“I talked to her while she was bathing,” I confided. I did not mention that this had taken place in Harriet’s boudoir. Whatever I was, I wasn’t a rat.

There was no response.

“Aren’t you interested, Daffy?”

“There’s time enough to meet these thespians later. They always put on a dog and pony show before the actual filming begins. A grace and favor thing. They call it ‘yakking up the yokels.’ Someone will take us round and show us all the ciné gear and tell us what a bloody marvel it is. Then they’ll introduce us to the actors, beginning with the boy who plays the hero as a child and falls through the ice, and ending with Phyllis Wyvern herself.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

Daffy preened a little.

“I try to keep myself well informed,” she said. “Besides, they shot a couple of exteriors at Foster’s last year, and Flossie dished the dirt.”

“I wouldn’t expect there was much dirt if they were only shooting exteriors,” I said.

“You’d be surprised,” Daffy said darkly, and went on with her reading.

At four-thirty, the doorbell rang. I had been sitting on the stairs watching the electricians as they snaked miles of black cable from the foyer to far-flung corners of the house.

Father had ordered us to keep to our quarters and not to interfere with the work at hand, and I was doing my best to obey. Since the eastern staircase led up to my bedroom and laboratory, it could be considered, technically at least, as part of my quarters, and I certainly had no intention of interfering with the ciné crew.

Several rows of chairs had been set up in the foyer as if a meeting were planned, and I threaded my way through them to see who was at the door.

With all the noise and bustle of the workmen, Dogger mustn’t have heard the bell.

I opened the door and there, to my surprise, amid the whirling snow, stood the vicar, Denwyn Richardson.

“Ah, Flavia,” he said, brushing the flakes from his heavy black coat and stamping his galoshes like a cart horse’s feet, “how lovely to see you. May I come in?”