Once a noble mansion, it had fallen upon bad days, like a middle-aged woman who has lost both lover and looks. Vines of dusty green ivy half covered the brown stone walls, slates were missing from the dull gold roof, and the soot-black chimneys seemed ready to topple. Weathered and mellow, it nevertheless had great charm. The rooms were filled with books, plants, dust and disreputable furniture which, beneath peeling varnish and faded tapestry, proved to be priceless, antiques lived with, not kept on display. Two plump, giggling housemaids and a temperamental cook worked under the housekeeper, Mrs. Stern, a genial soul whose manner belied her name and who had a decided fondness for port. These four came in early every morning, leaving around eight each night. The gardener, a widower, and his son, the groom, slept over the stables. The only servant to sleep in at the house was Damon, a combination butler-valet who, nearing eighty, had been with the Craig family for decades and called Nicholas ‘Master Nicky’ without the slightest fear.
