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The staff of Spare Parts Limited did not see their traveller for another twenty-four hours, and they were just about to close the doors of the office for ever and repair to a funereal lunch when the Irishman’s ancient car came to a halt outside with a death-wail. A few minutes later Timothy O’Hara bounded into their presence.

“Praise be, it’s in time I am!” he cried. “I thought ye might all be gone!”

“Yes, you’re just in time for the burial service,” replied Jerry Haines, gloomily.

He was feeling very depressed, and was in no mood for the Irishman’s exuberance.

“Is it as bad as that!” said O’Hara, and glanced at Madeleine.

Madeleine was not feeling much happier than Jerry. Despite the trials and tribulations of the past fortnight—possibly on account of them, for trouble shared produces its special brand of companionship—the staff had developed a pleasant friendliness, and now felt as though a family were being broken up. But Madeleine never allowed adversity to get completely on top of her. She was perpetually intrigued by the unknown morrow, and she always held herself ready for the unexpected.

“Perhaps not quite as bad as that,” she answered O’Hara, “but if you join our farewell lunch don’t expect us to be in top form.”

“And is that mattering if I’m in top form meself?” he retorted.

Jerry groaned inwardly. O’Hara’s ebullition was going to be even worse than he had expected. Evidently hearts already depressed were about to be further deflated by blatant jests and tactless good-humour. Probably O’Hara would make a funny farewell speech designed disastrously to cheer them!

Fingleton, contending against his own gloom, cleared his throat and tried to make the best of it.

“I am sure we are all very glad to have Mr. O’Hara with us,” he said. “We were just about to pop across to Sherwell’s, Mr. O’Hara, for—so to speak—a last little bite.”

“So do not let us stand upon the order of popping, but let us pop!” cried Madeleine. “Come along, folks! I don’t know how you feel, but I’ve a tremendous urge to get the door of Spare Parts Limited completely behind me. By the way, Jerry, what do we do with the office keys?”

“Dear me!” blinked Fingleton. “Yes! The office keys! Dear me!”

“Why not post them to 19a, Fenner Crescent, W.2.?” suggested O’Hara.

“Oh! Lovely idea!” exclaimed Madeleine.

“But—er—surely, I thought there was no such address?” mentioned Fingleton.

“No, and there isn’t any Spare Parts Limited,” retorted Madeleine. “I call this sheer beauty! Mr. Bloggs told us he would be at 19a, Fenner Crescent on Monday, and it’s his own funeral if he’s not there to receive his mail! Jolly good mark for you, Mr. O’Hara! I say, what a headache the Post Office will have trying to trace a man who’s vanished from an address that doesn’t exist! Picture the keys travelling round and round the world for years, till they end up in some cobwebby pigeonhole of the dead letter office!”

“But wouldn’t they be returned to the sender?” asked O’Hara. “Which, being Spare Parts Limited, would land them in the letter-box on the wrong side of the door—a door no one could open for lack of them?”

Everybody laughed but Robert Tonsil. While following the travels of the keys in his mind, he had taken them far more seriously, and now a startling picture formed, developed from O’Hara’s last suggestion.

“Yus, and then,” he said sepulchrally, “when at last the police turn up and force the door, wot do they find? Not only the keys, but Mr. Bloggs’s body lyin’ on the floor!”

He gazed on the floor intently as he spoke. He saw that body.

“I think,” Madeleine proposed, in a gentle voice, “it is really time we moved.”

And so, after a last look round to ensure that no personal property was being left behind to form evidence in a future murder trial, the staff of Spare Parts Limited trooped out of the office, the key was turned, and they descended to the street. Here, by the Irishman’s car, they paused.

“Er—you are coming with us?” asked Jerry.

O’Hara nodded a disappointing affirmative.

“Of course I’m comin’ with ye!” he replied. “Haven’t I got to tell ye all about your new jobs?”

“Treat the poor lad gently,” murmured Madeleine. “The situation has evidently turned his brain.”

“Faith, I’ll be turnin’ yours in a minute!” laughed O’Hara. “Did ye think now that I’d come along to shed tears with ye? If weepin’ there be, I’ll do that by meself. Come along, now—and if I’m daft, ye can tell me that at Sherwell’s.”

Ten minutes later, over meals varying from beef and Yorkshire to fish and chips, Timothy O’Hara was unfolding his strange tale, and it was indeed a strange tale that he had to tell. In spite of his confident demeanour a qualm of doubt assailed him as, the orders given and the meal started, he groped in his mind for the best way to begin. All at once the best way occurred to him, startling in its simplicity. It was to begin at the beginning.

