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Thin Pyjamas featuring Miss Keller
"I have received a very serious complaint about your behaviour from matron, Catesby," remarked Miss Keller. She was standing at the foot of the new boy's bed with an expression of mild amusement on her pale attractive face. There was complete and utter silence in the dormitory. All the boys knew Miss Keller and were therefore most careful to allow no hint of amusement to show in their own youthful faces.

Catesby had been caught red-handed by matron engaged in an energetic pillow fight on the staircase with three girls whose dormitory was directly above the boys' dormitory. A group of twelve-year-old girls from a boarding school in Surrey were on a short hockey tour and were staying at St Meredith's for a week. This was not the first case of youthful high spirits that had occurred since the girls had arrived. Miss Keller was of the opinion that the girls concerned needed a firm hand preferably applied with some force across their bottoms. However, the visiting hockey team were not really her responsibility although she would speak to the young schoolmistress who was meant to be in charge.

Catesby was looking at her with an expression reminiscent of an angel who had just finished saying his prayers. The child was not so much handsome as pretty she thought, indeed if he had grown his hair a little longer he could all too easily have been mistaken for a girl himself.

"Have you anything at all to say in your own defence, Catesby?" enquired Miss Keller. She sat on the very end of the boy's bed and the boy's expression tickled her sense of humour. Her bright blue eyes twinkled frostily, a smile quivered momentarily on her lips.

"It wasn't his fault, Miss Keller! It was a dormitory raid. Catesby wasn't to blame. It was really the girls that started it!" said Bennett-Brown.

"Bennett-Brown, you will remain silent or suffer the consequences. Catesby can speak for himself. Now did those girls attack you or were you attacking them?"

She had no doubt they were all equally responsible. Doubtless most of the other boys were involved as well but they had almost certainly scampered back to the dormitory by the time matron made her unwelcome appearance.

"It was my fault entirely, Miss Keller. The girls weren't in the least bit to blame," he said; his face looked rather pale as he spoke. In all likelihood the other boys had told him what to expect if he ended up on the wrong side of Miss Keller. The young schoolmistress was strangely touched by the boy's quixotic attempt to shoulder the entire blame. Trust matron to poke her sharp little nose into the affair. Usually, she would have been happily engaged in watching her favourite soap opera on a Monday evening. As she stood up, the mattress springs creaked.

The Girl Next Door
That 'girl-next-door look'. Chris Freeman had heard the cliché a few times. It referred to a girl with a fresh, wholesome, natural beauty who didn't require a lot of makeup or fancy clothes to make a guy's heart do flip-flops. The rising high school senior might drool over magazine centerfolds, but he knew that when he found the real-life girl of his dreams, she would have that girl-next-door look.

But the phrase didn't have personal significance until the Taylor family bought the house next door. The homes were fairly close together in the quiet suburban neighborhood, and Chris had been wondering what kind of new neighbors they might get. It was a hot summer day in early July when he noticed that the 'For Sale' sign was gone from the front yard. A few days later, a moving van backed up into the driveway and a car stopped in front of the house. It was a brand-new 1970 Oldsmobile, and Chris stepped out onto the porch for a better look. From the throaty rumble of the engine, he guessed it must have the optional 455 cubic-inch Rocket V8, and he wondered why someone would buy such a car in a drab gray color when they could have had a cool red one. A middle-aged couple stepped out of the car. The man was tall and thin, with an aloof look, and Chris felt an instant dislike for him.

Then a girl climbed out from the back of the car, and Chris's heart skipped a beat. She looked to be about his age, with sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a really cute face. Her jeans and tee-shirt were just snug enough to highlight the curves of her trim figure. She stopped to look around for a moment as her parents walked toward the house. Chris waved and gave her what he hoped was a friendly smile, and not a goofy grin.

"Come along, Wendy. We have lots of work to do." Mr. Taylor's voice was curt and authoritative.

"Yes sir. Coming, Dad," she replied dutifully. There was a bit of a southern drawl in her lilting voice as Wendy followed her parents toward the front door.

