Death at the Theatre: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 2 (4 page)

Chapter Six

When I woke up the next morning, Verity was already awake, sitting up in her bed with a shawl around her shoulders as she read a letter. I sat up myself, shivering. Nancy, one of the two housemaids, hadn’t yet been in to light our fire and the room was freezing.

“Morning,” Verity said absently, without looking up from her letter.

“Morning,” I said, yawning. “Sorry. Who’s the letter from?”

“Nora.”

Now I did sit up properly. Nora had been a friend of Verity’s and mine, a parlourmaid at Merisham Lodge. She’d got herself in trouble – no, that was a stupid way of putting it – she’d
found
herself in trouble, and both Verity and I had tried to help her. From what Verity had told me, a sympathetic Dorothy had arranged for a procedure to help Nora get rid of the baby. (I didn’t know exactly what this was and Verity refused to tell me). Sadly, despite the immediate problem being solved, neither the combined charm of Verity and Dorothy could persuade Mrs Anstells to keep Nora on in her position. I hadn’t witnessed the discussion that took place between the lady of the house and the head housekeeper, but Verity had and relayed the gist of it to me later. “No, madam could surely not countenance Nora remaining in her post, no indeed. To keep her on would be to approve of the depravity of the girl’s wanton behaviour and would set a terrible example to the other young maids in the house. No, indeed, her ladyship would surely not countenance such a thing and if that indeed was the case, then she, Mrs Anstells herself, would no longer be able to remain in the employ of such a household…”, Verity had said, rolling her eyes. The fact remained that Dorothy had to dismiss Nora or risk losing her housekeeper, so away poor Nora had to go. The only consolation was that Dorothy promised to write her a decent reference.

“I didn’t know she’d written to you,” I exclaimed, going over to Verity’s bed and getting in beside her. It was a squeeze and she flinched away from my cold feet.

“Ow, Joan, your feet are freezing. Here, I’ll get up and you read Nora’s letter.” She threw back the bedclothes to get out and threw them back over me. “Where’s bloody Nancy with the coals?” Just as she said that, there was a tap at the door and Nancy hurried in, looking flushed and bearing the welcome sight of the brass coal scuttle in one hand.

“About bloody time,” Verity grumbled, but she helped Nancy rake out the ashes and set the fire. Soon a merry blaze was warming the room and Nancy hurried out again.

I read through Nora’s letter, feeling a mixture of relief and despair. Nora had had to go home after she was dismissed and, from the sounds of it, had had to take whatever job she could get; that of a maid of all work at a solicitor’s house near her home village. I suppose it was a job
but
… I looked around at Verity and my room, which for a servant’s room was really quite comfortable. We had an electric bedside light, a wardrobe each – well, to be fair, part of Verity’s job was to dress well and advise her mistress on fashion, so she needed more clothes storage space than I did – and underfoot was a rug rather than cold, bare floorboards.

I caught sight of the time. “Oh, help. I’m late!” I jumped out of bed and began to dress hurriedly, washing myself quickly in the washbowl that stood on the dresser and shrieking at the touch of the icy water.

“See you later,” I said to Verity, but she called me back just as I was about to hurry out of the door.

“Oh, Joan, Dorothy might have already mentioned this to Mrs Watling but she’s having a guest to dinner tonight.”

“Very well.” I waited for her to go on. She didn’t normally give me this kind of warning.

“Don’t you want to know who it is?”

I looked at her expressively. “Who is it?”

Verity smiled. “Inspector Marks.”

I looked at her again. “Inspector Marks is dining here tonight?”

Verity nodded. “Yes, she made me call him up the other night and invite him to dinner. Out of the blue. I suppose she wants to chew over what happened with the collapse of the Lord C’s trial.”

I still had my hand on the door handle but I made no move to leave. “Perhaps,” I said slowly. “She wouldn’t – it wouldn’t be because of this new case, would it?” I answered my own question. “No, how could it? What would Dorothy have to do with that?”

