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 2

The Earl and Countess move into their new home, but Rob is still too shy and tongue-tied to be comfortable. Then Susie suggests a new game to relax him, using the old clothes they find in the attic.

When we arrived at the Hall on Saturday morning, Martha answered the door.

“Good morning, My Lord, My Lady, My Lady,” she said, smiling.

She was wearing a traditional housemaid’s uniform, a below-the-knee black dress with rounded white collar and cuffs, and a bib apron with frills on the hem and shoulder straps. On her head she wore a neat white crochet cap, not much more than a headband. I assumed my father had insisted on the uniform, which was distinctly old-fashioned. She was just taking hold of her skirt to go into a curtsey when my mother stepped forward and threw her arms around her.

“Oh it’s so good to see you again, Martha,” she said.

“You only saw her on Monday, Mum,” I said. “Let the poor woman breathe.”

“It’s just that it’s so nice to be back,” my mother explained. “Martha and I were great friends when I lived here, but Perry banned us from ever getting together again after he threw us out. He didn’t want her passing me information about his activities. Presumably he was afraid it would give me ammunition for divorce proceedings, maybe even getting around the pre-nup.”

“It’s true, My Lord,” Martha said to me. “He said if I ever met up with Her Ladyship, it would mean instant dismissal.”

“It was always lovely to receive your letters though,” Mum said. “You understood why I couldn’t write back, didn’t you?”

“Of course, Ma’am. His Lordship knew your handwriting and I could never be sure he wouldn’t see the incoming post before I could get to it.”

They both smiled, a little sadly.

“So are you still living in?” Mum asked. “You used to have a little room at the back on the second floor, didn’t you?”

“Not anymore, no, Ma’am,” Martha said. “I got engaged a few months ago, and I moved in with my fiancé. We have a little cottage in the village.” She smiled, embarrassed.

“Oh congratulations!” my mother said. Susie and I joined in.

“But it’s lovely to have you back here, My Lady,” Martha said. “Would you all like to follow me? Mr Smythe is waiting for you in the library.”

My mother followed confidently. She knew the way well. No doubt some redecoration had been done in twenty years, but the basic layout of the Hall couldn’t have changed. Susie followed wonderingly, goggle-eyed at the mansion of which she was now the undisputed mistress. For me, there was an eerie sense of déjà vu. I had been four years old when I was last here, but I remembered pedalling my toy racing car along the corridor from the entrance hall to the library on the ground floor of the East wing. I wondered what had happened to the little car. There was no room in Granny’s house for most of my baby toys.

I had never been allowed in my father’s library, so the huge book-lined room was new to me as well as Susie. My mother saw us gawking at the rows and rows of shelves and endless leather-bound volumes.

“Your father never read any of them, by the way,” she said wryly.

“Quite a few first editions too,” said Smythe. He was sitting at a big conference table in the centre of the room, surrounded by papers and box files, as he had been at the reading of the will. “Worth a fortune, I’d say, though I don’t think they’ve ever been valued.”

He got up and made his way over to us.

“Welcome to your new home, Lord Marsham,” he said to me, smiling.

We shook hands. Apparently no one bows or scrapes to an Earl these days, which came as a huge relief to me. He turned to the ladies.

“And welcome to Your Ladyships too, of course. May I suggest an order of business for this morning?”

Martha was edging to the door.

“Yes of course,” said my mother, “but I’d like Martha to stay, please. I think we’ll be relying on her a lot for the next few days.”

“No problem, Ma’am.”

Martha poured us all cups of coffee and we took our seats around the table.

“To summarise, the Hall and the Estate are all in good repair,” Smythe began, crunching a chocolate digestive. “Mr Johnson has made sure of that. There’s no mortgage on any of the properties and your father didn’t leave much in the way of debts. He really didn’t trust bankers. In fact, it was something of an obsession with him.”

“Quite right,” said my mother approvingly.

“But…?” I asked. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“He was exaggerating when he said he’d spent all the money, but not by much.” Smythe noticed Martha looking concerned. “Don’t worry; I’m fairly sure that there will be enough to pay out the legacies for you and the others, Martha.” He turned back to us. “But after Inheritance Tax, I’m afraid there won’t be much ready cash left. If there are any unexpected expenses, you may have to consider selling some things.”

“Surely an Estate this size must be raking it in?” asked Susie.

“Well, yes, obviously there’s a good income from the Estate’s tenants. There are three full-sized farms, several smallholdings and a number of houses and cottages. But much of that income tends to be swallowed up by property maintenance and development. Mr Johnson had been urging the old Earl to undertake various upgrading projects – new infrastructure such as drainage, irrigation channels, wind farms and solar panels, and additional modern housing out at the east end of the village. All excellent ideas I’m sure, highly profitable in the long run, and necessary to keep the Estate viable in the twenty-first century, but such projects invariably need bank loans to cover the up-front costs.”

“And Perry hated banks,” Mum said.

“Precisely,” said Smythe. “Mr Johnson was able to make good business cases for all his proposals, but the necessary loans would be contingent on the Estate putting in its share of the funding…”

“And my father spent all the cash,” I said.

“Yes. I’m afraid you would be hard pressed to raise enough to get any of the development work going now.”

“And without that modernisation, we can’t increase the income from the Estate’s assets,” said Susie.

I was glad my wife, the Countess, had a good grasp of these matters. I hadn’t a clue.

“Well, you could sell off the land near the village to private developers, I suppose,” Smythe suggested.

“Maybe,” I said, “but I don’t want to be the Earl who hacked pieces off a five-hundred-year-old Estate, if it can possibly be avoided.”

Everyone agreed. We fell silent.

“There’s no immediate hurry to decide,” Smythe said brightly. “You can’t sell anything till after Probate anyway. But if you really need money now, I can probably authorise an advance against your inheritance, and I’m sure your bank will increase your credit limit when they learn of your new circumstances. Now we have a lot to get through…”

He rubbed his hands together. He was in his element.

“First of all, here are all the keys to the house.” He indicated two enormous bunches of keys. “There is a third identical bunch in the safe. Regarding the paperwork, I’ve divided what you need to know into three headings: the house, the Estate, and the finances…”

* * *

The paperwork took most of the morning. At lunchtime, Bill Johnson came in to join us. We all sat down in the huge kitchen to a buffet prepared by the excellent Martha. With my mother’s encouragement she and Bill entertained us with horror stories of my father and his various mistresses. They had both been on the staff of the Estate for more than twenty years. My mother hired Martha straight from school, just after she learned she was pregnant with me, and knowing that she would need help. At first Smythe tried to look disapproving at the disrespectful anecdotes, but he was soon joining in.

When we’d finished eating and chatting, Martha took her leave. She explained, apologetically, that she only worked mornings now, unless she was needed for some special event. This gave her time to keep the ground floor and second floors clean, but she was sorry that she couldn’t manage the unused top floors as well.

After lunch Smythe and my mother got stuck into the pile of ‘disputed items’, which took up two ground floor Reception rooms. Meanwhile, Bill drove Susie and me round the Estate in his Land Rover Discovery.

“Your holdings include a mixture of agricultural land, commercial buildings, and rental accommodation of various sizes – mainly flats and small family houses,” Bill said, as we went past a row of smartly decorated cottages with beautifully presented gardens. He waved whenever we saw a tenant outside.

“A lot of my time is spent discussing maintenance, repairs and upgrades to buildings,” he went on. “As the Landlord, you’re responsible for a reasonable level of upkeep, but we’re always happy to discuss extensions and such like with the tenants, so long as they’ll add value to the property. If we fund an improvement, we will put the rent up proportionately. If the tenant pays for the work, we don’t do that, but we still need to make sure the design is appropriate for the building and that the work is carried out professionally.”

After a forty-minute drive round, Bill took us back to the Hall. We went in through the back gate, which was at the end of a private road from the Home Farm. He pulled into the courtyard at the rear of the building, parking in what had probably once been stables, now converted into a long low garage with room for six cars. He carefully tucked his Land Rover in next to a nearly new BMW 7 series.

“I had no idea the Estate was so big,” I said, getting out and stretching my legs. Susie agreed.

“I have an Ordnance Survey map on the wall of my office,” Bill said. “I can show you the whole layout.”

I saw Eleanor’s – now our – Audi A3 convertible parked against the far wall. I hoped she hadn’t sabotaged it out of spite. Next to it was a Dacia Duster 4x4 off roader. Presumably my father had used this when he needed to drive across fields on Estate business. It was clean; it looked like it hadn’t been out in a while. The pride of the collection was a twenty-year-old classic Bentley. It was under a dust sheet which Bill whisked off to show me. It looked fabulous, and fabulously expensive.

Bill led the way to the back entrance to the main building and his office.

“Is any part of the Estate open to visitors?” Susie asked.

“There’s a farm shop up on the main road by the South entrance,” Bill said. “All the farms and smallholdings sell their produce there. And there are a number of public footpaths and bridleways. But the Earl – beg pardon, the previous Earl – never wanted to open the Hall to visitors, if that’s what you mean.”

“Something to think about if we’re really hard up,” Susie said.

“Might as well sell the whole thing to the National Trust if we’re going to do that,” I sniffed.

“Actually, I think your father investigated that, My Lord,” said Bill, “but they weren’t interested. The architecture isn’t particularly significant and the building isn’t old enough. It’s only late Victorian. The original was early Tudor but it was destroyed by a fire in the 1880s.”

He unlocked a back door opposite the garage. We went into the huge kitchen first and made ourselves coffee. Then Bill led us into his office, a tidy little room on the ground floor of the Hall next to the kitchen. There were two desks, each with an ancient computer. An even older printer lurked on a side table.

As soon as we were sitting down, I asked a question that had been on my mind since we arrived.

“What security measures do we have here at the Hall? Mr Smythe mentioned that there are some quite valuable pieces here – paintings, first editions, jewellery, pottery, and so on.”

“Not to mention those cars out back,” added Susie.

Bill nodded. “We have a fairly standard security system,” he said. “It’s ten years old and could probably do with updating, though it has been tested and maintained annually. The outside doors are heavy duty and steel reinforced. They all have two sliding bolts as well as Yale locks. All accessible windows have deadlocks and impact resistant glass.”

“Sounds like we’ll be living in a fortress,” Susie said.

“There was an attempted burglary a few years ago,” Bill said. “They did some damage but they didn’t get away with anything. So the old Earl made some improvements. All doors and windows are alarmed. There are four zones: the first and second floors in each wing – that is, the family living quarters; the garage; and then the rest of the main building. The garage is on a separate system. Whenever you go out, you should alarm all four zones, and when the last member of the household goes to bed at night, they should set the alarms for everywhere except the second floor living areas. When the alarm is tripped, you have one minute to switch it off before it starts making a very loud clanging noise and a call is automatically made to the local police station. I’ll show you where the control panels are and give you the codes.”

“What about outside?” I asked. “CCTV? Motion-activated floodlights?”

“No and no. As I said, it’s an old system.”

“What about the front gate?” It was a tall wrought-iron affair with nasty-looking spikes at the top; virtually unclimbable, I’d have thought. “It was wide open when we arrived this morning.”

“That was just so you and Mr Smythe could get in easily,” said Bill. “It’s normally kept closed. It has an electric lock which opens automatically if the driver has a compatible RFID card. All your vehicles have built-in transponders. There’s a keypad for a visitor to type in the entry code if they have it, and an intercom so they can call the house if they don’t. If you want to let them in, you can open either the pedestrian gate or the main gate from here. They both open automatically when approached from the inside to let people out. Oh, there’s also a card reader on the gate like on hotel room doors. So you can give someone a card but disable it later if you don’t want them to be able to get in anymore.” He chuckled. “The old Earl broke up with several girlfriends that way.”

“Charming!” said Susie. “Your Dad seems to have been a delightful person,” she said to me. “They couldn’t have made a mistake with that paternity test, could they?”

“What about the perimeter fence?” I asked. “Could someone just climb over if we don’t open the gate for them?”

“Not easily. There are tall, dense hedges and/or barbed wire all around the Estate.” He paused. “May I ask: are you expecting trouble, My Lord?”

“No, no, not specifically. It’s just that Eleanor and her brother were obviously very upset by the will, and then by being evicted. I suppose they might try something.”

“I understand,” he said. “Between ourselves, sir, we were all glad to see the back of the Beckett family. Your father wasn’t the only spendthrift here.”

I smiled. I liked Bill’s candour. We turned to discuss his role as Estate Manager.

“There is quite a lot to do. I have a secretary who helps me with the filing,” he explained. He indicated two steel cabinets. “She comes in two mornings a week. Like the others, I’ve been expecting to retire soon, so I’ve made a list of everything I do for the Estate. The files are under much the same headings.”

He handed me a sheet of paper. I sat down in the secretary’s chair and skimmed the list, Susie peering over my shoulder. Before I got bored I saw:

• Oversee the development of the Estate, to make sure it’s being effectively run to meet the Landlord’s objectives;

• Organise repairs and maintenance;

• Keep up to date with legislation and regulations that affect the Estate;

• Deal with contracts for all services;

• Manage buildings and renovations projects;

• Carry out financial planning for a project and control the budget;

• Plan, commission and manage the work of contractors, such as building services engineers, gardeners, tree surgeons;

• Redevelop sites as required, e.g. in preparation for a new use;

• Communications to inform and engage the local community;

• Work with the tenants to keep them up to date on developments or potential issues;

• Carry out marketing activities (e.g. Social media communication to build a positive image for the Estate, improving public perception and encouraging community engagement).

“Wow, that sounds like a lot of work!” said Susie.

“Yeah, I hope you’re not expecting to retire any time soon, Bill,” I added. “I thought I might take on management of the Estate myself, but this is pretty terrifying.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad once you get used to it,” said Bill. “I have no formal qualifications. I learned on the job. I’m sure you can too, sir. We get Mr Smythe to do all the contracts, but they’re pretty standard.”

“Well, you’ve a job here for as long as you want it. In the meantime, how about I shadow you through everything you do for a while, whenever I can get time off school? Then maybe when you retire, I could retain you on a consultancy contract?”

“I’m sure that will be fine,” he said, smiling. “Thank you.”

And so it was agreed.

We went back into the house. Smythe had left and my mother was working her way through what looked like a roomful – two rooms full – of junk.

“Most of it’s junk,” Mum confirmed, “but Perry gave me that necklace and the matching earrings for our first anniversary. When we were still speaking to each other,” she added sadly. “I was angry and upset when we left and I didn’t think to take them with me, but it still steams me that that woman has been wearing them for the last fifteen years!”

“They’re lovely,” said Susie. “They look expensive.”

“I think they were, but Perry was old-fashioned. He didn’t think it was proper for the recipient of a gift to know how much it was worth.”

“It might be a good idea to have them valued,” I suggested. “In fact, if you’re planning to let Eleanor have anything else in here, we should get a professional opinion on a few more pieces – like those vases, and the crystal on the sideboard over there, and that cutlery set…”

“You’re right,” my mother said. “Perhaps Mr Smythe can recommend someone.”

* * *

I gave in my notice at the school. It was a little risky if the Estate turned out to be poorer than anyone expected, but I would leave in two months, at the end of the summer term. I wouldn’t miss the little horrors and the adolescent prototype thugs in the least. Susie wanted to ‘carry on soliciting’ (as she put it) at least until she was fully qualified. She would make a decision about her career then. We could probably manage on her salary, if push came to shove. In the meantime, she had appropriated the Audi A3, as the Dowager Countess hadn’t passed her test yet. Susie loved screaming to and from the office, dodging tractors and annoying cyclists.

I started driving lessons. We got ‘L’ plates for the Duster and Susie took me out every day. There were lots of private lanes round the Estate where I could build up my confidence before being exposed to the public roads.

All our spare time was spent learning about our new home and the responsibilities that went with it. I concentrated on the Estate, to prepare myself for when the excellent Bill decided to leave. He took me round all our tenants, introducing me as the new Earl. People seemed glad to see me, and were very hospitable, but I was uncomfortable with all the attention. Suddenly becoming a member of the nobility hadn’t made me any less shy.

Susie worked to understand our finances, supported by Smythe, Bill again, and Martha. She spent nearly a month of late nights and washed-out weekends; hundreds of e-mails; and many lunch hours meeting bankers, accountants, and inevitably the worthy (if pompous) Mr Smythe. Finally she convened a Sunday evening meeting of all us new nobles (i.e. me, Mum and herself).

“I think I know where we’ll stand after Probate. I’ve run all the numbers,” she said, pouring us each a glass of decent claret from my father’s – that is, my – wine cellar. “The Estate more or less breaks even; that is, the income from the tenants balances the running costs. It generates a small surplus during the summer months, but that’s wiped out by heating expenses during the winter. The biggest cost is the Hall itself, of course. It’s recently been refurbished but it will still be very expensive to run. The insurance premiums are massive too.”

“What about ready money?” I asked. “Was Smythe right? Is there anything left?”

“Yes, but as you know, the Executor must first pay off all debts before the beneficiaries can access any of the Estate’s assets. What made it simpler to calculate was your father’s hatred of bankers and his reluctance to borrow. Unfortunately, he also seemed to be determined to spend everything he had, rather than let his heirs get their hands on it. After paying the legacies to Martha and the others, I reckon we’ll have just under fifty thousand in ready cash or easily accessed deposit accounts – cash ISAs and so on.”

“Fifty grand?” gasped my mother. “That’s a fortune!”

“Not really,” said Susie. “It would only take a couple of unexpected bills on a house this size to wipe it out. Everything’s OK at the moment, but it’s an old building. Who knows when it might need a new roof, or a boiler? What if the cellars flood? We can’t afford to draw down on that reserve for our day-to-day living costs.”

“Is it enough to pay our share of one of Bill’s modernisation projects?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” she said. “I looked at his proposals. The numbers were in the hundreds of thousands.”

“OK, I get it,” I said. “We need to keep as much as possible as an emergency fund, so we may have to find new sources of income to live on. I’m not having the Dowager Countess going out cleaning again.”

Mum grabbed my hand and gave me a grateful smile.

“That’s right,” Susie said. “After you leave at the end of term, we’ll only have my salary. And we both have student loans, don’t forget.”

“What about pensions?”

“Your father didn’t have any.”

“Nor do I,” my mother said glumly. “I could never afford to pay into one.”

“I suppose I could withdraw my notice; try and get my job back…”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Susie said. “Firstly, you hate it; secondly, Bill really wants to retire, and if you take over, we’ll save his salary. You won’t have the time to run the Estate if you’re back at the school.”

“Yes, I really enjoyed going round with Bill, apart from the – you know – meeting people part.”

“Should we start thinking about selling stuff off?” Mum suggested. “Jewellery, those First Editions, maybe even land?”

“As a last resort, yes,” Suzie said, “but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. We would need Smythe’s permission to sell anything before Probate anyway. He’d probably agree, but then the cash from the sale would be subject to Inheritance Tax. Of course, if we wait till after Probate, it could be liable to Capital Gains Tax.”

“Would that be better?” I asked.

“Hard to say. Most antiques would be classed as ‘tangible moveable property’, or ‘chattels’, and any gains arising will be exempt from Capital Gains Tax as long as the sale proceeds are £6,000 or less, but some of the things we could sell would be worth much more than that.”

“We should get rid of the Bentley as soon as possible,” said my mother firmly. “I hate it. It stinks of privilege.”

“Agreed,” I said. “And why do we need it? We’ve got the Beemer 7 series for when we need a posh car.”

“You’re probably right,” Suzie smiled. “Private cars are exempt from CGT unless they’ve been used for business. I’m not sure how much the Bentley would be worth. An ordinary model of that age may be worth only about ten grand, but if it’s one of the classics, it could raise as much as a hundred thousand.”

We paused to think about what Suzie had said.

“We don’t have to do anything immediately,” I said eventually. The others nodded. “But we should all think about ways we can use this place to raise money…”

It helped that my mother had no difficulty renting out her little house. I insisted that all the income went into her bank account, and she insisted that in that case she wouldn’t take any money from the Estate by way of maintenance. Rent free accommodation was more than enough for her, she said.

* * *

So now we had to get used to our new lives. Apart from our accommodation, not much changed for us at first. That their Maths teacher had become a member of the aristocracy was a nine-day wonder to the kids in my classes. It certainly didn’t improve their behaviour (or their algebra).

There were five weeks to go to the end of the summer term, which for me mostly meant exams and marking. I also took my driving test and amazed the ladies in my family by passing first time. Susie immediately claimed the credit for being such a good teacher. My mother agreed. We opened a bottle of champagne as I ceremonially tore the ‘L’ plates off the Duster.

The new Countess awarded the trophies at the school Sports Day. Susie dressed in a very ‘county’ twinset and pearls, with an absurd floral hat. She was still gorgeous, but she looked quite a lot older, more mature, as I delighted in informing her. She insisted her outfit was ‘ironic’.

There was also a School Play at the end of term. I had foolishly mentioned in the Staff Room that I had done some ‘Am Dram’ at Cambridge, so I was roped into being the Assistant Director, which meant I did most of the work. We put on Ayckbourn’s Absurd Person Singular, although the headmaster thought it was a bit risqué. A couple of the kids displayed quite a knack for comic timing. It meant I actually enjoyed my last month at the school.

Meanwhile Susie carried on soliciting at Wainwrights. But it wasn’t long before the news of the changing of the guard at Hadleigh Hall filtered out among the local community. The demise of the disobliging and antisocial old Earl, and the arrival of an unknown new one, accompanied by a beautiful and charismatic Countess, generated a lot of local interest. Invitations started to pour in to open this and present that.

At which point I began to hate being the Earl. I was too shy to be a public figure. I went along to a few events, totally tongue-tied, serving no purpose except to deter smarmy male members of the county set from trying it on with the beautiful young Countess.

It wasn’t long before I started sending my regrets. Susie sympathised but she had taken to her new life like a duck to water. When she went to speak at the Young Conservative Association dinner dance, or launch the first boat at the Yacht Club Regatta, I sat at home, worried that her resistance to rich, plausible scoundrels might be weakening.

Eventually, in bed one late night after her return from another posh shindig, I shared my concerns.

“Don’t be silly,” she laughed. “Those braying idiots are nothing to me – except when their fathers are clients of Wainwrights, of course, in which case I’ll dance with them and pretend I can stand their company.”

“Still, maybe I should come to more of these dos…”

“Why? You hate those things! Don’t you trust me?” She laughed at my wretched expression. “Look, I have nothing in common with those horse-faced idiots.”

“I just wish I had their confidence…”

“Hush! I love the strong, silent type.”

She clambered further up the bed, threw her arms round my neck and plonked her head on my shoulder. I put my arm round her. Nothing more was said.

* * *

Susie was soon in demand, opening fêtes, judging fruit and vegetable shows, and giving the prizes at Speech Days. She also quickly built up a network of useful contacts. Best of all, the Partners at her firm recognised her potential value to them. They gave her time off to do Countess-type things. Then when she passed her exams with flying colours, she was quickly made an Associate Partner. It meant she would get a space for the Audi in the underground car park in the basement of their office building.

“Can’t have a Countess as a junior clerk,” smirked Old Mr Wainwright, her boss, who was clearly an unapologetic snob.

He was probably afraid she would leave and take his best clients with her.

* * *

Eventually the summer term ended and I was free – free and unemployed. One bright Friday morning, while Mum was out shopping with Esme (who insisted on calling her ‘My Lady’), and Susie was beavering away at whatever it is an Associate Partner does in a solicitor’s office, I wandered round the huge building that I now owned. I began to feel the stupidity of the whole experience. We would never occupy more than half of this ridiculous, anachronistic edifice, not unless we had a ridiculous number of children.

The house was built in a ‘U’ shape, the ground floor within the ‘U’ being a ‘Great Hall’. It was a sizeable open space with distinct possibilities. We could hold dances here, or exhibitions, or… something. There were serving hatches through to the kitchen along the back wall, but it looked as if they hadn’t been opened for quite a while. The edges and hinges had been painted over. The main reception rooms on the ground floor were down the sides of the open space with the kitchen (and Bill’s office) behind it at the back.

We mostly lived in the big drawing room at the front of the East wing. The walls were painted a brilliant white, making it the most modern and cheerful room in the whole building. At one end there was a decent-sized dining table with six chairs. This was a much more practical place in which to take our meals than either the Great Hall or on benches at the long table in the kitchen (originally for the staff). At the other end of the drawing room was a modern three-piece suite, grouped around a home cinema with a sixty-five inch Ultra HD screen fixed to the wall, and a five speaker surround sound system.

Under the TV screen there was a beautiful old fireplace with antique coal scuttle, tongs and poker. It was all fully functional but since my father had put central heating in all the main living areas twenty years earlier, the fireplace and all its tools were strictly ornamental. The mantlepiece above was painted white to match the walls. There was a very cool carriage clock which was probably worth quite a few bob, and various other objets which my father and Eleanor had apparently considered d’art. We thought they were hideous but we hadn’t gotten round to dumping them.

The wings either side of the Great Hall were independent with separate staircases for members of the household at the front and for the servants at the back. Mum took the East wing. She was afraid the West wing would remind her of her time with my father. There was no connection between the wings above the ground floor. Each wing had three bedrooms on the second level and three more above them at the top of the building. There was a communal bathroom on each floor and the largest bedroom had an en suite. I did a quick calculation. Two bathrooms on each floor in each wing, making eight in all. Wait – there was a bathroom in each wing on the ground floor too. That’s ten – seven more than the total number of permanent residents of the house. So queuing up for a bathroom would be a thing of the past. On the other hand, there was an awful lot of plumbing that could go wrong.

I made my way up to the top floor of the West Wing, our side of the house. I didn’t think Susie had been up to this floor yet in either wing. I had only been up there briefly before and had quickly been put off further exploration by the amount of clutter. I made a mental note to call a house clearance company. Though maybe Susie would like to browse through it all first…

* * *

When Mum got back from the shops she had exciting news. She was just winding up to tell me when Susie returned. She had brought some work home for the afternoon, so the three of us could have lunch together.

“Esme’s son and daughter-in-law in America have invited her to visit,” Mum began. “They’ve been trying to get her to go for years, but she didn’t like the idea of travelling all that way alone. Now that I’m free, she wants me to go with her. Her son has a big house, so there’s plenty of room. We won’t have to pay for a hotel.”

“Fantastic!” Susie said. “You must go. You’ll have a wonderful time.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “You deserve it, Mum. You haven’t had a proper holiday for years.”

“Are you sure we can afford it?” she said.

“Well, we’ll only have to cover your flights and some spending money, won’t we?” I said. “That’s a couple of thousand at most. We can probably pay for it on my new credit card. We must get you one too for your expenses. You have the rent from our old cottage and I’ll talk to Mr Smythe about releasing a little money from the Estate. He did say that would be possible. You should be better off than when you were relying on what my stingy father was giving you.”

“It would be nice,” she said wistfully. “Esme’s son lives in Atlanta, Georgia. He works at CNN. Their head office is there.”

“When does she want to go?” Susie asked. “It’ll be hot there in August.”

“We talked about mid-September.”

“Well, let’s start planning your trip then,” Susie said excitedly. “You’ll need lots of new outfits.”

“I don’t even have a passport…”

I left them to it, hoping that our fifty grand ‘emergency fund’ would survive the Dowager Countess’s trip to the New World.

* * *

Not long after my mother’s departure for the Colonies, Martha had an announcement to make. She was pregnant.

“To be honest, I thought I was too old,” she said. “I’m so sorry to be letting you down.”

“Good heavens, sweetie,” said Susie with a smile. “You don’t have to apologise for wanting a baby! It’s wonderful news!”

“It certainly is,” I agreed. “I hope you’ll consider us when you’re looking for godparents!”

We moved in for a three-way hug.

“Davey and I are planning to get married early in the New Year when we hope your father’s legacy will have come through, My Lord,” she said. “So I’d like to keep the pregnancy just between us for the moment, if that’s alright. I know it’s silly in this day and age, but some people are still a bit funny about women who get pregnant before they’re married.”

We assured her we understood and would keep her happy condition a secret for as long as she wanted.

“I should be able to stay on until you can find a new housekeeper,” Martha said. “I won’t have to leave for a good while yet, although I might not be able to get into my uniforms in another month or two!”

* * *

The weekend after Martha’s big announcement Susie and I finally managed to make a start on the third-floor bedrooms. We set ourselves a schedule: one room a day. If we were able to keep to that, we would get everything cleared in four weekends. So at half-past ten on the Saturday morning, armed with a vacuum cleaner, a dustpan, bin bags, and several brushes, we started up the stairs to the top of our wing.

“I thought you’d done some reconnaissance,” Susie grumbled as we arrived on the third floor. “The landing is full of junk too. That’s going to wreck our schedule.”

“I didn’t really notice,” I said. “I just walked past all this lot to look at the bedrooms.”

We made our way into the largest room. There were endless cardboard boxes, battered suitcases, tatty books and magazines, toys, board games, old vinyl records, dusty furniture, curtains, clothes and shoes. I was sad to find my little pedal car was there, broken beyond repair, presumably smashed by my overweight half-brother. There must have been several generations of Marsham family junk – none of which meant anything to the three of us. We had no loyalty to the Hadleigh legacy.

We started dividing everything into piles: ‘Keep’, ‘Dump’, and ‘Think About It’. Anything we thought my mother might like went into the last pile. Quite a lot of framed portraits – both photographs and paintings – went there. They were almost all complete strangers to me of course, although there were a few pictures of my father. At least I thought it must be him. The face was vaguely familiar and the dates on the backs were about right.

“Your Dad was very good-looking,” said Susie, who had come up to see what had caught my interest. “No wonder your Mum fell for him. Those photos of him when he was in his teens are very like you at the same age.”

“He was quite a bit bigger,” I sighed. “It’s a pity he wasn’t as good on the inside as he appears on the outside.”

“Well, his son is both,” she said affectionately, nuzzling my neck. “I’m a very lucky Countess.”

We decided to use the big bedroom as the repository for the ‘Think About It’ pile and the landing for the ‘Definitely Dump’. It took us the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon to process both, with a short lunch break. We had only a tiny ‘Keep’ pile, which we decided could go in the small back room, which was directly above Martha’s old bedroom. When we made our way in there, each of us with an armful of stuff, we found it was full of clothes. There were two wardrobes, one packed with men’s suits, the other with ladies’ dresses. From the styles, I guessed the oldest probably dated back to Edwardian times or even earlier. The most recent were from the nineteen-fifties.

“You know who’d like these?” I said. “LADS.”

“Good idea,” she said. “They want you to be a Patron, by the way. A letter came from the secretary this morning. I’m not sure he was aware that the new Earl was Juliet’s old Nurse.”

“Maybe someone at the school noticed I was involved in Am Dram. Anyway this lot could save them a fortune in costumes. Do you think Polly Whitmore will have room for them all somewhere?”

“Dunno, but some of these clothes are pretty old. They may be too delicate to be used in a play. Let’s have a closer look.” She reached for a very pretty pink and white dress. “Oh I must try this on!”

“Careful!” I said. “You might damage it.”

“So what? If the material has perished, it’s only fit for the dump anyway.”

She was stripping her top and jeans off. I took the dress from her and held it up to the light.

“When would a woman have worn something like this, do you think?”

“It’s a tea party dress; day wear; probably about 1900 to 1910. They usually wore vintage-style cotton, chiffon or lace. Typically they featured large puffy sleeves, a narrow waist and full hips with a flared skirt.”

“Wow!” I was impressed. “How did you know all that?”

“My Gran was really into fashion when she was young. She learned it all from her Gran and was keen to pass it all on to me. I once thought about going into fashion.”

“I did not know that.”

“Well, I grew out of it. I realised it would be too hit and miss for a career – like show business. The law may be boring but it’s steady work and it pays well.”

She was pulling open drawers from a tallboy chest next to the wardrobe. They were full of accessories: aprons, gloves, shoes, hats, parasols and shawls. Susie grabbed a particularly fearsome-looking white undergarment.

“I’m going to need your help getting this corset on. You can be my lady’s maid.”

I laughed and continued opening boxes.

“Why on earth would you want to wear one of those things?” I said. “Your figure doesn’t need any shaping. It’s perfect as it is.”

“Aw, thanks, babe,” she grinned. “But corsets are dead sexy – wait till you see me. Anyway, even I couldn’t get into one of these Edwardian dresses without a corset. Come and help me.”

“OK, coming.”

“Hey, talking of maids, look at what I found here – maid uniforms!”

“There used to be several maids here when I was little. Those must be theirs,” I said, reminiscing. “They were all very nice to me…”

I remembered tall ladies in long black dresses playing with me, pushing me on the swing in the back garden, pulling my little car around the corridors. I now knew they must have been Helga and Martha, and there might have been others.

“Come on then, strip off,” said Susie in an authoritative voice. “A maid should be in uniform when she’s helping her mistress get dressed.”

“No way! I don’t have a mistress; I’m a bloody Earl!”

“Earls can have mistresses. Your father certainly did. Come on, you can pretend. It’ll be fun!”

“Don’t be daft!”

“Think of it as an overall – our clothes are getting filthy up here. Anyway, your mother wasn’t too proud to be a cleaning lady. Who do you take after – her or your father?”

I laughed. She knew I was nothing like my father, but that didn’t mean I was like my mother.

“You even worked as a cleaning lady once, didn’t you?” she said slyly.

“Cleaning boy, you mean.”

“There’s no such thing. You were just a male cleaning lady.”

She was referring to the horrible time when Mum fell off her bike and broke her wrist. I had to help her with her cleaning job or she might have lost her clients. We were just lucky it was the school holidays so I was available. We went round the houses she had to clean together. She did what she could one-handed and I did everything else. I was thirteen. I quite enjoyed it, as long as I didn’t have to talk to anyone. I was even more self-conscious then.

Susie was the only one of my classmates I told when she asked me what I planned to do over the summer. I immediately wished I hadn’t told her. I was sure she would tell everyone else and I would be teased to within an inch of my life. But to my surprise, she kept it to herself. It was around then that she and I stopped pretending to hate each other.

“It was what you did that summer that made me realise you weren’t so bad after all,” she said. “Come on, put this dress on. Whoever it belonged to, she was a big woman. It should fit you.”

I sighed. “OK, but you’re going to be the maid tomorrow,” I said.

“Deal!” she said undoing the buttons of my shirt. “You can be the Countess.” I sneered. “No, you’ll have to be. Maids don’t help their masters get dressed, just their mistresses.”

