Titus Gore and the Restless Housekeeper (Deceased)

As I believe has been mentioned elsewhere, I live marooned in the decrepit family home, poring over documents, searching attics, exploring escritoires and bookcases for great uncle Sebastian’s lost inheritance
. . . Only yesterday I came across the following, tied up with green ribbon inside the piano stool, penned in great uncle Seb's spidery scrawl. I have transposed it to see if any clue is hidden within its text . . .
The title is :  Titus Gore and the Restless Housekeeper (Deceased)

Titus Gore rubbed his eyes again.

The clock quite distinctly declared the house to be late, close on midday, yet his housekeeper, that model of punctuality Mrs Slattern, had failed to bombard him with tea and toast at the proper time.

‘Most remiss of her, most,’ he muttered as he staggered from his couch of slumber, throwing his baroque brocade dressing gown about himself and tripping over his Persian slippers.

‘I shall have words with her, when I have time,’ he continued as he made his way to the breakfast room. Everything in its place, however,  the silver Georgian teapot sat steaming on a crisp white linen tablecloth, toast in its toast rack, boiled egg, rashers of bacon in the side dish awaited him. And an envelope, propped up against the teacup, in his housekeeper’s inimitable scrawl.

‘This is to remind you  (as you will no doubt have forgotten) that I am on holiday as of today, for precisely one week, during which period you shall have to fend for yourself.

There is cold pork pie in the pantry, the girl from the Flightly’s place across the road will be along later to prepare your meals.

The greengrocer will make his deliveries tomorrow – be sure to give him exact change only as I have been caught that way before.

  Ta ta for now,

   Mrs S.’

Titus gazed unbelievingly at the missive and addressed the room at large : ‘Of course  remembered it was her holiday. Most definitely.’ He sat down and was about to pour himself some tea when the front door bell rang.

Titus went to the mantelpiece and pulled at the bell rope. He could hear, very distantly, hear it jangling in the kitchen far below where Mrs Slattern held dominion.

He unhooked the speaking tube and spoke down it –‘ Mrs Slattern, the door, if you please.’

The door bell rang again. Titus remembered (yet again) that Mrs Slattern was on holiday for a week rather than five minutes and murmured ‘Drat these holidays’ before sweeping downstairs.

He opened the door to an undersize gentleman in tweeds, bowler hat, a magnificent moustache and a pained expression.

‘Good morning, the name is Savage, Septimus Savage. I have come to consult Mr Titus Gore, private consultant extraordinaire . . .’ and here the gentleman peered at a visiting card he held in his hand ‘. . .in all matters phantasmagorical . . ?’ He gazed inquiringly at Titus who nodded with as much aplomb as he could in dressing gown and slippers.

‘Tea ? Toast ?’ offered Titus, settling down again at his rapidly cooling breakfast.

‘A cuppa would be most appreciated, thank you, Mr Gore.’ Mr Septimus Savage pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket and dabbed at his face with it, ‘My nerves have been ah, stretched to the utmost limit by recent turn of events.’

‘Yes, you are here to consult me on a matter of inexplicable phenomena ? What is it, them,, footsteps upstairs in the empty guestroom ? Doors opening and shutting for no apparent reason ? Not the ubiquitous clanking of chains, I hope ? I do get quite tired of those . . .’

‘Alas, were that all, I might well have tolerated it, and not bothered you with such trivia,’ replied Mr Savage looking increasingly pained.

Titus Gore raised one interested eyebrow. ‘Sugar ?’

Mr Savage took five spoonfuls.

‘It is my housekeeper. We buried her last Tuesday. Only she won’t accept the fact, keeps turning up at the most awkward moments, and insisting on doing the housework.’

‘Housekeeper ? Deceased but insists on doing the housework. Intriguing indeed. Some mildly obsessive form of zombism.’

‘Really, Mr Gore ? I understood Zombies had little to say for themselves. Instead, Mrs Grouch continues to have strong opinions on everything which she voices very clearly at every opportunity.’

‘That is interesting, certainly. But does she make a good job of the housekeeping ?’

‘Oh, impeccable,’ replied Mr Savage earnestly. ‘Indeed, in that respect her standards are as high as ever they were before.’

‘My dear fellow, what have you to complain about ? A deceased housekeeper who insists on continuing in her duties is surely to your advantage. Think of the money you can save !’

Mr Savage crumpled his handkerchief up and wrung it. ‘She’s joined a union,’ he answered weakly.

‘Ah. My commiserations. But still, I say a valued and trusty servant is hard to find.’

‘And there you bring me to the other dilemma,’ continued Savage anxiously. ‘The thing is, I have no absolute proof – but things have gone missing.’