Wendy had been bitterly disappointed when her dad's promotion required him to relocate to an office in another state. It meant she had to leave all her friends behind and spend her senior year at a high school where she would be the new girl and not know anyone. Seeing the cute guy with the wavy brown hair waving from the porch of the house next door was the first positive thing about the move. She might be friendless as she arrived at their new home, but Wendy didn't have to stay that way. She looked over toward Chris and returned his wave with a shy smile.

The Portrait
by Jon Thorn
Lucy had decided on having a portrait painted almost from the moment she had come into her inheritance. She was the youngest to inherit the title in over three hundred years, and with the title had come the properties - a townhouse on Montpelier Square just off the Brompton Road and a more substantial house in the Suffolk countryside. There had also been a substantial financial legacy, so at the age of twenty-six, Lady Lucinda Westfield was a very rich young woman indeed. As such, it seemed fitting that her portrait should grace the great hall at Westfield Park alongside those of her ancestors, and so she had begun the search for the right artist.

Money was not a problem, so Lucy could afford to be choosy, which was fortunate since there was a strong streak of perfectionism within her character. For Lucy, only the best would be good enough, and it didn't take her long to discover who the best was. In her humble opinion, the only man up to painting Lady Lucinda's portrait was a young artist by the name of Rob Morton. Morton was an up and coming star in the art world. Not much older than Lucy herself, he was already starting to make a name for himself. Lucy had contacted him herself, and he had (albeit reluctantly) agreed to come to the house at Montpelier Square to talk about the proposed commission.

Lucy heard a car pull up outside and glanced out of the window. A rather scruffy, fair-haired young man was extricating his long body from behind the wheel of a tiny little Fiat. Lucy smiled to herself; he certainly had the look of an artist with his unkempt hair and untidy clothes. She went down to the door to let him in.

He was just about to ring the bell, so was rather taken aback when the door opened suddenly before he had the chance to place his finger on the bell push.

Lucy thrust out her hand. "How do you do? Lucinda Westfield."

He recovered his composure quickly. "Hi, Rob Morton." He shook her hand briefly, as though shaking hands was something he was unaccustomed to doing, then followed her through into the house - his eyes taking in the quiet wealth displayed all around him. Lucy led him through into the drawing room.

They both sat, and there was a moment of awkward silence before Lucy spoke.

"Well, welcome," she said brightly. "I'm pleased you could come, this really is so important to me." Her smile was met by what felt like a rather hostile stare. Lucy pressed on. "You see, I'm the youngest Lady Westfield for a very long time, so it seemed rather important to me that I mark that fact by having a portrait done. A rather younger face to hang amongst all the old crusty ones in the great hall at Westfield Park."

Chapter One
Demi lay on the bed and sobbed. Her life was in a downward spiral and she saw no hope of fixing it, no light at the end of the tunnel, as her dad used to say. No, if anything, the light in her tunnel was an old fashioned train coming right at her. Frankly, she welcomed the idea: a quick and painless death to end her suffering.

"Dem-me, are you all right?" a familiar voice said behind her.

Snapping up to a sitting position, she stifled her tears, and wiped her face before turning to face him. She managed a small smile. "Tyne, how many times have I told you, it's pronounced 'Demi'!"

"I am sorry, but there are aspects of your human language that still escape me. Again I ask, why are you troubled?"

"It's nothing, I'm fine. I have to be going. Your beds are all made; fresh towels are in the bathroom."

She moved for the door, but he was easily able to block her. They made for quite a pair. She a petite (a hair under five-feet) yet muscular young woman with a pageboy haircut (she liked keeping her black hair super short), and he a Florian. Tyne was part of the delegation from Planet Florian, the newest planet to join the Confederation, and they'd been on Earth for a month now negotiating the terms of the treaty. The Florians were quite the beautiful race: incredibly tall (seven feet was the minimum height), long golden hair, and features that made them look like elves or some other mystical beings. That first day, when they arrived at the diplomatic hotel, Demi had been smitten by Tyne, and been deeply moved by the fact that he treated her (an ordinary maid) like a real person.