He rapped the rather soiled table-cloth for attention, then waited till Fingleton got over a little coughing fit. Fingleton was easily disturbed when swallowing.

“Do ye all remember, now,” said O’Hara, “that when you went to lunch yesterday, I nobly restrained me own appetite and stayed behind to hold the fort?”

“We do,” answered Madeleine. “Today, of course, it’s not necessary because there’s no fort to hold.”

“Strictly speaking,” interjected Fingleton, “quite strictly speaking, I am still a little worried about our procedure. I cannot help wondering whether it is—er—precisely——”

“It may not be precisely,” agreed O’Hara, “but Mr. Bloggs’s procedure hasn’t been precisely, either, so we won’t be worryin’ afther that. We’ve other things to think about. Where was I?”

“Holding the fort,” Jerry reminded him.

“Ah, so I was. And smokin’, and yawnin’, and readin’—and ’tis the readin’ I’m goin’ to talk to ye about. For begorrah what I read was what sent me out of the office as soon as you all came back into it, and took me on the journey I’ve just returned from. Faith, I didn’t even stop to wash, I was so fearin’ to miss you.”

“Mr. O’Hara,” said Madeleine, patiently.

“Miss Trent?” replied O’Hara.

“When you talk to your prospective customers, does it always take you as long as this to get to the point?”

O’Hara grinned.

“I’ve heard ye call Mr. Haines Jerry,” he said.

“Then for God’s sake get on with it, Tim!” Madeleine answered.

She liked this mad Irishman, but had decided that it would be a mistake to like him too much. Unrepentantly, O’Hara still grinned at her.

“Ye’ll not be speakin’ like that up in Derbyshire,” he remarked.

“Oh! Are we going to Derbyshire?”

“ ’Tis quiet and polite ye’ll be. No swearin’. No arms on the table. No knees showin’.”

Fingleton cleared his throat, with the welcome result that O’Hara hurried his narrative before the clerk could make another of his rather painful interruptions.

“Now, then, we’re off!” said O’Hara. “What I was readin’ was an advertisement. A most amazin’ advertisement. It said—well, I’ll tell ye what it said, for I have it on me.” He dived into his pocket and brought forth a bulging wallet. Extracting the advertisement from a mass of other contents, he cleared his own throat, and proceeded: “Now, listen to this. ‘Wanted immediately. A complete new staff of seven, to run old family seat in old family way. In highly unlikely event of staff proving suitable, and carrying out very special instructions, considerable ultimate advantage may accrue——’ I like the wordin’ of that, now ‘considerable ultimate advantage may accrue to the applicants. Fuller particulars given at personal interview. Apply, in writing, Sir Walter Cresswell, Cresswell Hall, Cresswell, Derbyshire.’ Now, what do ye make of that?”

He replaced the advertisement in his wallet, while his audience wondered what they made of it.

“What did you make of it?” asked Jerry Haines.

“Nothing at all, at all,” answered O’Hara. “But bein’ a bit of a lunatic meself, I was intrigued by what ye may call a sense o’ sympathy. And I’m a firm believer in the number ‘seven.’ ”

“And—is that where you’ve been? To Cresswell Hall.”

“In me own little car.”

“The advertisement said, ‘Apply in writing,’ ” pointed out Fingleton, the strict observer of rules.

“I wrote a note just before I got there,” replied O’Hara, blandly, “and was me own postman. Would ye like to hear what I said in the note? I’ll read it to ye. I’ve got a copy, because I made a blot on it and had to write it out again. ’Tis a mistake to apply for a job with a blot.”

Once more he produced his overstocked wallet, and extracted a sheet of paper.

“ ‘Dear sir,’ ” he read. “ ‘On behalf of myself and sundry others, I beg to request an interview in reference to your advertisement for a new staff. It appears to the writer that you require a staff with unusual qualifications and of infinite variety, and we are undoubtedly both qualified and varied. Whether we shall be able to carry out the special duties you evidently require to the considerable ultimate advantage at which you kindly hint, cannot be judged until we know more about you and you know more about us, but if the followin’ points have any interest for you, the undersigned is at the door waitin’ to be interviewed. (1) We are honest and sober. (2) Our last employer was neither. (3) This explains why we are now all out of a job. (4) We are not sorry to leave our last employer, though strictly speakin’ he left us, but we would be sorry to leave each other, hence this application in force. (5) You may consider it an advantage that, havin’ all worked together, we know each other’s ways and means, our ways however bein’, admittedly, superior to our means. (6) For partial explanation of above reference, see “2.” (7) Should your special duties require enterprise and originality, the speed and form of this application may indicate our possession of same. (8) We are seven, and therefore numerically correct. Yours hopefully, signed T. O’Hara. Postscript. Ye may have guessed I’m Irish, but the other six are strictly English.’ ”

The silence that followed the reading of this unique application was broken by Fingleton on a characteristic point of accuracy.

