedition and my promising new career as a cleaning lady were going to be a colossal waste of time. I wondered if we could get our hands on his laptop, or find a way into his Cloud storage, but that seemed hopeless.

I tried the filing cabinet – locked; and the desk drawers – stationery in the top one, the bottom one was locked. I wondered whether I could jiggle it open. Maybe a hairpin? I was pretty sure I had one in my handbag. But I had no idea how to pick a lock anyway. Perhaps I should have asked Treacher for some spy training. Maybe in time for next week? But if I was right that Beckett scanned and shredded sensitive documents, the filing cabinet and desk drawers were unlikely to hold anything useful.

My shoulders slumped in defeat. I realised Martha the Spy had better get back to being Martha the Cleaning Lady if I wanted to avoid suspicion. Maybe there would be something helpful in one of the bedrooms. I went round spraying all the surfaces and got the duster out of the pocket of my smock. I picked up the wastepaper basket to put it outside the door for emptying. I would start the vacuuming next. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet. I wouldn’t be disturbing Mrs Beckett…

I almost fell over when I looked down at the waste basket. It was full of strips of shredded paper!

I opened the door and peeped out. Fleur was just disappearing upstairs carrying a tray. I rushed into the hall, grabbed my handbag, and ducked back into the study. I emptied the waste basket onto the desk. I opened my bag as wide as possible and brushed all the paper strips into it, stopping when I reached an apple core, a paper takeaway coffee cup and a Mars bar wrapper.

I zipped up my handbag and peeped out of the door again; no sign of Fleur returning downstairs. I hung my bag back on the hook and put the now nearly empty waste basket outside the door. It was usually my job to empty all the waste bins, and I would have to make sure I did it today. Fleur might be used to seeing that study bin full of shredded paper. I wiped the desk clean again and plugged in the vacuum cleaner.

That five minutes of excitement over with, it was back to cleaning lady business-as-usual. I finished dusting and vacuuming downstairs and went to the kitchen to do a small pile of ironing. It seemed that Jack preferred T-shirts and jeans to suits and smart shirts, and his mother didn’t get out much. So I was soon helping Fleur upstairs and back to scrubbing toilets.

After that I volunteered to do Jack’s bedroom while Fleur ‘had a little break’, as she put it. I think she wanted to call Peter. I went upstairs and paused on the landing to check my bearings. To the left was the open door of Mrs Beckett’s room. She was sitting up in bed, reading a women’s magazine and eating her toast, an unremarkable little old lady in a floral bed jacket. She wore gold-rimmed reading glasses. Her grey hair was in curlers under a hairnet.

When she saw me, I smiled and waved. She returned my greeting weakly. She finished her breakfast and put the plate and her teacup down on the bedside table. She then scooted down in the bed, turned away from me, and pulled the bedclothes over her. I got the message. I pulled her door closed and tiptoed away.

Jack’s bedroom was at the other end of the landing. It was a large, plain room with little to reflect an adult male’s personality. There were some Airfix model planes hanging from the ceiling on lengths of cotton. There was a small collection of beer mats pinned along the picture rail. The books in the only bookcase were of the Boys’ Own Adventures type. There were even a couple of Enid Blytons. The lack of grown-up decorations or ornaments suggested that Beckett must have left home in his teens and hadn’t been back here in residence for very long. Perhaps a recent break-up had forced him to return to the parental nest? Would these observations be of any use to Treacher? Would it be worth trying to trace his ex?

I checked out the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, being careful to disturb nothing. Then I scanned the bedside table. There wasn’t much more to see: an open Tom Clancy paperback; some magazines (Golf Monthly and What Car?); random CDs scattered about. I tidied them up, put clean sheets on the bed, and flicked a duster around. The waste bin contained nothing of interest. I put it outside the door with the dirty sheets. It was nearly ten by now, and Mrs Beckett clearly wanted to sleep, so I couldn’t use the vacuum. Jack’s room looked like it had been cleaned recently anyway.

Fleur had begun on the kitchen so I took the opportunity to snoop round the other upstairs rooms. I couldn’t see a ceiling hatch anywhere, so unless it was very well hidden, I assumed there was no loft space where Jack might be storing incriminating material.

Gentle snoring was coming from Mrs Beckett’s bedroom now, so I could risk checking out the other two upstairs rooms. One was a pristine, slightly prissy guest room that looked like nobody had slept in it since the eighties. The other was obviously where they dumped their old stuff, there being no loft space. There was no bed but it was full of boxes and suitcases. It wasn’t going to be practical to search all these but I opened a few as quietly as I could: junk; old books and toys; clothes that had gone out of style; photo albums; other Beckett family memorabilia; and more junk. Certainly no evidence of criminal activities, unless you counted a fluorescent purple shell suit.

I checked my little ladies’ watch. Ten past ten. I should go and help Fleur in the kitchen. When I got there I saw that she had emptied the dishwasher and cleaned the twin sink unit.

“Rubbish sack?” I asked.

“Under the sink,” she said.

I collected a sack and went round emptying all the waste baskets into it, and put them back in their places.

“Just dump it over there in the corner for the moment,” she said when I got back to the kitchen with the rubbish sack. “Can you wipe the surfaces while I make a start on the floor?

I found a fresh cloth and the cleaning spray (‘removes all grease’) under the sink and made a start. There was a door in the corner which I hadn’t noticed before. Fleur noticed me noticing.

“Utility room,” she said. “There’s a laundry basket for those dirty sheets. You could check whether anything else needs doing. It leads out to the back. You can take the rubbish out at the same time.”

