In the fading evening night, the landing was so dark as to be almost black. Perhaps that's what caught Maisie's eye - the streak of light seeping out of Mr. Ashbury's door. Blast. She swore softly and fluently to herself. Now, why was he home? "What's that old tattletale doin'here?" she muttered. Shwe wondered if he'd heard her kicking the trunk.

Maisie didn't think she'd get the sack, not after Boyd's runnin' off like that. But she wasn't sure. Mr. Frommer could be a right old tartar. Breaking the silliest rule could find you out on the street, she thought, remembering what had happened to Emma only a few days before the household had gone to Ascot. Poor girl had been sacked over a ruddy flowerpot. Blast. It'd be just like that old Ashbury t pretend he wasn't here and then tell the master he'd heard her kickin' their precious trunk. Well, she wasn't having it. She wasn't going to spend the next few hours or even days wondering if the ax was going to fall. She glared at the doorway and then, when she heard nothing, boldly decided to take matters into her own hands. Maybe Mr. Ashbury hadn't come in yet. "Mr. Ashbury?" she said softly as she pushedthe door open. "Are you in here, sir?"

There was no answer.

She steped inside and gazed sharplyaround the spacious sitting room. Empty. But he'd been here.

The heavy curtains were wide open, letting in the last rays of the fading sun. A fully-loaded tea trolley stood next to his favorite balloon-backed chair. Bloomin' odd, she thought stepping farther into the room. She could see that the door to the connecting bedroom stood open and the top of the spread was rumpled. "Mr. Ashbury, sir. Are ya here?"

No one replied.

The hair on the back of Maisie's neck stood up. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Tentatively she tok a step closer to the tea trolley. "Mr. Ashbury?"

Silence.

"Oh, this is stupid," she muttered, more to give herself courage than for anything else. The back of Mr. Ashbury's chair faced the door. Maisie walked over to it and peeked around the edge. She gasped in surprise. The old man himself was sitting there, staring straight at her.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir," she bgean as she backed away. "I didn't realize you was in here."

He said nothing; he merely gazed at her out of his pale washed-out hazel eyes.

"I thought there might be something amiss, sir," she explained, "when I saw the door open a crack, sir. I mean, we didn't think you were due home until tonight, sir."

He continued to stare at her.

Maisie stopped. She realized he hadn't so much as blinked. She walked across the room and knelt right in front of him.

He didn't move a muscle.

She waved her hand in front of his eyes.

He didn't blink.

Relieved, she sighed. At least he wouldn't be running to Mr. Frommer telling tales now. "Old bligher's kicked off," she murmured. Death was no stranger to Maisie. She'd buried both her parents and three brothers by the time she was fourteen. Matter-of-factly she reached over to close Mr. Ashbury's eyes. Not because she liked him, but out of respect for the dead in general. As she touched him, he toppled to one side.