‘Why didn’t she want me seeing it?’
‘Your opinion of her is very important, and she’s aware of your views on the aristocracy. She didn’t want you to think less of her.’
‘But … why would I think less of her? Just because her dad’s rich? That’s stupid.Mydad’s rich.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Just how big an estate is it?’
‘Almost eighteen thousand acres of prime farming land. Numerous tenants. One of the best grouse moors in the country.’
‘And the house?’
‘Comparatively modest,’ Ania said. ‘Just fifteen bedrooms and a few reception rooms. Elcid’s office, obviously. Why, is that important?’
‘It could be,’ Poe replied. ‘When the police said they’d searched the house to make sure the killer wasn’t still on the premises, I thought they were referring to a two-up, two-down. I didn’t know they were searching a bloody mansion. What if the killer was a world champion hide ’n’ seek player? There are hidden servant entrances, priest holes, all sorts of stuff in these old houses.’
‘They used search dogs,’ Ania said.
Poe hadn’t known that. He thought about how easily Edgar found him when they played together. It didn’t matter how well he hid, the spaniel always knew where he was. Something Ania had said finally filtered through.
‘What do you mean, “She’s aware of your views on the aristocracy”?’
‘I thought you knew?’
‘Knew what?’
‘Elcid Doyle’s formal title was Lord Doyle, the Marquess of Northumberland.’
‘What the hell’s a “marquess”?’
‘I understand it’s the hereditary rank between duke and earl.’
‘Hereditary? You mean it’s passed on.’
‘Yes, Sergeant Poe; that’s what hereditary means. Estelle is now Lady Doyle, the Marchioness of Northumberland.’
‘Bloody hellfire.’
‘She’s asked me to tell you that she’s never had anything to do with her aristocratic rank, or the privilege that came with it.’
Bradshaw joined him outside.
‘What did Ania Kierczynska say, Poe?’ she said.
‘The Doyles are richer than that short-arse offThe Apprenticeand from now on every time we see Estelle we have to bow.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Nor do I, Tilly,’ he said. ‘But it seems we’re not trying to help Estelle Doyle any more.’
‘We’re not?’
‘No, we’re now trying to helpLadyDoyle, the Marchioness of Northumberland.’
Understanding rippled across Bradshaw’s face. ‘So that’s what she was scared of telling you,’ she said.
‘Excuse me?’