A/N: I'm not sure if the surname "Cloade" is a real one or not, but it does occur in one of my favourite Agatha Christie novels "Taken at the Flood" ("There is a Tide..." in the USA); and so my usage of it (and, at a stretch, the fanfic as a whole, I s'pose,) is an homage to her and her brilliant works. It could also be considered a tribute to some of my favourite comedy shows as well (e.g. You Rang, M'Lord?; the Embassy Lark; Jeeves & Wooster; Dad's Army etc.) – you will find some references scattered throughout...

Chapter 3

The drawing room fire blazed merrily in the stone hearth, although no-one felt particularly happy. The crackling flames cast long shadows up the striped red-and-pink wallpaper towards the reasonably high white-moulding ceiling. The grim portraits of dour-faced people in Regency dress hung sternly on the walls, glaring fiercely at any who dared to look upon them.

The fire was once again the only light source in the room. With a sigh, the occupant of the leather wing-back armchair closest to the fire stood up and moved nearer to the wall to the left of the grate. He tugged a thick velvet rope (which had tassels on the end), causing a far-off bell to tinkle furiously. In a curiously short time, the temporary butler appeared, as if by magic, through the panelled hardwood door.

"You rang, M'Lord?" he enquired in a slightly imperious voice.

"Yes, erm..." Lord Anthony Cloade, the master of the house, released the bell rope as he returned to his chair, struggling for words. As a lord it was most embarrassing, to not know the name of the new butler. His usual one had mysteriously fallen ill and was bedridden. And then, even more mysteriously, this stranger had appeared on the doorstep, smartly dressed with a crisp (albeit rather affected) accent that could only be described as "posh cockney".

"...Tresillian, sir." the temporary butler murmured, coming to his Lordship's rescue (although this new butler didn't go by the title of "butler" - he preferred to refer to his post as "The Comptroller of the Household"). "Is there anything you wish me to assist you with?"

Lord Cloade opened his mouth to speak, but his wife, Lady Celia Cloade, cut in ahead of him. "Please remove your hat and coat before addressing your betters."

Tresillian bowed gravely before speaking, "My apologies your Ladyship, but as a matter of fact I was just orf on me way 'ome. I do 'ope I 'aven't caused any hundue hoffence..." Nevertheless, the top hat and overcoat was promptly removed. He tossed them away behind him into the hallway without a second glance. But strangely, there had been no soft thumps...

Lord Cloade took advantage of the silence to make his point heard. "I say, Tresillian, I wanted to arsk if you could get some candles in here? It's jolly dark in here, and the gas is on the blink again. I can't tell if we're asphyxiating or not..."

"I shall 'ave the gas system seen to first thing in the morning yer Lordship. I shall now send the footmen for the candles." Tresillian was about to leave on his errand, when Lady Cloade began to speak once more.

"Please don't bother yourself Tresillian, it's much too late for that now." she paused as she gave a most unlady-like yawn. Looking mildly ashamed of herself, she continued, "I'm about to retire to bed."

"Very good, M'Lady. I shall 'ave the maid sent upstairs with the bedpan in ten minutes, and then I'm orf 'ome."

Lady Celia arose from from her chair and set down her knitting. "Goodnight Tony dear, don't stay up too long, for I shall know..." She left her words hanging in the air as she bustled down the corridor, her skirts trailing behind.

"I do wish she wouldn't call me Tony, it's so dashed common..." Lord Anthony muttered in annoyance as he heard his wife ascend a flight of stairs somewhere around a corner in the hallway.

"Would you care for a nightcap, M'Lord?" the butler inquired, motioning towards the maple drinks cabinet, upon which rested squat decanters of brandy and whiskey, with healthy-sized full-bodied glasses that were perfect for the supping of fine alcohol.

"No, no thank you." his Lordship changed his mind almost at once. The butler's hand hovered over the whisky decanter. "Actually, on second thoughts, I'll have one, and you may pour one out for yourself."

"That's very generous of you M'Lord, there ain't many on this street 'oo'd have been so considerate." the butler poured out generous amounts into each glass and, after placing them on a small silver tray, carried them over to the fireplace. "As I recall when I served at Downin' Street, I'd always thought to meself, nahw this gent's got clarse. But as clarsey as 'e was, 'ed not never hoffer me anything..."

"I'm afraid I carn't remember where it was you'd served in Downing Street. Was it Number 10?"

