Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

I’ve worked in a few places where the masters were awful. One place was so bad for it that you were afraid to even go to the privy on your own, in case you were grabbed. I didn’t last long, there. But, I had to say, I didn’t get the sort of feeling from Mr. Manfield. He didn’t seem like he would be a threat in that way – I don’t know how I could have felt that, but I did. I relaxed a little but kept myself wary.

We both stood looking at the trees. They looked oddly as though they were watching us back and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Mr. Manfield glanced at me. “The villagers still won’t come here,” he said. “Not if they don’t have to. I suppose every village has its memories. Bad ones.”

I nodded, although I wasn’t exactly sure of what he was saying.

“Human sacrifice,” he said softly. I could feel my eyebrows shoot up and I began to feel nervous again. Mr. Manfield went on. “Astarte, the goddess – apparently they used to make sacrifices to her, here. Mostly animals but a few people, now and again. Horrible business, what?”

I nodded again, fervently.

“That’s where the manor gets its name,” he went on. “It’s a corruption of Astarte.”

“I wondered where it came from. It’s a queer name.”

“Yes, it is. The whole set-up is queer, isn’t it?”

He was talking to me again like an equal. It made me thrilled and uneasy, in equal measure.

“Reminds me of Africa, you know,” said Mr. Manfield, ruminatively. “I lived on the east coast, a place called Teganka. My local tribe had some odd superstitions. Thought they could ill-wish people. A bit rum, you know, because people did actually sicken and die, sometimes. Odd thing, superstition…”

The sun came out suddenly, dappling the clearing with golden light. I felt my heart actually lift and the odd feeling of dread and oppression suddenly lifted.

“Can you find your way back?” asked Mr Manfield. I wondered whether he’d experienced the same lightening of spirit as I had. He certainly looked a little happier.

“Oh, yes, sir. I’m quite sure I can get back. Thank you.”

“Well, I’d best be off then. If you’re sure…?”

“Quite sure, thank you sir. You’re very kind.”

“Righto.” He tipped his hat to me and strode off, hoisting his gun up onto his shoulder. I watched him walk away and then turned myself and began to retrace my steps, as quickly as I could without actually running. I’d had enough of the glories of nature. I wanted to be back amongst people. Even the thought of all the hard work awaiting me, later that evening, didn’t slow me down.

Things continued uneventfully for a week or so. The master went up to London, the mistress came down every day with her menus for Mrs. Cotting. I saw Mr. Manfield go off in the direction of the woods, with his gun over his shoulder, almost every morning that week. He seemed to prefer being outdoors, unlike the mistress who was rarely seen in the gardens. I wondered whether they were close. He seemed to enjoy the company of Mrs. Carter-Knox; they would often be found talking about wildlife and gardening and exotic plants. Apparently she’d spent some time in Africa too and they often spoke about their time there. Miss Cleo spent most of her time with the mistress, although I had once come across her and the master in the library, talking together in low voices. She and Mr. Manfield didn’t seem to have much to do with one another. In fact, I would have said that they were downright prickly with one another, but I had no idea why. I would have liked to have a brother, or any sibling, really. Verity was the closest thing to a sister I had, and she was a blessing to be remembered if ever I felt a little down and lonely about my place in the world.

Then the mistress got ill again. This time, the doctor was called and I saw him leaving the building and driving away in his black car, very neat and correct in his suit and hat. He’d been shown to the bedroom by Mrs. Smith and she came into the kitchen shortly after that with the tray of food that Mrs. Cotting had prepared for the mistress.

“She didn’t fancy it, then?” I said, looking at the array of untouched dishes on the tray.

“Oh, she’s worse this time,” said Mrs. Smith. “Can’t keep anything down. And she has strange – fancies, I think you’d call them. Delusions.” She hesitated for a moment. “I think Doctor’s quite worried.”

“Humph,” said Mrs. Cotting. “We’ll soon see her up and about again, mark my words.”

