Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

“Now why don’t you tell me what’s going on here?” he began, setting the china pot at her elbow and taking a respectful seat on a high-backed chair the opposite side of the fire.

“What isn’t, George Hardy, what isn’t? They come up here in their big cars and expect aired bedrooms and lashings of hot water — and you know as well as I that the Old Squire never did have the system fixed and that every drop of hot water has to be carried up in kettles. And the Old Squire’s bed linen would disgrace a pauper. I offered to get girls in from the village — they’re used to hard work and now the soldiers have come back and taken their jobs they’ve time on their hands and more. Then I changed my mind.”

“He wouldn’t have them?”

She shook her head. More strands of hair came adrift, and to his amazement she stripped off the cap and slung it onto the floor. “It’s me. I wouldn’t want decent girls under the same roof as these — well, I know they call themselves flappers, but I like to call a spade a spade. They’re doxies!”

“Doxies?”

“You can tell me I’m old-fashioned, George Hardy, and I know the war’s changed everything. But there’s nothing wrong with decency. You tell me there is!”

George shook his head in silence.

“It’s all picnics! Well, you saw the hampers. Even in the house. No decent meals at all. Plenty of drink, mind you. So in my kitchen I’ve got those — those creatures, boys you can hardly tell from girls with their mincing ways and rouge and lipstick. Above stairs is worse! There it’s girls you can hardly tell from boys, with their shingled hair and cigarettes in holders this long and no... and no—”

He waited.

“And no underwear!” she concluded, as if infected by their rashness. “And it’s worse than cigarettes, George. Things that they smell and potions they take. And they drink — it’s cocktails here, cocktails there. I don’t suppose there’s a minute of the day when the whole lot are sober. They have to double up in the bedrooms, of course. But it’s always been young men sharing, pretending they don’t mind camp beds. Now when you take the morning tea you don’t know who’s going to be with — well, you don’t need to know the details.”

“You’ve got to remember the lads are back from soldiering, Jemima. They’re bound to have a few high spirits—”

She was so worked up she ignored his use of her name. “Soldiers! That lot, soldiers! No, they were all in ‘Manufacturing’ — manufacturing money for their own pockets, I have no doubt. Well, look at their cars. Rolls-Royces. Bentleys. Mr. Cobbold counted eighteen in the stable yard this morning. And they play that jazz music on their gramophones night and day. George, it’s not decent, the lives they lead. Oh, why did they ever sell him the place, when it could have been a hospital?”

“A hospital?” There’d been a rumour in the village but nothing as definite as this.

“Yes. For those poor lads with faces — you know — hurt by shells and such like. But now we’ve got him instead.”

When he got the contract for all the changes, he’d take her away from all this. But all he could do now was reach and press her hand briefly. Before she could fire up, he stood, gathering his roll of plans and telling her what he’d hoped. As he talked, she let him spread the plans on the table, commenting occasionally, “Now, you could get Harry Raven to do that,” or, “Even Frank might manage that.” They walked slowly to the yard together. Suddenly she gripped his arm. “That’s him! That’s Mr. Winspeare. What’s he doing here, in the servants’ quarters?”

Mr. Winspeare was as happy to ignore the conventions as his guests, it seemed. In his shirtsleeves and a cerise waistcoat, he was deep in discussion with his chauffeur, an outsider who rarely appeared in the village without the protection of his vehicle and whose uniform brought back uncomfortable memories to some of the men.

“Go on — now’s your chance!” Jemima whispered. “Go and talk to him.” She pushed him so hard he almost staggered.

“Mr. Winspeare! Mr. Winspeare!”

At last Winspeare turned. And, spluttering an explanation, George could see reflected in his cold clear eyes exactly what Winspeare saw — an old buffoon of a man, red-faced with embarrassment and passion, scattering badly rolled tubes of paper.

“Plans? Well, you can leave them if you like, old fellow. I’ll see what my chappie has to say.” He seized them so roughly that he crumpled them, and chucked them into the back of the car.