I’d finished my quick once-over of the counter tops, so I went through the door. There was a washing machine and a tumble drier, and a clothes maiden with some ladies’ underwear and men’s underpants on it. Mrs Beckett must have done a wash recently. I dropped the sheets in the empty laundry basket. The place was quite tidy but there were some dirty footprints on the vinyl floor.

“Might be worth doing the floor if we have time,” I called to Fleur.

“OK,” she called back.

There were two more doors off the utility room. One obviously led to the back garden; the other to the garage. I’d nearly missed that! Perhaps Beckett kept suspicious gear in there? I pushed the door open and peered inside. It was mostly empty. There was only space for one car. It was occupied by a newish-looking Toyota Corolla. The flashy Merc obviously lived on the front drive. At the near end there was a workbench. A few tools were lying around. There were some boxes under the bench but a quick glance showed they were full of wine. There were also two cases of beer: a fashionable ‘real ale’ and an everyday lager.

“What are you doing?” came Fleur’s voice behind me. “We don’t have to clean in here, and it’s nearly time to go.”

“Sorry, love,” I said, turning to hurry out. “I thought I’d just check through this door in case it was something we’d missed, then I got distracted. He’s got some nice-looking wine.”

“OK, then,” she said. “I hadn’t realised you were a wine buff.”

She seemed puzzled, maybe suspicious. Oh well, that couldn’t be helped. I went out of the back door to dump the rubbish. I checked in the bin, but it had obviously been emptied very recently. There was no hope of finding anything useful.

“Can you put the vacuum and the cleaning stuff away, while I finish off?” Fleur said.

“Sure.”

I went back into the hall and pulled the cleaner along to the cupboard under the stairs. As I was wrapping its power cord around the cylinder, the letterbox rattled and half a dozen items fell through onto the mat.

I checked that Fleur was still busy in the kitchen and dashed to pick up the mail. I riffled through it quickly: a seed catalogue; a double-glazing circular; a letter addressed to Mrs Beckett in a slightly floral, feminine hand; a bill (probably) from British Telecom; and two letters for Jack, both with typed addresses. I stuffed the last two in the pocket of my smock and put the others tidily on the hall table. Fleur appeared as I was doing so. I hoped she hadn’t seen me pocket the letters. If so, she didn’t say anything. I shoved the vacuum cleaner back in the cupboard.

“All finished?” I said, reaching for my coat and handbag. Fleur did likewise.

“Yep, and we can go straight away. Jack pays the company by bank transfer. We’ve got half an hour before we’re due at Mrs Rawlings’ place. Just time for a coffee if we’re quick.”

A poor haul for my covert foray into enemy territory: two letters that were probably completely innocent and a wodge of shredded paper. Treacher and Susie would be disappointed.

* * *

We were lucky to find a parking space right outside the little coffee bar we liked, but Treacher called just as we sat down. This was inconvenient for two reasons; firstly, I couldn’t speak freely with Fleur less than three feet away, and secondly, I only had ten minutes to drink my coffee and eat my oat and raisin cookie if we weren’t to be late for our next client.

“Hello, Mum,” I said.

“Sorry!” I mouthed to Fleur, standing up and moving into a quiet corner.

“Any luck?” Treacher asked.

“Not really, Mum,” I said.

Fleur’s hearing was sharp, I knew. I just hoped it wasn’t sharp enough to hear that it was a man’s voice at the other end.

“I have got a couple of things but I doubt they’ll suit you. Would you like to try them on tonight?”

Treacher chuckled. He must have realised I couldn’t talk freely.

“Sure, I’ll come to the Hall at about – what? Six o’clock.”

“That would be fine. See you then.”

I hung up and went back to the table.

“I can never get off the phone as quickly as that with my mum,” she said with a smile.

“Oh well, she knows I’m working.”

“That wouldn’t make any difference to her.” She paused and looked at me inquiringly. “Hey, you were a bit nosy at the Becketts place this morning.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, though I knew exactly what she meant.

“You seemed to be snooping around as if you were looking for something. You haven’t done that at any of the other places we’ve been. Was there something special about the Becketts? Do you know them?”

I said this girl wasn’t stupid.

“No, it’s just that we didn’t have any specific instructions, did we? I mean, the old lady was in bed all the time we were there, and she didn’t say what she wanted. So I was just looking around to see if there was any more to do. I was only being thorough.”

It wasn’t totally convincing. Most of our clients had given Fleur and Chloe a regular list of jobs to do and the Becketts were no exception.

“OK, that’s very commendable,” she said, clearly not convinced but losing interest. “Not really necessary, but commendable. Hey, look at the time! Drink up. We need to get going.”

She started rummaging in her handbag. It dawned on me just in time what she was looking for. I opened my own bag and reached for my lipstick. I knew that women always repaired their makeup after a meal; it’s just that I had never had to do it myself.

Fleur put on a new layer of her bright red expertly. If I tried that, I’d get the stuff all over my teeth and cheeks. Fortunately Martha had left a compact in the shape of a clam shell in her handbag, so I was able to repair my own lipstick using its little mirror. Failing to repair my makeup, at a time when every woman born would have, could only add to Fleur’s suspicions that there might be something unusual about me.

* * *

I pulled my little Polo into the garage behind the Hall at about four-thirty that afternoon. I reached into the glove compartment for my handbag and had to pause to get my breath. I hadn’t realised how tiring being a cleaning lady would be, but I’d had three solid days of it since the weekend, each day followed by the need to satisfy my mistress’s equally exhausting demands, none of which involved cleaning (quite the reverse). I was knackered.

Then I noticed that the Audi convertible was in its place. This was unexpected. Since Susie had returned to work she hadn’t been getting home till after six, which gave me time to start on dinner. I assumed she’d just brought work back with her.