Most people didn't, especially her ex-husband.

Tyne knelt down so they were almost face to face and scoldingly wagged his long index finger at her. "Dem-me, do not lie to me. What is troubling you?"

She stood there and hung her head, a tear trickling down her cheek. "The hotel is cutting my hours."

"Cut... hours? Ah, they are reducing your workload. That is not acceptable. Do you not have a high debt and must struggle to get your ends to come together?"

"It's 'make ends meet', Tyne," she said with a weak smile.

He cupped her tiny chin in his large hand. "At least it made you smile. Is there not something to be done for you?"

"Tyne, that's very sweet of you to ask about, but I'll deal with it. I can look for a third job and see if the casino will give me an extension."

"Cas-ino? I thought your debts were with financial institutions."

"Banks, we call them banks, and yes, most of my debt is with them, but my ex also gambled a lot, and left me with the debts at the gambling places."

An English Girl at a Texas High School
Joanne Brett and her family moved to the state of Texas two years ago. Her father had been offered a lucrative long term contract with an oil company, and the Brett's had since settled into an expansive, beautiful new home in Fort Worth. Joanne, an affable, vivacious, yet quaintly English teenager, had adapted well to life in Texas, and had successfully settled into high school, both academically and socially. Her imperturbable charm and fizzy personality that blended well with her Englishness ensured that she made lots of friends, with many students doing their best to befriend the sixteen-year-old English girl. If there was a beach party, student dance, or a drive out, you could bet Joanne would be invited along.

Joanne couldn't get enough of Texas culture and its rich history. In Fort Worth she often spent her time visiting the array of museums, especially the wonderful modern art museum. By contrast, she adored the yearly World Rodeo Finals and spending great times with her high school friends at Sundance Square and its pulsating plaza.

School life was very different from that of her English comprehensive school in Surrey. Firstly, there was no compulsory school uniform, which she felt gave her more freedom, allowed her to express herself, and made her feel like an adult. There was dress code, but in the main, students wore what they liked. Although intrinsically modest, Joanne was well aware of her attractiveness.

The pleated skirts, blazers and ties from her English school did nothing for her superb figure and physical charms, whereas tight pants, short skirts and skimpy tops did much to show off her teenage appeal. And there was little doubting that designer clothing and casual wear helped to enhance her desirability with the guys on campus, who found her angelic, clear features and mounds of thick chestnut hair, irresistible.

Academically, the American high school stretched her more and had a wider curriculum base, and the extra-curricular activities were varied and exciting. But of equal importance, although there were school rules, there was a feeling of freedom and camaraderie not experienced at her comprehensive in England.

So the two years she had so far spent at Dean Valley High, which would soon see her turn eighteen, had been the happiest of her school life. However, there was one issue that both she and her parents had questioned, that was vaguely mentioned in the student handbook. It was the issue of discipline. It briefly mentioned that a student could make a choice between suspension and something called 'swats.' The handbook did not explain this further and nothing referring to 'swats' was discussed when her parents were interviewed for Joanne's prospective enrolment.

Joanne was not exactly sure what 'swats' meant, until on her acceptance, she and her parents were asked to sign a consent form. Of course Joanne was horrified to learn that 'swats' meant reporting to an Assistant Principal (AP), or indeed the Principal, to be spanked with a wooden paddle.

School teacher Carol Wallace pulled into her driveway on the Thursday after Thanksgiving; only eleven more days of school and then it would be Christmas break. She was in a good mood as she went to the mailbox; a few minutes later, furious would be a more accurate description.

In the mail was an envelope addressed to her daughter Ginny from her college registrar's office. She opened it, assuming it was about Ginny's next semester class schedule. It was about class registration, but it certainly wasn't the message Carol expected to see. It said that they would not be able to process Ginny's registration unless she had a zero balance with the college. And right now she owed $165 in unpaid parking tickets; so nothing would happen with her registration until they'd been paid in full. $165! Surely there had to be some kind of mistake? It was late in the day but Carol intended to find someone at the college who could help her get to the bottom of this.

