Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) (4 page)

The next day, the fine weather broke and it rained. The sky was like a sagging grey blanket spread over the manor. In the kitchen, Mrs. Cotting was in a fine mood, slamming pots and pans around and letting off a slow hissing mumble, rather like the kettle that was kept simmering on the stove top.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, rather tentatively. In my experience, asking that question is normally an invitation to have one’s head bitten off.

“I’m not accustomed to having my dishes questioned. I serve nothing but good, wholesome food in here, and who’s to say I don’t.” Mrs. Cotting bent down to shoot the Yorkshire pudding dish into the oven and slammed the door with a wrathful clang.

“Who’s been asking questions?” I couldn’t imagine the mistress having the temerity to take Mrs. Cotting up on anything, let alone what went on in the kitchen.

“That John Manfield!” Mrs. Cotting was annoyed enough to not use his title. “Coming down here, poking his nose in. What’s he know about cooking, I’d like to know?”

“What was he asking?”

“Oh, what kind of meat was I using, how long was I cooking it for? Just because Madam’s ill again. It’s nothing to do with my cooking, I told him, and I’ll thank him not to make my job any more difficult than it actually is.”

Mrs. Cotting huffed off into the larder and I turned my attention back to the soup, stirring its murky depths. Soon I would add crushed eggs shells to it and whisk it thoroughly, skimming off every bit of froth and scum that rose to the surface. Then I would lay sheets of greaseproof paper over it, over and over again, until the soup itself was a wonderful clear golden colour, totally transparent.

At the moment, the soup was still sludgy with vegetables and bones. I stirred it gently, feeling the steam against my face and thinking about what Mrs. Cotting had said. Surely Mr. Manfield wasn’t implying that the mistress was getting food poisoning? Once, perhaps (although I could never say that to Mrs. Cotting, if I valued my life), but not over and over again, surely? Perhaps she wasn’t able to eat something we kept cooking without being ill? I knew a girl like that in the orphanage; if she ate eggs, she’d come over all queer and be violently ill. Not that we got many eggs in the orphanage, you can be sure of that, so it wasn’t really a problem.

That night, the master went up to London, as he did frequently for the start of the week. With just the mistress, her brother, Miss Cleo and Mrs. Carter-Knox to worry about, it was a more peaceful evening than we’d had for a while. It rained steadily all afternoon and the night seemed to draw in quicker than usual. When I went out to fetch some milk from the dairy, I noticed, for the first time, the leaves on the trees by the gate were touched with the first autumnal hints. By six o’clock, it was almost as dark, as it would be in October.

I was wearily putting away the last of the silver into the silver cabinet when I heard one of the bells ringing. It’s not rightly my job to answer them, but Mrs. Cotting had already retired and Meg was off fetching wood for the stove, so I went into the corridor as quickly as my tired legs would allow. The bell to the Blue Room was bouncing and jangling on its wire: Mr. Manfield’s room. I thought of the stairs between here and the second floor and groaned, but made my way to the staircase nonetheless.

Mr. Manfield’s room was next to the master’s, which was next to the mistress’s room. I hesitated briefly outside her door as I could hear the faint murmur of voices within. Then I knocked on Mr. Manfield’s door.

After a few minutes, I knocked again. After a moment, Madam’s door opened and Mr. Manfield came out. He looked worried. Miss Cleo followed him out a moment later. She was frowning slightly.

“Oh, hello Joan,” he said, clearly not wondering why I was answering the bells and not the housemaid. It was all the same to him. Miss Cleo shut the bedroom door carefully behind her. “We’re just getting my sister settled. She should be fine, now. Do you think you could bring me some hot milk? I’m just about in and I could do with a good night’s sleep.”

“Yes, of course, sir. Should I make you some cocoa or is it just the milk you want?”

“That’s dashed kind of you, but milk is fine.”

“I’ll bring it straight up, sir.”

“Darling, would you make me one too?” asked Miss Cleo, abruptly. I was faintly surprised – she didn’t normally touch milky drinks. It was normally gin or champagne all the way for her.

“Yes, of course, Madam.” I bobbed a quick curtsey and turned away.

I was just going back down the stairs when I thought I heard the faint sound of someone calling me. I hesitated, one foot on the top stairs, listening with held breath. There was nothing. I was on the verge of walking down when I found myself turning around and hurrying back to the door of Madam’s room. I knocked tentatively and when no one answered, I carefully pushed open the door.