Verity was getting dressed herself by now. “Well, I just thought I’d better let you know.”

“Oh, help.” Something else had occurred to me. “It’s Mrs Watling’s evening out tonight. I suppose I’ll be doing the whole meal.”

“You’ll be fine,” Verity said in a cheerful voice, slightly muffled by the blouse she was pulling over her head. “Do that clear soup thing, he’ll love that.”

“That’s a
starter
.”

“So, start with that.” Her red head emerged from the blouse, grinning at me. I rolled my eyes, flapped a hand in goodbye, and left the room.

Mrs Watling hadn’t yet appeared  when I rushed into the kitchen, thankfully, although Doris, the tweeny, had already got the range alight and the kettle boiling. I gave her a warm smile of approval as I tied on my apron.

As we prepared the breakfasts, I let myself think about the strangeness of Dorothy inviting Inspector Marks to dine. He wasn’t gentry, he wasn’t fashionable society. Yes, he was very senior in his profession but that wouldn’t normally be enough for Dorothy to go the trouble of putting on a three course meal for him. Surely it was just because she wanted to talk to him about the trial of Lord Cartwright and why it had failed? What other explanation could there be?

I prepared Dorothy’s tray for Verity to take up and began setting the table in the servants’ hall for breakfast. There were nine staff that lived in; Mr Fenwick, Mrs Anstells, Mrs Watling, myself and Verity; the two housemaids, Nancy and Margaret, who also acted as parlour maids when necessary; Andrew, the footman who doubled as the chauffeur, and little Doris, the between maid. Between us all, there was a lot of food to prepare, although nothing like the quantities that had been demanded at Merisham Lodge. As we sat down to breakfast, I was beginning to worry about the meal I would be expected to make for the dinner party that night. Would Dorothy choose the menu? It would be the first meal that I would have had to prepare completely on my own, although, thinking about it, I supposed I would have Doris to help me. I shovelled in bacon and eggs without really tasting anything, thinking of menus and presentation and whether I’d need to consult with Mr Fenwick on the wine. If it was up to me to chose the menu, then I’d do roast beef, I decided. Roast beef with all the trimmings, with the clear soup to start and a fancy pudding. Men liked meat, didn’t they? Inspector Marks probably wasn’t that used to fine dining, was he? So there was nothing to worry about, was there?

“Joan? Joan?”

I came to with a start, realising Mrs Watling was addressing me. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Stop woolgathering, my girl. Her ladyship wants to see you upstairs.”

“Me?” I said ungrammatically in surprise.

“Yes, you. Come on, look lively. You know I’m out tonight, don’t you?” I nodded. “Don’t you worry,” added Mrs Watling kindly, having noticed my look of panic. “There’s nothing much to it, and it’s not like you don’t know how to cook. Let me know what her ladyship wants and we’ll run through it together.” I flashed her a grateful look as I set off for the stairs.

Dorothy was in the main drawing room, wearing her cream satin house pyjamas, the little Turkish slippers that ended in droll little bells on the curly toes, her golden hair pin-curled and clipped to her head and covered in a filmy net of chiffon. As I waited respectfully just inside the door, I wondered if I’d ever seen Dorothy in less than a full face of make-up. I didn’t think I had.

“Oh, Joan, hullo. Do come in and sit down at the table. I thought we’d run through the dishes for tonight – I suppose Verity has told you?”

“That you’re expecting Inspector Marks to dinner? Yes, my lady, she has.”

“Good, then you’re forewarned,” said Dorothy, approvingly. She sat down gracefully in one of the seats at the table and gestured to the other. I seated myself cautiously, feeling out of place in my uniform in this genteel, feminine room. I would have loved to have had a proper look around but there was little chance of that.