---oOo---
Meanwhile, a little over two hours away, Ginny was blissfully unaware of her impending demise. Her college campus was very spread out and the nearest town was a couple of miles away. Freshmen weren't allowed to have cars on campus, so you had to walk, wait on the bus, or cultivate a friendship with an upperclassman if you wanted to get off campus. So last year Ginny had felt trapped on campus, but now that she was a sophomore and had her car with her, the freedom to just run to Wal-Mart was exhilarating.

But with driving also comes responsibility. Unfortunately, she'd been lackadaisical about the annoying tickets. She hadn't thought they were fair since there weren't enough student parking spaces. She'd meant to fight them but had stuck them in her glove box and forgotten about them. She didn't know it yet, but this carelessness was about to make her next trip home a very unpleasant one.

---oOo---
Back at the Wallace household, Carol had bounced between the Registrar, Campus Security, and the Bursar's office. Now she had a clearer picture of what had happened. Several of Ginny's tickets had been minor citations for parking in a faculty lot on the other side of campus from her dorm. Given when they were issued, Carol assumed Ginny had driven to class and hadn't been able to find a spot in the student lot. However, there was that late night ticket for illegal parking on fraternity row. But what absolutely could not be explained was why Ginny hadn't taken care of them. Either she had suffered a traumatic brain injury affecting her memory or she'd been lax in handling her responsibilities. Carol was pretty sure which the most likely explanation was.

As the tickets remained unpaid penalties had been added, increasing the fines. They would continue to escalate until paid, so Carol opened her purse and paid the $165 over the phone to staunch the financial bleeding.

1. The Assignment
There is a valley in the heart of Italy which the locals call 'Paradise'. On three sides, the snow-capped mountains rise majestic, shining in the winter sun, their foothills clothed with beech woods as silent as a soul at peace. Wild flowers bloom across the fertile fields in spring, and streams of cool, clear water flow on into the long, hot summer, feeding the sunflowers, olive groves and orchards that blossom there in abundance. The harvests are plentiful, the people content and time seems infinite.

At the end of the road that leads up the valley stands an ancient convent whose nuns, for five hundred years, have served Christ with the compassion only women can feel. It is to this convent that the subject of our story made her journey, one summer not long ago.

---oOo---
Jessica had just made a cup of tea and settled down with her laptop when the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth tinkled from her phone on the coffee table.

The screen read 'Peter'.

"Ah!" she murmured brightly, clicking to answer. She was glad to hear from Peter: it usually meant a chance to earn some extra cash and have an adventure into the bargain. He was the editor of the Spanking Gazette, a niche publication to which Jessica had contributed various pieces in recent years.

"Peter!"

"Jessica! How are you?"

"Good, thanks. And you?"

"Can't complain. In fact, we've had some rather important news. A rich sponsor has offered to provide funding for the Gazette."

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Who is it?"

"I can't divulge that information, I'm afraid - even to you, Jessica. Suffice to say he's very big in fast cars."

"Oh! So it's not true what they say then?"

"Very funny," he said, sarcastically. "Anyway... what do you know about Dominican nuns?"

Jessica smiled and took a deep breath. "Well, Peter... did you know that the Dominicans were founded as the Order of Preachers by Saint Dominic in 1206? Yes, and Dominican nuns, unlike their brother friars, don't travel or preach; they live a contemplative life following the four pillars of Dominican life, which are..."

Peter cut in with a whistle of appreciation. "Wow! You really know your Dominicans, don't you?"

"Well, I should," said Jessica. "I spent five years at one of their boarding schools. 'Laudare, Benedicere, Predicare'. And not forgetting, 'Piegarsi'."

"Eh?"

"The motto of the Order: to praise, to bless, to preach."

"And the last bit?"