"Hunfortunately so, sir. The Prime Minister is glamorous, but one 'as to be in 'is position. I've not never 'eard of an unglamorous PM. But then again, glamour is all 'e 'as." the Comptroller of the Household took a swig of drink before continuing, "'Is manners is disgraceful. 'E may as well 'ave greeted the French President wearin' nuffin' but yesterday's newspaper."

Lord Cloade chuckled. As he gulped down a swig of brandy when the butler handed to him as he sat down, his expression became more serious. He motioned for Tresillian to sit down in the chair opposite. "You strike me as one of those people who can just look at someone and glean the information of their character within a matter of hours. Tell me, what is your opinion of Nanny Hobday?"

Tresillian seemed to think carefully before composing an answer. "She's a very...reliable lady. The sort you could set yer clock by. In fact, we do. But... 'as 'er little mis'ap caused you dissatisfaction?"

Now his Lordship seemed to hesitate. "Yes. Her mishap...as you refer to it...has caused me to reconsider her position in this household. Although..." his voice seemed to catch in his throat. "She has been in this house for almost 35 years. She was even my Nanny when I was a boy. I do not think I could dismiss her. But now, the circumstances have changed." his voice seemed to steady as he drained his glass. "yes, the circumstances have indeed changed. Tomorrow Tresillian, you may inform Nanny Hobday that her services are no longer required."

Tresillian rose to his and bowed. "Yes sir. If that is all, I shall now depart for the night, M'Lord."

"Yes, yes." Lord Cloade waved a hand vaguely at his butler as he seemed to slowly contemplate his decision to give his faithful Nanny the sack.

The Comptroller of the Household exited through the drawing room door and padded down the hallway making no more noise than a cat. He paused suddenly, as if he could, by some sixth sense, sense the presence of another being. His ears twitched slightly. His emerald green eyes scanned a dark doorway nearby and said quietly, "It's no use 'idin' in there. I can see you. 'Ow much of 'is Lordship's chat did you over'ear?"

Nanny Hobday crept out of the doorway in a nervous manner. There were red rings around her pale blue eyes. It was evident she had been crying. "I-I'm a shocked you have the temerity to ask such a question!" she said, whilst another cob racked her body. She patted herself down, as if trying to find a handkerchief.

"'Ere, borrow one of mine." the butler produced a hanky as if from thin air and passed it to the grateful Nanny Hobday who dabbed her eyes.

"T-t-thank you." she whispered. The stout, middle-aged woman gazed blearily at the young man who stood before her. She couldn't shake off the idea that there was something not quite right about him.

He was about 6"7, with raven-black hair which had a side-parting to the left. He currently wore what is known as the morning suit, despite that it had just gone midnight. The trousers were pinstriped, the tailcoat was long and black, his waistcoat was a green the shade of bottle glass and embroidered with a slightly swirly and floral pattern. Clipped across his waistcoat was a golden fob watch chain, that was presumably attached to a fob watch inside the right-hand waistcoat pocket. He wore a white shirt with a high, white starched collar, around which was tied a black bow tie in a very neat - impossibly, geometrically, neat – bow. But this was by no means the most interesting feature of Tresillian.

His skin tone was interesting, it must be said. He was pale. Incredibly so. His skin tone was almost the colour of chalk, except that it had a slight grey tinge to it. But around his eyes the skin was a very dark grey, almost charcoal shade.

But even this was not the most unnatural fact of the man. It was the eyes. Those sparkling emerald eyes, were if one looked at them for long enough, were a mere façade. They were cheerful and warm and full of kindness, it was all genuine; but they hid something much deeper. The longer one stared in, the more one could see the sadness, the grief and the pain that could only have been acquired over centuries.

Nanny Hobday looked into those two unnerving eyes and realised that whatever she said to this man, he had, somehow, heard much worse. "I did not overhear anything that passed between you and his Lordship. I was in here this whole time. I just cannot stop thinking about poor Zoe. Lost and alone. Frightened, and cold." she broke down in tears once more.

Tresillian's face bore a passing expression of discomfort and embarrassment which he replaced quickly with a boyish grin. "Now, now. It's alright, Nanny 'Obday. I 'ave me contact in lots of places." he patted the woman in fraternal way on the back in an encouraging sort of way, "We'll soon 'ave young Zoe back again. We below stairs 'ave to stick together."

Out of thin air once more he seemed to produce his overcoat, top hat and a cane made of some shiny black material which bore an ornamental silver cat's head on the end.

He padded down the mahogany parquet hall and opened the front door carefully. "Goodnight, Nanny 'Obday!" he called, and without waiting for a reply, closed the door without a sound and headed off into the smoggy London night, in the direction of Parliament Square.