“You mention seven,” he said, “but that is an error. We are only six.”

“I’ve included one absentee,” replied O’Hara.

“Who would that be?”

“Mrs. Clover.”

“What! Mrs. Clover!” exclaimed Jerry. “You don’t really imagine she’d come in on this?”

“Truth to tell, did I imagine any of ye would?” answered O’Hara.

“Well—did you?” demanded Madeleine.

“Faith, I’ve no notion,” answered O’Hara, “but don’t be cross with me now! We’re all out of jobs, but there’s no compulsion. I’m just—showin’ ye the sample, as it were, but ’tis up to you whether you want to buy.”

Jerry Haines nodded. After a covert glance at Madeleine, he said:

“Personally I rather like the idea, but I’m not buying it till I know a bit more about it. Actually, of course, the whole thing’s absolutely fantastic!” He glanced at Madeleine again. “Isn’t it?”

“Oh, daft!” she agreed. “I never heard of anything more lurid! But, for the work of a lunatic, I must say Tim’s letter was rather a masterpiece. What happened, Tim, when you presented it? We’ve not heard that yet.”

O’Hara chuckled. He was feeling happy. He could read signs.

“I presented it,” he answered, “to a sullen maid who had tried to make up like Merle Oberon and Loretta Young and succeeded in neither. She had so much scent that I had to fan meself afther she had gone off to deliver it. Ah, but what a hall it was to wait in! I’ve not told ye about that! Or the grounds—like a small park, they are, and the house standin’ in the middle as if it had grown there, like the trees——”

“In fact, you fell for it,” interposed Madeleine.

“I fell for it,” admitted O’Hara.

“But not for the overpainted maid,” Jerry reminded him, “who has just gone off with your note.”

“So she has! And here am I waitin’ with a funny feelin’ in the middle of me stomach. And now she’s comin’ back lookin’ more sullen than ever because me little letter had done its job and she was to admit me when she wanted to boot me out with a kick in the pants! And I think to meself, ‘If you’re a sample of the present staff of Cresswell Hall, ’tis not surprisin’ that Sir Walter and his lady want to make a clean sweep!’ Mind ye, it was late for the call, as the maid reminded me—last night it was, with me too impatient to wait for the mornin’—and ’tis true that when I saw Sir Walter and Lady Cresswell in the drawing-room—ah, a gem of a room that was, with its long windows and blue hangings and glass chandelier and all—when I saw them, I thought to meself that ’twas time they were both in bed.” He paused. “Now, how is it you’ve been picturing them all the while I’ve been talkin’.”

“Couple o’ nobs,” suggested Smith, making his first contribution to the conversation.

“Lord and Lidy Gulverstone,” added Tonsil.

“Who are Lord and Lady Gulverstone?” enquired O’Hara.

Tonsil looked at him rather pityingly.

“The couple ’oo was murdered in Blood on the Third Stair,” he replied. “Ain’t you read it?”

“Afraid not,” smiled O’Hara. “How old were Lord and Lady Gulverstone before their unfortunate demise?”

“Wot?”

“At what age were they murdered?”

“It didn’t say.”

“Were they eighty apiece?”

“Lummy, no!”

“Well,” said O’Hara, “I should judge Sir Walter and Lady Cresswell to be about eighty apiece—but of course that doesn’t describe ’em. They are a most extraordinary couple—a most extraordinary couple—and it was a most extraordinary interview. Faith, the moment I saw them I felt meself back in the nursery—does that tell ye anything?—and afther the maid had been dismissed, praise be—ah, she was a bitch of a maid, though that’s not a word I’d use at Cresswell Hall—afther she’d been dismissed I had a queer sensation that if I didn’t give the right answers I’d be put in a corner! But, mind ye, don’t get the picture wrong. I liked them while they terrified me. No, ’tis impossible, I can’t describe me feelin’s. But here’s this. Although that old couple were so fragile you felt if you touched them they’d fall to bits, they seemed more solid than meself! They’ll be crumblin’ in their graves while I’m still runnin’ about loose, but ’twas I who was the temporary one, and them the permanent. They—they——”

“They got you,” interposed Madeleine.

