Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) (7 page)

“Thank you,” I said and I meant it from the bottom of my heart.  We said goodbye and I put the receiver down.  I stared up at the glittering chandelier for a moment, through the luxuriant growth of the flower arrangement. Was what I was thinking really likely? There was a part of me that wanted to reject the thought, and I knew why. But suppose I was right? What was I going to do? What would be the moral thing - the ethical thing - to do? I had my nails in my mouth, nibbling in anxiety. Then I saw Mr. Pettigrew walking toward me from the end of the hallway, disapproval written all over his face. I bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried back to the kitchen.

That night, I lay in bed in the darkness, wide-eyed. I could hear Annie breathing softly across the room. I turned over in bed, trying not to make too much noise.

It wasn’t even as if I’d even liked the mistress much – I hadn’t. But I couldn’t forget that feeling of a tiny hand pushing me towards her bedroom door the night she’d died. I knew something was wrong then, that it was a silent cry for help, but I hadn’t understood in time. Now I did understand and it was up to me to right that wrong. It was up to me to see justice was done.

I slid stealthily out of bed and dressed myself in the dark – just my dark blue dress, dark stockings, no shoes. I twisted my hair back off my face and pinned it back as best I could in the dark, without the aid of a mirror. Then I crept to the door and opened it as quietly as the creaky handle would allow. I tried to think of some excuse as to why I was wandering about outside my room that would sound plausible if I were seen. I couldn’t really think of anything and yet I had to have something. If I was discovered then I was likely to be instantly dismissed. And – although I tried not to think of it – if the person I was looking for discovered me, then dismissal was the least of my worries. I shivered, as much from fear as from the chill of the unheated corridor.

I crept downstairs, using the servants’ staircase. When it came to leave it, I could feel my knees tremble. At least here, on the scuffed linoleum, I was relatively safe… Leave it I did, though, and I crept forward, moving soundlessly over the plush carpet in my stocking feet, hardly breathing. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness – I had always had good night vision. I knew where I would hide – in the shadow of the grandfather clock on the landing. There was a small table there and the space between the two made a small recess I could squeeze into. I would be able to see the bedroom door clearly.

I reached the landing, reached the recess, pressed myself back into the shadows. My heart was hammering so loudly I wondered, for a second, whether anyone would be able to hear it. Gradually, as my breathing slowed, the thumping and rushing of the blood in my ears subsided. I waited, uncomfortably, for long, long minutes. After what felt like nearly an hour, I was getting angry with myself.
This was a stupid idea, Joan. You’ve no real evidence for thinking what you think. Just push off and go back to be
—

There was a click and a squeak from down the hallway – a bedroom lock going back, a handle turning. I forgot to breathe again, pressing myself back against the panelling of the wall. I could see a dim shape emerge from the bedroom down the hallway and creep along the passageway, just as I myself had crept from the staircase.

I pressed myself back into the shadows. I was suddenly terrified, and with good reason. This was a person who I knew had killed once before. I held my breath, dropped my gaze so what little light there was wouldn’t shine off my eyes, and prayed that the booming of my heart couldn’t be heard.

The stealthy footsteps crept past me. I didn’t dare breathe until they stopped at the end of the corridor. There was another click as the other bedroom door opened, a tiny creak as it shut and the whisper of the bolt being pushed home. I let out my held breath in a muted gasp. I waited a few minutes, just in case. Then I pushed myself upright, wincing at the soreness in my cramped muscles. I walked carefully down the corridor, my own footsteps as stealthy as the ones I’d just heard go by. Then I stopped outside the bedroom door, inclining my head to listen.

Even though I was expecting it, the faint noises from within made my face go hot. I wished there was some way of capturing what I was hearing but, of course, there wasn’t. It was enough just to confirm to myself that my suspicion had been correct. I listened for a moment longer, cheeks burning. Then I crept away again, back up the stairs to my room. I bolted the door.

Verity’s train got in at ten o’clock the next day. She must have left Lord Carthright’s before dawn to be able to make it down here in that time. I was grateful. I’d managed to get to the station to meet her, under the guise of doing some errands for Mrs. Cotting. The duck eggs, sausage meat and herbs were packed away in my basket and I stood on the station platform, waiting for Verity as she’d waited for me at Paddington in London.

She practically jumped onto the platform and flung her arms around me in a fierce hug. Then she released me and stood back. Her eyes searched my face. “Did you find out what you needed to?”

“Oh yes,” I said. I wanted to blush again at the memory, but I fought it down. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the manor. It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t worry,” said Verity stoutly. “I’m not afraid of a country walk or two.”

We set up, the basket swinging between us. I told her everything that I knew or had surmised, as quickly and as quietly as possible. She didn’t say much – her eyes widened at one point – but I could see her quick mind turning the possibilities over.

“There’s something else,” I said.

“Oh yes?”

“I’ve got you down here for a bit of a busman’s holiday, I’m afraid.”

Verity looked over at me, clearly puzzled. “Why’s that, Joan?”

“If I lent you a uniform, do you think you could pretend to be – well, staff?”

Verity laughed out loud. “Seriously? Yes, of course I could. What’s your housekeeper going to say, though?”

“We’ll have to risk it,” I said. “Perhaps we can say that you’re a cousin of mine and you wanted some experience…”

I trailed off, half amused at the thought. We were walking off the road now, along a footpath that ran alongside the river. I could hear it chattering and burbling to itself as we walked along.

“And why?” Verity continued. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to search a room.”

That brought her up short. “Really?”

I glanced around. There was nobody in sight of us. I beckoned and sat us down on a handy log by the side of the path.