I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was being so forward. It was almost as if there was something unseen tugging me into the room, like a little hand in mine, pulling me forward insistently.

Madam was in bed, her face turned towards the door, the covers drawn up to just under her shoulders. Her delicate hands clutched the top of the silk eiderdown. I thought she was asleep but, as I crept forward, her eyes snapped open suddenly, although I’d made no sound.

“Madam?” I asked tentatively. “Shall I – can I bring you anything? Did you call?”

She continued to stare at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and her pupils large and dark like sloes. I wondered whether she’d actually been asleep and I’d awakened her. I braced myself for anger but, after a moment, she smiled a sweet smile and shook her head, quite insistently, like a child.

“You don’t want anything?” I persisted. What was wrong with me? I could feel that same uneasiness I’d felt all week, incongruous in this beautifully decorated, luxurious bedchamber.

Madam smiled and shook her head again, less forcefully this time. I had the uneasy feeling that she didn’t actually know who I was. But what else could I do? I bobbed a curtsey and said a limp, “Goodnight then, Madam,” and made my way back out in the corridor, shutting the door behind me. I ran down the stairs, feeling as breathless as if I were running up them.

Meg was back in the kitchen when I got back. I took two mugs from the hooks on the dresser and made up the hot drink. “Here, take this up to Mr. Manfield for me, Meg. He’s off to bed and wants something to help him sleep. Take one for Miss Cleo, too.”

Meg leapt at the chance, as I knew she would. She was sweet on him, poor girl, as if anything would ever come of that.

Mrs. Smith came into the kitchen to fill the kettle from her room. I opened my mouth to ask whether she thought Madam was really any better and then shut it again. I didn’t want to mention that I’d asked Madam if she needed any help – it wasn’t really my place to have done that. All I could say to myself was that I’d been worried.

I slept badly that night. Annie snored like a pig and the air in the room felt like a warm, dusty blanket, pressing down over my face. After waking three times, I got up and crossly looked out some cotton wool to put in my ears. Knowing that you’ll be exhausted before the day even starts is a horrible thing. Eventually I fell into a thin sleep, muddied with strange dreams.

When it was time to get up for work, I dragged myself, groaning, out of bed; normally it was so uncomfortable but this morning it felt like the softest feather mattress in the world. I splashed cold water on my face in a vain attempt to make myself feel more awake. Tucking my hair up underneath my cap and pinning it there, I clumped downstairs. Mrs. Cotting was in the larder, marking up a list for the delivery boy. I stopped in the kitchen doorway, blinking. My head felt stuffed with fog after my bad night but, for a second, I felt a jab of unease, like a silvery pinprick of light through the clouds of tiredness.
There was something wrong.

I blinked again and the feeling went, buried under a wave of tiredness. I yawned hugely. One of the luxuries of Asharton Manor was a pot of coffee for the staff every morning and I made my way straight to the stove, pouring myself a generous cup. That silvery dart of anxiety pierced me again. What
was
wrong? I was too tired to think. I gave myself an irritable shake and turned my attention to making breakfast.

I was drooping over the frying pan, turning the sizzling slices of bacon, when the kitchen door banged back on its hinges and Violet came rushing into the kitchen, wringing her hands and gibbering. We all stared at her in astonishment; me at the stove, Mrs. Cotting by the larder, and Mrs. Smith sorting through the laundry receipts at her desk in the corner of the room.

“What on Earth—” Mrs. Smith said as Violet rushed over to her, her hands up in her hair, pulling it out from the pins.

“It’s Madam, it’s Madam – oh, Mrs. Smith, it’s awful – she’s lying there all cold, there’s something wrong – all
cold
– I think she’s dead—”

Talk about cold. A drenching, chilly wave washed over me, just as I gasped and I heard Mrs. Cotting do the same.

Mrs. Smith just stared blankly. “What on Earth are you talking about, Violet?”

“Madam’s dead, I think she’s dead!”

Meg, who was setting bread at the kitchen table, gave a short sharp scream. We all jumped and Mrs. Smith got up quickly. “Dead? Don’t be ridiculous!”

Violet was still moaning and crying. Mrs Cotting drew her over to a chair and sat her down. She, Mrs Smith and I looked at each other, silently wondering.