“I’ll just stick with being the maid then. That clobber you’ll be wearing looks too complicated.”

“Fair enough. Now come along, Martha; I’ll help you get dressed, then you can help me.”

“Martha?”

“After our favourite maid. It’s a good name, isn’t it? And I can hardly call my maid ‘Robert’, can I?”

I finished undoing my shirt. While I was doing that, she reached to unzip my trousers.

“Whoa, you’re in a bit of hurry, aren’t you?”

“I just can’t wait to see you in this uniform. I’ll bet you look great!”

But I didn’t. She dropped the long black dress over my head. It reached down to my calves. It was all baggy and droopy and I looked stupid.

“Hmm,” she said.

“This dress is completely shapeless,” I said. “Help me get it off.”

“It’s not shapeless; you are. You need a padded bra, and maybe a girdle. Pity you don’t still have that shapewear you wore as Juliet’s Nurse. Come on, let’s go back to our bedroom. I’ve got some old things I’ve been meaning to throw away. They should work for you.”

She set off down the stairs.

“This is going a bit far, isn’t it?” I said, following grumpily. “I never promised to put on any women’s underwear. Anyway, that will take all day. We’ve still got lots to do.”

“Nonsense! Five minutes. Bring that old suitcase – it’s got aprons and caps and things.”

I carried the case down to our bedroom. Susie had upended a black binbag of things intended for the charity shop onto the bed, which was now covered in her old underwear. I spent an embarrassing and frustrating fifteen minutes struggling to get into her old bras and panties, but to Susie’s frustration nothing came close to fitting. She’d stretched it out but nothing like far enough. It was something of a relief that I would not be spending the rest of the afternoon in drag.

“Hang on,” she said, apparently in a moment of inspiration. “I’ve got another idea.

“So I’ll just wait here then, shall I?” I called to her retreating back. “In my underpants?”

“I think there are some vintage bloomers in the suitcase,” she called back. “You can put them on. They might keep your legs warmer.”

I didn’t know if she was serious. It wasn’t cold. But I had a look through the suitcase; there was a garment as she described. I shrugged and dropped my underpants. I stepped into the bloomers, half-expecting them to be too tight, but no. I managed to pull them up to my waist.

Susie returned with an armful of underwear. She stopped when she saw me and laughed.

“Very nice,” she said. “Antique cotton, or linen; possibly cotton lawn? Same period as my dress, I should think. Late Victorian or early Edwardian. There’s probably a drawstring to secure them at the waist. Yes, here it is.” She pulled it tight and fastened it in a bow. “There’s a flap at the back, by the way, with buttons, so you can… you know.”

“Yeah, well, when I need to go to the loo, I’ll take them off, thanks.”

“They have gorgeous broderie anglaise trim.”

“Terrific,” I said sarcastically. “Why are we doing this? I feel stupid already and I haven’t even got the dress on yet.”

“Because we can. Because it’s fun. Because we’ll never get the chance again if we give all these old clothes to LADS. Anyway, you like dressing up. You’ve been Lady Bracknell as well as the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet. I would have thought being Martha was right up your street.”

“Most of the parts I played in my Am Dram years were men, and it was just acting – which you insisted I did to cure my shyness – which it didn’t.”

“No, we’ll have to keep working on that, won’t we?”

She picked up a lacy white bra that was clearly much bigger than any of hers.

“OK, if we have to do this, can we get on with it?” I sighed.

“Come on then,” she said. “Put your arms through the straps. I’ll fasten it and find something to stuff it with.”

I obliged. Then a thought occurred to me.

“Hey, where did you find this lot anyway?”

“It’s old stuff of your mother’s. Don’t worry; it’s clean.”

“What? You’ve been raiding my Mum’s underwear, and you want me to wear it?”

“Don’t fuss. She bought all new lingerie for her trip. She was throwing this lot away. I got it from the other bag I was going to take to the charity shop. There – it fits you very well.”

She stood back in triumph. Then she started stuffing the bra with pairs of panties.

“And whose are those?” I asked testily.

“Mine, but don’t worry. They’re clean.” As though that was all I was concerned about. “Now let’s get this girdle on you. Then a little more padding will give my maid a nice curvy, feminine shape.”

Well there wasn’t much point in objecting now, so I let her have her way.

“Surely a woman wouldn’t wear a girdle over bloomers like these, would she?”

“No, no, bras and girdles didn’t come in till the 1930s, and you wouldn’t wear long knickers like these with a girdle anyway, but you need it to give you a proper female bum.”

Between us we eventually managed to pull the thing up over my bloomers. It had suspenders but I couldn’t get stockings on without taking the bloomers off, so they just dangled impotently. Then Susie started cramming more knickers – hers and Mum’s – down it until it was on the point of bursting. I felt like a cushion had been forced down my trousers, like a schoolboy anticipating a beating. I also thought my wife had too many knickers.

“You won’t believe how tight I’m going to tie your corset today, Madam,” I said. She just laughed.

“In 1905 a maid would wear a starched cotton petticoat under her dress, but I didn’t see one, so you can wear this old slip of your Mum’s.”

“Gee, thanks.”

I allowed her to drop the slip over my head and pulled it down to smooth everything out.

“Might as well add a little make-up as well,” she added, casually.

“Hold on a minute…”

“Ssh, Martha. Pucker up.”

She had smeared lipstick all over my mouth before I could stop her, swiftly following that with mascara.

“To make my pretty maid’s eyes pop,” she explained.

When I was fully underweared and made up to Madam’s satisfaction, she dropped the maid’s dress over me again and it definitely hung better. She tied a white half-apron around my waist. I even had a noticeably hourglass figure. I couldn’t move much because of the tight underwear, but at least I looked good.

“You’ll need to be careful not to let your ankles show as you move about, Martha dear,” Susie said, giggling. “Edwardian maids would never do that, and you’d be exposing your hairy legs. Now the finishing touch.”

She reached up and pulled a mob cap down over my head.

“This will keep the dust out of your hair,” she said. “These rooms are filthy. I don’t think a maid’s been up here for years – until now, I mean!”

“Very funny.”

She turned me toward the bedroom wardrobe mirror. If you ignored my five o’clock shadow and hairy hands, there were no other traces of masculinity. More importantly, I couldn’t see any sign of Robert Marsham, so I didn’t feel too embarrassed dressing as a maid. Surely no one would recognise me in this outfit, not that I was going to let anyone apart from Susie see me.

The Hall now had a second maid called Martha. I found my demeaning outfit strangely erotic…

“Right, Martha,” said the Countess. “You can dress me now.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” she laughed.

“Well you’re a lady, and you’re mine, so why not? You can think of it not as deference, but as a statement of ownership.”

“OK then,” she agreed. “I suppose I’d better get used to it, hadn’t I?”

As Martha, the lady’s maid, I first had to help my mistress into her underwear. This entailed quite a few layers and we had fun figuring out whether we had everything she needed and then how it all worked.

“Dresses in the early Edwardian period were much closer fitting than they had been for most of the nineteenth century,” Susie was saying. “So underwear had to become lighter and more fitted to the body, especially at the waist, to reduce the bulk under your dress.”

“Fascinating,” I said.

I wasn’t really listening. I was staring at myself in the wardrobe mirror. I couldn’t believe I looked so much like an actual Edwardian lady’s maid. My training in female movement was coming back to me. When Susie wasn’t looking, I tried a curtsey. Hmm, I needed practice.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” she said, tipping the contents of the suitcase onto the bedroom carpet. First, a pair of drawers – like yours, but mine will be silk, of course.”

“Of course.”

“This is a chemise, which you wear under your corset to protect your skin. Corsets can be rough and scratchy. Talking of which, here’s one.”

She had found a cream-coloured corset. The top was edged in a band of finely-made lace trim with two silk ribbons. It was cross-laced down the back with a tough-looking cord. Pulling that as tight as possible would be my job.

“Why would you want to squash yourself into a torture device like this?”

“You’d have to, to get into the dresses of the period. Anyway, it supports your boobs as well as shaping your body. This was before the invention of the bra, remember.”

“Well you’d never get me into one of those,” I scoffed. She grinned. “If I was a woman, I mean.”

“A serving maid like you would still have to wear a corset,” she said. “It would just be simpler and rougher, and it would usually do up with fasteners at the front, as you wouldn’t have a lady’s maid to lace you up properly. There’s bound to be a serving wench corset somewhere around. You can try one yourself next time.”

“What ‘next time’?”

But Susie wasn’t listening. She was rifling through the remaining items from the suitcase.

“Ah, this is a corset-cover. It protects the gown from the corset. I won’t bother with that. There are two petticoats here too; they add fullness to the skirt. I’ll make do with one, I think.”

“What’s that little lumpy thing, like a cushion on a string?” I asked, my interest aroused despite my misgivings.

“It’s a bustle pad. They were huge in the late Victorian era but were going out by the early 1900s. Some women wore them to round out their bum and hips.”

“Again, superfluous in your case. You’re very well-rounded.”

“Thanks… I think.” She wasn’t sure whether my comment was a compliment or an insult. “Come on! Help me get dressed, Martha.”

First was stockings. Susie remembered her Gran saying that you always put them on before the rest of the undergarments. Obviously Victorian stockings were never seen in public underneath all the layers of petticoats and skirts, but in private women loved fancy, colourful designs. The ones Susie chose were made of silk. They were grey with vertical black stripes and came up to just above her knees. There was no built-in elastic to hold them up, but we found a pair of frilly garters. She slipped them on and up her legs. By pulling their tops up above the garters, we managed to persuade the stockings to stay up. Her legs looked sexy as hell.

She giggled when she saw my mouth watering at the sight – metaphorically, of course. The garters were now pretty tight and I was afraid they might constrict her blood flow, but when I tried to slip them down a little, they wouldn’t hold the stockings up anymore. There seemed to be no way of clipping the stockings to the garters, so I was pretty sure they would soon slip down, but Susie wasn’t concerned.

The first layer of clothing was the silk bloomers. She stepped into them and turned round so that I could tie up the drawstring as she had mine. The frilly cuffs at the bottom of the legs came down to just below her stocking tops. Rather than having a buttoned flap at the back, her drawers were split to enable their wearer to use the facilities.

While I was fastening her bloomers, Susie had picked up the chemise. She handed it to me and turned her back again.

“A lady shouldn’t have to remove her own bra, Martha,” she giggled. “You’ve had lots of practice. Have at it.”

“Yes, M’Lady,” I said.

I unclipped her bra and felt a movement inside my own bloomers, despite the tight girdle. I hoped my mistress hadn’t seen. As her breasts came loose, she turned to face me again, and immediately saw the tenting in my skirt, which my apron did nothing to conceal.

“Martha!” she admonished. “That’s most improper for a maid! Get yourself under control this minute!”

“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry, Ma’am,” I said, completely unable to keep a sheepish grin from my lips. We were both enjoying the afternoon’s play enormously.

The chemise was like a light summer nightgown, a very simple pattern, knee-length, with a low square neck, tight sleeves and underarm gussets. It had a little embroidery round the neck and hem. Susie explained that the Victorians considered embroidered underwear to be indecent. After all, it’s never seen, so it should be plain. But people were starting to relax a little as the Edwardian era progressed. We mused happily over how times have changed. Susie has lots of sexy underwear and it was definitely intended to be seen.

Next came the dreaded corset. The lacy dress she had selected was less extravagant than clothes from earlier in the nineteenth century. It wouldn’t take a crinoline, for example; nor was there a protruding bustle; and nor was it as tight as a dress from the late 1870s. But it still needed a severe corset, which I took sadistic pleasure in lacing up as tightly as I could manage – just as I threatened.

Susie had to lean against the wall to stop herself from moving as I tugged on the cord. We had to pause a couple of times for her to get her breath back. Each time we checked to see if she was parcelled up tightly enough to get into the dress. All the effort and my cumbersome outfit were causing me to sweat too.

“I don’t understand,” she panted. “I thought I was slim…” Pant, pant. “Why can’t I get into this blasted gown?” Pant, pant. “And the petticoat still has to go under it. Come on, Martha! I’m sure a real Edwardian maid could do me up tighter than this!”

I rather doubted that, even though I was finding my underwear, dress, apron and especially frilly cap, emasculating.

“A woman of the time would have worn a tight corset every day since her early teens,” I suggested. “Wouldn’t that have trained her shape to fit these stupid narrow waists? Eighteen inches was the goal, wasn’t it? Very bad for the internal organs, I should think. Frankly, I’d be worried if you could get into the dress.”

“The waist on this one is twenty-two inches, I think,” she said. “Maybe twenty.”

“When did you measure it?”

“OK, I’m ready again,” she said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Tighter!”

She leant against the wall again.

“Also, there’s modern nutrition,” I said, putting my knee up against her back. “Women today are taller, bigger… plumper…”

That just got me a filthy look. So I shut up.

Eventually I could do no more. It would need a tractor to get the blasted thing any tighter. Susie’s breathing was shallow now, as if she was only using the top of her lungs.

“This is ridiculous!” I said. “I’m going to undo this death-trap right now.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, panting even more heavily. “Let me try the dress again. Last chance.”

“What about the petticoat?”

“Ah! I don’t know…” She stopped to think. “If I put it on now, I won’t be able to step into the dress, and I can’t put the dress on over my head as my boobs are too big for the waist. I suppose that means I’ll have to put the dress on first and then work the petticoat up underneath it. I wonder how Edwardian women did it?”

So I held the beautiful, flimsy gown out for her. Susie put one hand on my shoulder and tried to step into it.

“Can you hold it a little lower, babe?” she panted. “The corset is stopping me lifting my leg any higher.”

I bent lower to comply. The basic dress was pink with white lace embellishments on the bodice and at the sleeves. The skirt was gathered at the waist and fell naturally over her hips and the various undergarments. It gave her an A-line silhouette that was almost bell-like. It had huge, puffy leg-of-mutton sleeves fitted tightly at the wrist and with small ruffles at the shoulder. There were no less than twelve tiny pearl buttons down the back which I found fiddly, my fingers being bigger and clumsier than those of most Edwardian maids.

“You won’t be able to get out of any of this by yourself, you know,” I said.

“That’s what I have a maid for,” she smiled. “You’ll be on duty for a while yet, Martha sweetie.”

Finally the petticoat; it was close-fitting down to knee level, then with a deep gathered flounce to the ankle, and a narrow ruffled extension to the floor. It was awkward to get on but manageable. Susie gathered up the skirt of her dress as high as she could and stepped into the petticoat, but after that she could do nothing to help me, tightly constrained as she was.

I slowly worked it up her body. It was a struggle getting it all the way up to her waist, so we eventually settled for having it rest just below, high on her hips. There was no elastic, of course. It had a drawstring which I tied off for her. It seemed secure enough, but there was about an inch of frilly petticoat spilling out below the hem of the dress. How on earth did Edwardian ladies put up with all this stuff? (Mind you, some of our modern fashions don’t look much more comfortable.)

“I need high heels, I think,” Susie said. “I didn’t see anything suitable up there or in the suitcase.”

“You probably couldn’t get your feet into an Edwardian lady’s shoe anyway,” I said, accurately but tactlessly.

“Yes, thank you, Martha,” she said, icily. “Fetch me a pair of black heels, please.”

Her tone made it clear that her maid had better jump to it, or she might be out on the street tomorrow without a reference. I jumped to it. I grabbed the nearest pair of black high-heeled shoes from the bottom of her wardrobe.

She lowered herself carefully onto the bed, gathered up her skirts, and raised one foot. She looked at me as if to say, “Well?”

I sighed and mopped my sweating brow on my apron. I lifted my own skirt and knelt at her feet. Helping my wife-stroke-mistress on with shoes, while kneeling in front of her dressed as her lady’s maid, was both utterly mortifying and sublimely erotic. She tried to maintain a stern demeanour but we were both helpless with laughter by the time I’d finished. I pulled her to her feet. She looked amazing, as I had known she would.

The dress was Edwardian rather than late Victorian, well after the time of Oscar Wilde, so it wasn’t really appropriate for me to say, “You look just like Lady Bracknell.”

“Damn your insolence, Martha!” she expostulated. “Lady Bracknell was an old bag!”

“Cheek!” I said back in protest. “I wasn’t an old bag. Everyone said I made a very handsome woman.”

“Well, yeah, you did,” she grinned, “but a handsome middle-aged woman. I see myself as her daughter, Gwendolen.”

“Fair enough,” I agreed. “Now I suppose you want me to do your hair?”

She passed me a hairbrush and an old-fashioned tortoiseshell comb she had found in the accessories suitcase. Soon I was brushing and arranging her hair, like a proper maid. While she was telling me what to do, she kept up a running commentary about hairstyles of the early 1900s.

“My great-great-grandmother used to wear her hair in a pompadour, which was the most fashionable hairstyle for Edwardian women. My Gran showed me pictures and taught me how to do it. My hair’s too short really; it was much longer when I was little. My maid needs to backcomb it and roll it to create the high, round shape.”

We decided not to bother with rollers but Susie showed me how to do backcombing. I wasn’t very good at it but she didn’t scold me for my feeble efforts, she just laughed. Eventually I managed to get her hair to fluff out a bit and between us we worked out how to hold it in place using the big tortoiseshell comb. When we’d finished I thought she looked like a perfect Edwardian lady, if you ignored the wayward tufts of hair that had managed to escape from the bloated beehive on top of her head, due to her maid’s incompetence.

I flopped down on our bed, exhausted.

“You look great,” I said, “like a proper Countess, but we’re way behind schedule now.”

“Oh, it’s too late to do any more today, and I’d have to take all this lot off… I mean, you’d have to undress me, Martha. Tell you what – let’s have an early dinner. As my maid you’ll be serving me of course.”

“Well, I’m not cooking, and you can open the door to the pizza delivery boy.”

We were now playing an exciting and erotic game of ‘mistress and maid’. I pottered in and out with food and drink all evening, while Susie reclined on the lounge sofa, like an Edwardian lady of leisure. But it was all in fun. She would never have demanded anything too demeaning of me, if only because she knew I would flatly refuse and the game would be over.

She called me ‘Martha’ all the time and taught me to curtsey whenever I approached her. As a result I experienced a continual, often painful, erection in my bloomers and Mum’s panty girdle (which I decided I would have to destroy afterwards).

It wasn’t all comfort and ease for Susie either, squeezed as she was into the tight corset. She could only manage a third of her pizza, and after two glasses of Merlot she had to make several trips to the bathroom, requiring my assistance each time.

At about half past nine the continual stimulation became too much for both of us, so we called it quits and rushed to the bedroom. I undressed my mistress in half the time it had taken me to dress her. She returned the favour just as quickly and our lovemaking was the longest and best either of us could remember. Susie decided that dressing-up games would be part of our repertoire from now on. I didn’t object too strongly.

There was no rush to donate our entire collection of historic costumes to LADS, was there? We held back a few of the costumes for ourselves. Some of the maid’s uniforms were too small for me but Susie could get into them, so we did our ongoing clearing of the top floor rooms dressed as two maids. I dispensed with the bloomers and wore thick black stockings to conceal my hairy legs. We told ourselves that our fancy dress kept the accumulated dirt and dust of decades off our own clothes.

“You realise this makes you the second Countess of Hadleigh in succession to work as a cleaner?” I laughed.

“What about you? You’re a third-generation cleaning lady. Not bad considering you’re actually a man!”

Unfortunately, we usually didn’t get a lot done before we’d turned each other on so much we had to stop for a little ‘relief’. Our original estimate of four weekends looked ridiculous now. Still, a good time was had by all.

I just didn’t realise what changes our silly, sexy, dressing-up games might lead to…

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.”

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 4

In the face of threats from local villains, Rob is forced to hide out as Martha, the housekeeper.

“The Earl’s not here,” I squeaked in my best Martha voice.

“We’ll wait,” said Eleanor’s brother. “Through here, Tank.”

Tank? Never did a man’s nickname suit him better.

“Just a minute,” I said. “You can’t…”

Apparently, they could. They made their way into the main drawing room and threw themselves down in our best easy chairs. The one called Tank picked up the TV remote from the occasional table and turned the home cinema on. He started browsing through the programmes we had recorded, snorting at some of our choices.

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want Susie to come in here. God knows what these two bastards might do. I might have to abandon my disguise and try to defend her. That wouldn’t stop them assaulting her if they were so minded and would probably just result in me getting killed.

At that moment Susie came in to investigate the commotion from the hall.

“Ah, Mrs Marsham,” said Eleanor’s brother, rising to his feet.

This didn’t appear as a gesture of courtesy but of menace. As he was also denying her title, Susie clearly had no difficulty reading it as such. She backed away a little as he approached.

“Martha knows me. I’m Jack Beckett, Eleanor’s brother.” He didn’t introduce his companion.

For the moment I thought it best to try and maintain the deception.

“I’m sorry, My Lady, they just burst in,” I said, trying to sound like Martha and say what she would say in these circumstances. “I couldn’t stop them.”

I moved round slowly to try and insert myself between Susie and Beckett.

“It’s all right, Martha,” she said, picking up her cue. “I’m sure they’ll explain what they want.” She turned back to Beckett. “Well?”

She was in full Countess-mode now, expecting deference from this pleb. The pleb wasn’t impressed.

“We’ve heard that Probate has gone through and the will was much as the poxy old Earl’s letter said,” Beckett said.

The threat of violence seemed to have receded, for now. It looked like he was going to talk rather than punch.

“That bastard treated my sister very badly,” he continued. “She put up with him and his moods for fifteen years…”

“Give or take the times she left him, and you had to put her up,” said Tank with a grin, clearly a heavy who was a stickler for accuracy.

“Yeah – her and her spoilt brat,” agreed Beckett. He turned back to Susie. “But Eleanor was the Countess in all but name for half her adult life. Julie Dixon has no right to this place, let alone her scruffy loser of a son.”

“My husband is the legal heir to both the title and the Estate…” Susie began.

“Oh I know you people have the law behind you, but that doesn’t make it right.” His eyes narrowed.

Was this ‘person well known to the police’ really claiming that natural justice was on their side?

“So we want compensation,” he said.

The air of menace was back. I moved a little closer to Susie. Tank was watching us, a sour little smile on his ugly face.

Susie said nothing, which was clearly the right response. It would have been a bad mistake to ask what Beckett had in mind.

“A hundred thousand will do for a start.”

“You’re out of your mind!” Susie spat. “You heard the old Earl’s letter, same as us. There’s no money left.”

“That’s just not true, is it?” Beckett sneered. “There may not be much cash, but you can start by giving us everything remaining after probate, and then start selling stuff – jewellery, paintings, books, cars. I might take that Bentley instead of… I don’t know; maybe twenty grand.”

“I’ve listened to enough of this nonsense,” said Susie in her best solicitor voice. “If you two don’t get out of my house immediately, I’m calling the police.”

“What with?”

“What?”

“I mean, what are you going to dial with, if Tank here has broken all your fingers?”

Tank recognised his cue and got to his feet, like a bull elephant unfolding upwards from a kneeling position.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Susie was the bravest girl I’d ever known, but she was backing away, maybe getting ready to run.

“Actually we would, but I’d much rather we broke your husband’s fingers than yours. You’re too pretty. Where is the cowardly bastard anyway?”

I couldn’t let them do anything to Susie. I would have to own up and take their ridicule and their violence. I was just about to answer when she beat me to it.

“He’s away on Estate business,” she said, thinking quickly. “He didn’t say when he’d be back, but it will be at least a fortnight, maybe not till the end of the month.”

“Well, you’d better get in touch and tell him to come home – but don’t say anything that would frighten him off, or you and Fatso here will end up paying for it. Oh and don’t try anything clever. Me and my people will be watching you. Tank isn’t my only friend.”

“You’ll be wasting your time,” said Susie fiercely. “We won’t respond to empty threats. I’ll be calling the police as soon as you’ve gone.”

“And telling them what?” Beckett sneered. “I was never here. I was doing a barbecue round at my place all afternoon. My sister and nephew will swear to that. Tank was there too. It will be your word against ours. I suppose the police might believe you – I’ve had some minor disagreements with them in the past – but they won’t be able to do anything.”

“And they can’t keep an eye on you all the time,” added Tank. “Sooner or later we’ll find you and your useless husband alone, and then it’ll be finger-breaking time.”

“Or ball-breaking. Or both,” said Beckett. “Find the money, Mrs Marsham. It’ll save you a lot of pain.”

They got up to go.

“Aren’t we going to take advantage of this opportunity…?” suggested Tank hopefully.

“Take advantage of these two delightful ladies, you mean?”

“Well, I wouldn’t have called them ladies. Slags, maybe.”

“OK, you can have the old fat one then,” laughed Beckett.

Old? Old? I’m not – that is, Martha isn’t – forty yet. And I’m ‘pleasantly plump’, thank you very much…

“As long as we can switch round afterwards,” Tank leered.

Susie and I looked at each other, preparing to take a stand.

“No, not this time,” said Beckett, with his wolfish grin. “More trouble than it’s worth. But we’ll be back, and your husband had better bloody well be here, Mrs Marsham, or it could go badly for the two of you. C’mon, Tank.”

“You sure? On second thoughts, I wouldn’t kick the fat one out of bed.”

Beckett had reached the front door by now.

“No, but you wouldn’t kick your sister out of bed, from what I’ve heard.”

“True that…”

As soon as the door closed behind them, I rushed to Susie. Having been so brave for so long, she collapsed into my arms.

“What are we going to do?” she wailed.

* * *

Well the first thing, obviously, was a cup of tea. We were British, after all. As I was dressed as the maid, and Susie was still shaking, I made it. I got her to sit down in the drawing room and eat a couple of custard creams with hers.

“We need to keep Beckett and his friends out of here,” I said, when I judged she was going to be capable of rational thought. “We’ll need help to do that. Didn’t Annie Jones say they’d recently hired a security firm for their offices?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but they’ll be expensive.”

“Not £100,000 though. We have her number. I’ll give her a ring.”

“You’d better let me do that,” she said, with a pensive look.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re not supposed to be here. I’m sure Annie wouldn’t tell anyone, especially if we tell her why we need help, but we can’t be too careful. Talking of which…”

Ominous pause. I know her, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what was coming next.

“I think you need to stay as Martha for the moment.”

“What? That’s ridiculous! Look at all this!” I plucked at the skirt of my maid uniform.

“I am looking,” she said. “You look exactly like Martha, and that will keep you safe from those thugs.”

“No way! I can’t stay like this!”

“The alternative is for you to go away somewhere.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone!”

“Well, we could both go away,” she said, “but that would just give them the run of the place. Eleanor probably still has keys, and she knows the alarm codes. They wouldn’t need to break in and they would say we gave them permission to take whatever they wanted. We certainly couldn’t claim on the insurance.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Whatever happens, we need to change the locks and the codes. And we should both stay in till then.”

“Then you’ll have to be Martha.” She tutted when I made a face. “Look, they said they’ll be watching, and I said the Earl will be away for at least two weeks. That gives us some time to work out what to do, but only if they see what they’re expecting to see: just me and my maid. If they see a man here, they’ll be in like lightning, ready to break bits off you till we pay them to stop.”

“Perhaps we should pay them,” I sighed.

“Rubbish!” she said firmly. “Do you think they’ll be satisfied with a hundred grand? They’ll bleed us dry.”

“Okay, okay,” I agreed. “I don’t want to give in to them either, and I know Mum wouldn’t. I’ll find Annie’s business card and you can make the call.”

“I’ll ask her what we can do to improve your disguise as well. Those hairy legs will have to go.”

“Bloody hell!” I cursed. “Anything else?”

“I think you should start curtseying and calling me ‘My Lady’ too.”

I looked at her incredulously. “When there’s anyone else around, I suppose so,” I agreed with ill grace, “but surely not when we’re alone?”

“At first, yes,” she said. “We need to get used to it so that it comes naturally. Otherwise we might forget when we have company.”

“Oh this is going to be great!” I said, sarcastically. She raised an eyebrow. “My Lady,” I finished – and curtseyed.

My new mistress gave me a smug look of approval.

Oh well. She’d been a goddess to me for at least ten years. How would her being my mistress be any different?

* * *

First Susie called her secretary and said she was coming down with a cold and was going to work from home for a few days so she didn’t pass it round the office. They arranged for her to do the two or three meetings she had in her schedule by videoconferencing.

Then she called Martha and told her everything. As I suspected, she had already guessed that ‘Tom’ was really Rob. Since two Marthas at the Hall would be a dead giveaway, we asked her to stay at home. We offered to pay her as though she was still working, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

She also offered more help. Her fiancé had a new job back in his home town twenty miles away, and they would stay with his parents until they found their own place. So, to make the impersonation more convincing, I could use her car and have full access to their little cottage in the village. I could also make use of her pre-pregnancy clothes and underwear, most of which she couldn’t squeeze into now anyway.

Martha even offered me her favourite handbag and purse, including her driving licence. Her fiancé could take her everywhere she needed to be and her pregnancy made it uncomfortable to drive for the moment anyway. That was brilliant, as it meant I could come and go as her without raising any suspicions, and without worrying about being stopped by the police.

In fact, the only things of hers that she didn’t make available to me were her phone, which I didn’t need as I had my own, and her engagement ring, which wouldn’t have gone on my big male finger. Anyway, my version of Martha wasn’t engaged – or pregnant. She offered me some of her shoes too, but they would never fit me. I would have to get some more large size ladies’ shoes from Transformations. When it looked like the coast was clear, Susie went round to the cottage to collect Martha’s keys and some of her things.

We told Bill only what he needed to know, namely that the Earl had been called away suddenly and wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks. While he was gone, the Countess would make any necessary decisions regarding the Estate, helped by Martha around the house. I would have to steer well clear of him of course, as he had known the real Martha for many years and would quickly spot me as a fraud.

* * *

As with J & J Housekeeping before them, the Managing Director of Transformations’ security contractors rushed round in person when he learned the prospective client was a Countess.

We didn’t have much time to prepare for their visit. Together we checked my disguise. My figure was suitably enhanced by the padding and breast forms Vera had provided. The forms nestled in yet another bra of my mother’s, which made me feel a little uncomfortable.

Susie had done her best to shave my legs. I was wearing the padded pantiegirdle, to which thick black stockings were attached, concealing any remaining stubble and the damage from Susie’s razor. I also wore one of Mum’s slips to smooth out my mismatched underwear.

While waiting for the security contractors to arrive, I checked for anything that might give me away. My hairy chest and arms were well concealed by the long-sleeved maid’s dress. Annie’s facial prosthetics were still securely stuck to my face and they made me the spitting image of the real Martha.

Susie had helped with my make-up: bright red lipstick, mascaraed eyelashes, eyebrow pencil. I thought it a little over the top for a working woman, but she assured me it would be fine.

I would wear one of Martha’s modern housekeeping uniforms: a black dress with a white bib apron, my black ballet flats, and a maid’s headband.

So I was reasonably confident in my appearance and persona as Martha the maid when I opened the door to two charming Indian gentlemen from Empire Secure Solutions. They were all smiles and extreme courtesy, even to a humble maid like me. I ushered them into the drawing room to meet with my mistress.

Susie rose to greet them. I was amused to see them bowing low to her. I suspected neither of them had ever met a Countess before. They introduced themselves. Raj was the boss and founder of the company, and Gopal was his chief consultant.

Susie led them around the house, pointing out the various access points. Knowing my place, I returned to the kitchen to prepare refreshments. While I was laying out cups and side plates, I watched them examining the back door and the ground floor windows. Raj was asking all the obvious questions, plus several I hadn’t thought of, and Gopal was making thorough notes on his clipboard. Susie also took them into Bill’s office to show them the map of the Estate, and they took some measurements to estimate the length of the perimeter boundary.

I was impressed by their competence and thoroughness. It took them nearly an hour to go round the house. They finished with a circuit of the outside, then returned to the drawing room, where I served coffee and cakes. Gopal asked lots of questions about the value of the contents of each room – paintings, pottery, first editions, etc – but of course Susie had no idea. I didn’t either, but it wouldn’t have been my place to answer anyway. It was quite nice being just the maid. No pressure; no responsibility. I could get used to this, I thought.

I went to stand behind Susie’s chair, ready for any orders from my mistress, but also well placed to hear what the security consultants had to say. Susie asked that they only give a summary of their recommendations, but to put the detail in writing, as her husband, the Earl, would have the final say.

They promised they would send someone round later that afternoon to change the locks to the front, back and side doors of the house, and the garage doors. That was obviously the most urgent job, if we believed that some outsider had copies of our keys. Beckett had rung the bell, but he could probably get the keys from his sister, if he had to.

Raj was happy with the window locks, which were deadbolts that couldn’t be opened from the outside even if you had the key. He was concerned that the front gate controls were obsolete and easy to hack, and proposed replacing them with a more modern system. That would be expensive but it would also prevent someone sneaking in when the gates had been opened to let a bona fide guest leave.

They recommended installing security cameras all around the building – eight in all. These would be motion and sound activated. The footage would be recorded via WiFi onto a local server with sufficient capacity to store at least a month’s worth of video (given that the cameras would be off most of the time). Any external activity would also switch on floodlights during the hours of darkness, so that the cameras could record clear images, and which might scare away any intruders.

They also suggested installing cameras inside the house in the main living areas, but Susie said that being filmed in everything we did would be too creepy. I agreed, but I was mainly concerned at being recorded in my Martha persona. It might be fun between ourselves but very dangerous if the films fell into the wrong hands.

There were two more recommendations that we would need to think about. One was the electrification of the perimeter fence; the other was regular rounds by Empire’s personnel. I thought we could probably do without the patrols, but was interested to know how much the electrified fence would cost. Apparently electric fencing is perfectly legal in the UK, so long as it is entirely on your property; meets all appropriate product standards; and is clearly marked with warning signs every ten metres.

Raj promised to provide full costings for all their recommendations within two business days. He also assured us that they understood the urgency of our situation. They kept all the equipment we would need in stock, including the cameras, computers, and even the gate control system. They would thus be able to install everything within a day of us authorising them to proceed. They were obviously very keen to get our business. Perhaps they wanted to add ‘By appointment to the Earl of Hadleigh’ to their letterhead.

Late in the afternoon, after I had refilled their coffee cups and cut each of them a second slice of cake, they took their leave with much bowing and scraping – to the Countess.

