While he waited for the water to boil, Alfred Belt stared absently at the kitchen calendar: âWith the compliments of The Little Codling Garage. Service with a smile. Geo. Copperâ. Below this legend was a coloured photograph of a kitten in a boot and below that the month of March. Alfred removed them and exposed a coloured photograph of a little girl smirking through apple blossom.
He warmed a silver teapot engraved on its belly with Mr Pyke Periodâs crest: a fish. He refolded the Daily Press and placed it on the breakfast tray. The toaster sprang open, the electric kettle shrieked. Alfred made tea, put the toast in a silver rack, transferred bacon and eggs from pan to crested entrée dish and carried the whole upstairs.
He tapped at his employerâs door and entered. Mr Pyke Period, a silver-haired bachelor with a fresh complexion, stirred in his bed, gave a little snort, opened his large brown eyes, mumbled his lips, and blushed.
Alfred said: âGood morning, sir.â He placed the tray and turned away in order that Mr Period could assume his teeth in privacy. He drew back the curtains. The village green looked fresh in the early light. Decorous groups of trees, already burgeoning, showed fragile against distant hills. Wood-smoke rose delicately from several chimneys and in Miss Cartellâs house across the green, her Austrian maid shook a duster out of an upstairs window. In the field beyond, Miss Cartellâs mare grazed peacefully.
âGood morning, Alfred,â Mr Period responded, now fully articulate.
Alfred drew back the curtains from the side window, exposing a small walled garden, a gardenerâs shed, a path and a gate into a lane. Beyond the gate was a trench, bridged with planks and flanked by piled-up earth. Three labourers had assembled beside it.
âThose chaps still at it in the lane, sir,â said Alfred, returning to the bedside. He placed Mr Periodâs spectacles on his tray and poured his tea.
âDamnâ tedious of them, I must say. However! Good God!â Mr Period mildly exclaimed. He had opened his paper and was reading the Obituary Notices. Alfred waited.
âLord Ormsburyâs gone,â Mr Period informed him.
âGone, sir?â
âDied. Yesterday it seems. Motor accident. Terrible thing. Fifty-two, it gives here. One never knows. âSurvived by his sister â ââ He made a small sound of displeasure.
âThat would be Desirée, Lady Bantling, sir, wouldnât it?â Alfred ventured, âat Baynesholme?â
âExactly, Alfred. Precisely. And what must these fellows do but call her âThe Dowagerâ. She hates it. Always has. And not even correct, if it comes to that. One would have expected the Press to know better.â He read on. A preoccupied look, indeed one might almost have said a look of pleasurable anticipation, settled about his rather babyish mouth.
Below, in the garden, a dog began to bark hysterically.
âGood God!â Mr Period said quietly and closed his eyes.
âIâll attend to her, sir.â
âI cannot for the life of me see â however!â
âWill there be anything further, sir?â Alfred asked.
âWhat? No. No, thank you. Miss Cartell for luncheon, you remember. And Miss Maitland-Mayne.â
âCertainly, sir. Arriving by the ten twenty. Will there be anything required in the library, sir?â
âI canât think of anything. Sheâs bringing her own typewriter.â Mr Period looked over the top of his paper and appeared to come to a decision. âHer grandfather,â he said, âwas General Maitland-Mayne. An old friend of mine.â