But that wasn’t it. She was alone in the drawing room and the curtains were closed, so I restrained my automatic instinct to curtsey, which would look a little odd as I was wearing trousers. She looked distressed, and certainly not in the mood for banter. When she saw me she leapt to her feet.

“What’s happened?” I said immediately.

She didn’t correct me for not curtseying or addressing her as ‘M’Lady’. She just ran over to me and threw her arms around my neck.

“That horrible man…!” she said in a shaky voice.

I held her close, or as close as my huge bulging breasts squashing against her perfect ones permitted.

“I looked out of my window and there he was,” she said, “leaning against that big black car of his. He was parked on a meter right opposite our office!”

I led her over to the sofa and sat her down. I kept hold of her hands. We must have been an incongruous sight: the elegant businesswoman in her smart pinstripe skirt suit, holding hands with the plump cleaning lady in her nylon trousers, smock, and headscarf.

“When was this?” I asked.

“Um… I’d just come out of our Wednesday morning Partners’ meeting, so… mid-morning, about half ten.”

“Did he do anything?”

“No, he was just sitting there, staring up at me. He even seemed to know which window was mine.”

“Was he there all day?”

“No… no, I looked out at lunchtime and his car was gone, so I risked going out for a sandwich…”

I couldn’t stop a concerned look reaching my face.

“Don’t worry, I made sure I was with a friends and colleagues. I wouldn’t have been brave enough to go out alone after… that.”

She tried a nervous little smile. It didn’t really work.

“After lunch, I had a client meeting in my room,” she went on. “Then round about three o’clock I happened to look out of the window again, and he was back, his car in the same place, and this time that goon, Tank, was with him. When they saw me looking out of the window, they even waved. I didn’t know if I was going to be able to get home.”

Susie, the strongest woman I knew, was on the verge of tears. I listened horrified, and tried to comfort her, cursing that my feminine appearance was so inappropriate for the job.

“I couldn’t get much done knowing they were watching me outside, so I went round my little team and did some case reviews and stuff for the next hour. When I eventually found the courage to go back to my office they were gone, so I took the opportunity to rush home. But as soon as I was on the road the black Merc appeared again. It’s easy to spot. I’m pretty sure they shadowed me most of the way.”

“At least they couldn’t follow you in through our new security gate. They were probably just trying to frighten you, reminding us that they’re still around.”

“That’s not all,” she said. “They left a message. Listen.”

She got up and went over to Treacher’s call recorder and pressed the playback button. Beckett’s voice came through clearly.

“So sorry to have missed you earlier today, Mrs Marsham,” the disembodied voice said.

I gritted my teeth to hear that he was still denying Susie’s right to be addressed by her title.

“I just wanted to remind you that we’re very keen to hear from your husband as soon as he gets back. Please bear in mind that the sum owing is substantial and interest will start to accrue from this weekend. Hope to hear from you soon.”

He rang off. We’d had a quiet couple of weeks since their visit. I’d hoped that maybe they’d reconsidered. I should have known better.

“That was quite clever, wasn’t it?” I said, ruefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Well to you and me, knowing the context, it was a threat. To outsiders, it was a formal business call, purporting to be from a creditor to a stubborn debtor. You’re a solicitor; you know how that would sound if we complained to the police that Beckett was demanding money with menaces.”

“But we don’t owe him money. We could challenge him to prove that we do,” she protested.

“But it would just be our word against his. He might even be able to produce a forged loan agreement or something. I’m sure he could get hold of copies of our signatures from somewhere. Obviously that would all collapse if the case ever came to court, but he wouldn’t let that happen, and till then we’d just come across to everyone as if we were trying to welch on a debt.”

“What are we going to do?” she wailed, grabbing my hand again.

“Not sure,” I said, “but Treacher will be here in an hour or so. Maybe he’ll have some ideas.”

“Oh I forgot! You were cleaning Beckett’s house this morning. I meant to call you at lunchtime to ask how you get on, but I was… distracted. Did you find anything?”

I told her about the morning’s spying and what little I had to show for it. I emptied my handbag onto the big table. After several minutes of futile search for little strips of shredded paper that might connect to other strips, we sat back despairingly.

“Perhaps Treacher will know what we can do with this lot,” I said.

I sniffed my armpit. The ladies’ deodorant failed to disguise the perspiration of a hard day’s work.

“I must go and shower before he gets here. I smell of sweaty cleaning lady.”

I left Susie staring dispiritedly at several square feet of scrap paper.

* * *

I had time to shower and change into my maid’s uniform before Treacher arrived promptly at six. I opened the gate from the security control room in the old pantry. Susie and I watched his little white BMW drive up to the front door. I went to let him in.

“Evening, Martha,” he said. “How did it go this morning? Did you get anything useful?”

“Good evening, Mr Treacher,” I said, staying in character. “I’m afraid I’m not optimistic. I’ve been showing Her Ladyship what I have. But there’s something you need to hear first.”

I led him into the drawing room. Susie repeated what she had told me about Beckett stalking her that day, and then she played the message on the answerphone. Treacher was grim.

“I suppose we should be grateful he gave you two weeks’ grace before taking further action,” he said. “We’ll need to redouble our efforts. Now what did you manage to do this morning, Martha?”

I explained about Beckett’s cautious approach to record-keeping with his scanner and shredder.

“But we may have been lucky,” I concluded. “He had obviously been doing some shredding very recently. I rescued all this from his study waste basket.”

I indicated the mass of paper strips on the table.

“And I have these two letters,” I added. “They were in today’s post. They were the only ones that looked official. I picked them up as we were leaving. Can you read them and get them back to the Beckett house without him knowing?”