Dorothy was a relaxed and generous employer and a modern woman, but there was still no way on Earth that I was going to be able to ask her exactly why she’d asked the inspector to dinner. That would have been dreadfully impertinent. As she leant forward over the sheet of paper on which she’d scrawled suggestions for the menu, I could smell her distinctive perfume. I didn’t know the name of it but it was French and very expensive, so Verity had said. Dorothy always smelt of it, mixed with a sophisticated undertone of cigarette smoke, but today there was a discordant note in her scent, something that made my nostrils flare. After a moment, I realised what it was. Brandy.

I looked around the room surreptitiously, but I couldn’t see a glass or a bottle anywhere. On the table was a cooling tea pot and a cup and saucer with the brackish dregs of tea leaves in the bottom of it. I sniffed again, wondering if I was mistaken. After all, it was barely ten o’clock in the morning, far too early even for Dorothy to have had a cocktail. I must have been mistaken. Perhaps some had been spilled on the carpet in here or something.

I made an effort to bring my attention back to what Dorothy was saying. She sounded just as she normally did, with the same sort of rich, dark drawling voice as she always had.

“—and I thought a sort of seafood medley might be nice as an accompaniment to the lobster, don’t you think?”

I stared blankly at the elegant scrawl of Dorothy’s handwriting and swallowed. Did I dare say what I thought?

“Joan?” she prompted.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to be inattentive. It was just – I wondered whether this menu might be a little – a little, um, sophisticated for Inspector Marks. I mean, it’s absolutely delicious, mouthwatering, my lady, it’s just that I wonder whether he might – um, he might—“ I trailed off, feeling myself beginning to blush. Why couldn’t I just keep my big mouth shut? What did it matter, anyway? I just want to impress him, I thought to myself and then I did blush, a great wash of heat climbing into my face.

I thought Dorothy might be annoyed with me but she was lighting a cigarette with a smile on her face. “Do you think so, Joan? I wonder—“ She regarded the menu she scribbled down, pursing her bright red lips and frowning. “Well, he is a
policeman
after all. You’d know more about that level of society than I would.” I hoped she didn’t notice the wince I gave at that but she wasn’t looking at me. “No, no, perhaps you’re right.” She picked up her fountain pen and scored through her words with a flourish. “You’re quite right. So, what do you suggest?”

After my suggestion of roast beef had been well received, we settled on the soup, the h’ordeuves and the dessert. I was dismissed with a kindly smile and with the tea tray in my hands. I carried it carefully back down the stairs, china chinking musically away.

“So what’s it going to be?” asked Mrs Watling as I came back into the kitchen and thankfully put the tray down on the table.

“Roast beef, with French onion soup to start. A lemon tart to finish.”

“Nice and plain,” said Mrs Watling approvingly. “Not like her ladyship. Did you suggest that?” I nodded. “Well, good for you, Joan. You’ve got nothing to worry about tonight. Ring up the butcher now and get them to send you round the joint, you know what that delivery boy is like, he’s never on time.”

I nodded again, trying to hide my disquiet. I wasn’t used to talking on the telephone and didn’t much like doing it. Still, Mrs Watling was right – I didn’t want to be hanging about later waiting for the main course to arrive.

The downstairs telephone was situated just outside Mr Fenwick’s parlour. As I picked up the receiver and looked up the number of the butchers, on the list that was pinned up to the wall, I had a very unwelcome thought, one that seemed to come out of nowhere. Dorothy wasn’t inviting Inspector Marks to dinner because – because she was
sweet
on him? Because she was romantically interested in him? Don’t be stupid, I told myself fiercely, staring blindly at the list of telephone numbers. She wouldn’t be interested in a
policeman
as a beau, even if he were a chief inspector. Not Dorothy, surely? I pushed the thought of her previous lover, Simon Snailer, from my mind. He’d been quite a disreputable artist-type, so it wasn’t as though she wasn’t used to slumming it… I felt very disloyal and uncomfortable even thinking those thoughts, both about Dorothy and about Inspector Marks. What business was it of mine, anyway?

