Midnight is a Place by Joan Aiken

were locked together in what looked like a fight to the death. They strained and stamped, heaved and grunted and struggled, bumping against the wall and the balustrade at the stairhead. The hall was full of the sound of their gasping breath and an occasional damn.
    In the dim light—the candles had not yet been lit—it was hard to make out one from another. Somebody seemed to be trying to throw somebody else over the banisters, and a third party was attempting to prevent this. Redgauntlet the hound circled round the group, hysterically barking, letting out an occasional whimper when one of the fighters knocked against or trod on him.
    Lucas felt that he ought to help, and yet it was hard to know what he could do. None the less he drew nearer, and caught a glimpse of the turkey-cock red face of Sir Randolph. Now he could see that his guardian had both arms tightly wrapped round another man and seemed engaged in trying to break his ribs by sheer pressure. Sir Randolph was being hindered from his efforts by Mr. Oakapple, who was both struggling and remonstrating:
    "Sir Randolph! Sir Randolph,
please!
You must leave go, sir, indeed you must! This will not do, sir, you are forgetting yourself."
    "Forgetting himself, rats!" grunted the man whom Sir Randolph was trying to throw over the rail. "If
you
weren't aware that Sir Randolph is the most awkward customer for miles around, Mr. Oakapple,
I
certainly was! I knew it would be taking my life in my hands to coom along this afternoon and serve the Order. But a public servant's got his dooty to do—
agghhh!
" he gasped, as the enraged Sir Randolph managed to get a hand on his windpipe.
    Then Lucas recognized the bald head and brass buttons of Mr. Gobthorpe the tax official. At the same moment Mr. Oakapple, catching sight of Lucas for the first time, exclaimed, "Go and fetch Garridge or old Gabriel—Sir Randolph is distempered, he is not himself."
    Lucas tried to edge around the group in order to get down the stairs.
    "Not himself!" burst out the tax official, getting Sir Randolph's hand off his throat again, "he's exactly himself, if you were to ask me—of all the pesky, contumacious, aggravating, bellicocious tax defaulters, he's the wust I ever coom across, or my name's not Esdras Gobthorpe."
    His words increased the fury of Sir Randolph, who made another lunge at him. This had the effect of tipping the whole group over the head of the stairs, just at the moment when Lucas had squeezed by them, and they all tumbled down higgledy-piggledy, falling over one another.
    Apparently, as it turned out, nobody's limbs were broken, and the sudden upset at least succeeded in disentangling the fighters. The little tax officer, Mr. Gobthorpe, with great presence of mind leapt to his feet and made for the front door, exclaiming, "I give you good day, sir! I have done my dooty. I have served the Order, which falls due in three weeks' time. After that, it's pay or go to prison. And before then you will probably receive a Summons for assault of a revenue officer in pursoot of his lawful occasions!"—
with which parting shot he slammed the door behind him. Sir Randolph, eyes starting, purple with choler, might very likely have gone in pursuit, despite the restraining grasp of Mr. Oakapple, if another visitor had not just then very opportunely arrived and entered through the same door by which Mr. Gobthorpe had departed, conveniently blocking the way. He gazed in dignified surprise at Sir Randolph's face of fury.
    "Ah—Mr. Throgmorton. Good afternoon," panted Mr. Oakapple. "Mr. Throgmorton, will you please represent to Sir Randolph that he must not punch a tax official, nor call him a scrimshanked blatherskite—"With caution he let go of Sir Randolph's arm, but kept a firm grasp on the tails of his velvet jacket.
    "Heydey! What's all this about?" demanded the new arrival, a small, slim, sour-faced individual, very plainly and neatly dressed in a gray jacket and