Treacher was still staring thoughtfully at the shredded paper.

“What…? Oh yes, that’s easy.”

He took them from me, glanced quickly at the envelopes, and tore them open, being careful not to damage the front covers.

“Whoa, shouldn’t you be steaming them open, or something?” Susie said. I was about to say the same.

“No, you can always tell when a letter’s been steamed open – if you have a suspicious mind, that is. But these envelopes are standard sizes and types of paper stock and I have plenty of both. I have a printer and a scanner too. I can reproduce the printing and the frank marks exactly. I’ll take them back and drop them through the door with tomorrow morning’s post.”

He put the envelopes in his pocket carefully and checked the contents of the letters.

“That one’s boring,” he said. “Just his bank telling him they’re cutting his interest rate.” He turned to the second letter. “Ah, this might be more useful. It’s an invoice from a company called Anglian Storage & Removals. It’s in red type…”

“So it’s a reminder about an unpaid bill,” said Susie.

“Yes, it’s a Final Demand,” Treacher agreed. “People like Beckett always pay their bills at the last moment. There’s no detail here, I’m afraid,” he said. I peered over his shoulder. “So if it’s for a storage unit, we can’t tell where it is.”

“Presumably the address won’t be a problem though,” I said. “‘Anglian’ sounds like a regional company. It won’t have that many storage facilities, and Beckett is likely to be using the nearest one. He wouldn’t want to be moving stolen property over long distances.”

Treacher was looking at me now with a little more respect. I hoped I hadn’t overdone it. How much of the thinking of the criminal mind should I, a middle-aged housemaid, be able to fathom? Oh well, in for a penny…

I went to get my phone from my handbag. I opened the search engine and typed in ‘Anglian Storage & Removals’.

“But knowing the warehouse address won’t help much,” I said. “We need the storage unit number.”

“Quite right, Martha,” said Treacher, “and the company certainly won’t give out that information. I might be able to find the unit if I park there and wait till Beckett shows up. He must go there at some time most days.”

“Didn’t you say he was out of the office for an hour and a half last week?” said Susie. “So, assuming he would want to spend about an hour there, that means it’s somewhere within a fifteen-minute drive of his office in town.”

“And there’s an Anglian facility on the Western industrial estate – less than five miles away,” I said, holding up my phone.

“That’s about the right distance,” Treacher confirmed, “and it’s in the direction he was heading when I lost him.”

I showed Treacher the Anglian website. I had another look at the invoice.

“That red and blue logo…” I said. “I think I’ve seen it…”

I went over to the table and scanned the forest of shredded paper.

“Isn’t that the same?” I said, pointing at a shred somewhere in the middle of the mass of confetti. It looked like the middle third of the Anglian logo.

“Right again, Martha!” Treacher confirmed. “If the original invoice is somewhere here, it might have more detail, like the unit number…”

“Unfortunately, it’s a massive jigsaw puzzle with no clues,” said Susie. “We don’t even know how many documents are here, let alone what’s in them.”

“There are computer programs which can reassemble shredded documents,” Treacher said, thoughtfully. “You have to scan all the available shreds. The software assigns a unique ID to each piece and analyses size, colour, indentation, the font of the type, and so on. A matching algorithm then identifies potential neighbouring shreds, displaying them on screen for an operator to confirm.”

“Sounds brilliant,” Susie said. “Have you got this program? Can you do it?”

“No, but I know someone who probably can – Steve Jones, Ingrid MacLaughlin’s son. He’s a real whiz with computers, and Transformations has all sorts of state-of-the-art equipment. I’ll call him.”

He dialled. Someone answered quite quickly.

“Hi Steve, it’s Frank.”

Treacher described our problem. Then he put his phone down on the table and pressed an icon.

“You’re on ‘speaker’, Steve,” he said. “I’m with Lady Marsham and Martha. Can you tell them what you just told me?”

A confident male voice came through.

“Sure,” it said. “Good evening, ladies. Reassembling shredded documents depends mostly on the size of the shreds. The smaller the pieces, the harder it is to reconstruct the documents they came from. From what Frank has told me, your man has used a cheap strip shredder, which cuts the paper into long strips about an eighth of an inch wide.”

Treacher confirmed that was the case.

“Good, I thought so. Strip shredders are the most popular choice because they’re fast as well as cheap, but their shreds are also the easiest to reassemble because of the fragment size, and the relatively small number of them.”

I looked back at the table. If that was a ‘relatively small’ number of pieces, how many would better shredders produce?

“Cross-cut shredders are more secure and much more expensive,” Steve continued, as if in answer to my unspoken question. “They slice paper into many tiny pieces which come out looking just like confetti. You can also get very expensive shredders which pulverize paper into dust. Reconstructing that stuff is impossible, but they only tend to be used by Governments to shred Top Secret information.”

Steve obviously enjoyed showing off his knowledge. He must have sensed he was starting to lose his audience, because he abruptly terminated his lecture to ask a more critical question.

“Which way did your man feed the documents through, do you think?” When none of us replied immediately, he clarified. “When using a strip-shredder, the slicing direction also has implications for reconstruction. Horizontal cuts may leave entire lines of text intact. Vertical shredding ensures that sentences are broken up. We can still reconstruct documents after vertical shredding, but it does take longer.”

“I think they’re mostly vertical, Steve,” said Treacher, examining a range of shreds on the table. “I can’t see any whole sentences.”

“Pity,” Steve said. “Never mind. Can you bring all the shreds straight over? We have an auto-feed duplex scanner, but it sounds like the scanning will still take quite a while.”