“Well done, Martha my dear,” said her ladyship, after they had gone. “You were the perfect parlourmaid. But watching you mincing around in your little black dress and lacy apron, smiling and bobbing curtseys, has made me seriously hot. I’m going to need my lady’s maid up in the bedroom – pronto.”

“Very good, M’Lady,” I said, breathlessly. “Just let me set the alarms. We don’t want to be disturbed, do we?”

My girdle and panties were down around my ankles long before we made it to the bedroom.

* * *

“Raj is a Pink Lady, by the way,” Susie said at breakfast the following day.

“Come again?”

“He’s been at most of their meetings, dressed as Rajani, a poor Indian woman. We chatted quite a bit at the last meeting, but obviously we didn’t say anything when he was here, not in front of you and Gopal.”

“He wasn’t at the meeting when I was disguised as Martha, was he?”

“No, I think he missed that one. Why?”

“I wouldn’t want him to be looking at me – the Martha me – and wondering if I might be a man underneath.”

“I think you’re OK there,” she said. “Anyway, I doubt it would occur to any of the Pink Ladies that Tom’s impersonation of Martha was to be a long-term thing. You were so obviously reluctant – or at least pretending to be.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. “I wonder why Rajani has to be a poor woman,” I said.

“Good question,” she said. “A wealthy Indian lady would have some wonderful clothes, and he’s obviously rich, being the CEO of a successful company. But he reckons Rajani’s his true self, an ‘untouchable’ at the bottom of the caste system.”

“I thought that was abolished?”

“It was – in 1948 – but the attitudes of the better-off still persist. Anyway, at weekends Rajani works at an Indian restaurant in town, washing dishes and cleaning lavatories. He’s quite cheerful about that. As Raj, he has to be serious and formal. As Rajani he can let himself go. Bit like you, actually.”

“Huh?”

“Well as Rob, you’re a real introvert, but your various female incarnations have been much more outgoing.”

“That’s just acting,” I protested, “and it only works when I’m sure people can’t see Rob underneath.”

“Well, if we have to get you to dress up to get over your shyness, then that’s what we’ll have to do.”

* * *

The Empire report duly arrived in my email Inbox that afternoon. The numbers were frightening but Susie and I agreed we had no choice. We signed up for everything except the foot patrols, which would have cost us about £150 a night. Raj did offer a good alternative based on remote monitoring. If we needed to go out for a while, we could text Empire and they would connect to our system and keep an eye on the place until we returned. If they detected anything suspicious, they would attend in force and also notify the police. Although the free monitoring service was limited to two four-hour periods a week, it did mean that we could go out to the shops or for an evening’s entertainment with no fear of returning to find the place had been ransacked.

Empire came to install the new equipment the very next day. They turned an old pantry off the kitchen into a control room for the security system. The gate mechanism now included one-way retractable teeth in the ground. You could drive over them safely when you were leaving, but they had to be retracted mechanically before a vehicle could come in, or they would tear its tyres to shreds. So it was no longer possible to enter – at least by car – when the gate had only been opened to let a vehicle leave. They also installed a one-way turnstile system for the pedestrian entrance. Like the main gate, the turnstile could only be released to allow a pedestrian to enter by a signal from the control room.

Regarding the internal video system, in the end we compromised. They installed more cameras in the drawing room, hall and kitchen, but without automatic recording. Each room had a hand remote that could start the recording if needed, and the cameras could also be triggered from the pantry.

Finally, they attached a bold illuminated sign to the gate boasting that ‘This property is protected by Empire Secure Solutions’ with appropriate warnings about what the gate’s teeth would do to your tyres. A similar more discreet ‘Empire’ sign also hung over the front door. It was wildly incongruous for the venerable age and distinctive style of Hadleigh Hall, but if it deterred even one prospective burglar, that would justify its existence.

Susie called Bill to notify him of the new security arrangements. She didn’t mention Jack Beckett’s visit, so he was a little surprised at our paranoia, but when she told him that I, the Earl, was going away for an unspecified time, he understood. He was clearly puzzled as to what Estate business would require me to be away from home for a lengthy period, but he was too discreet to ask. He agreed to continue to manage the Estate on our behalf until I returned and come to Susie if any major financial decisions were required.

He came round later that day to collect new keys and a RFID tag and transponder for his car, and to learn the various new alarm codes. I had to steer clear of him. My face was indisputably Martha’s, but I wasn’t so confident that the rest of me would pass muster with someone who knew her well. Besides, he might try to make conversation and talk of things I knew nothing about.

It was an inconvenience for Bill that the back gate from the Home Farm was now boarded up and electrified, because it meant he would have to go the long way round through the main gate to get from his office out onto the Estate, but he understood. The fearsome mechanisms Empire had installed were expensive, and we couldn’t afford a second set. One day, maybe.

Feeling that the Hall was now as secure as we could make it, we planned a trip into town. We sent Empire a text to say we would be out. Susie drove us in the Audi, which as Martha I wasn’t insured to drive. (Her Ladyship’s old Mini hadn’t been out since we moved into the Hall.)

Our first call was to Martha’s now vacant cottage. The only outfits I had that fitted my new figure were my maid’s dresses, so our priority was to pick up more clothes, as kindly donated by the other Martha. We filled three suitcases with her oldest and least exciting things. We had to put the car’s rear seats down to get them all in.

I would have preferred to wear trousers, but I still needed my girdle to maintain my curvy figure, and pants would be too uncomfortable over all that padding. So I reluctantly changed into a nice casual dress. It was steel-grey, with a polo neck and long sleeves. It came down to below my knees. I still needed to cover up as much as possible, and I certainly wasn’t trying to attract admirers.

Next was my appointment with Annie at Transformations. This had become urgent as I could feel my beard had grown under my Martha-face, and it was very itchy. Their offices were at a converted manor house out in the country, and discreetly set back from the main road. No one would ever find the place without prior knowledge or detailed directions.

Reception was manned by a strikingly pretty girl who introduced herself as Angela. She contacted Annie for us, and while we waited, I asked Susie what she had arranged for them to do to me that afternoon. She’d made the appointment and I didn’t know what she’d said regarding our requirements.

“I just asked Annie to complete your transformation,” she said, guilelessly. “You remember she said they make prosthetics for the entire body, so you can match Martha’s figure exactly.”

“Oh God! Am I going to have plastic padding stuck all over me?”

Annie appeared at that moment which temporarily put an end to my self-pity session. She had an older lady with her. We stood up to meet them.

“Ingrid, this is Lady Marsham, the Countess of Hadleigh,” Annie said. “My Lady, this is Ingrid McLaughlin, our CEO.”

“A pleasure, but please call me Susie,” said my wife.

Ingrid responded in kind. She was a large, well-built woman in a severe navy-blue skirt suit. She was what people used to call ‘handsome’ with strong, androgynous features, but beautifully made-up and coiffed. She reminded me of my primary school headmistress, for whom the phrase ‘Jolly Hockey Sticks’ might have been invented. It occurred to me that Ingrid might have been a product of Transformations’ services herself, but if so, she was an excellent advertisement for their expertise. There were none of the obvious giveaway indications. Her mannerisms and gestures were entirely feminine.

She seemed to be inspecting me with equal interest.

“And this is Tom, one of Lady Marsham’s staff,” Annie continued. “He very kindly volunteered to be our test subject when we demonstrated our facial prosthetics at the Pink Ladies meeting.”

“Annie has told me a little of your dilemma,” said Ingrid to Susie. “I gather you’ve had some unwelcome visitors. Shall we go to my office and we can discuss your requirements in more detail? Though I don’t see how further work on Tom will help you in your present difficulties.”

Her ample backside swinging from side to side (almost as much as mine), and her high heels clicking like a metronome, she led the way through a security door at the back of the lobby and along a corridor to a big, airy office. We sat in luxurious leather chairs at a polished conference table. There was nothing in Ingrid McLaughlin’s well-appointed workplace to indicate the esoteric nature of their services. She could have been a bank manager, or the senior partner of an accountancy firm, or the CEO of an oil company.

“The first thing I should say,” Susie began, “is that there is no Tom…”

She had warned me that we would have to come clean with them. We couldn’t explain our predicament without enlarging on the nature of the threat.

“…this is my husband,” she continued.

“The Earl?” Annie’s eyes were popping out.

“Indeed – Lord Marsham.”

“Call me Rob,” I muttered.

I expected the next few minutes to be excruciatingly embarrassing.

“There was simply no one else around for you to work on,” Susie explained. “It’s all my fault. I pressured him into doing it.”

“And I’ve almost forgiven her for that,” I said, stressing the ‘almost’.

Susie looked a little hurt. Well, tough.

“We didn’t want the Pink Ladies to be going home disappointed, you see,” she hurried on. “Just at the moment we need all the customers we can get for the use of our facilities.”

“My father was not the most financially prudent of noble Earls.” I felt I needed to explain further. “The Estate is solvent – just – but without renting out the use of the Hall as much as possible, our expenses would soon exceed our income.”

I trailed off. They didn’t need any more detail. Susie took up the baton and went on to tell them about the Beckett family and Jack’s visit.

“I persuaded Annie and Vera not to remove Rob’s disguise when they left. I meant it as a little joke on my husband…”

She stole a furtive look at me. I wasn’t smiling under my make-up and lipstick.

“…but it was lucky that he was still Martha when those thugs arrived,” she continued. “Otherwise they might have hurt him. Also I could claim the Earl was away on business.”

“Which gives us a little time to work out what to do,” I said.

“Which will be… what?” asked Ingrid.

Susie and I looked at each other.

“We don’t know,” she said.

“We can’t think of anything, apart from going to the police,” I said. “Beckett is known to them, so they may well believe us, but I still can’t see how they can help. They can hardly guard us twenty-four-seven. If Beckett follows through on his threats of physical persuasion, the police might be well aware of who was behind it but stopping him and getting convictions would be difficult. And he would always arrange an alibi for himself.”

“And it won’t stop Rob from being beaten up,” said Susie, “and they know it.”

“And they know we know it,” I added.

“And the beating would surely be even worse if we’ve involved the police,” Susie added. “Anyway, he refuses to leave me on my own, and both of us running away is just giving up. We might just as well pay them.”

“So we’re staying,” I said.

“Which is why we need his Martha disguise to be perfect, to buy us some time,” Susie finished.

We looked hopefully at Annie and Ingrid.

“Well, we can certainly do that,” said Annie.

“And I may be able to suggest something more,” said Ingrid, thoughtfully. “We recently entered into a mutually-beneficial arrangement with a local private investigator. I’ll call him while Annie is working on you. He may have some suggestions.”

* * *

Ten minutes later I was sitting in Vera’s room wearing just a pink dressing gown and a pair of paper knickers. My handbag, dress, slip, underwear and stockings were hanging up in her cupboard. My wig was on a stand on the dressing table. I caught a glimpse of myself in her dressing table mirror. I looked weird with Rob’s hair and body, and Martha’s face.

Warned that my ‘treatment’ would take at least a couple of hours, Susie had gone off to the nearest supermarket. Not being able to leave the house for a week had left us low on supplies.

“We’ll have to remove your facial prosthetics,” Vera began. “Your beard will have grown underneath them.”

“I know. I can feel it, and it’s itchy.”

“You shouldn’t really have kept them on for so long,” she said. “I just hope you haven’t developed a rash.”

She was rubbing her powerful solvent under the edges of the plastic and peeling my Martha face off, piece by piece.

“It looks OK,” she said. “A little red, but that’s normal. Now a close shave, and then…” She paused for effect. “…an all-over waxing.”

She grinned as my face fell.

“Is that really necessary?”

“That depends on how long you need to be Martha. You see, shaving only removes hair at the skin line. Stubble can develop as quickly as your beard does, so you can get ‘five o’clock shadow’ on your legs. It will itch too. Waxing means the hair gets pulled out by the follicles. It keeps you hair-free for longer – at least two weeks, maybe much more – and you shouldn’t have any skin problems.”

I sighed. “OK, I suppose it will have to be the wax then.”

“Look at this way. Most women wax sometime. You’ll get to see how the other half lives. I can get you a stiff drink to dull the pain, if you want. In fact, I strongly recommend it. Your mistress is driving, isn’t she? Now, we have Talisker and Glenlivet…”

She held up two bottles. I pointed to my preference.

“And one ice cube, please.”

“I’ll do your face first,” Vera said, handing me a glass, “to let the whisky work its magic.”

When she finished shaving my face and neck, she reached for a small tin of ointment.

“This after shave balm contains a mild hormone,” she said. “It will slow down your beard growth. You should be OK under your Martha prostheses for a week or so. We’ll make an appointment to do this again in seven to ten days.”

I had to lie down on her massage bed next for the waxing. The whisky helped but the pain was still diabolical. It wasn’t so bad on my legs and backside but when she got to the softer skin on my chest, it hurt like hell. I clenched my teeth to keep from screaming.

“Who’s a brave boy then?” Vera said, sympathetically.

At last the torture stopped. I took stock. I was sore all over but I hadn’t been this smooth since I was twelve.

“That’s all done,” said Vera, finally. “I’ll rub in some more of that balm. That should soothe your skin.”

“Hang on – is that a female hormone?” I said, alarmed.

“Yes, but don’t worry. It’s not strong enough to change your figure or affect your ‘prowess’.”

I wasn’t much reassured, but the massage was wonderful after the horror of the waxing.

“While you’re recovering, we’ll put your face pieces back.”

I put the paper knickers and dressing gown back on and returned to the dressing table and sat down. Vera lifted my chin in her hand and looked at my face appraisingly.

“There shouldn’t be any problems with turning you back into Martha, but I think I’ll need to tidy up your eyebrows a little.”

She started on me with tweezers, which I had never previously thought of as instruments of torture. I didn’t even bother trying not to scream for that. It was the worst yet. Vera tutted and reached for the whisky.

“Say when,” she said.

It helped. I sipped another double Scotch to dull the pain.

Next, she brought out the template that she had used before to guide her in gluing my face pieces on. Soon I was covered in faint blue lines and she set to sticking the little lumps of plastic back on me. As my vision blurred from the alcohol, Martha’s face took shape again in the mirror.

“You’ll only want a basic make-up, won’t you?” Vera said, when she’d finished painting the remaining exposed areas of my skin to match Martha’s complexion.

“Very basic,” I said. “Maids aren’t supposed to stand out, and I have to be able to do it myself after this.”

“OK then, I can do that. For anything more jazzy, I’d usually call Sharon in. She’s our hair and make-up artist. I’ll just do a light foundation, a little mascara, and a pale lipstick. No eyeshadow – unless you’re planning to go out on the pull tonight?”

“Hard pass on that.”

She laughed and reached for her make-up case. She explained everything she was doing. It didn’t look too difficult. I was quite looking forward to having a go myself tomorrow.

“Your hands are a bit of a giveaway too, you know,” Vera said, when she’d finished my make-up. “Let me see your nails.” She took my hands and examined them. “Good, you keep them neat and tidy, and they’re quite short. A maid like you would just keep breaking her nails in the course of her duties if she let them get too long. Also, a maid probably couldn’t afford a proper manicure, so I’ll just slap something cheap on them.”

She took up her nail file and a small pair of scissors. After giving my nails a quick tidy-up she reached for little pot of pale pink nail polish and started painting. She stopped when she came to the ring finger of my left hand.

“Oh, you’ll have to take your wedding ring off.”

She was right, of course. I hoped Beckett and Tank hadn’t noticed that Martha was wearing a man’s wedding ring. They probably hadn’t. They quickly dismissed me as ‘old and fat’ and didn’t look too closely. I let Vera slide my ring off as my other nails were wet. It was an emotional moment; I felt like I was betraying my beloved Susie. I sensed my eyes getting moist. I told myself not to be stupid and hoped that Vera hadn’t noticed.

“I’ll pop it in your handbag, shall I?” Vera said, kindly.

I nodded. She finished my nails. Then she slid a drawer out from the dressing table. It was full of ladies’ rings and watches.

“All cheap fakes,” she said, when she saw me looking. “Here – this watch should fit your wrist. That Casio you’re wearing is much too masculine. You should find a couple of rings that will go on your fingers. Take what you like. Most women your age would wear a ring or two. They’ll help with the illusion.”

When my nails were dry I slipped the fancy-looking ladies’ watch on my left wrist and picked out a couple of nice-looking rings: a silver band with a big emerald, and a white gold sapphire and diamond crossover ring. They both looked expensive, perhaps too expensive for a maid. I put one on each hand, avoiding the fingers that would mean I was married or engaged.

“Now, other jewellery,” she said. “I think you should have at least a little necklace – maybe a crucifix? – and earrings, of course. Nothing flashy, just to emphasise your femininity,” she said with a smirk.

“Well, I suppose so,” I said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure we have anything suitable at home. Susie doesn’t really go in for jewellery much. She has some nice pieces for formal events, but most of the time she just wears a cheap little necklace I bought her for her birthday when we were both poor students.”

“That’s OK, we can provide something.” She went over to her cupboard and slid out another drawer. “Perhaps a little pearl choker and matching earrings. Maybe a bracelet too. I’ll have to pierce your ears, of course.”

“Oh maybe not then,” I said hurriedly.

“I think all maidservants have pierced ears, don’t they?” she grinned.

I was about to quibble with her absurd generalisation when she came at me with an ice cube and a needle.

“Don’t worry, the holes will soon heal up when you go back to being… you.”

The earrings and necklace did look nice. I was admiring my new adornments in the mirror when another lady bustled in.

“Is she ready for me?” she asked.

“Yes – good timing,” said Vera. “Martha, this is Charlotte. She’s our registered nurse. She’s here to do your lips.”

“Huh? Is that really necessary?”

“We think so. That’s how Doris worked out that you were the fake, if you remember? You might see her again, or someone equally sharp, so you need something to increase the volume in your lips. They’re too obviously masculine.”

“We use a synthetic dermal filler based on hyaluronic acid,” said Charlotte, opening her case. “It’s a sugar that occurs naturally in the body, mainly in the joints. It doesn’t break it down as quickly because the body thinks it’s a natural substance. It’s hydrophilic, meaning it attracts water, and fills the lips from the inside. Most other types of filler break down too easily.”

“So how long will it last?” I asked.

“It varies, but usually about four to six months.” I must have looked horrified but before I could protest she carried on. “Don’t worry, it’s reversible. Now I’m going to give you a little local anaesthetic.”

She gave me injections in each corner of my mouth. They stung a little, then I felt a cooling sensation wash over my chin and cheeks. Then my whole mouth went numb. Charlotte set about the filler injections quickly after that. Those injections still stung, but they were nothing compared to the waxings.

After that my lips looked enormous in the mirror but I was assured that it was swelling which would subside in a couple of days.

“There might some bleeding,” Charlotte said. “You can use ice for the swelling if you want to, but you’ll just have to wait for the bruising to clear up. A dark lipstick will cover it. Your lips will probably be a little sore for a day or two,” she added.

I wasn’t pleased to discover I was stuck with thick Martha lips for at least a month, but I was told it was dangerous to try and reverse the process any earlier.

* * *

When I declared myself sufficiently recovered from all that, we moved on to the next stage: the fitting of my body prostheses.

“When we were at Hadleigh Hall last week Annie took photos of Martha’s figure as well as her face,” said Vera. “That was so we could decide on the most appropriate breast forms for you and work out how much padding you needed in your pantiegirdle. But it means we have a good 3D model to compare you to – as soon as we’ve done the same for you. Follow me!”

She led me down the corridor to a small room which she called ‘the photography suite’. It was dark and not much bigger than a changing room in a department store. The only lighting was a small red bulb in the ceiling. There was a little daïs to stand on. Helped by Vera, and hindered by the whisky, I clambered up onto it.

“I need you to stay as still as you can now. I appreciate that might be difficult given the amount of booze you’ve had,” she said with a smile. “When I’ve closed the door behind me, strip off. You can just throw your robe and knickers into the corner. The cameras will move around you on those rails.”

She left and I followed her instructions. I shivered, nude and plastered, and with throbbing lips, waiting for something to happen. In a few moments Vera’s voice came through a loudspeaker somewhere.

“OK, are you ready?” she said. “Stand still with your arms out to your sides. Try not to blink.”

The lights flashed, dazzling after the semi-darkness and the cameras buzzed around me like model trains. Eventually they stopped, the bright lights went off, and the little darkroom light came back on.

“Ok, you can get dressed again,” said Vera over the intercom. “Then come back to my room.”

When I got there she and Annie were hard at work at a computer console. Annie explained what they were doing.

“We’re building a three-dimensional computer model of your body, to match against the one we already have of Martha. We’ll then use 3D printing to make prosthetics to change your body into hers. This works best when the person you want to become is a little bigger than you are. You’re an inch taller than Martha – hopefully no one will notice that – but fortunately she is of an, er… ample figure, and a little broader than you in most other dimensions.”

“Actually, can you reduce the waistline a little? The real Martha is about four months pregnant. Please keep that to yourselves though.”

I didn’t want to be padded out to Martha’s current figure. The only maid uniforms I would fit into then would be the vintage Edwardian ones.

Annie nodded. Her computer screen showed two revolving three-dimensional figures which then merged. There were red and green areas. The green areas were clearly the breasts, hips, thighs and buttocks I would need. She clicked away with the computer mouse.

“The exception is your shoulders,” she continued, “which as you can see are the red areas. They’re not too big, so hopefully no one will notice. Everything else about your disguise should be really convincing.”

She made a final click and the 3D printer started whirring away.

“It’s making prosthetics for the green zones,” she said. “That will take a while, so Vera can do your hair while we wait. I’ll see you later. I think Ingrid got through to our PI friend. He’s on his way over.”

Vera had found me a new wig which was an even closer match to Martha’s hair than the old one, which had been a little too long and slightly too grey. That hadn’t mattered when we were both wearing old-fashioned mob caps, expressly designed to conceal a woman’s hair. The new wig meant I now matched Martha exactly, even with no headgear at all.

“Your own hair is long enough to do in a short female style,” Vera said, “and Sharon is expert with extensions. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer that? You must have found your wig hot and sweaty in this summer weather.”

“That would be a step too far,” I said firmly.

When I took my wig off I wanted Susie to see some aspect of Rob, even if my face was entirely Martha.

By this time the prosthetics had finished printing. My nose – that is Martha’s nose, on my face – twitched, as a smell of latex filled the office. I hoped that would soon dissipate and that I wouldn’t smell of it when I left.

“At first we thought we would need to make you a complete top half,” Vera said, as she started removing large flesh-coloured lumps of plastic from the machine. “It would be like a T-shirt with breasts, but with sleeves down to your elbows. That way we could conceal your muscular upper arms with soft female flesh. Most women of Martha’s age tend to be a little flabby up there, with the beginnings of batwings…”

Did I want to know what ‘batwings’ were? I decided I did not.

“…but then we saw your arms,” she continued. “They’re not very muscly, are they?”

“Hey, they’re not flabby.”

“Surprisingly skinny, though,” she said heartlessly. “Anyway, we decided to go with just the breasts. Now this prosthetic is much more realistic than the forms you’ve been using…”

With her hands full of fake flesh she pointed to the massage bed with her elbow. I lay down flat on my back. She sprayed adhesive all over my chest.

“It’s made in a single piece,” she said, holding the thing up for me to see. Judging from the effort this took her, it was heavy. “I’m actually sticking a sort of back plate to your chest. The breasts will hang off it. The edges are feathered so that there’s no obvious boundary. When I’ve applied a little make-up to the joins, they’ll look like they’re actually part of you.”

“Oh joy!” I said. “Susie will be delighted that her husband has a bigger bust than she has.”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Vera grinned.

She was now lining the prosthetic up on my chest.

“The breasts are identical in shape to the real Martha’s, or as close as we could get, given that your chest and shoulders are a little wider than hers.”

“How on earth did you manage that?”

In my imagination I saw Vera wrapping a tape measure around a topless Martha.

“3D photography,” she said. I told my imagination that it should be ashamed of itself. “We asked Martha to strip to her underwear when we took our photos. She didn’t mind a bit; she thought the whole thing was a hoot. She’s quite a character, your housekeeper. I just hope you can live up to her bubbly personality now you’re her. Now hush; I need to hold this lot in place for a minute.”

She pressed the prosthetic down and leant on me with all her not inconsiderable weight. She started counting.

“1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and…”

I tried to keep still, but I wasn’t exactly comfortable with all of this chirpy one-hundred-and-sixty-pound woman on my chest. I could crack a rib! In the silence I started wondering why I was doing this. Was it really necessary? Would Beckett and his pet goon really beat us up till we paid them ridiculous amounts of money? Wouldn’t it be better to call their bluff rather than subject myself to this indignity? If anyone found out I would never live it down.

“…57-58-59-60.”

She stood up, taking her weight off me and releasing the breasts assembly. It seemed like a significant load remained but at least it didn’t slide off. She gave my new right breast a tentative nudge. It wobbled realistically but stayed put. I could feel the movement, but only because some of the vibration was transmitted to my skin underneath.

“That should be OK, but you need to put a bra on just in case. You’ll find it uncomfortable without the support of a bra anyway. Your breasts are 38D and they’re heavier than you’d expect. Also I’ve used medical adhesive. Once it’s set, your skin will rip before the adhesive gives.”

More good news. Vera was rifling through a chest of drawers next to the dressing table. She returned with a black lace bra. It looked huge.

“Here you are,” she said. “We got you new underwear in Martha’s sizes. Sit up. Put your arms through the straps and I’ll fasten it for you.”

When I sat up and felt the weight pulling down on my chest for the first time, I was caught by surprise. I realised Vera was dead right. My immediate future had a heavy-duty bra in it, every day and all the time. When she’d fastened it, and my shoulders started to take the strain, I was much more comfortable.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror. Looking at just my top half, I was all Martha, a plump, no-longer-young woman with a round face, a double chin, and huge breasts. It was a very strange feeling. On the one hand, I felt liberated from being Rob Marsham, pathologically shy Earl; on the other, I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be a tubby maidservant instead.

Vera had taken another strange-looking lump of flesh off the printer and was spraying adhesive inside it.

“Now for your lower half,” she proclaimed cheerfully. “Stand up and knickers down, darling.”

“Are you proposing to stick that thing on me?” I said, aghast.

“Have to, I’m afraid,” she said. “It’s even heavier than your breasts. It will slip down if I don’t glue it in place.”

“But what about…?” I paused, lost for appropriate vocabulary.

“Don’t worry,” she said with a wink. “We’ve thought of that.”

She held out what she called my ‘abdominal prosthesis’ for me. I kicked off the paper knickers and stepped into the horrid thing. She helped me pull it up into position. It was like a pair of running shorts, but heavily padded with heavy, wobbly blubber everywhere. It came up to above my waist and down to my knees. There seemed to be a gap between my legs.

She started rubbing the prosthetic firmly, smoothing it down to eliminate any air bubbles before the adhesive set. When she’d finished it was indistinguishable from real flesh. My waist seemed hardly any thicker than before, but I now had a pronounced, feminine pot belly to match flabby thighs and wobbly buttocks. It felt weird. I screwed my neck round to look over my shoulder.

“That can’t be right,” I said. “My bum is sticking out a mile!”

“It’s exactly right,” Vera said. “Trust me. A woman’s bottom is bigger and protrudes further. You must have noticed! Or are you strictly a breast man? Don’t worry; you’ll soon get used to it. Now it used to be that once you were stuck in one of these, you could say goodbye to your wedding tackle until the glue perished and you could get it off again.” She laughed at my horrified look. “But now we’ve incorporated some clever gadgetry.”

For some reason she had gone over to the fridge in the corner. I thought she might be getting me another Scotch, but she just came back with a saucer of ice cubes.

“There’s a little tube for your member. When I’ve fastened you in, the tube will connect at the other end to the prosthetic’s fake vagina. But before I can do anything with your penis, I have to push your testicles back up inside you. It’s all easier to do if I ice your entire genital area first.”

I tried to look down to see what she was doing, but I couldn’t see anything over my enormous boobs. I let my fingers scan my new fake genital area. I was surprised to feel realistic pubic hair. I hurriedly drew my hand away.

Suddenly I felt the cold shock as Vera applied ice cubes to my most sensitive parts, all of which immediately contracted alarmingly. She took advantage of their retreat to gently manoeuvre my balls up into the inguinal canals. It was then simple to guide my floppy penis into the prosthetic’s tube.

“There we are,” she said. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“This is a bit uncomfortable,” I said.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said, with a little – a very little – sympathy.

It seemed there were a lot of things I would soon get used to. She was now tugging at something high up between my legs.

“This is a clever little zip fastener, a bit like what you get on freezer bags. It goes up your left leg, across underneath your vagina, then down the right leg.”

She finished zipping and stood back.

“There! All secure,” she said. “You’ll have to sit down to go to the toilet now of course, but you should have no problem. Just relax as usual and the urine will flow out of your penis, down the tube, and out of your vagina.”

She paused and smiled, recognising that as an unusual sentence.

“It will probably spray a bit,” she continued, “so you’ll need to wipe afterwards. You should also open up the zip and wash yourself thoroughly – inside and out – at least every couple of days. It’s easiest to do it in the bath.”

“You must be joking!” I snorted. “I won’t be taking baths. With all this excess blubber it would take a crane to get me out again!”

Vera laughed. “You’re exaggerating. Martha is only a little plump; she’s not obese. Lots of women fatter than you can get in and out of the bath with no trouble.”

“Maybe, but I think I’ll use the shower from now on.”

“I’ll bet the other Martha prefers baths to showers; most women do. Still, whatever works best for you…” She span me round, indicating it was time to move on. “Anyway, there’s a slit at the back that should exactly correspond to your anus, so that should be the same as usual. You’re an ‘anatomically correct’ woman down there now. You could even get naked and fool anyone, except maybe an experienced gynaecologist with a magnifying glass.”

I shuddered at the thought of a gynaecological exam. My feet weren’t going up in stirrups for anyone. She laughed again at the look on my face.

“It’s perfectly safe to sleep like that by the way, but if you do want to liberate your equipment for whatever reason…” She grinned. “…you just do everything I did in reverse. It’s bit tricky though. You’ll probably need your partner to help, at least until you get the knack. All your prostheses are completely waterproof, so you can bathe, shower, whatever, exactly as normal, apart from having to take your wig and wig cap off, of course.”

My huge new breasts and big round buttocks felt just like the real thing. They were very convincing. Because of the feathering of their edges, and the make-up Vera had applied, you couldn’t see any joins. The soft flesh mimicked the real thing perfectly in terms of movement and ‘feel’.

I got up and walked around a little to test my new anatomy. I felt heavy, and my breasts and buttocks jiggled. This would take a lot of getting used to. My centre of gravity was obviously different, and my thighs and buttocks constrained my gait. I had to waddle instead of stride. But I had to concede that I was really only a little overweight.

“Panties, Martha, dear,” said Vera. “I can’t have semi-naked women wandering around my office.”

She gave me a pair of black Granny knickers which matched my bra and I hurriedly put them on. At least they were more comfortable than the dreaded padded pantiegirdle which I could happily jettison now.

“The adhesive should last until you shed the top layer of your skin,” Vera continued. “That’s usually in about ten to twelve days. Before then the prosthetics can only be removed using a special solvent – I’ll give you a supply, for emergencies. Otherwise, come back here when you feel them slipping. We’ll remove them properly, check you for any ill effects, and then stick them back, if you want to carry on as Martha.”

“That won’t happen,” I said. “This is a short-term thing only.”

“That’s what they all say, dear,” she laughed. “You’ll need to come back in a week or so anyway, as we’ll need to shave you again under your facial prosthetics.”

She went to the cupboard to get my clothes. She gave me a bag for the stockings, girdle and my original bra. I put my men’s watch in my handbag with my wedding ring for safe-keeping.

“Here – you’d better get dressed. Your mistress will be back soon.”

“You mean my wife,” I said, not willing to play that game yet.

“Not in public surely?” she said. “If I’ve understood your situation correctly, Lady Marsham can only be your wife behind closed doors. In public, you’re her maid, and she’s your mistress, and you’ll have to curtsey and call her ‘Madam’.”

“‘My Lady’, actually,” I said glumly.

Vera gave me a new pair of tights. I sat down to put them on. They were, er, tight over my new big round butt. Very tight.

I slipped my dress on over my head. Vera zipped me up.

“I have shoes in your size,” said Annie, returning with her arms full of shoeboxes. “Take a selection of styles and colours. You should try and get used to heels, if only to help you get your walk right, but you won’t want anything more than one-inch, or they’ll make you suspiciously tall. We’ll add them to your bill.”

“Oh yes. I’m a little worried at the cost of all this. We titled folk aren’t all rich, you know.”

I slipped my feet into a comfortable-looking pair of black pumps. Even the one-inch heel was enough to cause me to wobble a little, which sent sympathetic vibrations rippling through all my new artificial flab.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “Ingrid says we’ll only charge you wholesale for materials, because you helped us at the Pink Ladies meeting – at great personal cost to yourself!” She grinned. “We’re getting a lot of business from that afternoon.”

That was something of a relief. We’d spent thousands on the new security system. I could see our contingency fund shrinking even more.

“Your mistress is back, by the way,” Annie said. “They’re ready for you in Ingrid’s office.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later the Countess and her refurbished lady’s maid were again sitting at the conference table in Ingrid’s office with her and Annie. A stranger had just joined us.

“This is Mr Treacher, My Lady,” said Ingrid. “Frank, this is Lady Marsham, Countess of Hadleigh, and Martha, her housekeeper.”

So we wouldn’t be widening the circle of people who knew who I really was.

“Her Ladyship has a problem,” Ingrid continued. “We’re hoping you might be able to help. Perhaps you’d like to explain, My Lady?”

So Susie told as much of our story as she could without exposing me. She explained how my parents had separated; how I had come to inherit the title despite that; and how it had left the Beckett family dispossessed – as they saw it – and resentful.

“Unfortunately for us,” she concluded, “Jack Beckett seems to have no scruples and is well-connected in the criminal fraternity.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of Beckett,” said Treacher, speaking for the first time, “though I’ve never met him personally. Mind you, that might be just as well if I’m to investigate him.”

“He and one of his thugs came to our house to demand money. Martha and I were alone and he threatened us. My husband is away on business, but now I don’t want him to come home. I dread to think what Beckett might do to him.”

“I assume you’ve ruled out going to the police?” Treacher said. Susie nodded. “Yes, I can understand why. It’s hard to see how they could help.”

“We’ve upgraded our security since their visit,” Susie added, and went on to describe the new measures.