"Piegarsi - to bend over. That wasn't officially part of the motto, but it might as well have been at St Catherine's Academy for Girls, Haywards Heath. They put me off religion for life."

"Gosh! Why don't I know about this?"

"You never asked."

"More to the point, why haven't you written about it for the Gazette?"

"I have!" said Jessica. "In my stories and those pretend letters. It wasn't all imagination, you know."

Chapter 1
Anika was sulking, sitting alone and sulking. All around were people talking, laughing, enjoying drinks served on the lawn and yet the garden chair next to her was unoccupied, the only one in that gathering not taken, emphasising, mocking her isolation. Apart from her hosts, Penny and her husband, Alistair, the army major, she had never before set eyes on anyone there and she was much too shy to stand up and try to join a group in conversation. Penny had done her best to make her feel welcome, but it seemed everyone knew everyone else and Anika was not the type to chat easily to strangers. So, spotting two chairs on the edge of the crowd suddenly become vacant, she had wandered over trying not to hurry and gratefully sank into one of them. Another half hour of this and she would be able to make her polite excuses and leave without any affecting rudeness.

She knew what the problem was, or thought she did. She was too pretty and her light copper-coloured skin in all that white predominance did rather set her apart. What man under the watchful gaze of that respectable group would want to be caught out chatting up a pretty Indian girl? And the ladies? Don't even think about it! They weren't being deliberately unkind but with true English reserve simply didn't know how to handle her, what to talk about, fearful of saying the wrong thing... or so she thought. The idea that no one might want to approach this sulky creature never crossed her mind.

The newspapers recently had been full of a new trend they'd picked up, something they had dubbed 'The Swinging Sixties'. Oh yeah, she mused, fat chance they have of swinging for me!

However, sitting all alone gave her time to think over the little scene she had accidentally stumbled upon.

Penny, Irish to the soles of her feet, was a physiotherapist at the general hospital where Anika worked as a staff nurse. They were both second generation immigrants, a coincidence which had drawn them together from the start even though their financial circumstances were so different. What a contrast was Penny's comfortable home to the tiny house in a mean side street, which Anika and her mother shared! When occasion demanded, Anika would baby-sit for Penny's two small children, leaving her own little boy, Thomas, in the care of her mother. If nothing else, it helped to supplement a nurse's meagre salary.

And how fascinated she was by the loving tactile relationship between Penny and Alistair, so different from her own experience. More than once she had seen Alistair deliver a playful sharp smack to his wife's backside and Penny would jump with an 'ooh' exclamation and then laugh and kiss him. Sometimes that smack could be altogether more serious when needed. Penny had a natural sharp temper, prone to display far too often and Anika was secretly amused at the resounding wallop her friend would receive, followed by the command, "Stop that, behave yourself!"

1. Problems
Patrick Calero had a headache. Though calling it a mere headache was an insult to headaches. It felt like there was jackhammer under his skull working away on his brain. This was worse than the hangover he had after joining Delta Omega and waking up in women's panties in a tree outside the Creton Hall dorm rooms the next morning. This was worse than when he'd crammed for 72 hours straight for the bar exam - and somehow still passed. This was even worse than the two years of hell when he and Alexia had divorced and that shark lawyer of hers had gone looking under every rock he could find for spare change he could claim for his greedy client.

For two decades Patrick been the man with the golden touch, the man who could do no wrong, and suddenly everything was failing. The factory in China was beset with production problems. The investment in Iraq that had looked so promising a few years earlier was now looking like it wouldn't pay for many years, as things were still troubled there and the rebuilding was going to be much slower than he'd anticipated. Now the partnership with Zimmer Investments had fallen through at the eleventh hour.

Patrick couldn't quite understand how it had all gone sour. Sure, he'd made some bad decisions, both personal and professional, but the economy wasn't his fault. He'd had some bad luck, like that 'sure-fire' investment in the new nuclear power plant in Japan just six months before the big quake and tsunami had wiped out everything. It would be a decade before he'd see a dime out of that fiasco. If he was lucky.