Treacher agreed and rang off. I assumed that this ‘Steve Jones’ must be Annie’s husband. She had mentioned that he was a whiz with computers. Anyway, he didn’t seem to be curious about what we were trying to reconstruct – or why. That seemed to be typical of the Transformations people: provide a service but don’t ask questions.

“We progress, ladies!” Treacher said cheerfully. “I’m sanguine about some other developments too. I’m meeting a contact later on this evening who might have something to tell me about Beckett’s professional activities. Lots of reasons to be cheerful!”

Susie and I looked at each other as he left. He was a strange little man but his confidence had us hopeful for the first time.

* * *

“So are you still going to work for J & J tomorrow?” Susie asked after Treacher had gone.

“I thought that’s what we agreed with Sally Jackson?”

“Yes, but only for the rest of the week. I don’t want you going back to the Becketts’ place. It’s too dangerous.”

“That’s next Wednesday. What about Monday and Tuesday?”

“You sound very keen,” she said, with a wry grin. “You sound like you’re enjoying being a cleaning lady.”

“I don’t hate it,” I admitted. “There’s a certain satisfaction in housework, I’ve found.”

“And nothing to do with pretty young Fleur?”

“What are you suggesting, M’Lady?” I tried to sound shocked, as would a respectable middle-aged woman accused of an affair with a young girl.

“Never mind,” Susie laughed. “Let’s wait and see if Treacher manages to come up with anything. If he doesn’t, whether you should carry on as a cleaning lady will be the least of our worries. It looks like Beckett is ready to escalate matters.”

* * *

Thursday was a normal day for us both: Susie soliciting and me cleaning houses. Fleur had a major announcement: she was going to move in with Peter. I tried to be delighted for her. I hoped that it would go well, but that if it didn’t, she wouldn’t blame me for giving her bad advice.

We didn’t hear from Treacher all day, and I found it hard to concentrate. At one lady’s house Fleur pointed out that I had absentmindedly cleaned the same window twice. She asked if I was feeling all right. I told her I had something on my mind – which was the understatement of the year – but that I didn’t want to talk about it. I could hardly admit I was worried about my wife’s stalker.

Treacher finally called my mobile after our third job of the day. It was four-fifteen and I was driving Fleur back to her bus stop in town. The little Polo was too old to have a Bluetooth phone connection, but it had a hands-free bracket in the bottom right-hand corner of the windscreen. The caller ID said ‘Treacher’ in large, friendly letters which would have been perfectly visible from the passenger seat. I had meant to change his ID to ‘Mum’, but I had forgotten about it. I didn’t dare answer in case he said something I didn’t want Fleur to hear, so I let it go to voicemail. Unfortunately, his voice came through loud and clear.

“I just wanted to say that we’ve had some good news,” he said. “I’ll come round to tell you and Her Ladyship all about it at six o’clock, shall I?”

And he rang off. I could tell Fleur was desperate to ask about the good news but was struggling not to appear too inquisitive. After she had called me out regarding my strange behaviour at the Becketts’ house, I had to say something to satisfy her curiosity. We couldn’t afford for her to start gossiping about me to her cousin or anyone at J & J.

“That was the Estate Manager,” I said. “It sounds like he thinks they can afford some renovations at the Hall.”

I hated to lie to her. I was beginning to think of her as a friend – a girl friend, not a girlfriend.

“But why would he need to tell you?” she asked.

Oops!

“Well, the Countess works full-time as a solicitor,” I said. “He probably couldn’t reach her. I have to double up as her housekeeper and secretary and take messages sometimes. He let me know in case Her Ladyship wouldn’t find it convenient for him to come round this evening.”

She seemed satisfied with my explanation. Lying seems to get easier, the more of it you do, I noticed. But then my whole life as a maid and cleaning lady was a lie at the moment, wasn’t it?

Or was it?

* * *

Treacher arrived promptly at six o’clock, by which time I had recovered from the day’s exertions and was clean and sweet-smelling in my maid’s uniform again. I let him in and showed him into the drawing room where my mistress was ready to receive him. I poured him a cup of tea and left a plate of biscuits within easy reach. Then I took my seat behind Madam. It was second nature now to sit up straight, hands neatly folded over my apron, and knees tightly together.

“Things seem to be going our way at last,” said Treacher, through a mouthful of custard cream. “You remember I mentioned the recent burglaries in the area?” Susie nodded. “Well, there have been two more since we last spoke. One of them was at the Mayor’s country place – well, it’s his wife’s house actually… Anyway, that was enough to make the police sit up and take notice.”

“You mean they only try to catch burglars when someone important gets robbed?” said Susie scathingly.

“Well, I suppose it is a little like that,” he admitted. “It’s a question of overstretch, you see: limited resources, different priorities…”

She snorted. “I suppose we should be grateful the gang hasn’t hit us yet.”

“Anyway, the Mayor called the Chief Constable, who carpeted the Detective Chief Super, and suddenly a Task Force has been set up.”

He broke off thoughtfully.

“Actually, I’m a little surprised you haven’t had a break-in here – especially since Beckett knows only too well how many valuable antiques you have. In fact, that might even have been the real reason why he and his henchman came here – not to threaten you, but to make sure all your assets are still in place – that you haven’t sold anything, I mean.”

“That’s a thought!” said Susie. “Maybe we’re not in as much personal danger as we thought. If they rob us, we’d get the value back from the insurance.”

I cleared my throat just loudly enough for Susie to hear, but not Treacher.

“Not that we’d want that to happen, of course,” she added hurriedly.

“Quite, My Lady,” Treacher nodded. “I wouldn’t bank on that though,” he said. “He might have come to threaten you and ‘case the joint’ – killing two birds with one stone…” He realised that metaphor might not have been in terribly good taste. “…as it were,” he finished lamely. “But it might be worth checking the logs of your system.”

