Chapter 2

“Eleanor! You’re coming with me,” called Matilda as she hurried into her home and was greeted by the maid, wearing as she usually did her black and white uniform and chains at her wrists and ankles. “We have work and I need your assistance, slave.”

“Mistress,” said Eleanor with a startled look, feather duster in her hand. “I did not expect you back so soon. I regret I haven’t finished cleaning.”

“It can wait. I need you out of those chains and into something less revealing.” The woman in the blue suit eyed her maid, whose humiliatingly short black skirt, sheer blouse tight across her small bust with her prominent nipples visible showed far too much of her to be seen like that in polite company. Resterford-On-Water was not London, Berlin or Paris by a long chalk, and even the girl’s frilly white apron at her narrow waist offered no hiding place for her charms.

The younger female smiled. “It’s good to see you, Mistress, and to serve your every need.” The girl held her wrists out for her Mistress to undo the cuffs.

“I should hope it’s always good to see me,” said the older woman as she took a key from her jacket pocket and undid the wrist chains. The she handed the key to the girl. “Undo your own ankles and put the chains way neatly this time. Put on something longer. Your pink and white dress, I think.”

“Yes Mistress,” said Eleanor as she unfastened herself. “Do I need any underwear?”

Matilda sighed. They would have to go out on the tandem bicycle, which wasn’t ideal even though the weather would hold. It would have been so much easier to put the maid in the motorbike and sidecar but the machine was at the garage being mended. “Yes. Just knickers. White ones. I don’t want anyone seeing you reveal your self.”

“No, Mistress,” grinned Eleanor, and hurried off with her chains in her hand to change.

“And be quick. As I say we have work. Urgent work!” Matilda called after her slave.

“Mistress. I didn’t masturbate while you were out,” called the girl over her shoulder as she disappeared into the space under the wide stairs that doubled as her bedroom, cell and punishment room.

“I should hope not! If I say no masturbation I mean no masturbation,” responded Matilda sternly. In spite of her tone, she smiled to herself. Eleanor was a spirited—some would say cheeky—slave and while there were women at the Society For Kept Females who would disagree with how Matilda allowed her slave to speak to her, it made for more entertainment than some women enjoyed while keeping their slaves gagged all the time, and cowed with it.

Plus, and this was valuable, Eleanor had a keen intellect and when permitted to speak was definitely a help when it came to solving mysteries. It was hard to think of a recent case that Matilda had solved that hadn’t required the help of her 21 year old property in some way.

“Mistress,” came the voice from under the stairs. “May I have a new gag for my birthday?”

“Slave,” snapped Matilda, putting on her sternest voice. “I will not discuss what you may or may not get given on your birthday. If anything, other than a celebratory whipping. If you do not hurry I will be giving you the hardest whipping of your life now,” she shouted back. “I may even sell you to Lady Carden if you do not behave as a slave should.”

“Sorry, Mistress,” came the subdued voice from under the stairs.

“And put on some stout shoes, girl. You will be peddling hard; there are hills to climb.”

The lay-by by the side of the quiet lane leading to Resterford-On-Water from the small village of Layham bore no sign of a motor car stopping recently, save for a paper bag, carelessly tossed on to the grass verge. Matilda dismounted from the tandem, telling Eleanor to hold the bike ready to leave, and the woman examined the bag. It smelled of pork, which she deduced was where Mr Porrett had paused for his lunch before going to Mrs Gibbens. The bag bore the name of Winters and Gaines, who Matilda knew were purveyors of fresh meat products, from their shop on Cinder Street, in Resterford-On-Water.

Now this, Matilda reasoned, was unusual. There was no wind on this pleasant day, so the bag had not been blown there. As the lay-by was on the approach to the town, clearly Mr Porrett had been to the town previously, bought his sandwich and yet returned to this lay-by to consume it. It was clear the man had visited the town for some reason not connected with a visit to Mrs Gibbens’ shop, gone away from Resterford-on-Water and then stopped to eat the pork sandwich before turning his vehicle round and heading back to the town.

Eleanor watched her Mistress and then—risking annoying her mistress by speaking without permission—asked: “Is that important, Mistress.”

“You call me Mrs Minerva or Madam in public, girl,” frowned Matilda. “Or do I need to remind you here and now? I am sure I can find some nettles to thrash you with.”

“Oh no, sorry, Madam. It’s just that you are sniffing that bag. I was puzzled.”

“Indeed I am sniffing it, and with good cause.” Matilda looked round, saw no other evidence, and said: “I told you of the situation on our way here. So, I now need to know why this man Porrett went to Resterford-On-Water and then left to come here to eat, only to return to the town an hour or so later.”

“Perhaps he was forgetful,” offered the slave.

“I think not, Eleanor. Sales representatives pride themselves on their mental acuity, remembering orders, dates, customers. They can be tiresome in conversation because of their obsessive interests and uninteresting but correct memories. The truth is Mrs Gibbens never closes her shop for lunch, so the man I am supposedly helping had no reason not to call on her when in town to buy a sandwich.”

“Perhaps then he is lying.”

Matilda pursed her lips. “I wonder, as there are things of which I am unsure about him. I believe he deliberately chose to ignore the opportunity to see a valued customer on his first visit when every good practice is that business comes first. Silence now, girl, while I think.”

The bag was empty, save for a few crumbs. It would appear Mr Porrett had eaten the sandwich (and no surprise, as a hot pork sandwich from Winters and Gaines was a delight and not to be thrown away casually.) It was obvious that no matter how hungry, a distressed sales representative would not have been able to eat if he had already lost the girdle if it was so valuable. His appetite would, even for a man as round as Porrett, have deserted him. The bag was not soaked with tears.