Treacher nodded approvingly but confirmed what we all knew: it wouldn’t keep Beckett out for long, but at least we’d get advance warning of any approach.

Treacher reached into a pilot case he had put down by his feet and pulled out a small cardboard box.

“This is a call recorder for landlines,” he said. “You plug it in between the wall socket and your handset. It’s triggered automatically by the start of any call. It answers an incoming call after six rings and takes messages like an ordinary answerphone, but it’s much more sophisticated than that. It always records the whole conversation even if you’ve started or answered the call yourself. It has a capacity of several hours and when it’s full, it automatically records over the oldest content. When a call ends, it can send the recording to your computer automatically via your Wi-Fi. You have to install an app and give the recorder access to your home network but it’s all very easy to do. You never know – if Beckett makes a threatening phone call, you’ll have evidence to take to the police. It won’t stand up in court unfortunately, but it would convince a judge to issue a warrant if need be, and it should make the cops take you seriously and maybe take some action against him.”

“What if he calls on my mobile?” Susie asked.

“There are lots of free voice recorder apps. I recommend you download one and get in the habit of starting it when you answer the phone to a number you don’t know or a ‘Number Withheld’.”

I had no idea whether Beckett knew either Susie’s or my mobile numbers, but we hadn’t done anything to keep them secret. Hers was even on the Wainwrights website. I dragged my attention back to the meeting. Treacher was now offering additional suggestions to address our problem.

“You could hire full-time bodyguards, I suppose,” he said, “but that could cost you almost as much as Beckett is demanding. We need to do something to get him off your backs permanently. As I see it, you have two main options: get him before he gets you…”

“What, murder, you mean?” Susie said, incredulously. “I don’t think we could do that!”

“No, no,” said Treacher hurriedly. “I was thinking more of a pre-emptive strike – attack as the best form of defence. Make him understand that the new Earl has robust friends too and is not to be trifled with. Let him regret his actions from a hospital bed.”

Susie and I must have been looking dubious – not that anyone would have cared what the maid thought of the idea.

“No?” he said, picking up on our doubts. “You’re probably right. It might just get him angry – loss of face and so on. We don’t want to start a gang war.”

“So what was your second idea?” Susie asked. I sensed she was losing confidence in this odd little man.

“Expose him and get him locked away.”

“Expose him as what?”

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t even have to be true.” We looked blank. “The point is: Beckett is a criminal. Everyone knows it, even Plod. He just hasn’t been caught yet, and the police obviously don’t rate him high enough on the bad guy scale to be worth investing resources on. So we’ll just have to do it for them.”

This was more promising but the next question was obvious.

“How?” Susie asked.

“I’ll work on that,” Treacher said. “I have contacts. A day or so and I’ll know what he’s been up to, then we just have to get some incriminating evidence to the right people.”

“And if you can’t find any?”

“Oh we’ll find something. I doubt Beckett is clever enough not to have left a trail. And, as I say, we can always make something up.” Susie and I looked dubious. “Well, he shouldn’t have threatened you, should he?” He was looking thoughtful again. “It would help to have someone on the inside though…”

The conversation seemed to have gone as far as it could for now.

“Lovely to have met you, Your Ladyship,” he said cheerfully. “Leave it with me. If we could just discuss my fees before I go…?”

I had to listen quietly while Susie negotiated away a little more of our contingency fund. Oh well, hopefully it would still be far less than Beckett was trying to extort from us.

Negotiations completed, Treacher leapt to his feet. There was an awkward moment while he seemed to be deciding whether to shake or kiss Susie’s hand, then he made his way to the door.

“I’ll be in touch very soon,” he said.

Ingrid got up to escort him out.

“Well that was interesting,” I said, when the door had closed behind them.

“He seems confident,” Susie said, “but I’m not sure I can say the same.”

“He’s an odd character, Frank, certainly,” said Annie, “but he generally gets results. In fact, I’ve only known him to fail once…”

There must be an interesting story there, I thought.

* * *

On the way home we briefly discussed Treacher and his ideas. We felt a little better but not much. We would reserve judgement until we saw what he came up with.

We headed for Martha’s cottage where I would transfer to her little yellow Volkswagen Polo and drive it back to the Hall. I hoped my system had processed enough of Vera’s whisky for me to be safe to drive.

Silence fell between us. Susie had pulled into the driveway of the little house and had turned off the engine. I reached for the door handle but she stretched across to stop me.

“Come on,” she said. “Out with it.”

“What do you mean?” I realised she was referring to my uncharacteristic silence throughout the journey from Transformations. “It hurts to talk because of the injections in my lips.”

“It’s more than that though, isn’t it? You’ve been like a Trappist monk all the way home. Or perhaps I should say a Carmelite nun now?” I smiled weakly. “So what’s the matter?”

“How can you ask that?” I said, exasperated. “Look at me!”

“What? You look great!”

“I look like a maid! I’m supposed to be an Earl!”

“You’ve dressed as a maid before – often,” she protested. “We had a great time.”

Grinning, she reached down to where she judged my groin to be. Not finding anything, apart from an unfamiliar roll of fat, she withdrew her hand.

“But I could always take off my dress, apron and cap before,” I grumbled. “Now I’m…”

I struggled to find the right words to describe my predicament.

“You mean you’re feeling trapped or something?” I nodded. “Well, we’re both trapped unless we can find a way of dealing with Beckett and his gang. At least as Martha you’re not at risk of being beaten up.”

“But before going to Transformations I could take the padded bra and girdle off and I was Rob again, apart from having Martha’s face. I mean, I felt like a man, and we were great in bed together, as usual. Now…”

“I don’t see why you’re concerned,” she interrupted. “It’s you I love, whatever you look like. I know it’s you underneath… all that. Besides,” she chuckled, “Martha’s not unattractive, you know. Especially with your new kissable lips.”

“You haven’t seen how effective the prosthetics and make-up really are. I promise you, it will be just like going to bed with a woman.”

“Not quite like,” she smiled. “Annie told me what we have to do to make your baby-making kit available. I’m quite looking forward to playing my part in its… emancipation.”

She took my hand and squeezed it. I was a little reassured.

“Now go on, maid. Drive your little car back to the Hall. Your mistress will have plenty for you to do when you get there.”

I grimaced and got out. I grabbed my handbag and tottered on my one-inch heels over to the Polo, my huge butt swinging from side to side to help me keep my balance. I could feel Susie watching me, fascinated. I was just fumbling for the keys in my purse when she called.

“You’d better change into these, Martha dear,” she said, flinging a pair of my flats to me. “You’ve never driven in heels before. It would be too embarrassing for you to be in a pile-up in your… condition.”

“Thank you, M’Lady,” I sighed.

* * *

When we got back Susie wasted no time exploring my new body. She had me strip down to my bra and knickers and walked around me, like she was inspecting a prize heifer at the County Fair, which she had actually done a couple of weekends earlier.

“Wow!” she said. “Just… wow!”

“I told you,” I said.

“I love your figure,” she said, “the big bouncing breasts and that amazing ass…”

“They’re not me! You’re admiring Martha! Are you turning gay?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Look, I know that your scrumptious curvy figure is all fake, but you have very good legs. Any woman would be jealous.”

“Of course they wouldn’t… Do you really think so?”

“Mm-hmm… mm-hmm.” Susie was walking all round me, examining me in detail. “It’s incredible. I can’t see where the Martha flesh stops and you start. You could pose nude… We must take some photos! Let me get my camera…”

“No way!” I shouted. “Hey, get back here!”

She turned at the door, and grinned.

“Okay, okay, keep your hair on,” she said, pointing at my greying bun. “I was only kidding. But seriously, this is brilliant. I knew that they were good, but this…!”

“Well I’m glad you’re pleased,” I grumbled. “But you do realise this is torture for me, don’t you?”

“Really?” she said, sceptically. “Here, put this on.”

She tossed me a chiffon negligée of my mother’s, another item rescued from the charity shop. As I covered my naked Martha-self up, she sat down on the bed and got serious.

“You need to start being honest with yourself,” she said sternly. “I tried to give you an opening when I suggested you were a crossdresser before, but you thought I was just joking. You appear to have conveniently forgotten that you actively sought out the Director of The Importance of Being Earnest, and put the idea of a male Lady Bracknell in his mind. Later, after Cambridge, you joined LADS and reminded the Director of Romeo and Juliet that the Nurse was a great comic part that would have been played by one of the fine comic actors of Shakespeare’s day. Will Kemp wanted to do it, you said. Naturally the Director asked you if you thought you could do it and you leapt at the chance. So now you’re Martha, in real life, why not make the most of it? You might even find that’s who you want to be.”

“You must be joking! Why would I want to be a maid?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a maid, is there? And you certainly don’t want to be an Earl, do you? You hate all the fuss people make over you in public. You hide whenever anyone comes to the house.”

I sat down beside her, remembering to sweep my skirt under me to stop it from getting wrinkled.

“All right, all right,” I said. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I do enjoy a little cross-dressing from time to time. It’s an escape. It’s just for fun. But I’m stuck like this now. I can’t escape being Martha!”

“Well why don’t we test that?” she said. “Lie back and open your legs.”

That first time we tried together to free my genitals from their prosthetic confinement was hideous, embarrassing, and hysterically funny. It also led to one of the best lovemaking sessions either of us could remember, even though we couldn’t kiss because of my sore lips.

Susie didn’t seem at all put off by the fact that her sexual partner appeared to be her plump, thirty-something maidservant, rather than her husband, Robert, Lord Marsham, sixth Earl of Hadleigh. So I suppose I had to take her at her word and believe that she loved me, the person underneath the disguise, and my extreme feminine appearance didn’t bother her.

That augured well for our old age, I suppose.

* * *

What did worry her was my snoring. She woke me in the middle of the night with a sharp jab to the ribs.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “You never usually snore.”

“It’s these stupid breasts,” I said. “I can’t sleep on my front. It’s like lying on two footballs. So I went to sleep on my back. That always makes me snore.”

“Why can’t you sleep on your side?”

“Because the breasts hang down and stretch the skin on my chest where they’re attached. It hurts.”

She thought for a moment.

“We’ll have to get you a sleep bra,” she said. “Some women with larger breasts like yours sleep better with support.”

“I can’t sleep in a bra!” I protested. “It would be too tight and uncomfortable.”

“There are special soft, lightweight bras for sleeping in. No underwire, of course. You can even get a camisole-style pyjama top with a bra built in. Come to think of it, I think I saw a sleep bra amongst your Mum’s things.”

She got up to go and ransack my mother’s underwear again, returning from the other wing ten minutes later with a triumphant look on her face. I was dozing off again – on my back – but she roused me. She soon had my breasts wrapped in a soft, elasticised bra. I tried sleeping on my side and to my surprise, it worked. The bra wasn’t too tight but it provided just enough support to save the skin of my chest from any further torture.

So the nights became tolerable again despite my bizarre transformation. We soon mastered the knack of unzipping and releasing my wedding tackle. The only change to our lovemaking was that Susie was always on top now because the prosthetic restricted my ‘angle of attack’. It was just easier for us both if she made all the necessary directional adjustments from above. She claimed it would keep her fitter too, as she had to do all the athletic parts of the exercise. As long as I was Martha the maid, my housework would keep me fit, she laughed.

* * *

For the next few days we were too busy to worry about Beckett and his threats. Since the Estate was now secure, Susie went back to work at Wainwrights. We had clients using the reception rooms and the gardens nearly every day now. They all understood that the Hall was unstaffed and they would have to do everything themselves, but I (as Martha) still had to show people where everything was; and I had to let them in and out. Rob would have hated having to deal with all these strangers, but as Martha I was quite at ease. I had to do a lot of clearing up afterwards though, prior to the J & J girls arriving early the next day.

I spent most of my time in my maid uniforms now. They were quite comfortable for my new shape, and obviously well-suited to my new working life. With the real Martha gone, I also had to look after our private quarters. I began to get used to cleaning toilets, mopping floors, dusting and vacuuming carpets with my new, heavier figure. I learned to compensate for the way my breasts and buttocks swung and wobbled.

We also had to keep an eye out for unwelcome guests. Fortunately we had no Open Days in the calendar that week, and Susie instructed the representatives of each society to make sure that only their members were allowed in. If they spotted any faces they didn’t recognise, they had to notify us immediately.

I couldn’t go out with Bill on Estate work anymore, but I had no problem finding things to occupy myself while Susie was out at Wainwrights soliciting.

As it was possible that Beckett was keeping occasional watch on us, I needed to present as feminine at all times and do conspicuously maid-like things. I washed my mistress’ underwear by hand (which she found hilarious). I attended her properly as a lady’s maid should. I laid out her clothes in the mornings. I helped her dress and undress.

We sometimes showered together, enthusiastically soaping each other down, but more frequently I ran her bath, and washed her hair, and scrubbed her back, which drove her wild. All too often she dragged me in with her, getting me soaked in kisses and soapy water. It was a good thing I had several maid uniforms and plenty of spare underwear.

It was hard, sweaty work, so I also had to get used to keeping my new body clean and sweet-smelling. I tried opening my prosthesis in the bath to clean inside and, as Vera said, that worked very well. But, as I had said, getting out of the bath with fifty pounds of additional blubber was just too difficult, so I resolved to stick to showers. There is definitely something erotic about soaping down a big round wobbly feminine body, even though I couldn’t actually feel anything as I rubbed shower gel into my new breasts, hips and buttocks.

* * *

To my embarrassment, and as Susie had predicted, I soon found I was enjoying my life as the maid more than I ever had when I had been the Earl. That thought was a little worrying. Perhaps it was just the novelty of the experience, appealing to my frustrated enjoyment of amateur dramatics? So to test that, I looked for more opportunities to immerse myself in the life of a female servant. However the first time I brought Susie her breakfast in bed, she objected.

“I’m not lying here like the Lady of the Manor while you work…” she began.

“But you are the Lady of the Manor,” I said.

“Oh, you know what I mean! I’m only going to eat my breakfast in bed, if you’re here beside me,” she said firmly.

“But I’m fully dressed,” I objected, “and it still takes me ages. I have to get up an hour before you to get ready.”

I was in my usual smart maid’s uniform, a cute black dress with apron, cap, dark tights, and one-inch heels. My hair – that is, my wig – was gathered tidily in a bun, and I was fully made up.

“You do always look fantastic,” she said. “I’m very impressed. Do you have any trouble?”

“I still can’t fasten my bra behind my back, and it takes me ten minutes just to do up my dress. Are all women double-jointed?”

“You should have come to me. There’s nothing I’d enjoy more than zipping up my pretty husband’s dress,” she said drily. “Anyway, if you’re not going to join me, I’ll get up and we can have breakfast together downstairs.”

She got out of bed and reached for her negligée. I helped her on with it, as a good lady’s maid should.

“But I’ve already eaten,” I objected.

“Well, don’t do that again. You can at least sit down and have a cup of coffee with me! It’s great that you want to copy Martha so precisely but let’s not overdo this ‘mistress and maid’ thing.”

“But it was all your idea!” I said.

“Well you’ve obviously got the hang of being a maid. You were brilliant with the Empire people, and with Treacher. We can afford to relax a bit now, when it’s just you and me.”

She reached up, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me deeply. I caught a glimpse of us in the dressing table mirror – the beautiful Countess kissing her dumpy lady’s maid. One of the most erotic sights I’d ever seen…

* * *

We gradually worked out how this strange new variation on our relationship would work. I now did alone, and in my maid’s uniform, all the household jobs that we had previously shared – the laundry, cleaning, washing-up (OK, stacking and emptying the dishwasher).

I dusted and vacuumed all the rooms at the front of the house, and cleaned the windows, throwing them wide open so that I could be seen from the gate as the Countess’s diligent housemaid, working hard to keep her mistress’s home spotless.

Susie was still in charge of our evening meals. I volunteered to learn to cook but she insisted that cooking was her contribution to our domestic bliss. But it wasn’t easy for her. Wainwrights were working her hard. She rarely made it home before six and it was often much later.

So we worked out a compromise. She would decide on the evening meal and write down a recipe. When necessary, I would go to the supermarket (unnoticed and as good as invisible in my ladies’ coat and a headscarf) to do the shopping. When I got home I would lay out the ingredients and do the simple tasks like peeling potatoes or putting rice on to boil. When Susie returned, she would do the difficult stuff.

While the food was cooking, she would bathe and change, often with my help as her lady’s maid (which always risked ruining our dinner). Then we would eat together. Sometimes I would change into one of Martha’s casual dresses.

One evening Susie called to say she was going to be later than usual, and suggested I organise a takeaway, but having watched her cook so often, I thought I could do better than that.

When she eventually got home at nearly half-past seven, she found me on the sofa in the drawing room with my feet up, a glass of Merlot in my hand, watching a soap opera I was finding surprisingly interesting.

She burst into laughter at the incongruous sight.

“Well really, Martha!” she admonished. “This is hardly how I expect to find my maid when I come back from a hard day’s work – her feet up on my best sofa, drinking my husband’s expensive wine!”

“Hey, I’ve had a hard day too… M’Lady,” I said. “It’s been more than a week since the real Martha or the J & J girls were last here.”

“You’ve been cleaning?”

“And doing the laundry, and… cooking.”

“Brilliant! I’m really impressed! What are we having?”

“Some sort of stew, I think,” I grinned. “I just slung together some leftovers and hoped for the best.”

She sniffed. “Well it smells pretty good. Let me just have a quick wash and get changed.” She paused and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Of course, my lady’s maid should be helping me with all that…”

I perked up. Suddenly I wasn’t quite so tired.

“I’ll be right with you, M’Lady. I’m sure the stew will keep for half an hour.”

“What a good maid you are, Martha,” she said with a smile. “But you should be a little more careful when you loll about on the sofa like that. You’re giving the world a clear view of your frilly knickers.”

“Well there’s only you here to see, isn’t there?” I said. “And it’s all your fault I’m wearing them, isn’t it? Anyway, they’ll be coming off in a minute, won’t they?”

* * *

My earlier fears about my wife attending fashionable parties and dances without me started to resurface. Now I couldn’t go out as the Earl even if I wanted to, which of course I didn’t. Sensing my unease, Susie had started to cut back on her social events.

To compensate, she had offered the Hall as a venue for the annual office Summer Ball. Old Mr Wainwright quickly accepted. Hadleigh Hall was much more prestigious than the town’s largest hotel, and also cheaper. It was quite a coup on Susie’s part, and would raise her profile still further at Wainwrights. It would be a significant financial windfall for us too. Unfortunately it came up at the end of my first full week as Martha. I just hoped I could match my behaviour, movement and mannerisms to my new outward appearance.

It was a huge affair and partly a marketing event, so not only were the company employees in attendance, but also all of their clients – past, present and – hopefully – future. When I saw the invitation list, it included all the great and good of the county.

Wainwrights hired a catering company to provide the food and drink for the party, cooked by top chefs and served by uniformed waitresses. Susie negotiated a small reduction in the price by offering her own maid, me, to be one of the waitresses. The company’s manager was happy to concede that. She knew that my familiarity with the venue would be helpful.

I was provided with a uniform to match the other girls, a black dress with white piping, white half-apron, and a little lace headband. It was more attractive, though a little less practical than my everyday maid’s uniform. They even provided a name badge with ‘MARTHA’ on it in large capital letters.

I was trying it on the night before the party when my wife came in and saw me admiring myself in our bedroom mirror. I quickly discovered that with her help I could get my uniform off in much less time than it took to put it on. I was lucky it didn’t get torn. Not for the first time I wondered why seeing her husband in women’s underwear - bra, granny panties, and tights - always got Susie’s juices flowing.

On the day of the party, dressed in my smart waitress uniform, I showed the catering company staff where everything was, and helped the chefs fathom the idiosyncrasies of our huge kitchen, its ovens, refrigerators, plumbing, etc.

Susie was resplendent in a gorgeous full-length Royal Blue, column, sweetheart, high-slit, sweep train, strapless evening dress. She welcomed the guests as they came into our handsome entrance hall with its oak archways and Victorian floor tiles. I stood beside her with a tray of champagne and Bucks Fizz.

My wife had never looked more beautiful. I felt like the luckiest maid/waitress in the world, though I also felt a little guilty that I wasn’t squiring her properly at this shindig, but I shuddered at the thought of pressing the flesh as Lord of the Manor all evening. When it seemed all the guests had arrived, I adjusted my apron, tidied my cap, and returned to the kitchen.

We were lucky with the weather, and the party started with drinks and nibbles on the lawn. I had never practised walking in high heels on grass, and came close to tripping a couple of times, which would have propelled a tray of hors d’oeuvres onto some unfortunate guest. I don’t think anyone noticed my stumbles, apart from my wife, of course. She didn’t seem to be able to take her eyes off me whenever I came near.

I overheard several guests asking Susie where her husband was. She told everyone that the Earl was away on business, and anyway he had thought it better not to intrude on the Company’s office party. When I served people out of Susie’s earshot I heard them comment that the new Earl seemed to be something of a recluse, which was true. He liked it that way. In social events such as this I was much happier as the waitress, or the maid, or whatever lowly role kept me firmly in the background.

As darkness fell, the party moved indoors. There was dancing to a small live band in the Great Hall, while all the ground floor reception rooms were available for flirting, social chitchat, and networking. I spent the evening scuttling in and out of the kitchen, offering trays of canapés, sandwiches, barbecued chicken legs, and endless glasses of champagne. Waitresses don’t have to make conversation and I’d never been happier at a posh party. Later on, when several of the male guests had enjoyed one glass of champagne too many, I even had my bottom pinched – not that I could feel it as he only gripped fake flesh. Luckily, I happened to look over my shoulder at just the right time to catch him in the act. He grinned saucily and walked away. When I was over the surprise, I felt flattered rather than aggrieved.

Company taxis and minibuses started arriving at midnight and the last guests left a little after one o’clock, leaving the catering staff, including me, to clear up. The chefs, being mostly men and paid twice as much for their expertise as us waitresses, had departed hours ago, when the last of the food had been cooked.

The team had brought all the glasses, plates, dishes and cutlery with them and would take them away, neatly stacked in special cases, to be washed at the company’s HQ. All we had to do was collect, and stack, and load up the van.

I had got to know most of the other waitresses during the evening and was enjoying gossiping with them while we were clearing up. Some of the guests had got very drunk and disgraced themselves badly, which gave us all a lot of amusement. Suddenly to everyone’s astonishment Susie swept in, donned a long bib apron over her beautiful dress, and started pitching in. I thought she’d gone to bed and was actually feeling a little bitter about it. I should have known her conscience wouldn’t let her leave me to be part of the clean-up crew without her.

She quickly showed herself to be a Countess with the common touch. She had us all enthralled with a ribald story of old Mr Wainwright’s clumsy attempts at feeling up Vivienne, his long-time secretary. According to Susie, Viv let him do what he wanted in the office behind closed doors, but this do was a little too public for her liking.

“She must be fifty, if she’s a day,” said Susie, a little cruelly, for her. It was then I realised she was more than a bit drunk herself.

“The Earl must be very confident to leave you alone with all those horny men, My Lady,” said one of the waitresses, emboldened by Susie’s approachability.

“Oh my husband is a very special guy,” she said. “None of those pompous idiots could hold a candle to him.”

She turned to me and pulled me in for a hug. Given what she’d just said, I was sure she was about to expose me in her sozzled state.

“I’m lucky with Martha too,” she said with a wink at me. “She’s not just a superb housekeeper. She’s also my best friend.”

I blushed deeply. Good recovery, M’Lady, I thought.

We both helped load up the company van with the dirty crockery and waved them all off at about two o’clock.

“We need to get to bed,” I said. “The J & J girls will be here for the clean-up at eight.”

“How do you think it went?” Susie asked, removing her apron.

“Seemed pretty successful to me,” I said. “Old Wainwright seemed to enjoy himself. Thanks for coming and helping with the tidying-up, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, I had a good time at the party while you were working your big round bottom off. It was the least I could do.”

“Or was it that you didn’t trust me alone with all those lively young women in the kitchen?”

“Like you didn’t trust me with all those thrusting young solicitors? Funnily enough, Martha, I wasn’t too worried about preserving your chastity,” she said with a scornful smirk. “There’s not much you’d be able to do, locked away as you are, is there? To make proper use of your equipment, your bed partner has to have the knack of unwrapping it. Shall I show you?”

“Yes please, M’Lady,” I said deferentially, curtseying deeply.

And she did.

* * *

Getting used to my place as full-time housekeeper and maid of all work, I was now always careful to curtsey and call Susie ‘M’Lady’. It started to feel natural, and completely appropriate for my role and appearance. I admitted to myself that I was actually happy in my work for nearly the first time since I’d inherited the title, and I wouldn’t have minded if my situation continued indefinitely. But I think Susie was starting to find it awkward, despite it having been her idea to treat me as her maid in the first place.

She decided we could be ourselves – more or less – when we were alone together in our bedroom, whose curtains remained closed. I made sure I always looked and acted as a maid whenever I was near a window that could be seen from the road, albeit only with powerful binoculars. It was unlikely we were being watched, but we could never be sure.

I kept all my Martha things in the little back bedroom which had once been hers, but at bedtime I padded along the corridor in my sleep bra, nightie, dressing gown and slippers, a bonnet on my head instead of my wig, and took my rightful place in the Countess’s boudoir.

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 5

The Countess brings in a private investigator to help counter the threat the Hadleighs are facing. Martha the maid goes undercover.

Towards the end of that week Treacher called at the Hall to give us an update. I let him in, continuing to play Martha the maid as he wasn’t in on my secret. I was used to being her now; it was less of an ordeal every day.

The first thing Treacher did was inspect our alarm system. I showed him to the little pantry where Empire had installed the controls and the monitors and unlocked the door for him. I was careful not to let him see any of the codes, but he was only interested in the makes and models of the various equipment. It was plain that he already knew how everything worked and approved strongly.

“They’ve done very well for you, Martha my dear,” he said, a little patronisingly. “This is the best value system on the market. Her Ladyship couldn’t have done much better if she’d paid ten times more.”

By now it was late afternoon, so I showed him into the drawing room where Madam was waiting and made to go and fetch refreshments. She stopped me with an imperious wave of her hand.

“A moment, please, Martha,” said my wife. She turned to the detective. “Would you mind waiting until she returns with the tea, Mr Treacher? With my husband away, Martha is my only confidant. I would like her to hear what you have to say.”

“No problem, My Lady,” he said. “Have you heard from His Lordship?”

“Not for a few days,” Susie was saying. “We agreed it was better if he didn’t try to make contact in case Beckett has found a way of listening in. Maybe that’s a little paranoid…”

“No, no, it’s a very sensible precaution,” he said.

I turned again to go to the kitchen.

“I don’t even know where he is now,” Susie continued smoothly. “He thought that was best. If I don’t know his whereabouts, I can’t give him away. He must have finished the business he went away for, and he really wants to come home, but…”

I didn’t hear any more of the conversation, but she’d hit the nail on the head there. The excitement of crossdressing was beginning to wear off now. My frilly underwear and maid uniforms were beginning to feel routine and normal.

I sensed that the thrills of cooking, cleaning and helping My Lady dress and undress weren’t going to last forever either. Actually that wasn’t fair. Susie still did most of the cooking, being much better than me. That left me to do the clearing up.

I returned to the drawing room with the tray. A quick curtsey to Madam and I poured the tea and passed out little cakes and biscuits. That done, I took my place on a hard-backed chair next to my mistress, my hands folded demurely over my apron. Susie suppressed a giggle, but I was still quite enjoying play-acting Martha the maid in company. It was a matter of personal pride to get it right, not just a desperate need not to be caught out.

“The first thing I found out about Beckett,” Treacher began, “is that, while he is widely known to be a member of the criminal fraternity, he is not himself a thief; that is, he’s not a burglar or armed robber, or anything like that. He has his fingers in various pies as a middleman. I suppose the best term for him would be ‘fence’. He has an extensive network for the disposal of stolen property. So actual villains come to him with the proceeds of their thievery and he sells them on, taking a percentage for himself.”

“That sounds rather high profile,” suggested my wife, the high-flying young solicitor, who I knew had done a certain amount of criminal work as part of her training. “Surely the police must be aware of this?”

“Oh yes, My Lady,” Treacher agreed, dunking a digestive biscuit in his tea, “but they’ve never been able to get any evidence on him. I don’t think he’s especially clever, but he is careful, and he’s well-protected. He only deals with people he knows – often members of his extended family – and because he is so useful to them, his customers look after him. The police have found it impossible to get anyone to talk.”

“And you’ve been more successful?”

“I know people, who know people, who know him,” Treacher smiled. “Some of them are his competitors and might be willing to air a little of his dirty laundry. I’m working on it. Best of all would be if we could find one of his stores. If we can tip off the police where there might be some stolen property that he hasn’t managed to dispose of yet…”

“You’d still have to tie him to it though,” said Susie, “and if he’s as careful as you say…”

“Agreed, but if it’s a storage facility, or even a lock-up garage rented from the local council, there’d be records.”

It still sounded optimistic to me. I got up to offer more tea.

“Thank you, Martha,” he said as I poured.

“I did have one other idea,” he said, “but it’s not entirely without risk.”

He paused to gauge our reactions. I sat down again. We must have looked encouraging as he quickly went on.

“Beckett keeps an office in town. It’s above a Chinese takeaway. Yesterday I watched it from lunchtime onwards. He was there all day, apart from quick trips to the corner shop for food and drinks. He left at about five o’clock in a big black estate car – a Mercedes E class. It was parked in a reserved space in front of the building. Traffic was heavy but there weren’t many intersections or traffic lights in the direction he went, so I was able to follow him without risking being spotted. He eventually turned into a property on the Langdale Estate.”

“Those are nice houses,” Susie said. “One of our Partners lives up there. His place backs onto the golf course.”

“Indeed. Beckett’s house is a four-bedroom detached with a large garden,” Treacher agreed. “I did some checking later, and I saw why I hadn’t been able to get his home address from the usual sources. He’s not the registered owner. Seems he lives with his mother and the property is in her name. She’s a widow in her early eighties. I watched the house for the rest of the evening and he never left.”

He paused to take another biscuit. I marvelled at the self-discipline and patience required to be a private eye. He had sat in his car watching nothing much happening all afternoon and all evening. I wondered what he did about food and drink during these vigils, and going to the toilet…

I glanced at Susie. She was looking at me, a little crossly, I thought. She quickly cast her eyes down my person, her brow furrowed. I realised I was sitting like a man. I had allowed my knees to open wide. I quickly snapped them together. Treacher didn’t seem to have noticed. He’d dunked and finished his fourth biscuit.

“When all the lights at the house finally went out, at about midnight, I returned to his office,” he resumed. “The sign on the door says, ‘J Beckett & Associates, Independent Trading Co’.”

“Like Del Trotter in Only Fools and Horses,” Susie said. Treacher smiled and nodded.

“I doubt he keeps anything valuable there,” he said, “because both the door to the street and his office door were easy to pick, and there was no alarm…”

“You broke in?” said Susie, doubtfully.

“Certainly,” he said, “although ‘breaking in’ puts it a bit strongly. He might as well have left both doors open really. The street was quiet and deserted. Anyway, it was just an ordinary office. There were two desks – I guess he must have an occasional secretary although I didn’t see one yesterday afternoon. One desk had an old computer and a printer; the other just had a monitor, a keyboard and a mouse, all with dangling wires. So I suppose he must carry a laptop around which he plugs into the kit on the desk when he’s in the office. There was also a filing cabinet, which was nearly empty. No interesting names or addresses, just a few boring invoices. I took pictures of most of them, and I’ll look at them more carefully later, but I don’t expect they’ll be any use. There was no safe.”

“Disappointing,” said Susie, “especially after the risk you took.”

“No risk really, My Lady,” Treacher smiled. “I do this for a living.”

I was impressed by his sangfroid, and his dedication. I would have been terrified of being caught by the police, or even worse, by one of Beckett’s thuggish friends.

“So he got back home at half-past five yesterday evening and left at eight-thirty this morning,” Treacher continued. “He went straight to the office and he’s been there most of the day. He had several early visitors, some of them carrying large suitcases. In the middle of the morning he brought the suitcases down and put them in the back of his car. I tried to follow but he went through the centre of town this time and I lost him in traffic. I drove over to his house in Langdale in case he’d gone home by a different route, but he definitely wasn’t there, so I went back to the office. He returned after about an hour and a half and he was still there when I left to come here.”

He paused to make sure we were still with him. We were agog.

“So you think his customers are bringing him stolen goods in those suitcases, and he goes off to put them in storage somewhere?” Susie said.

“That does seem likely, yes.”

“Why do you think they don’t meet at wherever he stores the loot?” Susie asked.

“That would be riskier, I should think,” Treacher said. “The police might be watching any of his customers. Many of them would be known criminals. This way only Beckett ever goes to his store, and he can take care that he isn’t followed.”

“It still seems a little risky for him, doesn’t it?” Susie persisted. “I mean, if the police were watching his office… or if they found some reason to stop him when his car was full of stolen goods.”

“Ah yes…” Treacher agreed. He hesitated. “…which is why I suspect he has friends in high places. Or at least at the local constabulary.”

Susie was nodding. “So there really wouldn’t have been any point in us reporting his visit here, would there?”

“Probably not, My Lady. The report would just have been lost in the system, I’m afraid.”

Susie looked thoughtful, as well she might. If Beckett had crooked cops on his side, our position looked even more bleak. She sighed.

“It’s a pity you couldn’t follow him this morning,” she said, eventually.

“I doubt he would have let me,” he said. “He might not have been on his guard when he was just on his way home, but I suspect he’d soon detect a tail when he had a car full of stolen goods.”

Susie nodded. Despite what you see in TV thrillers, she knew how difficult it is to follow someone for several miles through the streets of an English town without being spotted.

“He doesn’t seem to work from home at all,” Treacher continued, “but his mother’s house has toughened double-glazed windows, and doors with deadbolts, and a state-of-the-art alarm system. The old lady is there pretty much all the time too. I reckon it’s the most likely place he’d keep his vital records. It would be good to get inside and have a look.”

“Why wouldn’t he keep the important stuff on his laptop?” said Susie. “I do.”

“He might,” Treacher agreed, “but it wouldn’t be more secure. That’s a mistake a lot of people make. You need to back up your data regularly in case the laptop is lost, damaged or stolen. Few people take back-ups often enough. If your back-up is in the Cloud, it may be hacked. And if you ever do lose the thing, the disk had better be encrypted or your precious data will be easy to read. No; paper records may be less convenient but they’re much easier to secure.”