“Logs?” asked Susie, puzzled.

“Yes, your system records any attempt to enter, whether successful or not.”

“But wouldn’t the alarm have gone off, or the external lights come on?” I asked. “I’m sure I would have noticed. I’m a light sleeper, and my bedroom is at the front of the house.”

Actually, our bedroom is at the front. Martha’s is at the back – not that I ever slept in it.

“The way your system is configured, I don’t think the alarms would have been triggered if the intruder only got as far as the gate or the electrified fence. You wouldn’t want it going off every time a fox or something got too close.”

“True enough,” Susie agreed. “The police wouldn’t be amused either. We’ll check the logs before you go, but is there any other news?”

“Lots, My Lady!” Treacher said, with relish. “First, the new police Task Force have been calling all their informants and other civilian contacts. With more staff, they can do it on a much wider scale than usual. A Detective Sergeant I know called me this afternoon. I mentioned Beckett. They hadn’t been considering him – he’s an independent, not with one of the big firms – and she agreed that he was a likely candidate for fencing the stolen goods. But they have no idea where he might be storing them. I told her we might be able to help with that.”

“And can we?” asked Susie. “What did your friend make of all that shredded paper?”

“That’s the best news of all, My Lady.” Treacher was looking decidedly smug now. “Steve and his colleague, Fred, worked through the night scanning all the strips and running the re-assembly software. I’m afraid we will definitely owe them for that, by the way. Anyway, they found half a dozen different documents. Some were only fragments; some were lists of names and dates, which the police are checking against known villains and the dates of recent robberies. But from our point of view, this is the big one.”

He got up and came over to Susie. He was scrolling his smartphone. He settled on a page and held it out for Susie to see. This is what I saw over her shoulder:

Dear Mr Beckett

Notification of change to your storage licence: 004871-132

At Anglian Storage & Removals, we strive to provide you with the very best value in self-storage and we'd like to continue to offer you the very best in customer service. Whilst we try to keep our prices as low as we can, an increase in our costs has meant that we must now pass on a portion of this to our customers. We know that price rises are never great news, but we're still committed to providing you with the quality of service that you have come to expect of us.

The following will take effect from your next invoice due on or after 11 September 2020:

• Rental charges for units G-132 and G-133 will now be £24.99 including VAT per week.
•
• The insurance for units G-132 and G-133 will now be £7.99 per week.
•
All other charges, not mentioned above, will remain unchanged. Payments currently made by Direct Debit will change automatically.

Thank you for choosing Anglian. We appreciate your business and look forward to continuing to provide you with the very best service possible.

Yours sincerely

Nigel J Wilkinson

Store Manager, Anglian Storage & Removals

“My contact, the Task Force DS, wanted to know where I’d got all the documents,” Treacher said, “but I assured her they’d been discarded and I didn’t break in anywhere to steal them.”

“Surely if Beckett had thrown them away, we can’t be accused of theft, can we?” I asked.

“Actually, the law is complicated,” he said. “It depends on what the original owner intended, but also on your motives. He certainly intended to throw them away, but in such a way that no one could read them. Best not to dwell, I think…”

“Do they think they can get a warrant?” Susie wanted to know.

“The sergeant wasn’t sure. She said she’d get her inspector to ask the Mayor to use his influence as he was one of the victims, but the judge would want to know about the reliability of the tip. Since it was coming from an ex-copper, she reckoned there was a good chance.”

So Treacher used to be a policeman; I had wondered. Now I was wondering what made him decide to leave – assuming it was his choice. Was it significant that his ‘contact’ was a woman?

“So we’re waiting to see if the police can raid units G-132 and G-133 at the local Anglian,” he said, “and whether there’s any stolen property in them. If so, Beckett won’t be a problem for you anymore. I think we can be cautiously optimistic.”

Susie thanked him profusely. I was just about to show him out when I remembered about the security system logs. We went to the kitchen and I unlocked the door to the little pantry. Treacher knew how the security system’s control software worked, which saved me getting out the manual. He showed us how to display the system logs for the last week. It took only a moment to find that, at 2.05 am on Tuesday morning, three attempts were made to open the pedestrian gate using the old code. The system had also recorded a momentary interruption to the current in the fence near the gate. Someone had attempted to climb over.

“Well it’s good to know your system works, I suppose,” Treacher said.

“But it means someone – presumably Beckett or one of his goons – tried to get in,” Susie said.

“Actually, it’s a little worse than that…” I mused. Susie and Treacher looked at me. “…My Lady,” I added hurriedly. “Um… that wasn’t the old old code he used on the pedestrian gate; it was the new old code, or do I mean the old new code?”

Light was dawning for Susie, but Treacher still looked puzzled. I explained.

“Miss Beckett and her family would have known all the security system codes from when they lived here, before we – I mean you, My Lady – moved in and upgraded the systems. But the one the intruder used on Tuesday morning was the code Empire created. We changed that – on Mr Treacher’s advice – last week.”

“So how did Beckett know it?” Susie asked, though we all knew the answer. “Someone at Empire must be sharing their customers’ security codes with villains.”

“Indeed,” said Treacher with smile of triumph. “I’ll pass that on to the Task Force.” He turned to me. “Well done, Martha! That was sharp thinking. You’re very lucky to have her, My Lady!”

“Oh, I know,” Susie said. “She’s the best maid I’ve ever had!”

I cast my eyes down modestly and dipped a little curtsey. It’s always nice for a maidservant to be appreciated.