“Listen,” I said in a low voice. “There’s no point going to the police, now. We don’t have a shred of proof. But if we could find definite evidence, we could take it to the police station. Then they would have to listen to us.”

“Yes,” said Verity, frowning. After a moment, her frown cleared. “At least I know where all the hiding places are! I’ve tidied and dusted enough rooms.”

“Well, quite,” I said. “You know, V, it’s occurred to me that we actually have a bit of an advantage over the police. You know what we’re always told, about being the perfect servant…”

“’We have to be invisible,’” Verity chanted, remembering our training at the orphanage.

“Yes. Don’t you see? They want us to be invisible but we’re not, not really. We’re there and we can listen and see and understand. But to them, they only see us when they want to. And that, Verity, gives us a real advantage.”

“I’d never thought of it like that before,” Verity said slowly. “You’re right, Joanie. Clever old you.”

We had reached the turn in the lane by now and the manor itself was slowly revealed as we walked on further. Verity made a whistling sound with pursed lips. “Goodness, Joan, you weren’t joking. It’s enormous.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“But it’s not a happy house, is it?” she said, frowning. “Not a pleasant place. Rather sinister, in fact.”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Far ahead of us, I could see the tiny figure of Miss Cleo crossing the lawns in front of the manor. A tennis racket swung from her hand. I swallowed.

“Steady,” said Verity, who had heard the change in my breathing. “Invisible, remember?”

I threw her a grateful smile. “It’s a bit of an adventure, isn’t it, V?”

My heart was hammering. Verity nodded and smiled, tensely. “I’m ready, if you are.”

I introduced Verity to the other servants. It was my afternoon off that day and everyone thought Verity and I would do something like go out for tea and cake. If they only knew what we had planned for the afternoon… I looked out Annie’s spare uniform for Verity and she wriggled into it quickly, up in my room. I helped her pin her hair back and put on the cap. She pulled on white cotton gloves.

“What if someone comes?” she hissed as we made our way to the room in question.

“You’re a new member of staff, that’s all,” I said, more calmly than I felt. Now that we were near the lion’s den, so to speak, I could feel sweat prickling on my upper lip. My hands were actually shaking.

We paused for a moment, outside the door. I took a deep breath, knocked, listened, knocked again and finally opened the door. I knew the room would be empty but it was best to be on the safe side.

“Go on,” I whispered to Verity. “I’ll stand guard.”

She was only in there for about ten minutes, but it felt a lot longer than that. I’d brought up a duster and was industriously applying it to the skirting boards along the passageway, as I kept a sharp ear and eye out for anyone coming. Once, Violet passed me and gave me a puzzled look – I knew she was wondering why the head kitchen maid was up in the corridor, dusting the walls – but she was clearly in a hurry and so didn’t stop to ask.

The door creaked behind me and I sprang up, heart fluttering. Verity emerged, neat in her uniform, her face buttoned down, expressing nothing. She was empty handed.

“You didn’t—” I began. A great wave of disappointment crashed over me, followed by one of humiliation. Was I making the biggest fool of myself in this? Did I have everything wrong?

Verity didn’t say anything but she gave a miniscule shake of her head. She set off up the corridor at a fast walk and I hurried after her.

Safely up in my room, the door bolted, I put my hands up to my face in despair.

“You couldn’t find anything? V – I was so sure…”

“Hold your horses,” said Verity. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress, reached inside and drew out two things with a flourish, like a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. I reached for them.

“Wait,” she said. “Put gloves on.”

“Oh, yes.” I looked out my clean pair of gloves, the only spare pair I had. Once I’d slid them on, Verity put both finds into my hands: a small, hessian bag and a photograph. The photograph was blank side up. I turned it over and choked.

“I know,” said Verity, taking it back from me. “Sorry, Joan. I should have warned you.”

I shook my head, unable to say anything for a moment. Then, dismissing the image I’d just seen from my mind, I opened the bag. Even though I was expecting what I found inside, I still felt a coldness spread through me, as if I’d swallowed a long drink of cold water. The bag was full of small, round black seeds.

I looked up at Verity and she nodded, her face grave. “I think that’s all we’ll need, Joan.”

“Yes,” I said, looking down at our finds. “I think so, too.”

I had never set foot in a police station before. Verity and I both stepped over the threshold and looked about us nervously. I think we were expecting to see ruffians being wrestled to the floor and billy clubs being whacked about while sirens went off but, in the event, the room just had a black and white checkered floor (rather dirty), the front desk behind which sat a pink-faced and cherubic looking young constable, and a couple of benches stood against the wall.

I asked to see Inspector Maxwell, in a voice that was rather more hesitant and tremulous than I would have liked it to be. Luckily, the inspector passed behind the desk as we were standing there and overheard his name. We found ourselves being ushered into a room that stood off the corridor behind the desk. It was nondescript, furnished only with a wooden table and four chairs.

“Now then,” said the inspector as he showed us to our seats. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

Verity and I exchanged a glance. Now we were actually here, it sounded so ridiculous. I could feel my hands start shaking again and I clutched at my bag, remembering what I’d put inside it. That was evidence, solid evidence. The thought of it calmed me a little.

“We’re here because we have some information for you, to do with the murder of Delphine Denford,” said Verity, clearly realising that I’d been struck dumb.

“The
murder
of Delphine Denford,” repeated the inspector. “You think she was murdered, do you?”

I tried to say something, but I couldn’t get my mouth to work properly. Verity took up the reins again. “Yes,” she said, sounding almost cheerful. “We know who did it, you see.”

They say you can’t shock a policeman. True to this saying, Inspector Maxwell merely raised his eyebrows a little. “Indeed?”

“Yes,” said Verity, staring him straight in the eyes. Her chin was up a little. “She was killed by her husband.”