My wife was looking a little pale. I assumed her data – that is, her company’s data – was anything but safe on her laptop.

“So how are you going to get inside?” she asked.

I wanted to ask the same question, but of course as the maid it wasn’t my place to speak. It was also better for me to hold my peace. Treacher was sharp. I couldn’t be sure my Martha voice wouldn’t raise his suspicions.

“The cleaning company,” he said. “I saw their van at the end of the road, so I went and had a chat. Two of them were just coming out of one of the posher houses. Cleaning ladies are often the chatty types, especially if you cross their palms with silver, as it were. I was lucky – they do Mrs Beckett’s house too. She has them for two hours once a week, first thing on Wednesday morning.”

“How does that help?” Susie asked, but I could see where he was going with this.

“You use the same company, don’t you? J & J Home Counties Housekeeping? I thought you could ask their manager to let us send in an operative as a cleaner. Once inside she could have a sniff round. Does Beckett use a room in his Mum’s house as a home office? Has he left any useful papers lying around on his desk? Or in a drawer?”

“I see what you mean about it being ‘not entirely without risk’,” Susie said dubiously. “If Beckett catches her snooping, he might kill her.”

“We’ll do what we can to mitigate the risk,” Treacher said confidently. “I’ll watch Beckett and the house every day till next Wednesday, to confirm his pattern of movements. We won’t send in anyone till we’re confident he won’t show up during that time.”

“I want to do it,” I said, speaking for the first time.

Treacher looked at me in surprise. Susie looked at me in astonishment.

“No, no, Martha,” she said hurriedly. “It’s much too dangerous.”

“Begging your pardon, M’Lady, but I think I have to. I understand the sort of thing I need to look for.” She looked as though she was about to make further objections, but I added hurriedly, “I’m in as much danger from Beckett as you are, Ma’am, after all.”

Treacher was watching me thoughtfully.

“She would be ideal, My Lady,” he said. “She’d fit right in with the other J & J cleaning ladies. No one would imagine she was an investigator.”

I wasn’t too pleased at being characterised as a harmless-looking charlady, but when the shoe fits…

“We’ll have to talk to the manager of J & J,” said Treacher. “Do you know her well enough to ask for her cooperation?”

“I think so,” sighed Susie, recognising that this was going to happen whether she wanted it to or not. “We’ve put a lot of business her way. I’ll give her a call.”

“Let’s all exchange phone numbers,” Treacher said, “in case of emergencies.”

We agreed. I envisaged an emergency where Beckett or one of his brutes was beating me up and Treacher rushed in to help the apparent ‘damsel in distress’. Which would probably just lead to him getting beaten up as well. He didn’t look any more useful in a fight than I did, and I looked like a middle-aged housemaid.

“One last thing,” he said. “I suggest you change the codes on your alarm system. I know you’ve only just done all that, but there has been a spate of burglaries in the area, and many of the victims’ houses have had state-of-the-art alarm systems much like yours. It’s led me to wonder whether someone at one of the security companies might be on the fiddle.”

“You mean, selling alarm system data to thieves?” Susie was appalled.

“Exactly,” Treacher confirmed, “but with the system you have, the security company doesn’t have access to the master console, so if you change the codes now, they won’t see the new ones.”

It seemed a very sensible precaution. We went together to the pantry. He showed me how to change the numbers but left the room before I did it. Susie and I were now the only people who knew the codes for the gates and the doors of the house and garage.

“The system will also automatically update all your RFID tags and the transponders in your vehicles,” he said. “Better make sure you can account for all of them.”

“It’s nice to have a big, strong man to look after us, isn’t it, Martha?” said Susie, with a wink that Treacher couldn’t see.

He smiled modestly. “My pleasure, Ma’am,” he said.

I gave her a weak smile and the most sarcastic curtsey I could manage.

* * *

Mrs Jackson came straight round later that afternoon, again eager to oblige the nobility. She was rather less keen when she heard what we wanted. Susie explained our situation – without revealing my true identity – and why we needed to find out everything we could about Jack Beckett.

“I understand your predicament, My Lady, and I sympathise, I really do,” she said, “but you want me to send Martha to one of my existing customers, just so she can spy on her?”

“We realise we’re asking a lot, Sally,” said my wife, “but Martha will be very careful, and if she is caught, there will be no reason for anyone to think that J & J were involved. We’ll say that financial pressures have forced us to cut back on Martha’s hours, and she has had to look for additional cleaning work to make ends meet. Your teams are here at Hadleigh Hall two or three times a week, so she already knows you and many of your staff. It would be natural for her to apply to J & J first for additional cleaning work.”

“I suppose so…”

“You’d have ‘plausible deniability’.”

“Mm, yes…”

Susie was very good at this sort of thing. Certainly, I’d never beaten her in an argument. I could see Sally was half convinced. She was weighing up the cost of losing Mrs Beckett as a client against losing all the work she was currently getting at Hadleigh Hall…

“Well, all right,” she said, “but she needs to start with us immediately. It would look too suspicious if the first J & J customer she worked for was Mrs Beckett.”

“Yes, I see that,” Susie agreed. “So what do you suggest?”

“Well, let me see,” Sally began, “today’s Thursday.” She turned to me. “Are you free tomorrow, Martha?”

“With Her Ladyship’s permission I can be. Yes, Ma’am,” I confirmed.

“As it happens, Chloe, one of our longest-serving girls, is about to go on maternity leave, which will leave her usual partner, Fleur, needing to break in someone new. Also Fleur doesn’t drive and has to rely on Chloe to get them to their clients’ houses, so I need to partner her with someone who has a car. You have a little yellow Polo, don’t you, Martha? I saw you in it the last time I was here.”

She pulled a tablet out of her handbag and opened it at her Calendar.

“If you come over to our office at say, eleven tomorrow morning, I can get you set up on our system. Then you can go out with Fleur and Chloe on their afternoon job.”

She flipped through more entries in her schedule.

“We are next due at Mrs Beckett’s house on Wednesday. I suggest that Martha should work with Fleur all day Monday and Tuesday, so that by then everyone will assume she’s just another full-time employee.”

“You should expect to carry on working with Fleur till at least the end of next week though, Martha,” said my wife, with just a hint of an apology, “whether you find what we need or not.”

“I was going to suggest the same,” said Sally with a smile, “to allay any suspicions.”

So now in addition to being my wife’s lady’s maid, I was going to be both a full-time cleaning lady and a part-time spy; the Mata Hari of the scrubbing brush; the Modesty Blaise of the vacuum cleaner.

* * *

Sally had instructed me to bring my – that is, Martha’s – National Insurance and bank account details with me on Friday morning, so I had to go to ‘my’ cottage in ‘my’ little car first to find them. Fortunately Martha – the other Martha – was tidy and methodical with her important documents, and I had no difficulty finding everything I needed in a chest of drawers in her bedroom. I would also have to show my new employer my driving licence as proof of identity.

I had asked Sally what I should wear, and she said ‘something neat but comfortable’. Some of her clients liked their cleaning ladies to wear maid’s uniforms, but that was rare. She would issue me with a tabard with the J & J logo. I could wear smart trousers or black leggings underneath. Jeans were not permitted. A dark dress would be suitable too, but that would require tights, which I would probably find uncomfortable for hard cleaning work at this time of year. I should tie my hair back, or wear a headscarf. Trainers or ballet flats would be fine on my feet, as long as they were clean.

All of these (except shoes which I already had) were easy to find at the cottage in the other Martha’s well-organised cupboards. I decided on a pair of comfortable-looking black polyester trousers with an elasticated waist. I could wear short nylon socks and black flats with those. I found a pretty floral blouse to go with them and tried it all on.

It was the first time I had worn trousers since my transformation. My maid’s uniforms didn’t exactly conceal my over-generous curves, but this ensemble emphasised them to an embarrassing degree. When I examined my rear view in the wardrobe mirror, I was astonished at the dimensions of my backside. How could I go out looking like this?

But as I twirled and stared at myself critically in the mirror, I gradually found myself letting go of my other identities – Rob Dixon, schoolteacher, Lord Marsham, Earl of Hadleigh, etc, etc – and found that Martha Manners, housekeeper, lady’s maid, and soon-to-be cleaning lady, was taking me over. She – I – looked fine for what I was, no supermodel, but a decent-looking, working-class woman with nothing to be ashamed of (and with a world-class butt).

I could do this. I might even enjoy it. I wondered again if Susie had been right. Would I prefer being a maid to being an Earl?

* * *

J & J’s headquarters were on the ground floor of a small office block in a business park on the outskirts of town. Four parking spaces were reserved for them round the back of the building. Two were occupied by nine-seater minibuses; a BMW 5-series was in the third. The fourth was vacant, so I parked the Polo there.

Sally’s office was small, tidy and utilitarian, a reflection of her efficient, no-nonsense personality. The outside door was open, so I went straight in, fervently hoping that my disguise was as good as we thought it was.

Sally was the only person in sight and she was on the telephone. She smiled and waved me to a seat. I took off my outer coat (pink reversible quilted bomber jacket, Marks & Spencer) and hung it and my handbag on a coat hook behind the door. I took my tax and National Insurance documents out of my bag, and sat down. I looked around me while I waited for my new boss to finish her call.

Sally’s workstation was a big L-shaped desk in the corner of the room next to a window which looked out onto the street. Apart from a small computer and its accessories, the only things on the surface were about half a dozen green folders with names on the covers in large, neat writing.

A similar desk, currently unoccupied, was to her right. It had several computers on it, some of which didn’t look like bog-standard office machines at all. I wondered, idly, why a cleaning company would need so many. Presumably, this was J & J’s IT Department, run by her husband, the software engineer.

There was a cupboard with sliding doors along the wall to my right. The other walls were covered in A1-size laminated weekly planners showing customers and their allocated cleaners for each day of the week – including Saturdays and Sundays, which were less crowded than weekdays but far from bare. J & J was obviously doing very well. I noticed that ‘Hadleigh Hall’ cropped up often, as far as I could remember, always the morning after we were hosting some society meeting.

I heard Sally making goodbye noises to her caller, so I turned back to give her my full attention.

“Good morning, Martha,” she said, with a smile. “Do you have your documentation?”

I confirmed that I had brought everything she had asked for. I placed the papers on her desk. She was rummaging in a drawer and brought out a form.

“Could you fill this in, please?”

She passed me a ballpoint pen with ‘J & J Home Counties Housekeeping’ embossed on the barrel. I pulled my chair up to the other side of her desk and started. I just hoped I would remember everything I needed to know about my Martha identity. When was my date of birth? Oh yes, 23rd June 1981, which makes me thirty-nine. That would mean the real Martha was deemed a ‘geriatric mother’ to have a first baby at her age. I hoped her fiancé was looking after her properly.

Meanwhile Sally had taken a key from her handbag and gone over to the cupboard. She unlocked it and slid the door back. I saw several pink and grey smocks with the ‘J & J’ logo on the left breast. There were also a few maid’s uniforms in similar colours. She reached in and fetched down a grey smock, checking the size as she did so.

“I think you’ll need a ‘Large’,” she said, with a smile, “but not ‘XL’.”

I slipped it on over my blouse and leggings, and she showed me how to fasten it. I glanced at myself in a small mirror on the cupboard door. I looked like a proper cleaning lady. I stopped worrying about the effectiveness of my disguise. No one could possibly doubt what I was. I was a middle-aged, working-class charlady with no resemblance whatever to a reclusive male peer of the realm.

I thanked Sally, then sat back down to carry on with the form. No one memorises their National Insurance number, do they? So I had to refer to one of the papers on the desk. After the personal details, most of the form was about diseases and criminal convictions – ‘none’, ‘none’. The rest was a checklist of indemnities. Apparently, we cleaning ladies are self-employed contractors, so J & J weren’t liable if I was injured on the job. Better not get injured then, I thought, as I doubted I had the necessary personal insurance for a cleaning injury. I finished the form with no trouble and gave it back to her.

“Fleur will be back a little after twelve,” she said. “The two of you can go to lunch and get to know each other. In the meantime, please would you read this? It’s our company’s standards. We have work instructions for every type of cleaning job. All new members of staff get these when they join. We have a reputation to uphold, you see. We are a premium service. Our staff are required to be conscientious. We don’t tolerate slapdash work and I conduct surprise inspections to make sure everyone follows the guidelines.”

I hope I can live up to all that. I settled down to study the ‘work instructions’ for my new job. Teaching Maths to rowdy thirteen-year-olds looked easy by comparison.

* * *

I recognised Fleur immediately, as she had been to clean Hadleigh Hall a couple of times after LADS rehearsals or other society meetings. She was lovely: open, friendly, and very attractive. She remembered seeing me – actually the other Martha – around Hadleigh Hall when she’d been there, but she’d never spoken to her (me) and wasn’t clear what her (my) role was. I explained that I was officially the housekeeper, but thanks to the previous Earl’s extravagance, they could only afford a part-time maid, so I had to supplement my income by working for J & J.

Fleur was gossipy, even with a near stranger like me, but she talked about her friends, relatives and co-workers with no hint of malice. She seemed to be laughing all the time. Over lunch at the local pub she told outrageous tales of her many boyfriends, two of whom called her within the same ten-minute interval to ask her out. She happily agreed to dates with both of them. As she had just been telling me about the oversized penis of one of the lucky applicants, we both burst into hysterical laughter the instant she hung up. I soon felt like I had known her all my life. But I was glad I was just her new girlfriend, and that I wasn’t competing for her favours with all the young men in the Eastern Counties.

She was about the same as my real age, and therefore about fifteen years younger than my new Martha self. She was single – obviously – and lived with her mother, who she said had worked as a cleaner too when she was Fleur’s age. Indeed, the firm had been set up by her grandmother. I wasn’t sure how that worked, as I’d thought J & J was founded by the Jacksons, but maybe her granny had founded some other firm. Sally Jackson seemed to be very busy buying or merging with other cleaning companies. Anyway, Fleur wasn’t interested in such details. I soon realised that she wasn’t stupid; she was just ‘differently clever’. She certainly remembered all the details about her suitors and the complicated schedule of her dating life, and that was all that really mattered to her.

We had just about finished our burgers and white wine spritzers when another pretty young woman joined us. This was Chloe, Fleur’s cousin. She was a little older, a little more sensible, and at least six months pregnant. It was soon evident how close the two girls were. They had a long, shared history of childhood, adolescence and young womanhood; they laughed at the same things, an instant before I had got the joke; and they finished each other’s sentences. They were both looking forward to the birth of Chloe’s child, who was clearly going to be blessed with the equivalent of two mothers. That got me thinking about when Susie and I would be starting our own family.

“I know that look,” said Fleur, with a twinkle in her eye. “Chloe’s big round tummy is making you broody, isn’t it, Martha?”

I laughed and nodded. I was relieved that neither girl had any inkling that I was anything other than Martha, thirty-nine, housemaid, single.

“But you need a man for having a baby,” I sighed, theatrically, “and that pleasure seems to be passing me by.”

It didn’t seem appropriate for me to be claiming Davey as mine. Fleur had already shown how nosey she was, albeit in a friendly, inoffensive way. I would have to make things up to answer her inevitable questions about my lover. That would lead to unnecessary complications.

“Hah!” she snorted. “OK, Chloe’s lucky. Harry the Plumber is a real catch; a proper gent, loyal, and hard-working. But you only need a man for a very short time – about five minutes in most cases, I find. Often less, unfortunately.”

Chloe laughed and I joined in, but I don’t think either of us agreed with her thinking.

“I wouldn’t want to be doing this without Harry,” Chloe said, serious for a moment. “It’s scary sometimes.”

* * *

I pulled the Polo into the driveway of a mock-Tudor four-bedroom detached house in a leafy boulevard named, almost inevitably, Acacia Avenue, although I was pretty sure the majority of the trees in view were planes and birches. We were on the opposite side of town from Hadleigh village, and I couldn’t remember ever having been here before. The neighbourhood wasn’t familiar to me but there was plenty of wealth in evidence here.

Today was to be Chloe’s last day at J & J, at least for the moment. She would come along to the afternoon cleaning job. I would be shadowing her; or perhaps I should say that I would be doing her work while she told me what to do and how to do it. From Monday I would be expected to take her place completely.

“You’ll have to be the sensible one now, Martha,” Chloe said, struggling to get her ungainly figure out of the passenger seat of my little car.

“I thought I was the sensible one,” declared Fleur from the back, pretending to be offended.

Chloe and I both laughed. She went to ring the doorbell. Meanwhile Fleur fetched a basket of cleaning materials from the boot. We would always use detergents and disinfectants provided by the client if we could, but we took our own in case she didn’t have what we needed (and we were supposed to charge her for it with a decent mark-up – Sally Jackson didn’t miss a trick). I put on my headscarf and locked the car.

Our Friday afternoon client was a Mrs Trubshaw. She kept us waiting for a couple of minutes before she opened the door. She was a young, run-off-her-feet mother of two. She held a grizzling baby on her hip, a little girl judging by the amount of pink she was sporting. Bangs and thumps from upstairs indicated the presence of an older child running amok.

“Come in, girls,” said Mrs Trubshaw happily. “How are you, Chloe? Stopped throwing up yet? Bet you’re looking forward to it all being over. Just don’t go thinking life will get any easier afterwards.”

She laughed. I thought that if all our clients were as nice as her, this coming week would be quite tolerable. We trooped in, at which point Mrs Trubshaw noticed me.

“So this is Martha, is it?” she said. “I’m Linda. If you’re half as good as Chloe, you’re very welcome, and I might not miss her too much. Tea, everyone?”

We followed Linda into a large L-shaped kitchen-stroke-morning room.

“Would you do the honours, Fleur?” she said. “I’m gasping and this one needs feeding.”

Fleur went to put the kettle on and get the tea things out. Linda sat down at the dining table and undid her front-fastening maternity bra. The baby latched on to the exposed breast hungrily. As a naïve male (underneath my ample feminine curves) I wasn’t used to strange women exposing themselves so casually, but I tried to take it in my stride, as no doubt the real Martha would have done. Welcome to the distaff side, Rob.

“So what would you like us to do this afternoon, Linda?” Chloe asked.

“Oh, the bathrooms as usual, please, dear,” she said, “and there’s a pile of ironing; a once-over everywhere with the vacuum; and if there’s any time left after that, could you have a go at the kitchen? It’s ages since my last spring-clean, and it’s starting to look a bit grubby. I never realised how much gets spilled with two little ones about.”

“We should be able to manage that,” said Chloe, “especially since there’s three of us this week.”

“Oh I thought you weren’t going to be working today, what with… your… you know?”

“As I keep telling my husband, I’m pregnant, not disabled,” laughed Chloe. “I can at least do the ironing. Martha can do all the bending and scrubbing.”

I wasn’t sure that ‘bending and scrubbing’ would be any easier for me with my unfamiliar excess blubber than it was for Chloe with her little baby bump, but I could hardly say so.

Linda swapped the baby over to her other breast. We chatted quietly and inconsequentially over our tea while the little one was filling her tank. All three of us watched the tiny glutton with undisguised affection.

“Broody,” said Chloe, pointing at me. Fleur and Linda chuckled quietly.

When it seemed the baby was starting to doze off, her mother rose carefully, rubbing the little one’s back gently. She burped suddenly and a mouthful of undigested milk dribbled down onto Linda’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m going to put her down for a nap,” she said. “Then I’ll see what her brother’s up to. He was supposed to be building something with his Lego, but it sounded like he was more into demolition.”

After finishing her tea, Fleur went off upstairs to do the family bathroom and the master bedroom en suite. Chloe had me start the ironing, at which I quickly proved myself to be inept. I began with one of Linda’s husband’s shirts but was taking much too long over it.

“Gosh, anyone would think you’d never done any ironing before,” she tutted, probably not suspecting how close to the truth she was.

“Sorry, Chloe, but I’ve never had to iron a man’s shirt,” I said, a little embarrassed. “You’d better show me.”

Well, fair enough, I thought. As Martha I had no husband with shirts to iron; and Rob’s shirts had always been ironed by my wife, the Countess, or my mother, the Dowager Countess.

“I better had,” she agreed. “Fleur hates ironing, so you’ll have to get used to it.”

In the next half hour I learned how to iron every kind of garment efficiently. I also learned how to make sure the iron was at the right temperature for every fabric, and not to use a hot iron to get creases out of bras. We both wondered how there had come to be so many gaps in my education.

When my lesson was complete I was sent off to do the vacuuming while Chloe carried on with the remaining ironing. She had to remind me to flick round each room with a duster before vacuuming, which I had never done in the private quarters at Hadleigh Hall. It made sense when I thought about it, although it had never occurred to me. I realised I still had a lot to learn to become a decent cleaning lady. I vacuumed all the main rooms and found to my surprise that I was quite enjoying myself. It was calming, almost zen.

When the three of us had finished our individual jobs, we still had half an hour left, so we convened to blitz the kitchen, as Linda had requested. Fleur and Chloe emptied the cabinets, sorting out all the tins and bottles and condiments and preserves, and putting aside for disposal all those that were past their ‘Use By’ dates. Then they set to work cleaning cupboards which had probably been undisturbed for decades. As the new girl, I was tasked with cleaning the oven, a job which I did not enjoy as much as I had the ironing and vacuuming.

Linda was delighted with our efforts. She was even happier when Chloe assured her she would only be charged for two people’s time as I was still ‘in training’. She insisted in giving us each a £10 tip, which I realised was practically the only cash I had in my purse.

As I drove my two fellow cleaning ladies back to town, I decided I hadn’t had as good a workday for as long as I could remember. It was much better than teaching surly teenagers who couldn’t see the point of Maths.

I dropped the girls back at the J & J office and arranged to meet Fleur there at eight o’clock on Monday morning. As I turned the Polo back towards Hadleigh Hall, I realised I was looking forward to it already.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“Cleaning,” I said, my head stuck in one of the huge ovens. I backed out to address my mistress – I mean, wife – directly. “What does it look like?”

“Don’t be cheeky, Martha,” she said with a grin. “It looks like my beloved husband, the Earl of Hadleigh, has started taking his masquerade a little too seriously. Mind you, your big round backside poking out of that oven made me think the real Martha was back.”

I sighed and stood up. I had been kneeling on a folded towel to protect my tights from laddering. I reached up to tuck a strand of hair back up under my cap, but I was wearing yellow kitchen gloves to protect my hands from the harsh oven cleaning chemicals, and I didn’t want them anywhere near my face. I brushed down my disposable polythene apron, which had ridden up while I was down on my knees.

“I had to clean an oven at a client’s house today,” I explained. “I’d never done it before, and it was hard work, but it looked so much better afterwards. I just wondered when our ovens were last cleaned. I don’t think J & J ever did it – well, we never asked them…”

“So ask them next time they’re here,” Susie said. “You don’t have to do it. You’re the master of the house, for Heaven’s sake!”

“Not at the moment, I’m not,” I sighed. “Anyway the other Martha always did several hours of cleaning after we’d had an event here, even when J & J had done most of the tidying up.”

“So because she did it, you think you have to?”

“Yes, I do! Look, My Lady, you’re our only breadwinner and you’re working so hard. I have to do everything I can – look after the house, and so on – to be sure I’m doing my share. Anyway, I’m just trying to make my impersonation as accurate as possible. I can’t afford to give myself away when I’m out and about as her. If I think like Martha, I’ll act like Martha. If I act like Martha, no one will suspect me of being Rob. It’s quite an interesting challenge actually…”

I stopped, and looked hard at Susie, trying to read the expression on her face.

“Is this a problem?” I asked.

“Not at all,” she said. “Any woman would be happy to have such a diligent maid. You’re a blessing for a busy Countess.” She grinned with a calculating look on her face. “I can go back to treating you as the maid properly, if you like.”

“Well…” I wasn’t too sure about that. “…I suppose that might help… but you have to drop it when we’re alone together – in the bedroom, I mean.”

“I think I can manage that,” she smirked. “By the way you have a ladder in your tights, Martha. I’m very disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry, M’Lady.” I found myself curtseying. “I’ll see to it immediately, M’Lady.”

She laughed and turned to go back to work. I returned to scouring the oven.

“You can vacuum my office area when you’ve finished that, Martha,” she called over her shoulder. “It’s a pigsty.”

“Yes, M’Lady,” I answered, automatically.

* * *

“Maiding is dangerous work,” I said in bed that night. “I’ve got cuts all over my hands.”

“Really?” Susie said. “How did you get them?”

“By catching them on sharp edges while I was scrubbing the oven, the kitchen cupboards, the shower door, the double-glazing… I burnt myself on the iron too. Also I have bruises on my elbows and hips, from banging into things when carrying heavy buckets, or vacuuming in tight spaces.”

“Have you got Housemaid’s Knee yet?”

“Very funny. No.”

“Well, if your knees are in good shape, you can make use of them while I lie back and think of England.”

“OK, but you’ll need to unzip me first…”

She reached under my nightie to liberate my weaponry. After a little practice we could do it in the dark now.

* * *

On Saturday morning we notified the Empire people that we were going out for a while. I put on one of Martha’s summer dresses, while this Indian Summer lasted, and a warm cardigan, in case it didn’t. The skirt was a little short on me and, being inexperienced, I overdid my make-up. Susie didn’t tell me that until we were well on our way. She laughed and said I looked like a floozy, and I’d better be careful to keep my legs together or the boys could get the wrong idea.

First we went round to the cottage to pick up Martha’s mail. There was nothing much there as she had arranged to forward any important letters to her fiancé’s address. I also collected some more clothes, mostly warmer dresses and tops. I had hoped that I wouldn’t need to be Martha for this long. I wondered how on earth I was going to explain it to my mother if I was still a maid/cleaning lady at Christmas.

Susie dropped me at Transformations for my check-up, while she went off to do some shopping in town. Vera was her usual upbeat self, assuring me how well I was doing at being Martha, clearly under the mistaken impression that I would regard that as a good thing, rather than an acute embarrassment. Still, being found out would have been even more embarrassing, and quite possibly lethal. So… swings and roundabouts.

The adhesive on my prostheses was still holding fast, and it took her quite some time and a lot of solvent to remove them all. She washed each piece carefully with detergent and put it on a side table to dry.

It’s amazing what you can get used to. I’d been a housemaid for a while now, and it was quite a shock to see Rob Marsham emerging from underneath Martha’s flabby figure and plump cheeks. Rob seemed… insubstantial. As Martha I was anything but. And not just because I was bigger and heavier. I was confident as Martha, and she had real presence – even when I was required by my role to fade into the background. But after twenty-five years on the planet, I still didn’t really know who Rob was. It seemed the only person who did was Susie.

Having gently pried the prostheses off, Vera subjected me to another waxing.

“Much less stubble to clear up,” she said. “It shouldn’t be anything like as bad this time.”

And it wasn’t, but my skin was red and raw after the removal of the prostheses and the waxing, so she gave me a delightful massage all over with a sweet-smelling lotion. And I mean ‘all over’.

“That’s the hormone cream again, is it?” I asked.

“Same as last time,” she said. “It definitely makes the removal of your body hair easier though, doesn’t it?” I had to agree. “And you haven’t noticed any side effects?” No, I hadn’t.

“Your beard growth is much less noticeable this time too,” she added. “Close shave next, then I can put your face back on, and after that, your body.”

Three quarters of an hour later Martha was back in all her glory.

“I think we can leave it two weeks till your next appointment,” Vera said, reaching for her iPad.

I agreed and we arranged a date. Privately I thought I would be back earlier than that to be rid of my disguise for good. Either that or I’d be in hospital after a confrontation with Beckett.

Her work completed, Vera went off to get us some coffee. As I was putting my bra and knickers back on, I took the opportunity to examine myself properly in her mirror. I felt fat and… unattractive. I told myself it was illogical to care about that, but then logic isn’t everything, is it?

I put my dress and cardy back on, then went to wait at Reception for Susie to return.

I told her all about the appointment and she commiserated with me for its unpleasantness. It was obvious she was glad to see her lady’s maid back. I had the feeling she would have been disappointed if I had returned as her husband. But maybe that was my paranoia.

* * *

Sunday, we decided, was Martha’s day off, and her mistress would treat her to a pub lunch, after which we would go for a walk to take our minds off our troubles. We looked for somewhere far away from anyone who might know us, where we could be equal companions, rather than mistress and maid. With a restricted choice, I put on another old-fashioned summer dress, and Susie picked out one of her older and shabbier ones, so I didn’t look too much the poor relation. We texted Empire that we would be out for the afternoon and set off in the Audi convertible, Susie driving of course.

In the pub we still had to be careful. Susie had to call me Martha and we couldn’t show any more affection than was appropriate for a twenty-something woman and a female companion nearly twice her age. This was tiresome, but we didn’t want to attract attention. She suggested I could be her aunt, and insisted on calling me ‘Auntie’ throughout lunch in case anyone overheard our conversation.

Afterwards we changed our high heels for trainers and went for a walk in the Chiltern Hills. It was a beautiful day but we had apparently chosen one of the less popular routes, because we came upon very few fellow ramblers. So we could be ourselves for pretty much the first time since the fateful Pink Ladies meeting. I had almost forgotten what the name, ‘Rob’, sounded like in Susie’s voice. It was wonderful.

But the thought of my new life as Martha, the cleaning lady and undercover detective, was never far from my mind, and the working week would come round all too soon.

* * *

Bright and early on Monday morning, neatly turned out in my stretchy black trousers, another floral blouse, and my J & J tabard, I picked Fleur up at the company office. She brought a basket of cleaning products and dropped it in the boot of the Polo.

We met at eight o’clock so as to get to the client by eight-fifteen. She had the school run to do and then had to get to her office in town. She had yelled at Fleur and Chloe when they were a minute late once. So after Linda Trubshaw, who was a sweetie, I wasn’t looking forward to working for Alice Battersby, who sounded like a bitch. But I never had the chance to assess my second client properly, as the moment I pulled the Polo onto her drive at eight-thirteen-and-a-half, she and her three children were out of the house and into their huge Chelsea tractor.

“Morning!” she yelled. “There’s a list of jobs on the kitchen table. Don’t forget to lock up after you!”

There was a moment’s pause when she realised I wasn’t Chloe, but it was only a moment. She obviously didn’t think I was worth stopping to chat to. Then with another brusque cry of “Seatbelts!”, which I assumed was aimed at the kids, the giant SUV roared off towards town.

“She’s always like that,” Fleur grinned, and led the way into the house, Mrs Battersby having left the front door open for us.

The Battersby residence was bigger than the Trubshaws. It looked like a standard four-bed but had a large single-storey extension at the side. We went straight into the kitchen/dining room, a big open-plan area running all the way across the back of the house. I put the kettle on to make us coffee while Fleur scanned the job list.

“Crikey!” she said. “Can’t see us doing this lot in two hours.”

She looked round into the dining area. I followed her gaze. Mrs Battersby had set up the ironing board there with two laundry baskets full of clothes.

“So, d’you fancy putting Chloe’s lessons into practice then?”

I sighed a theatrical sigh. I didn’t mind actually. I found ironing therapeutic, though I wondered at the direction my life was taking: from hopeless schoolteacher to incompetent Earl, then finally finding my métier ironing strangers’ shirts and knickers.

“You’re the boss,” I said with a grin.

Fleur did three bathrooms in the time it took me to do the ironing. Then while she did the kitchen I moved onto the bedrooms, changing the sheets and running the vacuum cleaner round. Finally we worked together to tidy and clean the lounge and family room. This was maintenance cleaning – vacuuming and wiping down surfaces with ‘Mr Muscle’ and a damp cloth.

I recalled the J & J ‘work instructions’, which told us to be sure to move the furniture to vacuum underneath. Apparently, this was a well-known test that houseproud clients applied. Have the lazy maids left crumbs beneath the sofa? I had shifted a couple of easy chairs and swept underneath to show how conscientious I was, and was just approaching the sofa, when Fleur stopped me with a laugh.

“You did well with those armchairs, sweetie,” she said, “but you’ll never be able to move that by yourself!”

Actually I would – easily – but if I did, my male strength might have given me away. That was a narrow squeak. I was a member of the weaker sex now. I would have to take greater care to play the part. She helped me shift the sofa and I tried to grunt and groan realistically.

With my new cleaning lady’s expert eye, I noticed there were places in Mrs Battersby’s house where considerably more was needed – the oven, the kitchen cupboards, the utility room floor, for example, and the wooden dining room table and bookcases could do with a polish. But we weren’t there for spring cleaning.

We did everything we were supposed to do within two hours – just. We closed Mrs Battersby’s front door behind us at a little after twenty past ten. We were due at our second client at eleven, so there was time for a coffee and a doughnut at the little café in the High Street.

We made a good team, Fleur and I, but I was afraid she would start asking questions about me when we had a few minutes off the clock, and she did.

“So what’s your plan, Martha?” she said, stuffing her face with chocolate cake.

“Plan?”

“Well, you don’t see cleaning as a long-term career, do you? I mean, most of us do it while waiting for something else to happen, or to help make ends meet when our main breadwinner is just starting out, or is temporarily out of work…”

“Ah, I see what you mean,” I said.

“But none of that applies to you, as far as I can see,” she said. “You’re not married. You’re not studying…”

“No, well, I’ve sort of fallen into it, I suppose…”

I went on to give her a summary of Martha’s history, as far as I knew it.

“I went to work at Hadleigh Hall as a junior housemaid straight from school, so by now I suppose I expected to be running the place as the Housekeeper, in charge of a team of maids and footmen and so on. But it hasn’t worked out like that. The old Earl overspent a lot and had to let most of his servants go. I was lucky that he kept me on. Anyway, he died with no proper family. The new young Earl has no children yet and he and the Countess are struggling financially. With only the two of them, they don’t really need a team of servants, and couldn’t afford them anyway.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll look for another job as a Housekeeper. I mean, there are still plenty of big houses and noble families. I’m sure the young Countess will give me a good reference.”

I was surprising myself now. Where was all this coming from?

* * *

“Were you happy with how we divided the work up this morning?” Fleur asked while we were driving over to our second client. I nodded. “So shall we do that again? I hate ironing!”

“Sure,” I said, “but I think I’d like to watch you do one of the bathrooms. The work instructions seem pretty detailed, but you must have some tips.”