* * *

Susie and I were having breakfast at half past seven on Friday morning when the telephone rang. Susie rushed to answer it. We hoped it would be Treacher with some good news, but it was Sally Jackson. She made no apologies for calling so early. She wanted to know if today was going to be my last day as a cleaning lady, as we had previously agreed. Susie put her on ‘Speaker’.

“We’re not sure, to be honest, Sally,” Susie said. “We understand that the police are taking more interest in Jack Beckett, as we’d hoped, but we’ve heard nothing more than that.”

“I see,” she said. “Does that mean that Martha’s efforts on Wednesday bore no fruit?”

“Some, but nothing definite has come of them as yet,” Susie said carefully. “I hope you haven’t had any negative feedback from Mrs Beckett?”

“Not at all. I haven’t spoken to her, but I think I would have heard if her son suspected that anything untoward happened when the girls were there. No, my immediate concern is to find a new partner for Fleur… if Martha won’t be available next week, I mean…?”

She left the thought dangling. Susie looked at me. I shrugged.

“Just a moment, please, Sally.” She pressed the handset’s ‘mute’ button.

“What do you think?” she asked me.

“I don’t mind carrying on cleaning,” I said, “and it might be sensible not to make any changes to our routine just now. We don’t know what’s going on with Beckett and his gang but they could still be watching us. We shouldn’t do anything different in case it makes them suspicious.”

“OK then,” she sighed, “but as soon as this embarrassing masquerade becomes too much for you, we must stop it immediately. You’re not a charlady! You’re a man, and my husband, and I love you. I want to show you off in public – the Earl and Countess of Hadleigh, proud and on display.”

I nodded and smiled, but I wasn’t sure I agreed. I was no closer to overcoming my inhibitions. I was still too self-conscious to want to be seen as the Earl in public. I knew it was bizarre but I was much happier as a charlady. But now I wasn’t sure how much longer Susie could stand it.

“Understood,” I said. “You can tell her Martha will be available – for now.”

Susie unmuted the phone and agreed to let me carry on for another seven days, but that Sally would need to find another girl from Monday week.

Had Susie forgotten that next Wednesday would include a second visit to the Becketts’ house?

* * *

We had a good weekend. We had society meetings on both Saturday and Sunday, which kept a little money coming in. The Countess played hostess, while as Martha the maid I helped the society ladies find what they needed in the kitchens for their catering, as usual.

Sunday evening was our first opportunity to relax. I was able to change out of my maid uniform and into a nice cocktail dress to accompany my wife/mistress to a good restaurant for dinner. Susie had fun ‘dolling me up’ and I didn’t look too bad for my – that is, Martha’s – age and girth.

So life went on for the Countess and her maid, who moonlighted as a cleaning lady. My second full week began. We returned to some of the houses from the first week, and also went to some new ones, as some clients only used J & J fortnightly.

Whatever the police Robbery Task Force were doing, and whatever our role in it might have been, we heard no more from Beckett or Tank, and they didn’t appear outside Wainwrights again either. We started to get hopeful.

As I settled into my life as Martha I began to realise how fantastic my mother had been when I was growing up. She had always managed to ensure I had everything I really needed, despite there rarely being any money to spare. Furthermore, as my cleaning lady’s meagre wages appeared in the bank account I had opened (the Countess had been my reference), I really started to appreciate how hard Mum had worked.

* * *

On Monday evening Susie had news. I had made the daily transition from cleaning lady in smock and comfy stretchy black trousers to housemaid in smart grey uniform dress and lacy cap.

“The police came to see me in the office this afternoon,” she said excitedly.

I was peeling potatoes for our dinner. I wiped my hands on my apron and went to get the remains of last night’s bottle of wine from the fridge. I poured us each a glass of Sauvignon Bland (as we called it) and we sat down on a kitchen bench to talk. Sweeping my skirt beneath me and keeping my knees together were second nature to me now.

“It was a Detective Sergeant Sharpe,” Susie began. “Nice woman, quite friendly, didn’t seem like a copper at all. She didn’t mention Treacher, but she seemed to know most of what we told him, so I’m guessing she’s his contact.”

“What did she want to talk to you for?” I asked. I was very concerned. “She didn’t mention how we got that Anglian invoice, did she?”

“She didn’t say anything about that. In fact, she didn’t mention Beckett at all. She wanted to talk about our security system and who came to install it all. So I told her everything. Raj and Gopal came to do the initial inspection; Raj sent us his report and recommendations; then Gopal led a small team to do the installation the next day. I mentioned we were very pleased with how quickly they responded.”

“Did she say why she wanted to know?”

“Yes. First she asked me about the attempted break-in. She wanted to check that it was after we changed the codes ourselves. She wanted to know everyone who had access to the control computer, and to confirm that the only people who could have known the old codes at the time of the breach were you, me and Empire.”

She paused for a slurp of white wine. I was trying to remember what happened that day.

“A couple of their guys worked in the pantry to drill holes and install the wiring,” I said, “but the only employee of Empire who went into the pantry after the computers were installed…”

“…was Gopal, yes,” she said. “That seemed to satisfy DS Sharpe. Apparently they’d already picked him up and he was sitting in a cell as we spoke!”

“An old trick,” I said. “You see it on every TV cop show. Bang ‘em up and let ‘em stew. Then they fall over themselves to confess.”

“I suppose so. Of course, Gopal might be innocent. If Empire keeps copies of all their customers’ alarm codes somewhere, it might be another employee who sells them to the burglars. So the sergeant was gathering additional evidence to challenge Gopal with. It seems that so far they hadn’t spoken to any Empire customers who hadn’t been burgled.”

“It probably didn’t occur to them,” I said, cynically.