Funnily enough, Mrs. Cotting was right. Two days later, the mistress was up and about again, wafting about the house in her beautiful clothes. But she looked – I don’t know – strange. Almost as if she were listening to something no one else could hear. The master came back from town that night and the two of them dined alone. Mr. Manfield had gone to visit a friend and Miss Cleo was up in London for the night. Mrs. Carter-Knox had ordered a tray to be brought up to her room. She often did that, which annoyingly made for extra work. Luckily, the table menu tonight was quite simple, for a change; clear soup, a chicken and mushroom pie and then a savoury at the end instead of a sweet. Annie was ill in bed with a bad cold and so I had to wait at table, which I normally hated doing. I felt so big and clumsy in the parlour maid’s uniform and I was always afraid I would drop a dish or, worse, spill something hot on one of the guests.

The dining room was silent as I moved around the table, proffering the vegetables. There was no conversation between husband and wife, no sound except for the chime of cutlery on china and the crackle and spit of the fire. Perhaps it was always like this, I had no way of knowing. As I waited for the mistress to serve herself a miniscule portion of chicken pie, I realised that I’d forgotten to bring up the gravy. Quickly I looked up to see if the butler, Mr. Pettigrew, had noticed, but he was busying himself at the drinks cabinet. As soon as I decently could, I quietly left the room and pounded down the back stairs to the kitchen.

Thankfully the gravy was still hot – Meg, bless her heart, had put it in the top of the Rayburn to keep warm. I gave her a grateful smile as I dashed back across the kitchen floor, holding the jug in front of me like a trophy. Back up the stairs, nineteen to the dozen, and my hand was on the door to the dining room when I heard the mistress’s hissing voice, which cut through my own jagged breathing. She was saying something to the master in a tone so loaded with venom it stopped me in my tracks.

“You do it to torment me, I think you get pleasure out of it—“

“Oh, Delphine…” The master’s voice was bored and a little annoyed. I stayed rigid for a moment, behind the door.

The mistress spoke again, her voice ragged. “Why you and John have to be at each other’s throats all the time, I don’t know. You’re always fighting and it makes it so hard for me. You have no idea what my life is like, none at all.”

“That’s not the case—“

She cut across him. “If you’re not having cosy little chats with Cleo, or boring on with your aunt, you’re ignoring me. I could be invisible, for all you care.”

“Delphine, now that’s wrong—“

She cut across him again. “I hate you,” she said and the sentence ended on a sob.

I was holding my breath (which was not easy after running down and up a flight of stairs), but nearly screamed when there was a ponderous clearing of a throat behind me. I turned to see Mr. Pettigrew, with a newly opened bottle of port in his hand.

“What seems to be the problem, Joan?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing - nothing at all,” I stuttered and pushed open the dining room door with my free hand.

Madam had her golden head down, her fingers clenched around the silver cutlery. I thought I saw a tear fall onto her plate. Mr. Denford was busy cutting up his pie but his jaw was clenched – in fact, his whole body was clenched, tight, like an angry fist. I put the gravy on the table, prickling all over with embarrassment. Had they realised I’d been listening at the door? Before I could think anything else, the mistress dropped the knife and fork with a musical tinkle, pushed back her chair and fled the room. I could see Mr. Pettigrew regarding her with astonished eyes before his training took over and the mask of the impersonal servant settled back over his features.

If I had been Violet, I would have regaled the other servants with this little piece of drama. I didn’t, though. It felt wrong, to have eavesdropped and to be witness to such emotional distress. What had the mistress meant? Did the master and her brother not get along? I thought of the way she’d said
cosy little chats with Cleo,
in a voice loaded with sarcastic meaning.  As I got undressed that night and put my weary bones to bed, I thought of the hissed venom in her voice, clear enough even through a wooden door.

Annie was back in her position the next day, sniffling, coughing and red-eyed, but I was too thankful not to have to wait at table again to be too sorry for her. I made her a hot toddy when Mrs. Cotting’s back was turned, with an extra spoonful of Madeira in it. There were no extra guests expected this week and it was with a small shock that I realised there hadn’t been any real entertainment at the manor for over a month. The vicar and his wife had come to dinner a week ago, but that had been a comparatively simple menu and Mrs. Cotting, Meg and I had coped with it without really turning a hair. I thought back to the frantic days when I’d first arrived; the elaborate menus, the multitude of guests that would arrive for sumptuous banquets. Now all that had gone.