He stared at the balance sheets, the numbers terrifying. Did he have a single business venture in the black? He rubbed his temples, the shooting pain behind his eyes making him want to stab himself with scissors just to halt the agony. He felt dizzy and sick. He hadn't slept a full night in weeks. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper meal.

"We need capital," he said to Marvin Kolk, his right hand. "There's got to be something."

"You've drained everything liquid. The only thing left is to start selling."

"Fuck!" Patrick roared. Even his rage felt weak and enfeebled. Outside, to the public, he could still manage to smile and pretend everything was fine. But in here, in front of his best friend and colleague of nearly twenty years, he couldn't hide his fatigue and fear.

"With the economy the way it is and the shape of these businesses, it's the worst possible time to sell. I'll lose millions."

Marvin nodded. "Yes."

The senior executive was a blunt, no-nonsense man. Patrick had often thought Frank would have been a better name for him.

Callie Watterson was trying her best to stand still with her nose pressed against the wall, just like she was ordered to do. Her panties were down below her knees and her small but curvaceous bottom practically glowed from the spanking she had received a few minutes ago.

However, in spite of her best effort, she began to fidget, moving first one foot, then the other, back and forth. Part of the problem was that her bottom hurt. Her husband Brent had used the paint paddle on her while she was draped submissively across his lap. The combination of the long paddling plus the awkward position never failed to reduce her to hot tears within a minute or two. Certainly, today's experience was no exception. She would feel the effects of this punishment for at least a day or so.

But another part of the problem was that she was conflicted. In her mind she knew that she had deserved the spanking; it was, after all, her fault and her fault alone that she had interrupted him while he was working on an important case. She knew logically that she shouldn't have interrupted him; she knew she should have been happy that at least he was working at home instead of remaining at the office, as he often did. Finally, she understood that, as a rising star in a very active law firm, Brent would be extremely busy and need to work at home in the evening and even on weekends.

They had discussed this at length before they were married three weeks ago (somehow it seemed much longer to Callie, almost another lifetime). Brent had told her in no uncertain terms that for the time being he would need to work as many hours as the firm required. And Callie said that she understood, especially since the law firm was representing her father's company, Roaring Meadows Pharmaceuticals, in several lawsuits involving patent infringement. She also knew that the preparation and litigation could very well drag on for weeks, if not months.

But this was Saturday evening, a time when most newly married couples were together, enjoying each other's company and doing what newlyweds are supposed to do. In fact, this evening, Callie had wanted to go out for dinner and maybe a movie, sit in the darkened theater and neck like a couple of teenagers. When she mentioned it at breakfast, Brent just shrugged, saying, "We'll see, Callie." She knew only too well what that meant.

Those had been the last words he had spoken to her, as he holed up in his office with the door closed, leaving her to stew about being left alone on a Saturday. Finally, at five-thirty, after she had entertained herself as much as she could, she worked up enough anger to push open his office door and practically storm inside. "Are you going to ignore me all day and all evening too?" she had blurted out.

Not even the morning's leaden skies and persistent, sullen rain could dampen Elizabeth Rodham's mood. Hope had been in short supply for the past three years, dwindling with each passing month as Elizabeth sank deeper into comparative poverty. Her acquaintances had deteriorated with her loss of position and status, her comforts appreciably lessened, and her chances for reversing the trend looked ever bleaker. But that morning found her on the road, riding comfortably alone in a coach hired especially for her, heading for a promising chance of future employment, and not even the necessity of pulling the shades on the windows to prevent being soaked could dim her newfound enthusiasm,

Elizabeth had spent nearly all of her adult life as a governess, working for two prosperous families in East Suffolk: the Forsythe's for five years and then the Huntington's for nearly ten. Colonel Huntington and his wife had been blessed with five children... three boys and two girls, and Elizabeth had spent the better part of a decade as an indispensable part of the family. But as often happens, with the last grown too old for a governess, she found herself altogether dispensable and was discharged, left unemployed, unmarried in her mid-thirties, and only in possession of the small competence that the Colonel's wife had allowed him to bestow.