“I asked her if it was Treacher’s idea, and she admitted it. She was smiling. I think she likes him.”

* * *

Fleur and I had two customers on Tuesday morning. As usual I was allocated the ironing – I was becoming expert – then I would move on to vacuuming and mopping floors. Fleur was on the bathrooms and the kitchen.

Our first customer was May, an eighty-year-old widow whose smart little bungalow didn’t need two girls for two hours, but she liked the company. She usually sent one of us out to the local supermarket for her shopping, which I was glad to do.

Our second client, Claire, was an artist, a landscape painter, and she liked to have classical music playing while she worked. Her studio was in the conservatory because it was the best room in the house for the light, and a Mozart Clarinet Concerto spilled out into the kitchen where I was ironing. I loved that. It was calming. I somehow managed to forget the problems of being an Earl under threat from villains and imagined myself to be a real cleaning lady, working-class, no threat to anyone, my only concerns being how to afford a hairdo or a new dress I fancied. Well, my – that is, Martha’s – clothes were a little dowdy. I might have to be a cleaning lady, but I didn’t have to be a frump.

Claire had to rush to the shops about half-way through our time with her, as she had run out of ‘cobalt blue’ or something. Fleur had finished the bathrooms and joined me in the kitchen.

“Oh I can’t stand that classical stuff,” she wailed.

She found the digital radio on a table in the conservatory and retuned it to a pop music station. Some screeching female, who clearly felt she understood her song’s melody better than the original tunesmith, tried to fill the place so recently vacated by Wolfgang Amadeus.

“That’s better,” Fleur declared. Seeing my frown she hastened to reassure me. “Oh don’t worry. I’ll put it back to Radio 3 when we hear her car.”

I wasn’t sure we’d be able to hear any car over that racket, or even a near miss with a Jumbo Jet, but the bland caterwauling of the identikit female suddenly came to an end, and the DJ announced ‘Golden Oldies’ hour.

“If I could make a wish

I think I'd pass.

Can't think of anything I need…”

“Oh I love this one!” Fleur squealed, showing more taste than I expected. I was amazed she’d even heard it.

She stopped what she was doing and started humming. She often sang to herself while she worked. She had a great voice and could carry a tune well.

The Hollies reached the chorus.

“Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe…” they announced. “…and to love you…”

She dropped her cloth in the sink, ran over, and grabbed me. She dragged me into a clear space between the ironing board and the kitchen table and pulled me into a slow dance.

“All I need is the air that I breathe.

Yes, to love you

All I need is the air that I bre-ea-ea-the…”

Fleur’s eyes were closed. Her arms were up around my neck. I put mine around her waist. Apparently, being taller – marginally – I had to pretend to be the man in our odd couple. She was practically purring, a huge smile across her pretty lips. We gyrated slowly around the kitchen to the Hollies’ greatest hit, me following her lead with little alternative. It was nice. I just hoped that Susie never found out.

She opened her eyes and looked up at me, a mischievous smile on her face.

“Have you ever… you know… with someone of the same sex?” she whispered.

“I can honestly say I haven’t,” I said. “Not even dancing.”

And I still hadn’t.

The Hollies wailed their way to the end of the song. Fleur let go of me.

“You should try it sometime,” she said. “It might surprise you.”

With a cheeky grin she slapped me on my big round backside and went back to her cleaning.

* * *

We had a cancellation in the afternoon and Sally had nothing else for us, so I took Fleur home and returned to the Hall. I changed into my uniform and spent the rest of the day cleaning the bathrooms and toilets in our living areas. Might as well keep at it while I was on a roll…

At six o’clock Treacher phoned. Apparently, Gopal had cracked under pressure and given up the man to whom he sold Empire customers’ alarm codes: Jack Beckett. The police were looking for him, but he’d disappeared.

At half-past ten we were cuddling on the sofa and thinking about going to bed.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Susie said. Her tone was almost accusing.

“Huh?”

“Being a cleaning lady, I mean.”

“Well, it’s not so bad,” I said. Why did I feel I had to defend myself? “Once you’ve established a routine, it doesn’t require much thinking or planning, so you can relax, forget your troubles.”

I thought back to ironing to Mozart earlier that day, and the cleaning lady thoughts that came into my head.

“So, it’s pretty mindless then?”

“I suppose so, but that’s a little condescending, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but I’m sure you’d have thought the same before you joined the ranks of charladies.” She patted my bulging tummy affectionately and rubbed my wobbly boobs. “But I don’t know how you can do it carrying all that additional blubber!” she said.

“Well, yes, the actual work is physically demanding – my back was a bit stiff after my first day – but I’m getting fitter, I think. So that’s good.”

“What about job satisfaction? It’s hardly challenging, is it?”

“No, but you do get a warm feeling when you’ve finished a room and can see what had been a tip now looking clean and tidy.”

“There’s no more cheering sight than a sparkling toilet?”

She was mocking us cleaning ladies now. I didn’t reply.

“Seriously, are you sure that’s all it is?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sure you’re not enjoying… I don’t know… being subservient? You’re not happy as an Earl, so you want to go to the other extreme and be a lowly female servant, the lowest of the low, scrubbing toilets, cleaning up other people’s messes?”

I snorted. “Of course not! That would be weird. This whole thing is just a means to an end. I’ll ditch my Martha disguise as soon as it’s all over.”

“You may find it’s not as easy as that,” she said quietly.

I looked at her, but she didn’t elaborate.

“Anyway, it seems to have worked, doesn’t it?” I went on. “The police are after Beckett. He’s not going to be able to carry out his threats now, is he?”

Suddenly the outside lights came on and all the alarms started going off.