“That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “Actually, I haven’t looked at the rules for ages, but I don’t think they’ve changed. I’d only add a couple of things.” She looked thoughtful. “I’ve always wondered where Mrs Jackson got them from. She’s certainly never worked as a cleaner. The only other girl who was in the company before Chloe and I joined was Maria, and I can’t see how she could have written them – not with her English.”

“Mrs Jackson probably got them off the web somewhere.”

Our next client, Myfanwy Griffiths, was small, dark and Welsh. She had piercing blue eyes and a lively sense of humour. She was a features writer for the local paper and usually worked from home so as to be able to look after her two small children, who were now at school. She insisted on making us coffee, even though we told her we’d just had one.

We had a very companionable half hour. I started the ironing, while Myfanwy buzzed around the kitchen, moving things so that Fleur could clean around them, and talking all the time.

“According to my husband, Myfanwy is Welsh for ‘My fine one’,” she said. “He works at the zoo. As soon as I saw him in his uniform I knew he was a keeper.”

Fleur burst out laughing. Then I saw the joke and joined her. Myfanwy smiled.

“I liked that one too,” she said. “That butch girl comedian told it at last Friday’s Open Mic night at our club. My Paul’s not actually a zookeeper. He’s an accountant. Oh well, must get on. Let me know if you need anything, girls.”

She retired to her study. Fleur and I carried on being cleaning ladies. As I ironed and scrubbed, vacuumed and polished, I realised there are worse things to be. Like a shy Earl, for example.

* * *

It was a fine day, so we found an unoccupied picnic table on the common to eat our sandwich lunches. It was glorious. We had got the last space in the car park, which was only a hundred yards from where we were sitting, right by the duck pond. Two toddlers were feeding the ducks and their mothers were running about frantically trying to prevent their offspring from falling in. The sun was strong and a bright glare was reflecting off the water. I made a mental note to dig out some ladies’ sunglasses in case Fleur wanted to come back here tomorrow.

The conversation flowed. I found it wasn’t too difficult to keep up my end. What I didn’t know about Martha’s back story, I made up. I just hoped I could remember later what was known fact and what was plausible fiction.

“This is nice,” said Fleur, stretching out and slurping her Apple and Mango J2O. “I love cousin Chloe dearly; she’s my best friend; but I’m getting just a little fed up with baby talk. It’s good to chat with somebody different.”

“You can understand though, can’t you?” I chuckled. “She’s just coming up to the most important event in her life. It’s what a woman’s for. Chloe’s whole existence has been leading up to this, even if she doesn’t realise it.”

“I was really only complaining that I’d heard enough about the colour Harry’s painting the nursery, and whether maternity dresses are more comfortable in the last trimester than dungarees.” She looked at me sceptically. “You’re not much of a feminist though, are you, babe? You’d probably be no-platformed if you tried to say anything like that at Oxford or the LSE.”

I shuddered at the thought of being on a platform, speaking at any institute of higher learning, especially dressed as I was.

“No, I am,” I said. “The way I see it, motherhood is something no man can ever experience or even understand. So they have to do something else to give their lives meaning, like make lots of money, or climb mountains, or win football matches. But how can any of that compare with bringing new life into the world?”

“Wow, deep!” she replied. “Does that mean you think a woman should be satisfied with being a mother?”

“Oh no, I’m all for choice,” I said hurriedly, fearful that she might think I was betraying the Sisterhood. “A woman should have it all, if she can – a career and a family. It’s just that most women I know have found that really difficult.”

“I know what you mean,” she said, being serious for once. “I feel a little jealous of Chloe sometimes, but then I think about labour, and babies, and nappies, and getting no sleep, and never going out dancing… and I think, no; not for me.”

“You’ll probably feel differently when that time comes.”

“Maybe,” she said. “If it ever does… But I don’t really know what I do want.”

I nodded. We munched quietly for a moment or two.

“My mother’s generation – your grandmother’s – did the hard work with the Women’s Lib Movement back in the seventies,” I said. “That started it all. Now in even the most backward and religiously conservative countries we’re getting the vote; better education; more equal pay; and the right to divorce. Domestic violence is way down too.”

I vaguely wondered how I knew all this. My mother? Susie? Or was it something I had remembered or worked out for myself?

“Wow! You really do know a lot about feminism, don’t you?” Fleur said. “Don’t forget the pill – and abortion!”

“Right,” I agreed. “Now we can make our own decisions regarding pregnancy. That’s a much bigger deal than most modern women think. Before the pill, it was pregnancy after pregnancy if you were married, and even worse if you got pregnant when you weren’t.”

“Yeah, we’re much better off today. It’s all good,” she said, in a tone that suggested that maybe it wasn’t.

“But…?” I said, enquiringly.

“I miss romance.” She snorted. “Well, you can’t miss what you’ve never had, I suppose.”

“Hey, come on! You never stop talking about all your boyfriends!”

“I know, but…” She sighed. “But none of them are actually romantic. Everyone says chivalry is dead. Modern men seem to think… that modern women think… that moonlight and flowers and dancing cheek-to-cheek went out with The Sound of Music. Sometimes I just want a hug and strong arms around me, but as a feminist I’m supposed to think that’s weakness, a ploy of the patriarchy to undermine my independence. But it isn’t. It’s just… nice.”

“Ah, yes, I know what you mean.”

I really did, and it wasn’t only women who sometimes needed loving arms around them. Often Susie and I turned the lights down low and just cuddled on the sofa, not even watching the TV. Once we even put some waltz music on the sound system and… waltzed (except that neither of us knew the steps).

“It’s probably my own stupid fault,” Fleur said. She sounded genuinely annoyed with herself. “I’ve probably got a reputation for being… easy. So the boys think they don’t have to try too hard to get me into bed.”

“You have to get really close to someone for romance,” I said, sympathetically. “Sex alone doesn’t do it.”

She sighed again and stood up, collecting our rubbish to put in the waste bin by our bench.

“And what about yourself?” she said brightly. “What romance do you have in your life?”

“Oh, I have had a long-term steady,” I said, carefully, “but things are a bit difficult just at the moment.”

Which was putting it mildly. Susie and I were fine in our bedroom, in private, but there couldn’t be any romance when anyone could see us. No going out dancing for the moment. No walking hand-in-hand on the beach. I even have to be ‘Auntie’ at a candle-lit restaurant. Also having to curtsey and call your lover ‘My Lady’ would be a bit of a romance-killer for any man. Thank goodness we still had the sex.

“So has feminism stopped you having both a career and a family?” she asked.

“No, being fat and ugly has done that.”

I winced internally. How could I have said that? It just slipped out. I would have hated Martha to have heard me.

“You’re not ugly!” Fleur rushed to say. (I noticed she didn’t say I wasn’t fat.) “I’m sure you’ve just been unlucky not to have met the right man yet.

I decided I had been too hard on Martha. She was a little overweight, yes, but it suited her. In a certain light she could even be quite good-looking. I could understand how she had attracted a good man, and from what I had seen of her, he was the lucky one.

But why on earth should I care anyway? This whole disguise was only a short-term ruse to get us out of a desperate situation.

Wasn’t it?

* * *

Our afternoon client, Mrs Hanson, was friendly enough but she complained of a migraine and said she intended to lie down for a while. Fleur asked if she wanted us to do anything special.

“No, no, the usual, please, but don’t bother with the master bedroom this week.”

“Are you sure the noise of the vacuum won’t make your headache worse?” Fleur asked.

“Oh… er, no,” she said. “I’ve got earplugs, and I’m going to take a sleeping pill.”

Then she made herself scarce. So we got on with the allotted two hours’ work. We each had our agreed roles now. Fleur was vacuuming and dusting while I was ironing. Then we would split the kitchen, bathrooms and toilets between us.

Mrs Hanson had left the exact money in cash on the kitchen counter, so at four o’clock we let ourselves out and didn’t see her again.

“Is she always like that?” I asked as we climbed into the car.

“She usually arranges not to be around while we’re working,” said Fleur. “I think she’s one of those women who are embarrassed at having cleaning ladies at all. Her mother probably did all the housework by herself and thinks her daughter’s lazy to be paying for home help.”

“Ha, yes,” I said. “My mother’s the same. It’s a good thing not everyone feels that way or you and I would be out of a job!”

* * *

When I got home it seemed right – it seemed necessary – to change into my maid’s uniform. I put on dark tights, a clean black dress, and an apron. I got out the vacuum and a duster and did a little cleaning in our living areas at the Hall.

When I reached our bedroom’s en suite I noticed some stains on the tiled floor around the toilet. I reached for the cleaning fluid and a cloth, realising as I did so that Rob probably wouldn’t even have noticed the stains, but I was seeing everything through Martha’s eyes now, and I could no sooner ignore dirt and stains than fly to the moon.

I didn’t hear my wife come in, and she caught me on my knees scrubbing away. Just as on the previous Friday afternoon, her first sight of her husband was his plentiful feminine behind waggling from side to side as he rubbed and scrubbed.

“I would have thought you’d have had enough cleaning at your day job, Martha,” she said.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in…” I said, leaping to my feet.

“Oh! I didn’t hear you, My Lady…” she said, with a pretend angry expression. (At least, I think it was ‘pretend’.)

“Oh! I didn’t hear you, My Lady,” I corrected myself, and naturally curtseyed.

“That’s better,” she said, with a laugh. “Now come and give your mistress a kiss.”

“I can do better than that, M’Lady.”

I quickly checked that the bedroom curtains were closed. Then I grabbed her and hoisted her up into my arms. She squealed in surprise. I carried her out of the bathroom and flung her onto the bed. Then I jumped on top of her.

“Oof!”

She let out an involuntary exhalation as my padding-enhanced weight landed.

“Oh God, I’m sorry! I forgot how much heavier I must be now!”

I shifted my weight to my knees and propped myself up on my hands.

“That’s all right, Tubby,” she panted. “It’s rather sexy, actually.” Her hands were finding their way under my skirt and into my knickers. “If I ignore the maid’s dress and the silky panties, I can pretend My Lord and Master is having his way with me. It’s a nice change.”

I laughed. “I thought you women hated to be treated as sex toys?”

“Well I wouldn’t want it all the time, obviously.”

I was feeling doubtful, and I must have looked it. She reached up and caressed my – that is, Martha’s – cheek.

“Hey, no worries,” Susie continued. “You’re an amazing lover – not that I have much to compare you with, so don’t get complacent. You’re gentle and considerate; and you know just where and how to touch me. You raise my passion through the roof without needing to rough me up. Still, a little throwing your weight about is nice once in a while…”

“…to remind you who’s boss?” I smiled.

“Oh, that’s easy,” she said. “I am. No, I meant I’m happy to let you claim your Droit du Seigneur forcefully from time to time, preferably when I’m in the mood for a little rough and tumble – like now!”

She had pulled my tights and knickers down as far as her arms could reach. I peeled them the rest of the way to my ankles.

“Actually,” I said, “I looked it up. ‘Droit du Seigneur’ was supposed to have entitled the feudal lord to have sexual relations with subordinate women, usually on their wedding nights, before their new husbands could get a look in. It probably never existed, but if it did, it went out in the Middle Ages. Maybe it’s time to bring it back…”

I gave her a leer and a wink, the impact of which was probably reduced by Martha’s plump, rosy cheeks. Anyway, it just made her laugh.

“You give those village girls a wide berth, My Lord,” she said, and hit me with a handy pillow.

“Yes, M’Lady.”

“By the way, don’t think I didn’t notice how you were moving to protect me when those two thugs were threatening rape. I really wouldn’t have wanted you to try to defend my honour. You’d have been badly hurt, but it’s nice to know that chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

She grinned. Interesting that she was talking about chivalry, reminding me of my lunchtime conversation with Fleur… But she had unzipped my abdominal prosthesis by now and conversation gave way to the sounds of animal passion.

* * *

Tuesday was a repeat of Monday, except with three different clients: three lots of ironing (sigh); endless vacuuming and dusting; and I still seemed to spend half the day on my knees scrubbing baths, washbasins, and toilets.

Fleur and I were a well-oiled machine now. I was amazed to find that, not only did I not mind my new menial role, I was actually enjoying myself. I was afraid that Susie’s half-serious remarks might have been on the money. I might be a better maid and cleaning lady than I ever was a Maths teacher – or Earl. Maybe it was to do with liking to see the sparkling cleanliness we left behind us, but that couldn’t have been the only reason.

Fleur was a little quiet over lunch at our familiar picnic table in the park. Come to think of it, she’d been quiet – for her – all morning. I eventually asked if anything was the matter.

“Not really,” she began, hesitantly. “I’ve just been thinking about our conversation yesterday lunchtime.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interfere…”

“No, no, you didn’t. Anyway I did most of the talking – as usual.” She grinned. “But you’re a good listener. You helped me see things more clearly. I think I’ve ‘played the field’ enough. It’s time I started to focus on what I really want.” She paused and drew in a deep breath. “So I’m going to call Peter and have a proper talk with him. Then I’ll dump all the others.”

“Good for you,” I said. I’d noticed she had a slightly different look in her eye when she talked about Peter. “But he might be more impressed if you did it the other way round.”

“Huh?”

“Dump the others first, then pour your heart out to him.”

She laughed, then said, “You’re right! Proper commitment. No back-up plan.” She gave me a hug and a little peck on the cheek. “Thanks, Mum!”

I smiled. I was glad to share my many years of experience of the male ego with her. And I got a strange little thrill when she called me ‘Mum’.

We spent a lot more time then and on subsequent lunchtimes talking about what women want, and how it doesn’t always accord with what men want, and so we women had to be careful. I had no great difficulty seeing the mating game from the woman’s point of view. I wondered why that was. It seemed my inner persona was progressively adapting to match my outward appearance – intensified by everyone treating me as a maid and charlady, including my wife.

I thought about how the changes I was going through were affecting my relationship with Susie. Despite our current roles of mistress and maidservant, she was my lover and my best friend. Perhaps it was something we should talk about.

Or perhaps not…

* * *

“Which one is Fleur?” Susie asked, as we were getting ready for bed that night.

“Hmm?”

“Has she been here to clean up after one of our society meetings?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I think most of the J & J girls who live in this area have worked at the Hall.”

An alarm bell tinkled in the distance. I dropped the day’s bra, knickers and knee-highs in the laundry basket and reached for my nightie.

“So which is she? She’s the pretty little blonde, isn’t she? Curly hair? Always laughing?”

“That sounds like her, yes.”

The alarm bells were ringing loudly now. I slipped my nightie over my head. I was never comfortable being a plump female nude in front of my wife.

“So you two must be becoming close now, I suppose?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. “She called me ‘Mum’ today.”

“What? Why?”

“I gave her some advice on her love life – based on my extensive experience of men, and how they only want one thing. She’d been letting her many boyfriends take advantage…”

My wife was studying me with a look of wry amusement. The alarm bells had stopped.

“So if the bottom falls out of the cleaning lady business, you can fall back on being an Agony Aunt,” she suggested. “Come here then, Auntie, my sex life needs some expert advice.”

So that was OK. But really, how could Susie have thought I was up to anything with Fleur, however young and pretty she might be? She wasn’t attracted to plump, middle-aged women. We were co-workers, fellow cleaning ladies, and that was all.

And tomorrow we were going to clean Jack Beckett’s mother’s house. I needed to search it for incriminating evidence, and I would be taking the biggest risk of my life.

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.

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 7

Martha and the Countess face an enraged Beckett – and the aftermath. Will the Earl be exposed - or killed?

The sound of breaking glass came from the back of the house.

We leapt to our feet. I slipped mine into my shoes and made for the door, but before I could get there, Jack Beckett burst into the room.

He stopped and looked at me more carefully. I really didn’t like the look on his face.

“It was you, wasn’t it, you old bitch?” He was boiling with anger now. “You put the police on to me! I thought I recognised you in that hideous yellow car of yours. You were in my house on Wednesday morning! Spying! What did you take? Who did you tell?”

Of course – the Polo! He must have seen it at the Hall on one of his visits to see his sister. I tried to think what a helpless woman would do in my position, so I started screaming for help. Susie quickly joined in. It was hopeless of course; there was no one around for miles, but Beckett didn’t necessarily know that. From his point of view, Estate workers might hear us, even at this hour, and come running.

Meanwhile I started backing away. He was intimidating enough, but my main reason for reversing was that every pace he took to get at me moved him further away from Susie. I hoped she would soon have the opportunity to run from the room.

If we could stall him, Empire’s security men would have time to get here, or maybe the police. But he accelerated suddenly and grabbed me roughly by the arm. I felt the shoulder of my dress give.

A stupid thought pushed itself into my mind: if he carried on like this, we would shortly find out whether the Transformations prostheses really were good enough to fool someone when you were naked.

I struggled to wrench myself free. I could feel my uniform ripping. To stop my screaming he struck me hard across the face with the back of his hand. My cap flew off and I lost several hairpins. It hurt a lot, but I wondered why he didn’t hit me properly. Was it some thug code? You don’t punch a helpless middle-aged woman?

I staggered but managed to stay on my feet. I stole a quick glance at Susie. She should have been edging toward the door, but she wasn’t. Surely she wasn’t thinking of coming to my aid? She must know I would want her to escape.

I hitched up my dress and kicked out at him as hard as I could. I was aiming for his groin, but my skirt and one-inch heels were too much of a handicap. He was too quick for me. He turned sideways and my kick to the balls was reduced to a glancing blow at his hip. His eyes blazed and he punched me in the chest as hard as he could, with all his weight behind it.

“Get away from me, you stupid woman!” he yelled. “Or I’ll really hurt you!”

Just the momentum of the blow was enough to knock me off my feet. I heard Susie gasp with horror.

He turned back to her, obviously assuming that one solid punch in the chest would be enough to end any interference from an overweight female. Indeed, from his point of view it might have felt like a satisfactory punch in my breast, thanks to the astonishing realism of the Transformations prosthetics, but it didn’t it feel like that to me. The padding that I had been resenting on and off for the last month enabled me to shrug off his blow. No force penetrated to my chest, concealed and protected as it was by my bra and breast forms.

But I knew I couldn’t best him in a fair fight. He was nearly six inches taller than me and probably thirty pounds heavier, if you didn’t count my false feminine curves. Also he was surely much more experienced at fighting, fair or unfair. I looked around desperately for a weapon. I spied the antique poker and tongs in the fireplace, purely decorative but potentially solid weapons. Unfortunately, he was between me and them.

I made a snap decision and launched myself at him from behind, shoulder barging him side-on. All I meant to do was stop him from assaulting Susie, but I knocked him in the direction of the fireplace.

I was just in time. If I had let him take one more pace, my charge would have landed us both on top of Susie. As it was, I caught him completely by surprise. No doubt he’d written me off, assuming that I would be cowering semi-conscious with pain from his assault on my most sensitive feminine parts.

He tripped over the fireplace surround and lost his balance, falling head-first into the mantlepiece. There was a nasty cracking sound, which didn’t register with me at first. Focused on my goal, I grabbed the poker and went to smash him over the head with it.

“Stop!” screamed Susie. I managed to restrain myself just in time. “He’s not moving!” she said. “I think he’s out cold.”

We approached cautiously, in case the slimy bastard was shamming. Then we saw the blood oozing out of the side of his head.

There was no running away from this. Everything was going to come out now.

I put the poker back in its stand. Then I reached for the phone and dialled.

“Emergency. Which service?”

“Police and ambulance,” I said. “I think I may have just killed someone.”

I had used my Martha voice out of habit. Afterwards I wondered why.

* * *

Susie was barely holding it together. I got us both a double brandy and sat her down in the library. Better for her to try to recover her wits without having to stare at the lifeless body in the fireplace.

We had lots of visitors in the next hour. The first time the doorbell rang I had the presence of mind to mutter to Susie, “I’m Martha until I tell you otherwise, OK?” before I went to answer it. We might as well try and keep my secret for as long as possible.

The police were first to arrive – two uniformed coppers, one in his forties, the other possibly twenty years younger. They were concerned when they saw the damage to my uniform and the disarray of my hair, but I assured them that I was fine. I showed them into the drawing room first to view the body, and then into the library to meet the mistress of the house.

They could see that Susie was badly shaken, so to begin with they addressed their questions to me, the maid. I told them what had happened: we had to defend ourselves from a violent intruder, and he met with an accident.

I didn’t describe our history with the Beckett family. That could wait until the plods were replaced by CID. I had barely started when the younger one got on his radio. He used all those complicated codes for describing the situation, but the gist of it was clear. This was well above their pay grade.

“He broke in through the kitchen,” said Susie, making a worthy effort to gather herself. “Well, you can hear the alarms, can’t you? And the lights came on outside when he got through the gate or over the fence or something.”

“Can I switch the alarms off now?” I asked.

The two policemen looked at one another. They would obviously have preferred the scene to remain exactly as they had found it until CID arrived.

“They’re giving me a terrible headache,” Susie said.

So the older copper nodded and I took the younger one with me to find the off switch in the old pantry. I left the outside lights on, as we were expecting many more visitors. I showed the policeman the broken glass in the window panel of the back door, which was wide open.

The ambulance was next to arrive. They’d been warned that the subject was almost certainly deceased, and that it was a suspicious death, so for the moment their role was limited to verifying that life was extinct. They would have to wait before they could remove the body. It had to remain where it was until the Crime Scene Investigators and detectives turned up, photographs were taken, and so on.

Bizarrely, I found myself taking everyone into the kitchen, where I made tea. Maid first, murder suspect second, I suppose.

The Forensic Pathologist came next with the CSIs. At this point the policemen moved Susie and me back to the library. The younger one stayed with us on guard, although I don’t know where they thought we might go. Perhaps they were afraid that, as the maid, I might try and clean up all the blood in the drawing room. And weirdly that did indeed cross my mind. I was afraid my mistress would be very cross at the mess I had made. I was thinking like a real maid. I must have been in shock.

Eventually two plain clothes police officers, a man and a woman, appeared in the library. The man was tall and thin as a rail, with receding grey hair and glasses. He was clearly the older and senior and he did the introductions, addressing the Countess, obviously.

“I’m Detective Inspector Giddings, My Lady,” he said, “and I understand you’ve met my colleague, Detective Sergeant Sharpe?”

Susie nodded.

“Good evening, My Lady,” said the woman. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, or under such circumstances.”

She was mid-thirties, I guessed. She wore a short waterproof jacket over black nylon trousers like mine, and a floral top that flattened her bust and really didn’t suit her. She looked more like a housewife than a police officer.

“Indeed, it’s all most unfortunate,” Susie said. She turned to Giddings. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I’m Susan Marsham, and this is my housekeeper, Martha Manners.”

I managed to suppress the instinct to stand up and curtsey. The two police officers now seemed to become aware of my existence for the first time. Noticing the damage to my uniform, DS Sharpe expressed concern regarding my well-being. I reassured her.

Somewhat impatiently, Giddings returned to questioning my mistress.

“May I ask how you were acquainted with the deceased, Ma’am?” he asked.

I noticed he didn’t ask if Susie was acquainted with the deceased. Obviously, he already knew that, which wasn’t lost on her. She stole a quick look at me. I tried to look non-committal but encouraging. The combination was too difficult and I probably failed.

“He was the brother of my predecessor as mistress of Hadleigh Hall,” Susie said carefully.

“You mean his sister was the previous Countess?”

“Not exactly. My husband’s father never married her.”

“So the Beckett family lost possession of the Estate when the old Earl died?”

Giddings had clearly been doing his homework.

“They never had possession. Eleanor was only my father-in-law’s mistress, so she and her son were what you might call ‘long-term guests’. And Jack Beckett never lived here at all, as far as I know. The old Earl couldn’t stand him.”

“Nevertheless, I imagine he and his sister were resentful,” Giddings insisted. “They must have had… expectations from the old Earl’s will?”

Susie glanced at me again. I nodded, hopefully in such a way that Giddings and Sharpe wouldn’t see.

“They had no legal claims on the Estate, but that didn’t prevent Beckett from coming here demanding money… with menaces,” she said.

“Really?” Giddings perked up. “Did you report this to the police?”

“To what end?” Susie said bitterly. “He was too careful to leave any evidence behind. He just wanted to show us that he could get in at any time. You couldn’t keep watch over us indefinitely, could you? But he could hurt my husband and me whenever he wanted. That’s why we spent all that money on the security system…”

“Yes, I noticed the cameras outside. We will need access to the footage, please.” Susie nodded. “I saw there was a camera in the drawing room too,” he continued. “Was that running?”

“No, I’m afraid not, Inspector. It is motion and sound activated but we only turn it on at night when we’ve gone to bed. You can start it at other times using a remote, but neither of us had time to get to it when Beckett burst in.”

Was that good or bad? If I’d managed to start the camera recording, we’d have proof that Beckett’s death was an accident and I’d been acting in defence of myself and my wife. On the other hand, the police would have a permanent record of the Earl of Hadleigh dressed as a housemaid, or at least of someone impersonating a woman who had been twenty miles away and six months pregnant at the time.

“And where is your husband, Lady Marsham?” Giddings asked.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I can’t tell you that. Not without his permission.”

“Can you contact him?”

She sighed again and looked at me helplessly.

“I can, but I won’t,” she said.

“Well in that case, I’m going to have to ask you both to accompany me to the station and…”

I interrupted.

“Please, Inspector,” I said, maintaining my Martha voice for the moment. “Lady Marsham never laid a finger on Beckett. I am entirely responsible for his death. I will gladly accompany you to the station and answer all your questions. With Her Ladyship’s permission, I promise I will tell you everything. If you aren’t satisfied with what I have to say, you can interview My Lady later.”

Giddings considered. He obviously couldn’t see how the maid would know details of Lord and Lady Marsham’s private lives. On the other hand, loyal family retainers are often the best sources of information.

“I have to agree with Martha, sir,” put in DS Sharpe unexpectedly. “Her Ladyship was very open and helpful with me yesterday. She does seem to have been the victim here.”

“Fair enough,” he said, after a moment. “I don’t want to be unreasonable. This must have been a terrible experience for you, Ma’am. Try and get a good night’s sleep if you can. I will have more questions for you, but they can wait till tomorrow.” He turned to me. “Let’s go then, Martha.”

Susie looked at me miserably. I smiled as reassuringly as I could.

They allowed me to put on an outdoor coat and collect my handbag. Then I followed DS Sharpe out to their car, glad that they had decided that handcuffs wouldn’t be necessary.

* * *

It was nearly one o’clock in the morning now. The interview room was a grubby olive green, with condensation running down the walls. It was cold because it was late October, and in police stations, like all government offices, they don’t put the central heating on until the first of November. The steel-framed canvas chair certainly wasn’t designed for comfort, but the thick soft padding on my backside always made me feel like I was sitting on a cushion anyway.

The Inspector and his Sergeant regarded me quizzically. That was fair; I must have looked a sight. I’d lost my cap and most of my hair pins in the fight, and the permed greying hair of my wig was awry, large tufts floating wide. My dress was torn at the left shoulder, showing my bra strap. My apron was ripped and turned half way round my hips. My skirt had a gash from the hem almost up to my waist, revealing a long ladder in my tights.

“So, Madam,” the detective said, clearing his throat. “Despite your appearance, you maintain you are not the maid and housekeeper of Hadleigh Hall, but the Earl himself in disguise?”

He sounded incredulous, as well he might.

“That’s right, officer,” I said, in what I hoped was my normal voice, which I hadn’t had the opportunity to use for some time. It didn’t come out as deep as I would have liked, probably due to the shouting and screaming I’d been doing to call for help for myself and my mistress, I mean, wife. Nevertheless, it was clearly deep enough to give him pause. He leaned forward to take a closer look at my face.

“I really don’t see how that can be,” he said. “You look exactly like this photograph I have of you – that is, of Miss Martha Manners.”

He paused. My bizarre claim had momentarily thrown him. He gathered his thoughts and started again.

“But whoever you are, you’re here to answer some serious questions, so that we can decide whether to charge you with murder or just manslaughter.”

I hoped that was just designed to intimidate me.

“It was self-defence,” I pleaded, in what had suddenly become a very small voice, whether masculine or feminine. Surely that was obvious, wasn’t it?

“I think I’d better hear the whole story, don’t you?” he said. He sounded a little smug. He obviously thought his threats had scared me. “First, Sergeant Sharpe will take a DNA sample from you, please.”

I nodded. There didn’t seem much point in refusing to cooperate. The Sergeant opened a little box she had brought in with her and extracted a swab. I let her run it round the inside of my mouth. It made me think back to the first time I’d donated my DNA. That sample had led directly to my current position. I sighed.

“I don’t suppose your – that is, Lord Marsham’s – DNA is on file anywhere, is it? Just in case I need you to prove your story?”

“It is, actually. My solicitor has it. I had to take a paternity test to prove my right to inherit.”

I gave them Smythe’s details.

“Are you sure you don’t want Mr Smythe to join us?” Giddings said.

“Not for the moment,” I sighed. “Look, Inspector, I’d like to keep this just between the three of us if possible – for obvious reasons. Suppose I tell you everything, but with no recordings and no other witnesses? If you’re not satisfied, we can go the whole arrest and formal interrogation route later.”

He considered. He might possibly have been thinking that, if I was telling the truth, pissing off a local bigwig might not be a great career move. And wigs don’t come much bigger in this neck of the woods than the Earl of Hadleigh. For all he knew I might play golf with the local Police and Crime Commissioner. (I didn’t even know who that was, and I don’t play golf.)

“Well, it’s a bit irregular,” he said eventually, “but I suppose if you really are the Earl your situation is about as irregular as it gets.” He came to a conclusion. “All right then. I like a cooperative witness.” He picked up his notebook and a biro, which he then pointed at me sternly. “But this had better be good…”

So I told them everything.

* * *

I didn’t bother with the stuff about my parents, or my childhood, or our ‘dressing up games’ which started all of this, in a way. I also didn’t tell them about Transformations. They had done nothing illegal in my case but as I understood their business practices, they might have done so – unknowingly or otherwise – for some of their other clients. I really didn’t want to put them out of business. They had saved my life – perhaps literally.

Otherwise, I made a clean breast of everything (as it were). When I came to the Pink Ladies Society, I just described what they did to me as a state-of-the-art make-up demonstration. I threw in a mention of the Army sergeant and the Police rugby player. I suddenly realised I had been indiscreet when I saw a little flicker of recognition in Giddings’ eyes. He probably knew the cross-dressing copper, or could work out who it was from what I’d said.

When I got to the part where I ‘borrowed’ the shredded paper from Jack Beckett’s waste basket, DS Sharpe looked up from her notebook. She had realised early on that we had been employing Treacher. Now she saw where he had got the information he had passed to her. I was concerned that Giddings might open the question of whether stealing someone’s garbage was against the law, but it seems he was a totally pragmatic copper. He didn’t look gift horses in their mouths.

“That’s a very interesting story, your lordship…” he said.

“Call me Rob,” I said. Force of habit, really. No way he would do that.

“…Obviously we’ll have to check a few things out. Your disguise is truly amazing and I’m very curious how you did it.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to keep that as a trade secret for the moment,” I said.

“Well, that may not be good enough,” he said sharply, “but I’ll let it go for now. I can still hardly believe you are who you say you are under it all, but I suppose it’s the most likely explanation for everything. Occam’s Razor, and all that.”

He paused for thought, tapping his biro against his teeth, which I noticed were far from pearly-white. DS Sharpe waited patiently.

“My colleague and I just need to have a private word outside,” the inspector continued eventually. He turned to her. “We have a few loose ends to tie up, don’t we, Sergeant?” She nodded. “We’ll try not to keep you waiting too long, Miss… I mean, Your Lordship.”

That was obviously a deliberate error. He chuckled.

I sat back in the uncomfortable chair, which was probably designed that way to add to the pressure on a suspect. I suddenly realised how tired I was. I checked my little watch. It was ten to three in the morning. I’d been up since seven and had cleaned two houses today – three, if you included the work that I did at the Hall in the afternoon. The happy times on the job with Fleur seemed like another lifetime now.

Giddings and Sharpe were back in less than ten minutes.

“Very well, Sir, I am satisfied for the moment. It’s too late to do anything else tonight, but tomorrow would you draft a statement for the Earl to sign, please, Sergeant? And the same for the Countess? Oh, and get that DNA sample to the lab and ask Mr Smythe for access to His Lordship’s for comparison.”

“Yes, sir.” She was obviously quite used to Giddings delegating the paperwork to her.

He turned back to me.

“Now, it’s fairly obvious that you have been the victim of an attack. My next job will be to compare the pathologist’s report with your description of the altercation. If he agrees that Beckett died from accidentally bashing his head against the mantlepiece, then I will be prepared to concede that you’re only guilty of defending yourself and your mistress, or wife, or whatever, from a vicious attack by a known felon. You could hardly have wielded the mantlepiece as a murder weapon.

“Mind you, I will still have to report the sequence of events to the Crown Prosecution Service, but I doubt they’ll want to waste time or public money on a prosecution if all the evidence tallies with your statement. They’ll probably keep the file open till after the inquest, of course, but in the meantime, I can’t see there’s anything to be gained from detaining you or the Countess.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” I said. “So am I free to go?”

“A few conditions first,” he said. He started ticking them off on his fingers. “One: you don’t leave the area without checking with me. Two: you surrender your passport; that is, Robert Marsham’s passport. I don’t think I need the real Martha Manners’ passport. I suspect you’d be caught at security if you tried to leave the country as her…” He paused to consider, inspecting me closely again. “Maybe not though…”

“I don’t have her passport anyway,” I said.

“Well, I’ll contact her and tell her not to let it out of her sight.” He resumed ticking off his stipulations. “Three: if you want me to remain discreet about your… cross-dressing, you’ll have to stay in your Martha disguise for the moment.”

“What? Why?”

He had to be kidding! I couldn’t be Martha any longer. I was already starting to experience ‘identity drift’, as Susie had happily pointed out. I was beginning to think like a maid and cleaning lady.

“Well, it’s entirely up to you of course, but for the moment you’re a key witness in a suspicious death, not to mention attempted extortion and demanding money with menaces. Lots of people saw you as Martha tonight – I mean, last night. We may want to see you again – either here or at the Hall. Other detectives from the Task Force may want to interview you about your visit to Beckett’s place. You’ll need to talk about things you saw as Martha. If you turn up to an interview as Lord Marsham, the cat will be out of the bag, won’t it?”

That was hard to deny. Worse was to come.