I busied myself with the mayonnaise, but I was all fingers and thumbs; it just wouldn’t mix properly. Instead of a smooth, thick, creamy paste the colour of custard, all I was getting was curdled cream and separated eggs. I threw away the latest lumpy batch and began again, slowly dripping in the olive oil, one bit at a time, and whisking it steadily. I was aware of a strange feeling about the house, a sort of oppressive heaviness. A bit like those breathless few hours before a really violent storm, when the very air itself seems to press on you. I was getting the same sort of headache that I got in those circumstances. I’m sensitive to atmosphere. If you’d grown up in an orphanage, you would be, too.

The wretched mayonnaise curdled again. I threw out the second batch, guiltily thinking of what a waste of good food I was making. Mrs. Cotting stirred the soup for tonight, grumbling about her sore feet. You suffer terribly with your feet when you’re in service, you’re always on them. Some days, I didn’t sit down for hours at a time. It gave you an awfully sore back, too.

The third batch of mayonnaise mixed properly, thank goodness. I transferred it to the ice-box, taking a little longer than usual to close the lid. It was so pleasant to feel that cooler air on my face. The ice came from the manor grounds, where there was an ice-house close to the lake, in a dank little hollow, stocked each winter and chipped away for use, piece by piece, throughout the year.

“Joan, those cuffs are absolutely filthy,” Mrs. Cotting said sharply, as I came back into the kitchen. I looked down at my wrists – she was right. They were splashed and marked with egg and oil and milk, coffee grounds from breakfast, and other assorted stains.

“I’m sorry. I’ll go and put on my spare pair.”

“Quick as you can, then.”

I said a rude word in the privacy of my own head as I left the kitchen. Four flights of stairs to climb on my already aching feet and legs to reach my attic room. I don’t know why I made for the main staircase, rather than using the servants’ one I was supposed to take. Perhaps I rebelliously wanted to feel the plush carpet beneath my poor soles, rather than the hard old linoleum of the back stairs.

I rounded the first flight of stairs quickly and stopped dead. The mistress was standing with her back to me, twisting and wringing her hands. I must have made a sound, an intake of breath perhaps, because she swung around to face me. Her face was working and she looked as if she’d walked into something solid and was still trying to get her breath back. Her hands pulled and twisted at her sleeves.

She looked so distressed I found my arms going out instinctively, before self-preservation kicked in. “Madam?” I asked, tentatively. For a moment, I wondered whether she even saw me; her gaze was turned inward, glassy and blank like the eyes of a dead fish.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said. Her voice shook as if someone had hold of her by the shoulders. “I don’t know what to do!”

“Madam, let me fetch someone,” I said, in as soothing a voice as I could. “I’ll go and find Miss Maddox…”

“No!” Her restless hands went out, as if to ward me off. Then she turned around and ran up the stairs, stumbling once and falling to her knees before picking herself up and running upwards again. I could hear her crying as she turned the corner of the corridor on the first floor.

I remained where I was for a moment. I was so shaken I’d forgotten why I was even going upstairs. Should I really fetch Miss Cleo? After a moment, I turned and walked back down the stairs, slowly. I thought I’d better take the servants’ staircase, after all.

That night I wrote to Verity. It was hard to capture exactly how I was feeling, because I didn’t know myself – there was an oppressive feeling of dread hanging over me, but formless, because I didn’t know why I felt like that. Not for the first time, I wished I were back in London. I frowned over my writing paper, unable to articulate my thoughts. Words which would normally flow from my pen seemed to stick in the nib. In the end, I wrote:
V, I’m worried but I don’t know why. I feel like something bad is about to happen but I don’t know what. We must meet up soon, so you can talk some sense into me!
I signed it off as usual, with three kisses, and then added a P.S.
Don’t worry about me, it’s probably nothing. I’m being fanciful – as usual! Love J.