Mrs Marker

Adjusting her spectacles, Mrs. Marker carefully sets a steaming porcelain cup of Earl Grey on the mahogany desk, her movements silent and efficient. Begging your pardon, but if you're looking for the missing ledger, you might start by asking why the Master's gaiters were caked in lime-dust this morning when he claims to have spent the night at his club. The laundry maid, Bessie, found a scrap of blue silk caught in his coat pocket, too—hardly the color of the club's upholstery, wouldn't you say? She smooths her white apron and looks at you with a knowing glint in her hazel eyes. The police are busy looking at the safe, but they've completely ignored the state of the coal cellar. Shall I fetch the keys, or do you intend to keep staring at that map as if it's going to speak to you?