“Of course, if you need to give evidence in court, it will have to be as your real self, and that means you will have to come clean about spending the last month or so disguised as your own housekeeper. Quite honestly, I can’t see you being called in any criminal trial concerning the robberies. Mr Treacher might be, but you weren’t directly involved, were you? Does he know about… any of this, by the way?”

He meant was Treacher aware that the Martha he knew was really Robert, Lord Marsham.

“No,” I said, although privately I suspected he might have guessed. After all, why did we first meet him at the Transformations offices?

“So if you stay as Martha, we may be able to keep everything unofficial,” Giddings continued. “I appreciate you were partly forced into this disguise, and I don’t see any need to embarrass you if that can be avoided.”

“Well thank you for that, Inspector,” I said. “It’s very decent of you.”

It was, and no doubt many other policemen would have been delighted to expose a cross-dressing Earl.

“But I’m afraid it’s odds-on you will be called to testify at the inquest in the Coroner’s court,” he said. “You and the Countess will have to describe how Beckett met his death.”

That’s it, I thought. I’m doomed.

“Does that mean I’d be testifying in front of a jury?” I asked, terrified – as usual – of appearing as myself in public. It would almost be worth showing up as Martha so that Robert Marsham could continue to hide behind her.

“Probably not,” he said. “Since the Coroners Act 1988, a jury only has to be convened when the death occurred in prison, police custody, or in circumstances which may affect public health or safety.” He was obviously quoting, but he knew his law, this Inspector. “If he wishes, the Coroner can choose to convene a jury in any investigation, but it doesn’t happen very often. Too much trouble – and too expensive.”

Small mercies, I thought. Cold shivers were still running down my spine. But the Inspector had stopped to think for a moment.

“Of course, there’s no reason why the Coroner should ask how you were dressed when it all happened, is there?” he said. “And the only other person who knows is your wife. You might be able to answer all his questions as Lord Marsham without giving yourself away or committing perjury.” He laughed again. “Good luck with that.”

That was true, wasn’t it? The way things panned out didn’t depend on Beckett thinking I was a frail, middle-aged woman. He was much bigger and stronger than I was, and he would have been just as contemptuous of Robert Marsham’s chances of stopping him as of Martha’s. He just would have hit me harder, and with his fist, not the back of his hand.

The pathologist would confirm what I had told them about the incident, but I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I had a nightmare vision of having to stand up in the Coroner’s court, dressed as Martha, and admitting to being the Earl of Hadleigh.

“Of course, that’s all assuming the CPS agrees not to bring criminal charges against you,” Giddings summed up. “Then I’d have no choice but to put the whole thing on the record.” He turned to the Sergeant. “DS Sharpe, could you arrange a car to take… Martha back to Hadleigh Hall?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll do it myself. It’s on my way home.”

“Good – you can arrange to get hold of the footage from the outside cameras while you’re there. Oh and we’ll need all the clothes she’s – he’s – wearing now for forensics, though hopefully we won’t need to keep them for long. Can you go in with him and bag them?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Inspector made for the door.

“By the way,” he said, “you and the Countess need to stay out of your drawing room for the moment. I realise that as the maid you’ll be desperate to clean up the mess, but that will have to wait. It will remain a crime scene until all the reports are in.”

He chuckled. The only thing worse than a policeman with a sense of humour is a policeman without a sense of humour.

* * *

DS Sharpe was chatty in the car on the way back.

“He’s a pretty decent guy, Inspector Giddings,” she said.

“I realise that,” I replied. “A lot of people in his position would have taken great pleasure in exposing me.”

“Well he still might have to, but I think you can be hopeful. You’ve probably realised that he’s also on the Robberies Task Force, and thanks to you and Frank Treacher, we’re well on the way to cracking that. You found Beckett’s storage units for us. We probably would have got there eventually, but time was of the essence. In a couple more weeks he would have been able to fence all the stolen goods and move them out.”

“So you searched the storage units and caught him red-handed?” I asked.

“Not at first,” she said. “We couldn’t get a warrant, so we were preparing to stake them out. That could have taken ages. But then Frank put us on to Gopal at Empire Security Solutions – acting on your information. We were already suspicious of them, but again we had nothing to back it up. You were the only householder to have changed your alarm codes from the ones that Empire had set. So when Beckett or his accomplice tried to get into your place using the old codes, the leak had to have come from Empire.”

“And Gopal set up the codes when he led the installation at our place,” I finished. “No one else at Empire saw them.”

It also explained why Gopal had asked so many questions about the value of stuff at Hadleigh Hall.

“He might still have brazened it out,” she admitted, “but he actually folded quite quickly. He was a ‘loose end’ and he was terrified of Beckett. So we struck a deal. He would serve a little time under a false name somewhere far away, then enter witness protection when he was released. Even that may no longer be necessary now…”

“…now that Beckett’s dead, you mean?”

“Right. We got the warrant easily on his testimony. The two units were crammed with the proceeds of the recent robberies. So we moved to arrest Beckett, but he obviously realised we were onto him and there was no sign of him at his home or office. We don’t know why he ran to Hadleigh Hall. Perhaps he intended to hide up there until he could arrange a way out of the country.”

“Actually, it might have just been about revenge,” I said. Sharpe looked puzzled. “He recognised me – that is, Martha – last Wednesday when I went to clean for his mother. He probably guessed that something I took from there led to you finding out about his storage units.”

“Ah, I see,” she said. “I suppose that would explain it.” She paused to think it through. “Anyway,” she resumed, “we’re fingerprinting all the stolen goods and rolling up all of Beckett’s known associates. The Chief Inspector thinks we’ll get everyone involved in the robberies eventually.”

“You don’t need to put the part about me cleaning Beckett’s house in your report, do you?” I asked.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she smiled. “We don’t really know what was going through his mind when he broke into Hadleigh Hall, do we? It’s only guesswork, isn’t it?”

We were off the highway now. Sharpe steered the car quickly and expertly down winding country lanes. There were no street lights, and all the houses and cottages around us were in darkness. Silence fell between us. Eventually I broke it with a question that had been on my mind.

“So how do you know Frank Treacher?”

She hesitated. “He’s my ex,” she said finally. “We joined up together; went to Hendon together.”

I knew that was the police training college in London.

“He’s a good man,” she continued, “but he was thrown out of the Force for decking a superior officer. Bastard deserved it, and everyone knew it, but Frank couldn’t hope to stay in the Job after that.”

She fell silent. I wondered if she might have been the reason why Treacher hit a superior. There was obviously a lot more to the story, but we were pulling into the driveway at Hadleigh Hall. Susie had obviously reset the security system when the last of the police and ambulance service personnel had left, but the gate recognised the signal from the RFID transponder in my handbag and swung open. The retractable teeth in the ground retracted. Most of the house was in darkness, but there was a light on in our bedroom. As we approached, the outside lighting activated. The alarms didn’t come on because the gate had opened properly. I checked my little watch again in the sudden flood of light. It was after half past three in the morning.

By the time I had opened the front door, Susie had appeared, stunningly beautiful (as always) in nightie and negligée. She hurried toward me, relief evident on her face. Then she saw I wasn’t alone, decided it didn’t matter, and threw her arms around me anyway. She didn’t bother asking questions. She knew I’d tell her everything soon enough. For now, she just wanted to be held.

DS Sharpe gave us a moment then cleared her throat gently.

“The Sergeant has come in to get the security footage and bag my clothes,” I said. “She and the Inspector have been very kind.”

“OK,” Susie said, letting go of me. “I’m going to make three cups of tea for when you’ve finished.”

“Oh I don’t think…” Sharpe began.

“You don’t have to drink it, but it will be there if you want it.”

With that she turned and walked briskly toward the kitchen. Knowing my wife as I did, I knew she was on the verge of breaking down with a mixture of shock and relief, and she didn’t want Sharpe to see that.

“We’ll go up to the maid’s room, if that’s OK,” I said. “I can strip off there more easily.”

“I won’t need your coat,” Sharpe said, getting some large polythene bags out of her briefcase. “You weren’t wearing that when you were fighting with Beckett, were you?”

I suppose you could say that me getting hit twice constituted a fight…

Sharpe blew inside a pair of disposable latex gloves to stretch them out and wriggled her hands into them. I led her up to the maid’s room on the second floor at the back of the West Wing.

I kicked off my shoes and untied my apron, handing both to her for bagging. I reached behind me to begin unzipping my dress.

“Here, let me help,” she said. “The gloves will prevent cross-contamination, but to be honest this whole exercise is pretty pointless anyway. It’s just to show that no one else’s DNA, and no fibres from anybody else’s clothes, are on the body.”

I stepped out of my dress and handed it to her. She put it in yet another bag. I now stood in bra, knickers and tights in front of a woman who wasn’t my wife. Probably better than a man. I noticed that she was staring.

“Do you need my underwear?” I asked.

“Better had,” she said. “I can’t believe how realistic all your… curves are!”

“All detachable,” I said, “with the right solvent.” I grinned. “You probably won’t believe it, but I’m actually quite thin and weedy under all this lot.”

I sat down on the bed and started stripping off my tights.

“Don’t you want to… I don’t know… go in the bathroom, or something?” she said, clearly embarrassed.

“Why? You won’t be seeing any of Rob Marsham’s private parts. They’re well hidden. There’ll only be the same sights you’d see in any female changing room.”

I unhooked my bra and pulled my panties down. I was quite enjoying the Sergeant’s obvious embarrassment. I tossed her all my lingerie, which she hurriedly bagged.

I reached for a plain nightie and a ladies’ dressing gown. (A maid doesn’t have an exotic negligée like her mistress.) I slipped my feet into a cheap pair of mules.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess. I tutted, sat down at the dressing table, and started brushing it. For some reason it didn’t occur to me just to remove my wig. When it was in some sort of order, I pulled it up into a tidy bun and stuck some hairpins in to hold it.

“Are you sure you’re not a woman?” Sharpe asked, with a smile.

“I’m not sure of anything just at the moment,” I admitted ruefully. “I know I was Robert Marsham, Earl of Hadleigh once. Hopefully I’ll be him again one day.”

We went down to the kitchen and joined Susie for a cup of tea. I offered something to strengthen it but they both declined.

“Actually, My Lady,” Sharpe said, “it will save time for both of us if you could describe what happened tonight in your own words. I’ll type it up as a Witness Statement tomorrow and bring it round for you to sign.”

So Susie began to recount the whole ghastly experience from her point of view. While she was doing that, I went into the control room to get the security footage. I browsed for the MPEG files that had been created that night. There were very clear HD pictures of Beckett arriving at the garages behind the house and smashing a glass panel in the back door. He must have come over the fence from the farm lane. The lights didn’t go on till he arrived in the stable yard. I went back to ask the Sergeant for her email address so I could send her the files.

To my mortification Susie was praising her husband’s courage in defending her. She even used words like ‘manly’ and ‘heroic’ with no embarrassment at all. She paused and looked at me, a totally feminine image with my grey bun, ladies’ dressing gown and slippers, my bulbous breasts poking out of the low-cut nightie where the gown didn’t quite close. The contrast with her tale of ‘manly heroism’ made both of them giggle.

“Thank you for that, My Lady,” said the Sergeant, draining the last of her tea and getting to her feet. “Your statements are completely consistent, so there should be no problem.”

I thanked her again and saw her to her car. It was nearly half-past four. I went back to the kitchen and as soon as the monitor showed the gate closing behind her, I reset the alarm system and went upstairs.

Susie was waiting, desperate for details. I updated her on everything that had happened, including DS Sharpe’s revelations in the car. I also repeated the Inspector’s instructions and his reasoning.

“So I’m stuck as Martha until all the police are satisfied,” I concluded.

Susie didn’t seem too concerned.

“Well at least I don’t have to advertise for a new maid,” she said, yawning.

We got into bed and turned off the lights. Dawn was breaking.

* * *

Before we went to bed Susie had texted her secretary explaining that we’d had a break-in and an accidental death, and therefore she would not be in the office that morning. I had texted Sally Jackson to say much the same.

When we eventually surfaced at around eleven, I saw that Sally had texted back to tell me not to worry. She would find someone to fill in for the day. Her assistant, Maria, was usually available at short notice, and she and Fleur had worked together many times. Fortunately, Mrs Beckett had cancelled her early cleaning slot for that morning. She didn’t say why.

Sally said she hoped to talk to me later to hear more. I would need to tell her whether I intended to carry on with J & J. It still seemed sensible not to change our routine, but now because the police might be watching us, rather than Beckett. We didn’t want anyone other than Giddings and Sharpe to see anything suspicious.

Anyway, for some reason I found I didn’t want to give up being a charlady. I tried to rationalise it. I realised I liked both parts – the ‘char’ part and the ‘lady’ part. What on earth was happening to me? I might have to see a shrink when this was all over.

* * *

The police forensic team had done all the time-critical work the night before while I was at the station with Giddings and Sharpe. They returned in the morning to take some measurements and collect more samples of paint, carpet fibre, dust, etc. (Dust? Cheek! They wouldn’t find any dust in a house I cleaned!)

They must have been instructed not to bother us too early. They appeared at about eleven-thirty demanding access to the ‘crime scene’, as their CSIs insisted on calling it. That was worrying, as we thought it was accepted that this was an accidental death. I hoped that it was just another example of one hand not knowing what the other was doing. In any case they spent more than an hour crawling all over the drawing room. When they eventually departed, they declared the room available to us again, so that I, the maid, could begin tidying up. Thanks.

I fetched my cleaning materials. Removing the mark where Beckett’s head had hit the mantlepiece was easy enough, and the fireplace tiles just wiped clean, but I had no idea how to get spatters of his blood out of the carpet in front of the fireplace. It would have to be replaced. I wondered what the insurance company would say.

At around noon Bill telephoned. Susie answered and put him on ‘speaker’. He’d seen the police cars and the ambulance in the distance the previous night and wanted to make sure we were all right. Susie told him everything that had happened and assured him that we were both fine now.

He asked about me; that is, the Earl. Susie explained that I was still away but that she expected me home soon. He was much too tactful to say anything specific, but I got the impression that he disapproved of the Master of Hadleigh Hall leaving the Mistress and her maid to face marauding villains. Quite right. I disapproved too.

Susie asked Bill if he could check the perimeter for her. We still didn’t know how or where Beckett got in and this morning’s police visitors didn’t seem to be interested. We could call Empire, but they were probably in some disarray today, following Gopal’s arrest. They would be fielding irate calls from customers demanding explanations and wanting their entry codes reset. Anyway, there would probably be a call-out charge.

I suggested Bill start at the old gate to the farm road, as it seemed Beckett had come in at the back of the building. He came to report at about one o’clock, so I laid out a buffet lunch on the dining table in the drawing room for him and my mistress. Then I retired to the kitchen, as I still didn’t feel confident being Martha with Bill. I sat in the pantry, shamelessly listening in to my betters’ conversation via the security system.

Bill had found a tall step ladder next to the fence, a few yards from the farm gate at the back. He removed it and put it in the garage workshop. It meant that Beckett had already prepared to breach our defences before the police got onto him. He just had to put his plan into action a little earlier than he expected, and alone. We always knew the fence wasn’t really high enough. It was more of a deterrent than a genuine obstacle to a really determined intruder. Hopefully that wouldn’t matter anymore now that Beckett was dead – now that I had killed Beckett, I suppose I should say…

* * *

A Detective Constable appeared at the Hall two days later with copies of our statements to sign. Fortunately, Susie had arranged to work from home for the rest of the week, so she was able to receive him. She was working in the library as the drawing room smelt strongly of cleaning fluid.

I took the DC in to see her. She was on a video call with a client. She waved the policeman to an armchair by the window while she finished up. I stood primly between them, my hands clasped in front of me over my apron.

When she finished her call, the constable explained his mission and handed her a typewritten form which he said he hoped was an accurate record of her statement to DS Sharpe. She read it carefully, signed it with no further comment, and handed it back.

The DC thanked her and extracted a second document.

“Er, is the Earl available to sign his statement, My Lady?” he asked nervously.

“I’m afraid His Lordship is unwell, Officer,” Susie said, thinking quickly. “But he may be up to signing it. Martha, would you take this up to His Lordship’s chamber and ask him if he is able to read and sign his statement?”

“Yes, M’Lady,” I said, with a curtsey.

I took the paper and left. It seemed sensible to actually go up to our bedroom in the West Wing, in case my footsteps across the Great Hall and up the stairs were audible from the Library.

When I got to our room, I sat on the bed and read the statement through carefully. Sharpe had done an excellent job. It contained everything I had told her and the Inspector. Every fact in it was precise, and precisely true. It made no reference to how I was dressed or the role I was playing. It didn’t mention Beckett calling me ‘an old bitch’. Mind you, I hadn’t told them that, so it was hardly surprising. The picture the statement painted was of Beckett breaking in to Hadleigh Hall and confronting Lord and Lady Marsham as they were preparing to retire, not of the Countess cuddling with her maid on the sofa. I signed it ‘Hadleigh’ in the boldest, most masculine version of my handwriting that I could manage, just above my typed full name, Robert, Lord Marsham, Earl of Hadleigh.

I took the paper back down to the Library. I knocked; waited for the ‘Come in’; curtseyed; and handed the paper back to the DC.

“Thank you, Martha,” said Susie. “Please show the gentleman out. I must get back to work.”

“Yes, M’Lady,” I said. “This way, Officer.”

And I must get back to my cleaning.

* * *

The fateful night’s events didn’t make the national news. There was a brief flurry of articles in the local press, but their emphasis was on the achievements of the Robberies Task Force. Beckett was identified as a key figure in the gang and a notorious fence. The last article merely said that he had gone on the run when he realised that the police were after him, and that he had broken into a house and died in an accident after a scuffle with the householder. I suspected I had Giddings and Sharpe to thank that the press didn’t make more of it. Unfortunately, the article did include the date for the inquest – in six weeks. I hoped the fuss would have died down by then.

It did, at least to some extent. But I was still called as a witness.

* * *

Sharpe telephoned the following week to say that they had compared my DNA sample against that held by Smythe’s firm, and it checked out.

We didn’t see her or Giddings again but more policemen appeared at the Hall over the next few weeks. There were two separate visits, both prearranged. In each case I opened the gate from the control room when they identified themselves, met them at the front door, bobbed a little curtsey, and conducted them to the drawing room where the Countess was waiting to receive them. I then retired to the kitchen (and the surveillance equipment in the pantry) to wait until I was called. Refreshments were not offered. We didn’t want to encourage them to linger.

Susie was quizzed over Beckett and Tank’s first visit, and over our family’s relationship with his. They asked to see the Earl, which was a scary moment, but Susie deflected their enquiries brilliantly. He wasn’t in when Beckett had called the first time and threatened her, so he would have nothing useful to offer. Neither she nor her husband had ever met the Becketts before, apart from at the will reading. Our tenure of the Estate didn’t overlap with theirs at all. She didn’t mention that her maid was present at either of Beckett’s intrusions, and the policemen didn’t ask. No doubt they assumed that the highly intelligent and articulate solicitor-Countess would give them all the information that was available from this quarter. The ignorant and uneducated housemaid would have nothing useful to add.

I went back to work for J & J on the Monday of the following week. First ‘Brusque’ Mrs Battersby, then the ‘Welsh Comedienne’, Myfanwy Griffiths. (We cleaning ladies give our clients nicknames so we can distinguish between them easily.)

At lunch Fleur was agog to hear about all the excitement. My story was well-practised by now and I managed to get through it without lying to her. Since the key events took place at 10.30 at night, Martha the maid wasn’t around. Beckett had only seen Lord and Lady Marsham. I let her assume, without actually saying so, that I was back at my little cottage in the village when all the excitement was going on. I had taken the rest of the week off from J & J because my mistress was badly shaken by the experience and needed me.

“Quite a coincidence that Beckett broke into the house where you were the maid less than a week after you and I were cleaning his house, don’t you think?”

She was watching me carefully.

“Yes, now you mention it,” I said. “That hadn’t occurred to me. Eerie, isn’t it?”

“What did the police make of that?”

“I’m not sure they knew.”

“Shouldn’t you tell them?” she said.

“Oh, I think they’ve got enough on their plates, haven’t they?” I said breezily. “Anyway, how could the two things be connected?”

She had no answer to that.

“Come on, eat up,” I said. “We’ll be late for Mrs Hanson.”

* * *

So I stayed as Martha for the moment. I still went to Transformations every second Saturday morning to have my prostheses removed and my face and body inspected for rashes. On the bright side, Vera’s ‘mild hormone lotion’ seemed to be doing its job. My beard growth was now very light and the waxing much less painful. She offered to arrange to have all my body hair removed permanently, but I wasn’t ready for that.

Somehow I always felt more comfortable after Vera had replaced my disguise. I felt vulnerable without my bra and knickers on now, even though my male body didn’t need lingerie.

Finally in mid-December, I gave my notice in to Sally Jackson. Martha the cleaning lady was going to retire. Fleur and I had a tearful parting. (I put my tears down to Vera’s ‘mild’ hormone cream.) I promised to keep in touch – another lie, sadly.

On the last Saturday before the inquest, I went back to Transformations to have my prostheses removed permanently. Vera was very professional, but I couldn’t help feeling it was a sad occasion. She dabbed the solvent on as usual; peeled the fake flesh off gently; washed all the pieces carefully with detergent; and rubbed me down with soothing lotion.

But this time she packed all my prosthetics away in archive boxes when they were dry, rather than reattaching them. This time I took Rob Marsham’s clothes out of my suitcase and put Martha’s back in. Rob’s shirt, socks and underpants felt coarse against my skin, which was still hairless even though I had undergone no shaving or waxing.

The only remaining sign of my tenure as Martha were my thick lips. I had asked about having the procedure reversed, but it sounded like it would be more trouble – and more painful – than it was worth.

When fully dressed in a crisp white shirt (I’d ironed it myself) and blue jeans, I examined my reflection in the mirror. It was three months since I had last seen Rob properly. I realised I had lost weight – working as a cleaning lady was slimming, apparently – but it didn’t look good on me. My clothes were baggy. I looked… wasted. But I had lost more than weight along with my Martha disguise. I was afraid I might have lost an important part of myself.

Annie and Ingrid came to see me off. They were glad that our difficulties with Beckett had been resolved, and that they had been able to help. I thanked them for connecting us with Treacher, and they thanked me for not telling the police how my disguise had been arranged. They didn’t need any attention from that quarter. Vera said she would keep my prosthetics for a while, just in case.

* * *

On the day of the inquest Susie and I arrived at the Coroner’s court early and took our seats while it was still empty. I didn’t want to engage in conversation with anyone. I was confident that no one would recognise the sad little man in the baggy suit, but that was about the full extent of my confidence. In any case people might deduce who I was from the fact that I was sitting next to the beautiful and increasingly well-known Countess of Hadleigh. But we were left alone, which was just as well because if someone had come to talk to us, I was so nervous I would probably have run away screaming.

I looked around the court. It was virtually empty. I had expected to see Eleanor or old Mrs Beckett or both, but Jack had been exposed as a criminal by now. They had obviously decided they didn’t want to be associated with him even after his death.

I was glad to see none of the policemen or paramedics who had attended on the fateful night, apart from Giddings and Sharpe. The only other witness would be the pathologist, whom I hadn’t met as either Martha or Rob. The Inspector had explained that no one was challenging the forensic evidence anyway, so the pathologist’s statement would be short and sweet. His office was in the same building so he would be called when he was needed.

The seating area marked ‘PRESS’ was also empty, which I found a little strange. I took it as a hopeful sign. I suppose the papers can’t send a journalist to every inquest. Perhaps the editors expected this one to be routine, despite the involvement of the nobility. They could get the details later from the court record when it was published, and then follow up if something interesting came to light. Maybe their lack of interest was something else I had to thank Giddings for.

While we were waiting for the Coroner, DS Sharpe came over to say hello. She couldn’t help but stare at me.

“Yes, Sergeant, this is my husband, the Earl,” said Susie with a smile, realising that Sharpe didn’t know what to say.

“Thank you, My Lady. Inspector Giddings sent me over to check. We’re supposed to have interviewed His Lordship several times after all, but neither of us would have recognised you.” She lowered her voice. “Your disguise was amazing, My Lord. How on earth…?”

Fortunately, the Coroner arrived at that moment. We all had to rise, and Sharpe had to scurry back to her seat.

* * *

Susie went into the witness box first. The Coroner, who looked like an elderly academic with a shiny bald head and glasses, began the questioning.

“I understand that the occasion of the late Mr Beckett’s death was actually his second visit to your house, My Lady?”

“Yes sir,” she said. “He and a… er, colleague broke in about three weeks earlier.”

“Broke in?”

“Oh I’m sorry. I mean that they weren’t invited in. They rang the doorbell, but then they pushed past my housekeeper when she answered the door.”

“What did they want?”

“Money, sir. Beckett believed his family were entitled to compensation because his sister had been my father-in-law’s mistress for many years but had received nothing in his will.”

“And how did you respond?”

“I refused.”

The Coroner waited, an eyebrow raised. He clearly expected her to expand.

“They had no legal right to anything of course,” she continued, “and the Hadleigh Estate has very little to spare. The old Earl was not exactly careful with money and he did nothing to enhance the Estate’s revenues. Even now it is barely meeting its expenses. I might have been sympathetic to Beckett’s sister’s situation, but I was assured that she faced no hardship. Our solicitor believed she had, er… ‘put aside’ a substantial sum from the Estate over the years.”

She enunciated the quotes around ‘put aside’ clearly. That could be taken as slanderous against Eleanor, but Susie had been very careful with her words. She had said ‘our solicitor believed’. The Coroner took the point. Of course this was establishing that there was ‘bad blood’ between us and Beckett, and therefore that we had at least some motive to kill him. But we had agreed that it would be foolish to try and conceal this.

“I see. So I assume Mr Beckett’s visit was not a friendly encounter?”

“No indeed, sir. Beckett and Tank – I’m sorry, but that’s the only name I was given for him – threatened us with physical violence.”

“My sympathies, My Lady.” He paused and whispered something to his clerk. “And where was your husband, the Earl, while you were facing this ordeal?”

Susie was going to have to box clever now.

“He was… nearby,” she said carefully, “on the Estate. But I told Beckett he was away from home and not expected back for at least two weeks. I hoped that he wouldn’t offer violence to two defenceless women, but I was sure he wouldn’t spare my husband if he could get his hands on him.”

“So Beckett didn’t meet the Earl on this occasion?”

“He only saw myself and my maid.”

She didn’t say ‘no’, which would definitely have been perjury. It was true that Beckett and Tank only ‘saw’ the maid, but that was because they were fooled by my disguise. Clever, but still very close to the wind.

The Coroner nodded.

“You didn’t think to contact the police?” he said.

“Of course I did, and I told Beckett I would when he made his demands. But that’s when he started threatening to break my and my husband’s fingers, and worse. He also said that it would be my word against his, and he had arranged convincing alibis for himself and Tank. Perhaps I should still have gone ahead and called the police, but I was afraid – for myself, my maid, and my husband.”

“I sympathise, My Lady. Now let us turn to the night of Beckett’s death. Please tell us everything that happened, as you remember it.”

So Susie described Beckett’s second and final visit to Hadleigh Hall. The Coroner let her tell the story in her own words and didn’t interrupt with questions. At half-past ten she and her husband – not her maid – were sitting in the drawing room, thinking about going to bed when Beckett broke in. Beckett assaulted her husband, hitting him in the face. The Earl tried to resist but Beckett, who was much bigger and heavier, hit him very hard in the chest and knocked him off his feet. Beckett then advanced on her, but he had underestimated her husband’s resilience. The Earl got back up and, fearful for his wife’s safety, charged Beckett from behind. Beckett lost his balance, fell sideways, tripped over the fireplace surround, and cracked his head on the edge of the mantlepiece, which killed him.

I was bright pink by now. I hoped no one noticed. But all eyes were on Susie. Every word she said was true. The Coroner asked a few questions of clarification and then thanked her for her testimony.

I was then called to describe the incident from my own point of view. I was asked about my injuries. I was quizzed in detail about my intentions when I struck Beckett from behind, but I said that I had no objective other than stopping him from hurting my wife. I had no idea what would happen when I barged him. I couldn’t have predicted which way he would be pushed, or that he would trip. At that point I had some idea of maybe getting my hands on a weapon such as the poker, but Beckett was between me and the fireplace. In the heat of the moment I didn’t think of my own safety or the consequences of my actions, only of my concern for Susie.

Again, every word was true, and again, the Coroner expressed his sympathy. It seemed he had no sympathy left over for Beckett.

The forensic pathologist testified that the only mark on Beckett’s body was the head wound that killed him. That was entirely consistent with the fall Susie and I had described. The abrasion contained tiny slivers of white paint, identical to the paint on the mantlepiece, on which the CSI had found a scuff mark with flakes of skin, which were identified as from the deceased.

The only other observation the pathologist made was that there was some foreign blood and skin cells on the back of the deceased’s right hand, which turned out from DNA analysis to be from Lord Marsham, and consistent with the deceased having struck the Earl across the face.

Sharpe and Giddings were called, which was a moment of truth for me, but with their testimony the Coroner focused on the background to Beckett’s flight from the police and break-in at Hadleigh Hall, presumably to understand his state of mind prior to his death. Giddings also testified to my interview and subsequent statement, both of which were entirely consistent with the testimony the Coroner had already heard.

At no time in the two hours of the inquest did it occur to anyone to ask how the Earl of Hadleigh had been dressed on the fateful night, and none of the four people who knew mentioned it.

The verdict was ‘Accidental Death’ and the inquest was closed.

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 8

So Rob is back but no more comfortable as the Earl than before. What’s to be done? He can’t be Martha anymore, can he?

It felt strange wandering around the Hall dressed as a man again. I had to re-adjust my gait to my original, very different centre of gravity. I had to concentrate on taking longer strides and break my habit of mincing, feminine little steps. On the plus side, being a full-time, hard-working cleaning lady had built up my muscles. I felt a bit like Superman. Now that I was no longer held back by Martha’s excess weight, I could move faster, jump higher, almost fly!

But I felt like half of me was missing, which in a sense it was – and not just my Martha padding. I had lost what little excess flab I had ever had, presumably because of all the hard physical work. My old male clothes hung off my reduced frame.

“Everything’s baggy on you,” Susie had said. “We’re going to have to buy you all new shirts and trousers.”

“Can we do it by mail order?” I suggested, plaintively.

Susie pretended not to hear that. She was planning an extensive shopping trip.

* * *

I contacted Bill straight after the Inquest and said I’d like to get involved in the running of the Estate again. He was a little cool with me, presumably for leaving Susie alone for so long with only Martha for company. Maybe he thought I’d been having an affair. So I told him as much as I could about Beckett’s threats. I said I’d hated not being around while Susie was being harassed by thugs, but she insisted I stay away. She was adamant that letting them beat me senseless wouldn’t solve anything and wouldn’t make her any safer.

I told him that we’d hired a private investigator to help us, and some of the information he had unearthed had enabled the police to arrest Beckett. I had come home then, but the angry villain had gone on the run and broken into the Hall, where he met his end.

I’m sure this partial explanation only left Bill with more questions. Why had I gone away again after I fought with Beckett, only returning for the Inquest? But he didn’t ask – it wasn’t his place to cross-examine his employer – and I changed the subject.

With Bill’s help I soon got back into the swing of managing the Estate. We were exceptionally busy right up to Christmas. Our tenants were keen to fix issues they’d been living with throughout the year, but now they wanted to get things ship-shape for the Festive Season, before the parties and the visits from far-flung friends and family.

I thoroughly enjoyed the work. It was mostly about helping people with domestic problems, which reminded me a little of my time as Martha, the cleaning lady. The only part I didn’t like was having to be the Earl in front of so many strangers. I felt a terrible fraud. As always, I hated having to mix with people I didn’t know, even though they always gave me a hearty welcome. I thought of hiring someone to do all the meetings for me. Then I could just plan for the future and manage contractors and building works remotely from my office.

As we had discussed, Bill gave in his notice, and we agreed he would leave on the 31st December. After that I would be on my own. He promised to be available if I was ever really stumped.

* * *

We hadn’t told my mother much about our bizarre lives during the last three months because we didn’t want her to worry about Beckett’s threats. We had had to stop making video calls to Atlanta, because that would have revealed to her that her son was now Martha, her old housemaid. We still kept in touch regularly. I just had to remember to switch to my increasingly unfamiliar male voice. I told her that our broadband was faulty and could no longer support video, and promised to get it fixed as soon as I could.

As October gave way to November I had gradually come to realise that Mum wasn’t going to return to the UK permanently. She started talking about moving in with Esme.

“She’s quite a bit older than me actually. Her son is buying the house for her. They don’t really need any contribution from me, but I insisted on paying my way. Hopefully the rental income from the cottage will be enough. I think they’re just glad that I’ll be there, so they won’t have to look after Esme themselves as she gets older. She says she quite likes being companion to a Dowager Countess, but I think it’s the other way round: the Dowager Countess is companion to Esme.”

I thought there might be a little more to my mother’s decision to stay in America, but I assumed she’d tell me when she was ready.

After the inquest, and I was back as Rob, we were again able to make video calls to Atlanta. Mum was delighted to see our faces at last, but was concerned that I had lost weight, and was there something wrong with my mouth? My lips looked swollen.

She also asked in her plain-spoken, unsubtle manner whether there was any sign of an heir to the Earldom. We assured her that we were thinking about it, but we still needed Susie’s salary for the moment. She let the subject drop for the time being, but we knew she would bring it up again when she joined us for Christmas, in just over two weeks.

* * *

Susie would be working right up till Christmas Eve, so I was alone in the big house, just as I had been as Martha. I carried on doing essential tasks such as shopping and laundry. It felt weird doing Martha’s work but not wearing her uniform. I kept seeing things I would have done had I still been the maid, and there was no one else to do them, so I did them. I put on an apron and I ironed, and I vacuumed, and I scrubbed, just as I had been doing when I was Martha.

As two maids Susie and I had made progress clearing the clutter in the top-floor bedrooms, but despite our dressing-up games (or maybe because of them) we hadn’t finished, so I thought I’d have another try. I found the ‘Keep’, ‘Definitely Dump’, and ‘Think About It’ piles unchanged since the early autumn, apart from having gathered additional dust. All three lots were still dwarfed by all the untouched junk.

