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The old servant led me through the scullery, slowing momentarily to place the wickerwork basket on a well-scrubbed wooden draining board next to one of several heavy porcelain sinks. I followed her into the main kitchen, which was big enough to allow a platoon of cooks to produce resplendent banquets for a small army, but now looked barely used. On the other side of the kitchen, we stepped out into the narrow corridors of the servants' quarters, lined with doors which led who-knows-where. I was curious. Normally when I turn up at people's doors unannounced, they are at least a little bit suspicious, if not downright nasty. Here, I seemed to be expected. At the end of the corridor was the windowless little office which was the domain of the head of the servants. Inside there was a tiny desk, barely big enough to allow a newspaper to be fully unfolded. On one side was a wall-mounted metal cupboard with a combination lock which must have contained important items, such as the keys to the wine cellars, and the other was lined with bookcases containing leather-bound volumes which no doubt contained details of domestic transactions stretching back hundreds of years. Tibbermore was sitting behind the desk, making an entry in another of the bound ledgers with an old-fashioned fountain pen in a equally old-fashioned italic hand. He looked up sharply as the maid knocked and curtseyed, then smiled thinly when he spotted me behind her. "Thank you, Molly," he said firmly, standing up politely and beckoning me inside. The maid curtseyed again and backed out, shutting the door behind her. "Good afternoon, sir," Tibbermore said, indicating the only other chair in the room, "You found our hidden gate, I see?" "Indeed," I replied, sitting down and tugging off my hat, "I take it I'm on the list of those allowed through?" "Correct, sir," he confirmed, "It seemed expedient. The main part of the house is still cordoned off by the police, although they don’t seem to be doing very much. In any case, we prefer to keep the attentions of the gentlemen of the press at the front door." "Probably wise," I said noncommittally. These kinds of magical entrances are rare these days, being difficult to make and thus very expensive. The glamour has to be tuned to the individuals who are permitted to enter, itself a skilled adjustment. To anybody else, the entrance is not just impermeable but also invisible. Tibbermore must have access to a very able magical artisan. "Now," I went on, turning my hat around and around in my hands, "I need to ask you some more questions?" "Of course, sir," he answered blandly, although his forehead betrayed the slight wrinkling of confusion, "On what topic?" "The topic," I said slowly, "Is Cutmal Lundie." "Ah, yes," Tibbermore replied, looking faintly upset, or perhaps he just had a twinge from a stomach ulcer. "Lady Strowan never mentioned that Cutmal Lundie was a regular visitor," I added, "But I have it on good authority that he was often here." "Intelligence from Mister Methven, I imagine," Tibbermore said perceptively, "And, yes sir, Mister Lundie was a regular visitor. Too regular, perhaps." "So why didn't her Ladyship mention him?" "The reason," Tibbermore said sadly, "Is that Lady Strowan didn't know that Mister Lundie was a visitor." I frowned deeply. "Why not?" I demanded. "Well, sir," the old retainer said placidly, "There's something of a family secret here. I was hoping to avoid telling it, but I imagine you will insist."
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Part 29