She'd tried unsuccessfully for other positions, but as she feared, most prospective employers were looking for much younger women, more capable of being considered a companion as well as a governess for their children. Her hopes for marriage had also dwindled through the years. While a young woman, she'd been hampered by possessing unusual height, standing at an eye with most men and looking down on far too many. Too often she'd seen men take an interest in her, only to have their partiality fade when made aware of the jests and nudges sent in his direction. Now her age was implacably against her as well, and though she had maintained much of her good figure, the increasing lines about her face did nothing to hide the years.

However the specter of her remaining life as an old maid did not bother her nearly as much as the prospect of ever increasing poverty. The competence she had received from Colonel Huntington, combined with her own small savings, generated scarcely enough income to maintain her in the most modest of lodgings, with nary a full time servant and only an occasional cleaning woman to assist her.

Then came the most unexpected letter from Mr. Kenworthy, the gentleman having received a recommendation from the Colonel himself, advertising for a governess to deal with one particularly willful and unruly child. Colonel Huntington had obviously impressed upon the gentleman Elizabeth's success in dealing with his brood, particularly the younger boys. How the solicitation and recommendation had come about she could not fathom, but what mattered was that it was here, and a chance to reclaim some comfort and dignity.

Detective-Inspector Trevath surveyed the library of Sir Henry Swatham's mansion, noting the shelves of calf- and morocco-bound books lining the walls, the comfortable-looking leather armchairs and sofa grouped around the large stone fireplace, the naked blonde bound firmly over Sir Henry's heavy mahogany desk, the scatter of small tables bearing reading lamps plus the occasional decanter or box of cigars, and the French windows, framed by floor-length velvet curtains, in the far wall. He turned to Lady Marion.

"What seems to be the problem, ma'am?" he enquired.

Lady Marion glared at him, an impatient scowl marring her fine patrician features.

"Isn't it obvious, Inspector? She is the problem!" An imperious forefinger indicated the nude woman, now making head gestures and muffled sounds, possibly indicating, the Detective-Inspector considered, a wish to be released from the ropes and ball-gag currently restraining her.

The policeman quickly ran over the possibilities in his mind. He knew Lady Marion had a step-daughter, Susan, who might well be home from college, but this young lady appeared to be in her mid-twenties and Sir Henry's daughter would be a few years younger than that. One of the domestic staff, then? It seemed likely. When Lady Marion had first come to Zark as Sir Henry's bride, she had, Trevath recalled, found some of Zark's traditions a bit of a shock at first, but had quickly adapted and set about whipping Sir Henry's household staff into shape, both metaphorically and, in some cases, literally. It was odd, the Inspector thought, how often incomers were keener on the island's traditions than the islanders themselves...

His musings were cut short by an impatient "Well?" from Lady Marion.

"Of course, how Sir Henry or yourself keep order among your domestic staff is up to you, but unless this young woman has broken the law I see no reason to call us out - and even if..."

"This... person is not one of my maids, Inspector! I'm quite capable of dealing with them on my own."

"Then who is she?" The question was put by the third member of the party, Doctor Hewson, whose help Inspector Trevath had requested on first receiving Lady Marion's summons to the Hall on what she had described as 'a very serious case'.

"A good question, Doctor - who is she, Lady Marion?" The Inspector felt he should be asking any questions that needed to be asked - he was Zark's only Detective-Inspector, after all.

"If I knew that, I'd hardly need to send for a detective, would I? She's a complete stranger to me!"

"Perhaps Sir Henry knows her?" ventured the doctor.

"Sir Henry is away on an urgent business trip to London," Lady Marion replied. "I simply came into the library this afternoon and there she was!"

The recession did no one any favours, but it was particularly tough on young people, especially girls. My name is Caroline, and I had borrowed a small fortune to put myself through college, only to end up with a large debt and no prospect of a job commensurate with my qualifications. Having spent the two years since graduating flitting from one short-term minimum-wage job to another, I again found myself back on the dole. It was demoralising. Sometimes I felt so low that I wondered if there was any point even having a sociology degree!