“Joan, come with me,” Mrs. Smith said, finally. She and Mrs. Cotting exchanged another quick glance and Mrs. Cotting nodded very slightly. Violet had sunk her head into her hands and both she and Meg were crying. I think Mrs. Smith wanted someone she could rely on to accompany her. If I was capable of thinking anything, I was pleased, but my heart was thumping. I thought of that silvery dart of anxiety that I’d felt walking into the kitchen. Had I had a premonition?

We walked quickly up the main staircase. I knew then that Mrs. Smith was worried, because we would normally have taken the servants’ stairs. We reached the landing, where Madam’s door stood ajar. Mrs. Smith hesitated on the landing. Then – I could hear her take a deep breath – she walked inside the room and I followed her.

The bedside light was on and the tea tray deposited on the table next to the bed. Madam lay in bed like a marble statue. I could see at first glance that she was dead; her mouth hung open and there was a greyish tinge to her skin, as if she’d walked through a room full of dust and cobwebs. I could smell it too – death smells like nothing else, sweet and rank at the same time. I swallowed.

“Oh, my lord,” said Mrs. Smith, breathing fast. “Oh, my lord. Oh Joan… oh, my lord…”

I looked at her in alarm. She was very pale, with a sheen of perspiration over her face like a transparent veil.

“Quick—” I said and got her to a chair just in time. I helped her put her head near her ample lap, wishing I had some smelling salts. I looked at the dressing table, thinking I might see some there, but the light was too dim and the table too far away in the enormous room for me to see clearly.

“Wait here, I’ll get help,” I said. Mrs. Smith said something muffled in reply, but I didn’t stop to ask her to repeat it. I ran quickly to the door and down the corridor to Mr. Manfield’s room and knocked before I had a chance to think about what I was doing.

It seemed an age before I heard a sleepy voice say, “Come in.” I almost fell into the room, such was my haste – I didn’t stop to think what he might think of me, a servant, barging into his bedchamber without so much as a by your leave. As I opened my mouth to gasp out the news, I realised what I was about to say. I was about to tell him his sister was dead.

“What’s that?” he asked, as if he couldn’t just believe what he’d heard.

I had to repeat myself, this time at least remembering to add, “I’m so sorry, sir.”

Mr. Manfield got slowly out of bed and reached for his gown. I hastily dropped my eyes.

“Did I hear you correctly?” he asked. He put one hand up to his face and I could see his fingers shaking. “Did I?”

“I’m so sorry,” I said desperately. “Please, will you come with me, sir?”

When we got back into the room, Mrs. Smith had raised her head. She still looked deathly pale, but her breathing had steadied a little.

Mr. Manfield gasped when he saw the still figure on the bed. He didn’t say anything else. For a moment, the three of us looked on in silence.

The door opened behind us and made all three of us jump. Miss Cleo came into the room, rubbing her face, her dark flapper bob tousled from sleep.

“What’s going on?” she said sleepily and then caught sight of Mrs. Denford. Her hand went to her mouth. After a moment, she wheeled around and walked blindly out of the room, rebounding off the doorway as she misjudged the distance. I could hear her footsteps running down the corridor and the faint sound of retching before the bathroom door slammed. After a moment, I could also hear Mrs. Carter-Knox calling faintly and querulously from her bedroom. For the moment, we all ignored her

“We need to call a doctor,” said Mr. Manfield eventually and I leapt at the opportunity to do just that; anything to get out of the room filled with absence.

The time in a house after a death is strange. Everything is muffled, but at the same time, individual noises are too loud. I dropped a saucepan when I was preparing lunch and the clang of it on the stone flags sent both me and Mrs. Cotting shooting into the air like fireworks. I’d worked in two houses before where someone had died. The first – and the worst – was one of the Jewish places I’d worked, where a newborn baby had smothered in its sleep, one night. Oh my goodness, that was a terrible time – even this horrible event at Asharton didn’t compare to
that
. No one in that house stopped crying for a week after it happened, servants and gentry alike. The second was another London place; there, the master’s brother had died after a long illness. He’d been gassed in the Great War and never really recovered. That was sad, but he’d been ill for so long that no one was really very shocked. As I chopped onions, wiping my eyes with my cuffs, I wondered whether that was the case here. Madam had been ill, after all, for months. Was that why she had died? It must be.
It must be
, I repeated to myself, in the privacy of my head, wondering whether I was trying to convince myself.