O’Hara laughed.

“They did that!”

“But did you get them?”

“I’m tellin’ ye! ‘Good evenin’, Mr. O’Hara,’ said Sir Walter. ‘Good evenin’, Sir Walter,’ said I. ‘Good evenin’,’ said Lady Cresswell. ‘Good evenin’,’ said I. ‘Do you like Picasso?’ said Sir Walter. ‘Well, ’tis not my fancy,’ I said. What is Picasso?”

“Picasso is an artist,” replied Jerry, “though some might argue the point.”

“An artist!” exclaimed O’Hara, in surprise. “I thought mebbe ’twas some Italian dish, and I hate all foreign food. But evidently I gave the right answer, for the old couple nodded at each other, and then Lady Cresswell asked, ‘And service flats?’ ‘I wouldn’t be found dead in one,’ I said. Ah, wait! I can see what’s on the tip of your tongue! Why did I answer that? What have I got against ’em? Nothin’. But ’tis me belief Heaven was watchin’ me and whisperin’ the right answers. And daft though the old couple were—ah, the sight of them, sittin’ there so feeble and fragile in that big Victorian room—yes, daft though they were, to give the wrong answers was not to be thought of! ... They exchanged approvin’ glances again, and then, each in turn, fired a lot more questions at me. Did I like cocktails? Did I like jazz? What was my opinion of croonin’? Did I jitter-bug? What were my politics? Could I live without wireless? What was my view about contraception?”

“Wot’s that?” asked Tonsil, who like the commissionaire was doing his best to follow.

Fingleton cleared his throat violently.

“Life’s a long while, laddie,” said O’Hara, “and ye’ve plenty of time to learn. Well, the upshot was that, afther I’d had more questions fired at me than a film star gets from a boatload of reporters, I was sent out of the room while Sir Walter and his lady went into private conference. I was to return when they rang a bell. When it rang, I went back, and was told that we were all engaged for a month on approval, and that we were to report for duty by midday on Monday next as ever was.” He paused, and glanced round the table enquiringly. “So the question now before us is—do we?”

“It’s a question that needs a little time for thought,” said Jerry, guardedly. “I notice we’re none of us eating. Shall we have an adjournment of five minutes, and think while we munch?”

“Jolly good idea,” agreed Madeleine, although her own mind was already made up.

Fingleton looked at his watch. While the rest ate and thought, he only thought. He was living in a temporary daze and the abrupt switch over from a life of rules and routines to the formlessness of lunacy, and from a capital of a hundred and twenty-seven pounds five and eightpence to nil, took away all appetite. At the end of the five minutes he gave the company a few more moments of grace, and then cleared his throat.

“Time, Mr. Fingleton?” enquired Madeleine.

“Er—yes,” he answered.

“Then I’ll lead off,” she said. “Chalk me down yes. I’m all for it.”

O’Hara gave her a rather wicked wink.

“Are ye sure ye can live without jazz and wireless?” he asked.

“Not all my life, perhaps,” she replied, “but beggars can’t be choosers. There’s one thing I don’t understand, though. All those questions were asked of you! How do they know that the rest of us share your most convenient views?”

“Because I told them you did. ‘Ah, I can vouch for them all,’ I said, ‘we’re a most unusual crew.’ ”

“And they believed it?”

O’Hara rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“They’ve engaged us,” he said.

“They must be very simple!”

“Mebbe—mebbe.”

“Or may be not,” exclaimed Jerry. “Perhaps we’re going too fast. We’ve been badly caught once—we don’t want to come a second cropper.”

“That’s true, Jerry,” said Madeleine, seriously, “and I wouldn’t chalk my yes on the board if this were another case of investing capital. Only it’s something quite different. Somehow it has—it has such a peaceful sound—and it keeps us all together. If there’s nothing else to it, we could regard it as a month in the country, all expenses paid. Oh, by the way, Tim, I suppose all expenses will be paid?”

“Livin’ expenses?” answered O’Hara. “Ah, we can count on that.”

“How about travelling expenses?”

“Lady Cresswell mentioned them, and I gave her a good mark for it, but I told her we wouldn’t be needin’ any travellin’ expenses.”

“Oh! And why not?”

