Benson didn't go directly to the house of Philip Cranston but instead went back to Sebastian Gloom's museum for a change of clothes. Simply turning up at Cranston’s mansion and demanding to interview his staff and the surviving members of his family was likely to only get him turned away with a flea in his ear, so instead he dressed as an inspector of Scotland Yard along with some high quality forged identification. Ideally he would have liked to turn up with a couple of constables beside him to add weight to his presence, but the fellows he’d used to play those roles in the past were out of town and there was no time to find replacements and train them in how to play the parts. Benson was alone when he approached the house, therefore, and arriving there he paused for a moment to take note of its entrances and exits.

     The Cranston house was located on Trafford Avenue, the street that contained the homes of most of Manchester's wealthy and powerful. It had a central building with two wings and a stables fronted by a large garden and an in and out driveway. There was, he believed, an even larger garden to the rear of the house, and the whole thing was surrounded by a steel fence with wicked spikes along the top. The gate giving access from the street could be closed and locked, but was normally left open and Benson was able to simply walk in. He was familiar with this kind of arrangement, and although the house itself had many entrances he doubted that there would be any other exits through the boundary fence. Anyone entering or leaving the house would have to pass within sight of anyone watching from the street. He nodded with satisfaction and approached the house.

     The doorbell was rung by means of a chain hanging from the portico, and a few moments later the door was opened by a smartly uniformed doorman. He was taken inside and asked to wait in the drawing room while the doorman went to fetch the master of the house. Benson spent the time examining the paintings of exotic foreign lands that hung on the walls.

    George Cranston, Philip's son and heir, accepted his identity as a police detective without question and offered him a drink, which he declined. “What could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning?” he asked. “Most of the staff are just about finishing up for the day.”

     “There have been developments,” said Benson. “The crime you reported has turned out to be only a small part of something much larger. I regret that I cannot go into more detail, but it has become imperative that the crime be solved as quickly as possible. I would like to interview every member of your household individually."

     “Very well. If you will wait here for a few moments, I will have everyone assembled immediately. Will you be wanting to see them one at a time?”

     “Yes, and please make sure that no-one enters or leaves the house until I’ve interviewed everyone.”

     “There is a small study through that door over there, it has a table and a chair. I can have someone take another chair in if you wish.”

     “That will do very well. Thank you.”

     A few minutes later he was sitting in one of the chairs, looking across the table at James Todman, the head butler. He was still in full uniform and sat with military rigidity, a look of stoic, imperturbable calm on his inscrutable face. He gave every impression that his expression wouldn’t change even in the event of a volcanic eruption taking place directly beneath him. That was okay. Benson wasn't here to shake information out of anyone, although that was what he wanted them to think. He'd decided upon a better way to get what he wanted.

     “I'm sorry to disturb you so late in the evening,” he said. “I just need to ask you some questions.”

     “Of course,” replied the butler. “We are happy to help the police in any way we can.”

     “I appreciate your co-operation. Can you tell me where you were and what you were doing when the crime took place?”

     “I was in my room asleep. I didn't know that a crime had been committed until I awoke and went about my duties.”

     “Where is your room?”

     “In the south wing. All the servants quarters are located there.”

     “And the crime was committed in the main building, some distance away.”

     “In Mister Cranston’s study, yes.”

     “Who first discovered that a crime had taken place?”

     “Apart from William Littlejohn, Mister Cranston’s manservant? That would have been Agnes, one of the maids. The whole house heard her screaming, Sir.”

     “Littlejohn was the man who died, I understand.”

     “Yes, Sir.”

     “What was he doing in the study at that time of night?”

     “As I told the other detectives, I can only speculate, sir.”

     “Then speculate.”

     “Very well. As I told the other detectives, he performs a number of services for Mister Cranston when he is not required to directly attend him. He keeps the books, he polishes the silver. He cleans and tidies...”

     “Those duties are performed by the maids surely.”

     “The maids are not permitted in the study. Mister Littlejohn was the only man the Master trusted in that room. Agnes spotted Mister Littlejohn's body from the next room. The intruders had left the door open.”

     “There is a great deal of sensitive material in that room, then.”

     “So I believe, sir. I have no direct knowledge, though.”

     “How did the thieves know that the decoy bottle was in that room?”

     “Excuse me, sir. The decoy bottle?”

     “Yes. How did they know it would be in that room?”

     “I don't know anything about a bottle, Sir. Decoy or otherwise.”

     “We have reason to believe that the intruders were after a particular item. A bottle. What I want to know is why they thought it would be in that room.”

     “Maybe they just assumed it would be there, sir.”

     “I think that unlikely, Mister Todman. The bottle was the only thing they took, even though there were many other valuable items there. They would not have come until they knew precisely where it would be. If Mister Cranston had not had the foresight to prepare a duplicate, it would even now be in their possession. No, someone told them it would be there. I think it was Mister Littlejohn. I think the thieves killed him to keep him from talking, to tie up loose ends.” If that was the case, then Benson would learn nothing here. He was gambling that the manservant's death was unplanned. A consequence of his being in that room unexpectedly. If that was the case, then his stating that he believed that Littlejohn was the traitor would hopefully lull the real traitor into a false sense of security.

     “Mister Cranston trusted Mister Littlejohn implicitly. I cannot believe that he would betray him.”

     “Further investigation will reveal the truth. I understand two other members of staff were injured. How did that happen?”

     Benson continued to interview the butler for several more minutes so as not to arouse his suspicions, then thanked him and asked him to send in the next member of staff. He didn't tell them all that the bottle that had been stolen had been a decoy. That would have given the game away instantly. He casually dropped the made up fact into the conversation with about half of them, therefore, relying of gossip and speculation after he'd left to spread it to the others.

     When he'd finished with all of the dozen or so staff members and the slaves, he spoke to all five of the surviving family members, but he didn't mention the fictional decoy bottle to any of them. Any one of them could have known that the bottle that had been stolen had been the genuine one, in which case he would have been giving himself away as an imposter. Also, it was likely that the older, more senior family members had had access to the bottle and could have simply taken it themselves without need for an arranged burglary. The two younger family members, Harry and Emily aged fifteen and seventeen respectively were, he assumed, not likely to be involved in this kind of intrigue. He was gambling that it was a member of staff that had been the traitor, if indeed there had been a traitor. It was still possible that the burglars had come by their information some other way.

     He interviewed George Cranston last of all, and had to use all his self control to avoid cutting it short. George was the one man he was certain had not arranged the burglary, but he pretended to think that it had been an insurance scam, putting on a great show of scepticism when George insisted that the bottle had not been insured. Had not even been valued. “It was because of the death of the manservant that we called the police. We would not have bothered you over the theft of such a trivial item.”

     Eventually, Benson thanked him and the two men stood. “I may have further questions as the investigation continues,” he said.

     “Of course. We will continue to co-operate in any way we can.”

     “I appreciate it. Thank you, and I apologise once again for inconveniencing you at this time of night.”

     Benson left the house and walked off down the avenue, knowing curtains would be twitching behind him as they watched him leave. As soon as he reached the corner and passed out of sight, though, he ducked into the garden of one of the street's other houses and waited. He suspected that he might have to wait for a couple of hours. The traitor wouldn’t be able to slip away unseen while everyone was still gossiping excitedly about his visit, but eventually things would settle down again and he or she would make their move.