It was slow going, because I felt I needed to check nearly every item with Susie before deciding its fate, so I made lists. I’d barely begun when I found the Christmas decorations: coloured lights for indoors and outdoors, long paper chains, and a huge artificial tree, which could only go in the Great Hall. Getting that lot downstairs and into the appropriate rooms killed the rest of the afternoon, and putting it all up filled the next three evenings for both of us.

When we finally switched on the lights, the Hall was bright enough to steer ships onto the rocks, if we weren’t seventy miles from the sea. I dreaded to think about the electricity bill, but visitors to the Hall – and we hoped there would be many paying guests – would expect to see lots of colourful Christmas cheer.

Happily, Society Christmas parties at the Hall kept us both busy. There were also the final rehearsals for the LADS pantomime. Charlie welcomed me back – I hadn’t seen him as myself for over two months. He insisted on giving us the best seats in the theatre for the last performance. I’m not usually a fan of pantos, but this was Aladdin and it was excellent. The young actor playing Widow Twankey – Nick Something – was especially good.

We also hosted the LADS Christmas party which traditionally followed the last show. It was usually at a hotel in town, but according to Charlie, everyone was thrilled that this year it would be at the Hall. The orchestra from the panto provided the music for the party. Susie was asked if she would present the prizes, and she graciously agreed. I hid in a quiet corner at the back, hoping I wouldn’t be called upon to speak.

Everyone asked after Martha and we told them she was off with her family till New Year. I didn’t much enjoy helping our guests as the Earl for the usual reasons. Playing the part of Martha had been easy and exciting; playing the part of myself was terrifying.

* * *

Two days before Christmas we were to collect Mum from Heathrow. We went in the big BMW, assuming she would be loaded down with luggage. She had indeed brought lots of presents – mainly souvenirs of Atlanta – but she hadn’t brought many of her own belongings. She announced that she would be with us for less than a fortnight. She had been invited to a New Year’s Eve party and really wanted to go. It turned out she had met a rich handsome man who was a sucker for the English aristocracy.

“And you’ve always been a sucker for rich handsome men, haven’t you?” I said over my shoulder from the driver’s seat. “You be careful now. I don’t want to have go after him with my shotgun.”

Mum giggled happily.

When we got home and were settled in the drawing room with Christmas drinks, my mother demanded to know everything we’d been doing since she left us in mid-September. Susie and I looked at each other and began. Mum listened with an open mouth and staring eyes, gulping her champagne cocktail in disbelief.

Her first reaction was the inevitable scolding for not telling her everything sooner, but she eventually agreed that it would have served no purpose. In fact, she congratulated us on how well we had coped, especially my mission as Martha the Spy. Amusingly she was much more interested in how I had been living as a housemaid and cleaning lady than about Beckett’s threats and subsequent death.

“I would have loved to have seen you as Martha!” she said. “Don’t you have any photographs?”

“Lots,” Susie laughed. “I took pictures of him all the time, mostly when he wasn’t looking. But you won’t find them very interesting, Julie. He looks exactly like Martha.”

She went across to the desk in the corner she used when working at home and took a small volume out of one of the drawers. It was a little photo album. She sat down next to Mum and they started going through it together.

“Here – this first one is of the two Marthas side by side. It was taken by one of the Pink Ladies. I saw it at their next slide show and asked if I could have a copy.”

“That’s amazing!” Mum said. “Which is which?” Susie was about to tell her, when she said, “Oh, Rob’s that one, isn’t he? You can tell by the lips! Is that why they’re all swollen now? You’ve had them done with collagen or something!”

Seriously impressive, my Mum.

“You look lovely in your maid uniform, Rob,” she said. “Very smart.”

“And I took this one of him – her – scrubbing the toilet in our bathroom,” said Susie, turning the page.

“Look at the size of her backside…! Er, I mean, I see Martha has put on a bit of weight over the years. Well, I suppose we both have.”

She didn’t seem at all surprised that her son, the Earl, was being a cleaning lady in his own house.

“When did you learn to do ironing, Rob?” she asked.

I left them to it.

* * *

Susie’s parents, George and Janet, made us five for a sumptuous Christmas Dinner – cooked by the Countess and the Dowager Countess together. Afterwards we repaired to the drawing room with ports and brandies.

I was looking through a pile of board games for some after dinner fun when my mother asked, casually, “So if you’re still working full-time, Susie, how on earth do you keep this place looking so good, now Martha’s gone?”

“Hey, we both work full-time,” I protested, “and we share the housework.”

My mother looked sceptical. My wife, who would lie her head off to defend me against strangers, didn’t feel any such need with family. She had also had a lot to drink. As I had discovered, she tends to tell the truth when she’s drunk.

“I do most of the cooking,” she said, “because I don’t want to live on pizza and takeaway Chinese, but Rob does pretty much everything else.”

“So you’re the housewife then, Rob?”

“I manage the Estate – that’s my proper job – but I do some stuff around the house, yes.”

“Laundry, cooking, cleaning – just like a housewife then?”

The two women in my life, my harshest critics, chuckled at my embarrassment.

“But I don’t want a housewife,” said Susie. “I want a maid. Martha – my Martha – was wonderful.”

Did that mean that she actually preferred me as Martha? I was concerned. We hadn’t told her parents about my career as a maid, and Susie was drunk, or getting there. Was the truth coming out now? In vino veritas? The look on my face must have told her she’d gone too far.

“Oh sweetie, I didn’t mean…” She paused to let her brain catch up with her mouth. “I mean, it doesn’t seem right that you, the Earl, should be cleaning and washing and ironing. It was fine when you were… I mean, for Martha to do it… but not… oh, I don’t know what I mean. Look, we need to hire a maid-housekeeper in the New Year. OK?”

I nodded. But I suddenly realised I didn’t really want some stranger coming in and doing my jobs.

* * *

We enjoyed the Festive Season together. For me it was spoiled only by having to attend a few functions in our roles as ‘local nobility’ and sponsors of various charities and other good works. I was all in favour of what they were trying to do, but my crippling shyness made me useless at the required social networking. The two Countesses were, predictably, brilliant at it, and I was determined not to spoil things. I stayed quietly in the background while they charmed the representatives of the local businesses and finance houses.

The end of the old year was soon upon us and it was time for my mother to return to her new home. We promised to Skype regularly and visit as soon as we could.

* * *

The first important event of the New Year was Martha’s wedding. Not many couples marry in January but if she waited much longer her baby would come first and she wanted him or her to be born in wedlock.

It was a traditional wedding in the church at Davey’s home village. They were lucky with the weather. It was cold but stayed dry all afternoon. There were even some short periods of sun, ideal for group photography outside the church.

The bride wore white. Neither she nor any of the guests were at all concerned that she was eight months pregnant. She had never looked lovelier (much better than I ever did as her). Susie was stunning in a knee-length lemon yellow brocade dress with a short jacket and matching wide-brimmed hat. It wasn’t a formal occasion with proper morning dress, so I just wore a new grey suit.

“You could have been a bridesmaid,” she said, as we watched the bride and her father proceed up the aisle to the altar.

“Huh?”

“As Martha’s twin sister.”

I laughed. Then I thought, actually that would have been fun.

We gave them a three-piece suite for their new home as a wedding present. At the Reception Susie also gave her copies of some of the photographs she had taken of me as her, making her promise not to tell anyone where they came from. As they leafed through them together, they were giggling like schoolgirls at my expense.

To my further embarrassment Susie and I were name-checked in the groom’s speech.

“Martha and I are honoured that the Earl and Countess of Hadleigh are here today,” Davey said with a grin. “I must say I had never dreamt the nobility would be attending our wedding.”

He paused, pointing us out. Davey was a lovely fella, but I had never hated anyone as much as him at that moment. Everyone looked at me, and Susie nudged me fiercely to make a quick response. I got shakily to my feet and admitted that I was just as surprised as he was.

“A year ago I had never dreamt I would be ‘nobility’, as Davey put it,” I said. “And believe me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. This time last year all I had to worry about was whether 5D had any chance at all of passing their Maths GCSEs. Now… well, let’s just say I have a lot more responsibility. The only good thing about it is being married to a Countess, this particular Countess, anyway.”

There was some good-natured chuckling, a better response than anything I had ever managed before when speaking on my own behalf. Susie had gone a little pink, I noticed, but she had a happy smile on her face.

“But we are delighted to be here,” I continued. “Martha is a wonderful lady, and Davey is a very lucky man.”

Cries of “Hear, hear!”

Susie was tugging on my trouser leg: a sure sign it was time for me to sit down.

“Well done, dear,” she whispered, “but brevity is the soul of wit.”

Davey thanked me warmly and carried on with his excellent speech. Waitresses moved quietly among us making sure all our glasses were primed for the coming toasts. I realised I would rather have been any of them (even the little fat one) than the Earl of Hadleigh. Was I weird, or what?

* * *

We stayed overnight in the hotel.

“You were very good today, Rob,” said Susie, as she started stripping off her beautiful outfit. “Very much the gracious Earl; nobility with the common touch.”

“Of course I have ‘the common touch’. I am common.”

“Well, your little impromptu speech was spot-on. I think you’re finally getting over your shyness.”

“I don’t,” I protested. “I can just about bluff my way through it now, as I did today, but I still hate every minute of being the Earl, on display, in front of people I don’t know.”

Susie sighed.

We got into bed. It had been a long day. We lay, entwined, neither of us feeling like doing anything energetic. We lay in silence, just enjoying the warmth of each other’s bodies.

“Did you mean it when you said you’d rather have a maid than a husband?” I said into the darkness.

“No! When did I say that?” Susie said, shaking free and propping herself up on her elbows.

“After dinner on Christmas Day. You were drunk, but I think you meant it.”

“What I meant was that it didn’t feel right to see my wonderful noble husband scrubbing toilets and vacuuming the sitting room, but I was perfectly happy for my lovely maid, Martha, to be doing it.”

“So it’s all about appearances then?”

“Well… yes… I loved Martha undressing me and washing my hair and scrubbing my back in the bath. It’s not the same when you’re my husband. At bedtime you’re only supposed to see me in my nightie and negligée, all clean and sweet-smelling and sexy, ready to be unwrapped. You’re not supposed to do the work that goes into it. That’s Martha’s job.”

“I sort of see what you mean. All the domestic chores, including pampering my mistress, were more fun when I was properly dressed as the maid. It doesn’t really make sense, but I suppose appearances do matter.” I sighed. “I have to admit,” I continued, “I quite liked my maid uniforms. It might just have been the novelty – I’ll probably get over it soon – but I found my knickers, skirt and tights very comfortable. Even my heavy-duty bra felt… nice.”

“Well, we’ll have to think about that when we get home.”

* * *

When we got back from the wedding there was a lot to do. I had to call on three tenants on the Monday. They were all immensely grateful that the Earl himself came to inspect their homes and made a great fuss of me, which of course I found profoundly embarrassing. It made me even more determined to recruit an assistant to do all these ‘home visits’.

I was talking to contractors and suppliers on the phone all afternoon. Susie wasn’t back from the office till seven. Neither of us felt like cooking, so we ordered takeaway. While we were eating, Susie raised the subject of hiring a housekeeper again.

“Can we really afford it?” I asked.

“Just about,” she said, “as long as we keep on hosting society meetings, LADS rehearsals, Open Days and parties. We need all those activities to keep us in the black. Anyway, it won’t be forever. I’m expecting Wainwrights to make me a full Partner in the next year or two.” She chuckled. “I probably couldn’t hope for that if I wasn’t a Countess.”

“Nonsense! You deserve it. You’re the best they’ve got.”

“Your loyalty is much appreciated, babe, but it’s rare to make Partner much before your mid-thirties. Hey, you’re trying to change the subject!” She put her hands on her hips in mock anger. “We need a new maid.”

“We need Martha,” I said. “We were incredibly lucky to have her, you know. Finding a trustworthy housekeeper who works hard and doesn’t steal the silver is really difficult.”

I meant the real Martha, but I suppose the comment applied to me as the fake Martha too.

“OK then, so why don’t you do it?” Susie said. “I know you like being a cleaning lady – almost as much as you hate being the Earl and the centre of attention.”

“You said you didn’t want to see me doing all the domestic chores.”

“I said I didn’t like seeing the Earl doing the cleaning. It seemed… inappropriate. I’m fine with it if you’re dressed as a maid – again.” She licked her lips. “In fact, I’d love it.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that…” I said, although I couldn’t actually articulate an objection.

“Why ever not? We know you make a convincing woman – with the help of Transformations. No one spotted you as a man in the two months you were Martha, did they?”

“No,” I admitted, “but what about running the Estate? There’s a lot to do…”

“Well, you keep talking about hiring an assistant… Wait, I’ve an even better idea! You could be the Earl’s secretary in the mornings and do all the site visits for him, and my maid in the afternoons. I’m sure you could manage each job on a half-time basis. J & J do most of our heavy cleaning after the functions we host, don’t they? So you’d only have to look after our private living areas.”

“Actually, that might work…” I said, thinking desperately of arguments for and against.

“Right! You’re tongue-tied and uncomfortable in public whenever you have to be you, but you’re fine when you’re disguised as somebody else. You can’t be Martha anymore – people round here know she’s left and got married – but you can go back to Transformations for a new persona.”

She was thinking furiously now.

“Actually, whatever they do, you’ll probably still look and sound a bit like Martha – well, your version of her – so why not claim to be her younger sister? Then no one will be surprised at the resemblance.”

“OK, I admit it. I really enjoyed my time as Martha, or I would have if we hadn’t had Beckett and his threats hanging over us. I’m sure it was just a phase – I can’t imagine it as a permanent lifestyle choice – but I wouldn’t have minded if it had gone on a little longer.”

“OK, so why not just try it for a while? If you don’t like it, we can say that the new secretary/ housekeeper didn’t work out.”

* * *

But I did like it, and it worked out beautifully.

I’d told Fleur that Martha had a younger sister called Mary, so that’s who I would become. She would be a little better educated than Martha, and so would be qualified to be the Earl’s secretary as well as the Hall’s housekeeper.

We returned to Transformations and explained what we wanted. It was more embarrassing this time as I wasn’t being forced by circumstances to hide out in female disguise, so I had no excuse. But Annie and Vera were sympathetic and totally professional. Apart from the fact that my wife insisted on being present throughout the procedure, it was no worse than being measured for a new suit – OK, than being measured in the nude for a new suit.

“Now then, Mary, we’ll obviously have to sculpt new facial prostheses to make you look like Martha’s younger sister,” said Annie. “Same shape head, similar cheeks and double chin, but fewer wrinkles. Does that sound right?”

I nodded. “Except I think they’re supposed to be called ‘laughter lines’,” I said.

“Can we aim for late twenties?” asked Susie.

“We’ll see, My Lady,” Annie said, “but I suspect she’ll come out as early thirties at best. Now what about her figure? She’ll still have to be a little portly, I’m afraid, to compensate for her male waist and shoulders.”

It seemed I wasn’t going to be consulted about my appearance. What did I know anyway?

“Would it save us money if you just re-used the body prostheses she had as Martha?” Susie said. “Then we wouldn’t have to buy her new uniforms and underwear.”

“I was going to suggest that,” said Vera, reaching for a box with ‘Martha’ written on the side. She took out the familiar lumps of pseudo-flesh. “We couldn’t go much slimmer than these anyway. Perhaps we can knock a few pounds off her new ones when these wear out.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “How long do they last anyway? I don’t think you ever mentioned that.”

“It varies, depending on how you treat them, but a couple of years is about average.”

“Oh I doubt I’ll be needing them for that long,” I said, confidently. “This is just a little experiment really.”

“If you say so, dear,” said Vera, clearly unconvinced. She and Annie and Susie exchanged amused glances. “So you’ll come back here regularly for check-ups, right? Make the appointment as soon as you feel the adhesive start to loosen. I’ll remove the prostheses and make sure all is well underneath.”

“Then maybe you can spend a day or two as the Earl before coming back for waxing and refitting,” suggested Susie.

“I’ll give you some more solvent, just in case you have to change back in an emergency,” said Vera.

“I still have all your data,” said Annie, “so I’ll run the program to see what we can make you look like, while Vera shaves you and does your waxing.”

I groaned.

“Come on then, strip off, Mary dear,” said Vera cheerfully. “It shouldn’t be so bad this time. How long is it since your last waxing? A month?”

“Six weeks, at least,” I groaned again. “Double Scotch, please. One ice cube.”

I didn’t like my whisky watered down too much.

* * *

I was lying on Vera’s couch, practically naked, the hormone-laced cream just beginning to soothe my smarting flesh, when Annie returned with her laptop.

“I’ve done a couple of basic pictures, each with several hairstyles,” she said, opening the display.

She scrolled through pictures of several buxom young women all of whom looked like slightly younger versions of Martha.

“I see you haven’t had a haircut for quite a while, have you?” I shook my head. “Well, your own hair is easily long enough for a short feminine style. Shall I see if Sharon can do you later on? You’ll be much more comfortable without a wig. A new hairdo would also make Mary look different from Martha.”

“But I still have to appear as myself every two or three weeks,” I said.

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem,” she said breezily. “Talk to Sharon.”

And so it was agreed. Susie chose a face and hairstyle from the options offered. I sat patiently while Vera stuck my new face pieces on, and then her colleague, Sharon, did my hair. Between them they brought Annie’s picture to life. For half an hour I sat under a dome-shaped hairdryer with my hair in curlers and read an old Woman’s Own. I was enjoying an article about the spring fashions of five years ago when Sharon pulled me out. She started removing my curlers.

“This ‘do’ is pretty low maintenance,” she said as she trimmed and primped. “You won’t want to bother with colouring, so I’m just using a good conditioner. Twice a week you’ll need to put curlers in at night, to keep it bouncy.”

“It’s great,” I said, “but I don’t see how I’m going to look like a man with this.”

“Oh, I can fix that for you. We can slick it down with hair oil. I can provide you with convincing facial hair too – sideburns, moustache, maybe a goatee. I think you’d suit a beard.”

“Oh yes, Susie said, “I’d love to see what you look like with a beard.”

* * *

I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be weighted down with Martha’s heavy boobs, thighs and buttocks, but having them stuck back on me was like coming home.

I still had some of Martha’s old clothes and underwear. She and Davey were putting her cottage on the market, and she had come back to collect her little Polo, and most of her belongings. We had offered to take any of her clothes that she didn’t want to the charity shop, but we hadn’t got round to doing that yet. She didn’t need any of her maid’s uniforms. Davey had a good job; Martha would never be a maid again.

I put on my bra and knickers, watching my new self in the mirror. As ever, my big breasts needed the support of a strong bra. The undies felt comfortable. They felt right. I had chosen a pair of the black trousers I had worn as a cleaning lady and a plain white blouse to go home in. When I saw my big round bottom in the unflattering pants, I felt like the woman I was had been away, but was back again now – and ten years younger.

“That reminds me,” said Susie, as I pirouetted in front of the mirror. “We need to get you some new things of your own. I found this website the other day, MyOwnCouture.com. They make bespoke women’s clothes. You pick out what you want from their online catalogue, send them your measurements, and they make dresses to measure. I thought I might try them out.”

“Sounds good,” I said.

At least I could avoid an endless trek round the shops. I wasn’t really interested in what she was saying, and wondered why she would be raising the subject here and now.

“They’ve just started doing Fancy Dress. I thought I might get you a French Maid costume.”

Ah, that explains it. I quite liked the idea, but I couldn’t remember ever seeing a French maid as fat as Mary, I mean me.

Ingrid came down to see us just as were getting ready to go. We assured her that we were completely satisfied, as always, with Annie and Vera’s work. She invited us along to her office for refreshments. I was still a little wobbly from the whisky I had taken as an anaesthetic, but we went along. When we were settled in the office, an elderly maid brought in a tray with cups of tea and biscuits.

“Thank you, Dolly,” Ingrid said. She turned to us. “Now, have you thought about your identity documents – driving licence, birth certificate, and so on? You’ll need those if you’re going to live as Mary for any length of time, won’t you?”

We admitted we hadn’t thought about it.

“We can help with that,” she said. “It’s perfectly legal for you to call yourself whatever you want, as long as you aren’t adopting another identity for the purposes of fraud. Unfortunately, you can’t have two valid driving licences or passports in different names, so you will have to decide on one or the other – either Mary Manners or Lord Marsham.”

“You’ll need to drive as Mary, won’t you, dear?” Susie said. “You can use my old Mini Clubman. I’ll stick to the Audi.”

So we asked Ingrid to make the arrangements. For the foreseeable future I would have no way of proving I was actually Rob Marsham. Not that I looked like any of his pictures now.

* * *

On the way home we went shopping for new clothes for me. I would have been happy to wait and get everything online, to avoid having to parade around a women’s boutique in my underwear. Susie agreed that we could get most of my outfits from MyOwnCouture.com but I needed some new things immediately.

Underwear was a priority. Very much against my better judgement, Susie persuaded me to try some shapewear, a ‘Plus Size Open Crotch Waist Trainer Underbust Body Shaper’, to be precise. The thing looked terrifying, and it was a bit of a struggle to force my wobbly artificial flesh into it, but it felt fabulous when we’d finally fastened it properly – very comfortable and secure.

When I told Susie how much I liked it she dragged me along to another boutique that specialised in ‘Spanx’ shapewear, where we spent far too much on a Fancy Booty Booster mid-thigh, high waist brief with matching bra, and a one-piece body shaper. Susie didn’t like the one-piece as much. She said it was ‘too secure’ and complained that it would take too long to get it off me.

All my new underwear was plus size, of course. My bountiful curves were properly secure now, though if anything, even more pronounced. Susie had the time of her life.

Mary the Secretary was a little upmarket from Mary the Maid and would be representing the Earl in meetings with tenants and contractors, so she would need smart skirt suits and high heels. That took up the rest of the afternoon.

When we got home, I tried everything on. Mary the Secretary eventually emerged. I saw a smart, efficient-looking young woman, borderline obese, I’d have to admit, but who carried her extra poundage like offensive weaponry in the battle of the sexes. There would be no ‘mansplaining’ for this girl! Just let some smart-ass building manager try bamboozling me with his superior male technical knowledge! He wouldn’t know what hit him.

Mary would also wear jewellery. Susie remembered that the family collection included a nice pearl necklace and earrings, not expensive but better than those I had worn as Martha. I didn’t need glasses, but Mary the Secretary would wear a pair (with plain lenses) to distinguish her from Mary the maid, and to make her look more serious and authoritative. I was really looking forward to my new role.

“It still surprises me that you don’t suffer from shyness when you’re Mary or Martha,” Susie said, when she saw me admiring my new self in the mirror.

“I suppose it’s because I’m playing a role,” I said. “Mary isn’t the real me. I’m just acting the part of secretary or maid or whatever. I’m comfortable as long as no one knows it’s me. The woman I’m pretending to be isn’t shy, so that isn’t how I present her.”

“Well, can’t you pretend to be an Earl who isn’t shy?”

“I only wish it worked like that,” I said sadly. “I thought I might have been starting to overcome it when I was Rob, the Maths teacher…”

“Yeah, if a crowd of cheeky thirteen-year-olds spot you’re shy, they’ll tear you to ribbons!”

“But then they made me an Earl and it was back to square one. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable being such a public figure. Sorry! I know it puts a lot more responsibility on you.”

“That’s OK,” said Susie. “I don’t mind being the Countess, as long as I have my faithful lady’s maid to lean on.”

“Always, M’Lady.”

* * *

When Eleanor Beckett wrote to Susie to ask if she could come and see her, we wondered what on earth she was up to, and were concerned that she was trying to make more trouble. But the only way to find out what she wanted was to agree. So we invited her to tea on a Saturday afternoon, to be served by Mary, the Countess’s new maid.

“But don’t you think you should meet her as the Earl?” Susie asked.

“Not at all,” I replied firmly. “She wrote to you, not me. The meeting will be between the old Lady of the Manor and the new one.”

“Actually, I was thinking about that. You realise that with Transformations’ help, you could be the Lady of the Manor if you wanted to be.”

“Of course, I couldn’t!” I laughed. “Everyone knows the Countess is slim and beautiful. They could never make my figure into yours – not unless you put on about thirty pounds!”

“I bet you could be the Dowager Countess though,” Susie said with a calculating look. “You’d probably overcome your shyness in public if you were her. It would be like all your other performances.”

“You think I’d be more confident with people if I’m disguised as my mother?” I asked incredulously.

“It would be great. We could share the load of all those agricultural shows and speech days. Repeat after me: ‘I declare this fête open’.”

She might even be right. Worth thinking about.

“I declare this fête open,” I said, in a Monty Python falsetto.

* * *

“I see you haven’t made many changes,” Eleanor said, looking around.

I put the tea tray down on the sideboard and began pouring.

“Well, there’s no spare money,” Susie said, “as Mr Smythe made clear to everyone. Anyway, it hasn’t needed it. The old Earl may have been a selfish spendthrift, but he certainly looked after his home.”

“Hah!” Eleanor snorted. “That was all my doing. I installed all the double-glazing. I had the rewiring done. I got the roof and floors fixed. I replaced all the old pipework and radiators and got a new boiler.”

I brought Eleanor’s tea to her and offered milk and sugar.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said. “She’s just like her sister, isn’t she?” she said to Susie.

She was speaking about me as though I wasn’t there, as people with servants do. I was getting used to that. I even liked it.

“I was very fond of Martha,” Eleanor continued, showing her heart was in the right place. “I must write to her. I hear she’s had a little boy.”

“That’s right,” Susie confirmed. “I’ll give you her address.” She paused while I brought her tea. “Thank you, Mary,” she said. “We’ll help ourselves to biscuits.”

Staying in character, I curtseyed and turned to leave. I loved being the maid and being able to avoid conversations like these with people like Eleanor.

“So you managed all the renovations then?” Susie continued.

“Yes, we lived with plumbers, electricians and carpenters for eighteen months. Then I redecorated throughout. And I had to squeeze every penny out of the old fool. It was like getting blood out of a stone!”

“I… I didn’t realise,” said Susie, abashed for pretty much the first time I had ever seen.

By this time I was closing the door behind me. I rushed to the kitchen and to the security control room in the old pantry. I sat down at the desk chair and switched on the system for the drawing room.

“My main reason for calling,” Eleanor was saying, “was to apologise for the ordeal my stupid brother put you through, and to assure you I had nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know he’d been to see you…”

“…and threatened us,” put in Susie.

“Indeed,” Eleanor said, a little red in the face now, “but the first I knew of it was when I heard the police wanted him, and he’d... well, you know.”

She paused, as if to gather her courage for what she intended to say next.

“Look, My Lady, I know I behaved badly at the reading of the will and immediately thereafter, but it was the shock, more than anything. His death was so sudden and my whole world turned upside down. I was also worried about my boy, who I am well aware has turned out too much like his father and his Uncle Jack…

“I suppose I tried to justify my behaviour to myself by thinking of the fifteen years Perry and I were together, and all the hard work I’d put in to make something of this place. To see it going to someone else…” She shook her head. “But I knew in my heart that I was never the Countess, only the Earl’s mistress. I had a good run, but he was never going to marry me. As he said in that awful letter, we hadn’t been… close for some time. If it hadn’t been for the boy, he would probably have thrown us out long ago.”

There was silence. Eleanor sipped her tea, making a noise that was somewhere between a slurp, a hiccup, and a sob. From what the High Definition camera in the opposite wall could show me, her eyes were very red now.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Eleanor,” Susie said, her voice full of sympathy. “It can’t have been easy.”

“I didn’t want there to be bad blood between us, My Lady…”

“Oh, please call me Susie!”

Eleanor smiled. “Thank you, Susie, and I’m so sorry about my horrible brother. All he thought about was money, and the idea that he should seek to commoditise my failed relationship with your late father-in-law… Well, it makes my blood boil!”

She certainly seemed sincere. Maybe we had misjudged her. The two of them chatted quite amiably for a little while. When Eleanor eventually stood up to leave, I reached to switch off the camera and end my eavesdropping. Suddenly she changed the subject.

“How is the Earl, by the way?” she said. “I understand that he would want to make himself scarce when Jack was threatening him, but I assumed he would be back now.”

“Oh, he is,” Susie said. “He’s probably out on the Estate somewhere. You know Bill’s retired? Rob wants to try and run the place by himself, so he’s pretty busy. But he is never far away if I really need him. Out of sight, but always close at hand…”

Eleanor smiled politely. I just hoped it wouldn’t occur to her how precisely Susie meant what she said.

* * *

With Transformations’ help Mary Manners now exists formally in her own right, with a National Insurance number, an HMRC reference, and a bank account, into which her employer, the Earl, pays her small salary.

In the mornings I work in Bill’s old office, when I’m not out and about on the Estate. The Earl insists on a smart, professional appearance as I am representing him when I meet with tenants, contractors and creditors. I usually wear a black knee-length skirt, a white blouse, and a black pussy bow, with nude-coloured tights and black three-inch high heel pumps. I also have a very fetching pair of black leather, mid-block heel, knee-high ladies’ boots for when I have to tramp across muddy fields with one of our farmers. They were a ridiculous extravagance, I admit. Green rubber wellies would have done just as well, but a girl’s got to have a few nice things to wear, doesn’t she?

I introduced myself as the Earl’s secretary and the new Assistant Estate Manager to most of our tenants and contractors by e-mail, attaching a head and shoulders photo. Some of the older tenants don’t use e-mail, so I went round to see them in person. As had always happened before, when I was in disguise – even one as extreme as Mary the Secretary – I experienced no trace of shyness or embarrassment. I was just a young businesswoman doing her job.

I’ve managed to launch a few of the smaller development projects Bill had in mind. I write letters on the Earl’s behalf, usually signing them ‘Mary Manners (Ms), pp the Earl of Hadleigh’. Of course, His Lordship has to sign formal documents himself, such as contracts with suppliers and bank loan applications, but I’m good at forging his signature. (We have a great relationship. He is very happy with my work.)

At lunchtime I change into one of a growing number of pretty uniforms and Mary the Secretary becomes Mary the Maid. We expected it to be rare that anyone who knew me as the former should ever come to the Hall and meet me as the latter. Indeed, it hasn’t happened yet but it probably won’t matter if it does. It would be easy enough to explain that neither secretary nor maid was a full-time job, so I do both, and my other employer, the Countess, likes to see me in uniform. (Boy, does she!) She particularly likes to see me in my vintage ones, like maids wore in Victorian and Edwardian times.

As Mary the Maid I help out at all our Society meetings, just as I did when I was my older sister. I would very much like to go out as a cleaning lady again with Fleur. I might manage, say, two days a week, if the Estate Management work quietens down; or maybe just two or three afternoons, if it doesn’t. I miss Fleur and am dying to know how she is getting on with Peter. Of course, she has never met Mary, so I will have to get to know her all over again.

As planned, I switch to Rob every three weeks and stay as him through a long weekend, before going back to being Mary, whom I now regard as my true self. While Rob, I try to put in a few public appearances to show that the Earl might be a recluse, but he isn’t dead. I still hate meeting people as my old self, but I can put up with it, as long as it’s only for a day or two.

I am happy and grateful that Lady Susie accepts me as Mary. She insists she loves me in both my personae, but I actually think she prefers Mary too. I base that on our sex life. We do make love when I’m Rob, and it’s great, but it’s serene, almost sedate. When I’m Mary, she watches me like a tigress, licking her lips, as I strip off my tight shapewear and slip on my sleep bra and nightie. When I finally join her in bed, I often wonder whether I’ll survive the mauling.

Not that I’m complaining, you understand.

 

Epilogue

I straightened my cap and smoothed my apron. I checked my nylons were wrinkle-free and that their seams were straight. Standards must be maintained.

I tottered into the drawing room on my high heels, curtseyed, and offered my mistress a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio from my silver tray.

“Thank you, Mary,” she said. “That’s just what I needed.”

“Shall I run your bath, M’Lady?”

“In a minute,” she said. “No hurry.”

“OK,” I said, abandoning deference for now.

I picked up the other glass and took a large, satisfying mouthful. I plonked the tray on the sideboard and flopped down beside Susie. I kicked off my heels and put my stocking feet up on the pouffe. She reached across, flicked my lace cap off and over the back of the sofa, and kissed me.

“Is that a new lipstick, Mary darling?” she asked. “It tastes of strawberries.”

“Yes, I thought you’d like it. How was your day?”

“Pretty good actually. I brought in a new client. That means I’ve beaten my target for the third quarter in succession. Wainwright said they would consider a full Partnership if I can do that for four successive quarters. Unfortunately, it means my target for the fourth quarter will be even higher.”

“You’ll do it. You’re brilliant.”

“And you’re the best maid – and husband – a Countess could possibly have.”

Her hand was making its way up my leg and under my skirt. I shivered with delight. Then I looked up. There was something I needed to say.

“What is it?” she said, reading my mind, as she always could.

“I just… well, every now and then, I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“Well, don’t you think this is a bit weird? That I’m a bit weird? Dressed like this? Living like this? I’m not being much of a man…”

“Are you happy?”

“God, yes!”

“Well so am I – deliriously. Listen, the way I see it, a man is a person who takes on someone bigger and stronger than himself to protect his wife from being beaten up and raped. It really doesn’t matter how he likes to dress or what work he wants to do.”

“But I’m a maid…”

“Yes, you are, and a very good one. It doesn’t matter anyway,” she said. “You’re lots of people: the reclusive Earl; his sexy secretary; our cleaning lady; my lady’s maid; my husband… But you’re still my soulmate in all those roles. You’re the person I’ve loved since we were children. I’ll love you no matter what you’re doing or how you’re dressed.”

She suddenly stood up and pulled me to my feet. She looked me sternly in the eye. I felt a tear running down my cheek. I let it.

“So do you love me?” she said.

“Yes, M’Lady,” I said, dipping into a curtsey. “We do – all of us; and we always will.”

Her hands had found their way up my skirt again.

“I fancy making love to a sexy French Maid tonight,” she said, licking the inside of my ear. “Why don’t you get changed – after you’ve run my bath, of course?”

“Oui, oui, madame,” I whispered. “A votre service.”

So it appears my ‘identity drift’ is complete. I am now truly Mary Manners, thirty-five-year-old spinster, secretary to the Earl of Hadleigh and lady’s maid (and secret lover) to the Countess.

Every three weeks or so Vera and Sharon at Transformations disguise me as the Earl himself and I put in a few nervous appearances as him to assure people that he’s still around, but in reality he’s gone forever.