On my way home from signing on (yet again) I stopped at the local newsagents, as I often did, to read the postcard adverts in the window. There were some great bargains to be had, if you only had the money, as people attempted to trade in their surplus possessions for a bit of cash. But, of more relevance to me, there was also an occasional job advert. On this occasion one particular advert captured my imagination. It simply said, 'Maid wanted for private residence. Full-time position', followed by a contact phone number. I did not think people actually had maids in this day and age, so I wondered if this was maybe some sort of euphemism used in the sex industry. I was intrigued, so after dithering for a day or two, I eventually decided to give the number a call, more out of curiosity than expectation, to see what would happen. If a man answered, I could always hang up.

The phone was answered by a Ms. Hardiman who confirmed that she was indeed looking for a maid. She explained that she lived alone in a large house in Westlands - an upmarket area of large detached Victorian houses in the inner suburbs, now mostly converted to offices for doctors, solicitors and other professionals, although a few remained in residential use. She said that she required a maid to look after the house and if I was interested I could call round for an interview. There seemed to be nothing to lose, so we fixed a time for the following morning.

The interview went very well. Ms. Hardiman seemed a pleasant enough lady in her mid-thirties. Having explained my background, she asked if I had any experience as a maid. I decided it was best to tell the truth (more or less) and confessed that I had no actual experience, but that I had looked after myself for five years since I had left home to go to university. I neglected to mention that my mother always complained that my bedsit resembled a tip each time she visited to deliver one of her unsolicited (but nonetheless welcome) food parcels. I did however mention that I had some experience as a chef. This had entailed little more than flipping burgers when it looked as if they might actually catch fire, but my position was technically known as 'Burger Chef' by the fast food chain that had employed me for three weeks the previous year, so strictly speaking I wasn't actually telling a lie.

The Schoolhouse on the Prairie
The old schoolhouse, as it was known, stood below the rise above the stream almost three miles from the Stepford Ranch House. Louise Stepford snorted at the very idea, as far as she knew it was less than 30 years old, having been built by the first generation of settlers in these parts. But then that was typical. The so-called first-comers invested everything with more gravitas than it deserved, especially themselves. Like this schoolmaster of theirs, who did he think he was? Louise was furious.

It was bad enough that she didn't have a man of her own, John Stepford having passed away on the journey out from Boston, but that was no excuse for uppity westerners to take advantage of a poor widow and her daughter.

The word stuck in her heart. A widow again at 36, it seemed so unfair, Louise sighed. Her first husband had not returned from the war, leaving her with a daughter at just 18-years-old. John Stepford had been her only real recourse. Now he too was dead. It wasn't that she missed him exactly. She had never really loved him, but now Ellie was 18 too and they both had to make a living on a ranch with no man and precious little of anything else. Louise sighed again. Boston was never like this. Then she remembered the uppity schoolmaster and his outrage. No, Boston was never ever like this.

Now that the schoolhouse was in sight, Louise pulled her shawl about her shoulders and took a moment to tuck a stray strand of raven hair into her bonnet. The wind was picking up and kicked at her skirts. Damn the man, bringing her all this way out here. Didn't she have better things to do?

Louise didn't bother to knock; wasn't this a public building after all? She would be damned if... any other thoughts were wiped from her mind as she swept into the little school house and saw Ellie and what had been done to her.

"Oh my God, you barbarian," Louise gasped.

She didn't even look at the man who had perpetrated such an outrage, so she didn't see his look of angry disapproval as he glanced up at her from his desk over the rims of his spectacles. He was big man in a once grand black suit that had seen better days. If she had taken the trouble to look she would have seen the darker outline of a star on his lapel where once a sheriff's badge had been pinned.

But instead, Louise's eyes were drawn to Ellie's shameful predicament. The petite raven-haired younger copy of Louise was stood in the corner with her hands planted firmly on her head while her skirts had been tucked neatly into the small of her back.