“Mebbe I wanted to make a good impression, and to show that we had what ye might call financial restraint. Mebbe I was playin’ for a good mark, too.”

“But——”

“Are ye forgetting me old car? Sure it’ll take the lot of us.”

“I doubt whether it will assist the good impression when we turn up in it!” remarked Madeleine, grimly.

“And there’s another thing you’ve not mentioned, old chap,” said Jerry. “Our salaries. Did you want to make another good impression by suggesting we didn’t need any?”

“And—er—if I might mention yet another little point,” added Fingleton, “what, precisely, will be our duties? I think the—er—the phrase in the advertisement was ‘staff.’ It would assist our deliberations if the, so to speak, implications of the phrase were made a little clearer.”

O’Hara nodded, and tried hard not to feel anxious.

“Yes, of course—duties and salaries,” he replied. “I must give you a little more information about that. Faith, there’s been so much to talk about!”

For the third time he produced his bulging wallet, and extracted another paper.

“ ’Tis this way we worked it out,” he said, and read:

“Steward	Mr. J. Haines
Housekeeper	Mrs. G. H. Clover
Parlourmaid	Miss M. Trent
Butler	Mr. B. Smith
Cook	Mr. T. O’Hara
Gardener	Mr. W. Fingleton
Odd Jobs	Mr. R. Tonsil.”

This intriguing list created a profound impression, and O’Hara missed no expression as each item was read. Perhaps the happiest expression was that of William Fingleton. His cheeks became suddenly pink. A gardener! Among roses! Fantastic, fantastic! But here was somebody talking about it. It was down in black and white—Gardener, Mr. W. Fingleton.

“Does the parlourmaid get any help when she is dusting the large Victorian drawing-room with the blue curtains?” enquired Madeleine. “I’ve an idea that, in spite of being an octogenarian, Lady Cresswell will spend her mornings toddling around the place and passing an enquiring finger over surfaces!”

“There’s a kitchen wench remainin’, and the housekeeper may help you,” answered O’Hara, “not to mention the butler and Odd Jobs. And the cook, if he has any off moments, ye’ll find very good-natured.”

“Can you cook?”

“Sure, I’m a first-class cook. ’Twas only me modesty that stopped me describin’ meself as a chef.”

“What does a steward do?” asked Jerry.

“I thort they was on’y on ships,” said Tonsil.

“There’s another kind on land,” replied O’Hara, “though divil I know what they do.” He turned to the commissionaire. “How about you for the butler, Smith?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been a batman,” blinked Smith.

“Then you’ll make an A1 butler. If the work’s too heavy, we can complain, and if complainin’s no good, we can leave at the end of the month. Any more questions?”

“You have omitted the vital one of salary,” Jerry reminded him.

“Ah, I was wonderin’ who’d be remindin’ me that!” smiled O’Hara. “Here’s the wage list, and if ye don’t like it, now’s the time to say so.”

The list was passed round. They all liked it. Not one complaint was raised.

“I must be a very superior maid to be getting all this,” remarked Madeleine. “Will the other maid—the one who let you in—put me through my paces?”

O’Hara shook his head.

“She’ll be gone before we come,” he answered, “with all the rest of ’em barring I understand, the kitchen wench and the lot at the lodge.”

“Oh! Who are they?”

“The lodge-keeper and couple of under-gardeners.”

Fingleton looked astonished. Was he to lord it over two under-gardeners? Of course, now he came to think of it, he could hardly keep a small park neat all by himself....

“You might tell me one thing more, Tim,” said Madeleine. “Of course, it’s a wonderful cop to be selected as a superior maid in an ancestral seat, but didn’t it occur to you that I might have preferred the post of housekeeper?”

O’Hara looked a little worried. This was another question he had been waiting for.

“Ye can be housekeeper if you want,” he replied.

“Thank you, but I’m not sure till I know why you favoured Mrs. Clover.”

“Well—it was like this, now. I had a feelin’ that we’d better be afther danglin’ a bit of a carrot before Mrs. Clover—to make sure of her. But——”

“No, that’s good enough!” laughed Madeleine. “You’re doing very well, Tim. Mrs. Clover can have the carrot, and let’s hope she’s donkey enough to nibble.”

O’Hara grinned, and then smiled round the table.

“Then is it settled?” he asked.

“It seems you’ve already settled it,” replied Jerry. “But we might have a show of hands?”

Seven hands were raised. In his eagerness, Robert Tonsil raised two.