He stands, cane under wing, down stuffed into a tailcoat and his top hat slightly askew, an expectant beady eye magnified by a monocle.

“Good evening my good man, I am Frank” without waiting a reply he pushes forward, waddling his way under my arm into the foyer before my protestation. “Is your mistress in?”

“My apologies sir, she has stated she does not want to be disturbed”. Nonchalantly he hands me his cane and hat.

“Aha, yes, I see,” he turns towards the East parlour, his webbed feet slapping loudly on the wooden floorboards. “Could you tell her Frank Baymark is here!” He shouts, over his shoulder loud enough that the pidgeons in the belfry of St Peter’s five blocks over could hear.

“Bloody downey bastards.” I mutter under my breath, before making my way across the foyer and heading up the grand staircase.

A couple of hallways along I pause, taking a deep breath before knocking upon Miss Agnes’s bedroom door.

“Do you not understand what disturb means?” Comes a muffled shout.

“I do mam, I apologise. Sir Baymark is in the front parlour, do you wish me to eject him?”

Within seconds the door was flung open with a pungent waft of rose and lilac, Miss Agnes, a women of eight and twenty, stands flustered amid a cascade of blonde curls and pink frills. “Sir Baymark. THE Sir Frank Baymark,” she squeals.

“I apologise mam, I only know he is A Frank Baymark. He awaits you in the Pink room.”

“Andrew’s, tell Mary tea and scones are needed immediately,” she paces over to her mirror and briefly attempts to tease her ruffles into order before taking up her perfume and spraying generously.

I splutter as I set off to do as bid, the floral cloud billowing behind me as I head back down the stairs towards the kitchen at the rear end of the house on the ground floor.

Apple and cinnamon greet me as I enter the kitchen. A ginger tabby with greying rootes stands atop the counter, gently applying a final dusting atop a freshly baked pie.

“Mary, our lady wishes scones as soon as able in the Pink room. We have a guest.”

“If she eats scones now dinner’l be ruined, my pie’l go to waste,” she says heading over to the larder. “If her mother, god rest her sole, was around she’d tell her what’s what. She weren’t never a capricious child I tell ye Andrew’s.”

Already she had amalgamated butter and flour in a glass bowl.

“I’m sure she appreciates your efforts Mary, your pies are the best in the county.” I quickly grab an apple while her attention is otherwise engaged restoking the oven.

“And don’t I know it. I tell ye any house would be lucky to have old Mary. And don’t you smooth patter me Andy, I ain’t too old for kittens.”

I hastily retreat out the door as she begins bearing down on the now flaky dough with greater vigor.

As the aromatic scent returns, I turn back into the foyer to discover my Mistress awaiting me with her foot tapping impatiently, eager for announcement. I hurry across the room into the parlour where the goose is admiring the painting above the fireplace.

I clear my throat for his attention, but he ignores me “Miss Agnes Haddington!” I bellow.

With a reserve unbecoming of her she steps through the door, flouncing her pink dress. Still the guest stands admiring the painting, unconcerned by her arrival.

“Tell me Miss Agnes, how much did you pay for this Tralawny?” Finally he turns his head, his neck stretching around while his body remains unmoved, inquisitively eyeballing his host through his monocle. He looks her up and down as though slowly nodding, then returns back to the artwork. “For it is a fake.” He sighs, before waddling over and plopping upon the settee.

I try to stifle my snicker at the look on Agnes’s horror struck face, knowing all too well the inordinate sum that went into the purchase of that particular piece.

“It cannot be!” She exclaims, “it was purchased through Fennec’s and Nobles. They are an honest house, they would not sell fakes.”

“Ahh yes, we’ll, you see that is why I am here madam. They have hired me to investigate a slew of imposters that have found their way through their doors. It seems their specialists have been proven ignorant and unreliable. Though I grant these are particularly fine copies, note the master strokes upon the horses rear and back paddock are very reminisce of the masters work; but the river, oh yes the river,” he honked his disapproval, “definitely not Tralawny.”

Agnes steps across the room and collapses upon the opposite couch.

“But… they. But how?” Her mind reeling at the expense. “Are you certain”.

“I am Frank...” He states, for that is all he need say.