I realised I knew nothing about Inspector Marks’s home life. Perhaps he was married anyway. Did he have children? I didn’t even really know how old he was, except he was quite young to be in such a senior position. Possibly, he wasn’t even yet forty.

It’s none of your business, Joan. Just cook a superb meal and let that be your reward. Stop getting ideas above your station.
I told myself all that in a fierce inner whisper and then put my hand to the dial, determined not to think about it anymore.

Chapter Seven

I heard the front doorbell ring at precisely eight o’clock, and a few moments later, the ponderous tread of Mr Fenwick moved over the floorboards above my head as he went to answer it. The anxiety inside me screwed a notch tighter. The beef was done to a turn and resting in the warming part of the oven, the potatoes and carrots were crisping up nicely. Doris was mashing up the cooked swede with lots of butter.

“More salt and pepper,” I said as I passed her with the roasting tin in my hands. Now I could appreciate how snappy Mrs Watling could get during the preparation for a big dinner party. This was just for two and it was hard enough getting everything cooked and presented to perfection. I caught the tail end of the sulky look Doris gave me but I was too busy making the gravy to really notice.

I transferred the soup to the big-bellied serving bowl, adding the layer of cheese and toasted bread slices to the top, and then slid it back into the oven for one last warm-through. The beef, vegetables, gravy and condiments were transferred to the trays that Andrew and Mr Fenwick would carry up to the dining room before serving the meal. I wasn’t expected to wait at the table here, although I had on occasion at Merisham Lodge. It was a job I’d always hated, being afraid that I’d spill something or drop a plate with disastrous results, but perversely, I now wished I was able to go up and work in the dining room. I admitted to myself, with some shame, that I wanted to be there in the room to see what Dorothy and Inspector Marks were talking about.

I’d been so flurried, what with getting everything ready for their dinner, that I’d completely forgotten about preparing anything for the servants. Frantically, I looked around the kitchen as if a fully cooked meal would suddenly miraculously spring into existence.

Verity came through the door with a book in her hand. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’re about to drop.”

“I forgot to get the servants’ meal,” I hissed. Near tears, I tore open the door of the refrigerator and glared into it. Oh, praise be to the Lord and Mrs Watling. I’d forgotten about the big pot of beef stew she’d made yesterday. Grabbing it with both hands, I ran with it to the range and shoved it inside to heat up. Some herb dumplings to accompany it wouldn’t take much time at all.

“Panic over?” Verity asked, sitting down at the table and opening her book.

I nodded, rolling my eyes. While the stew was heating up, I got on with the dumplings, instructing Doris to peel some extra carrots and mash some more swede. When we all finally sat down, the table was gratifyingly covered in various dishes and there were appreciative comments, especially from the men. I remembered Mrs Watling telling me that gentleman or working man, men liked meat. Perhaps that was why I’d been so insistent on the roast beef for Inspector Marks.

Verity sat next to me at the dinner table as was usual. “When do you next have a night off?” she asked.

I thought about it. “On Tuesday. Why?”

“Fancy going to the theatre again?”

I looked at her, feeling a thump of both excitement and anxiety. “The theatre? You mean, to see Tommy’s play again?”

Verity nodded. “He promised me tickets. And, we can go backstage afterwards. You know. Talk to people.”

The excitement was there and sharper now. I
wanted
to talk to people, to all the stage hands and the actors and the people who’d been there on the night of the murder. “That would be wonderful,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m sure it’ll be fine but I’ll check with Mrs Watling.”

“Good.” Verity took care of the last forkful of stew on her plate and then daintily wiped her mouth with the rough napkins we used below stairs. She jerked her head up to the ceiling. “What do you think they’re talking about, up there?”

I knew exactly who she meant. So Verity had been puzzling over it too? “I don’t know,” I said, reluctantly. And then, because I had to know, I leant a little closer and whispered, “Dorothy’s not – not
interested
in the inspector, is she?”

Verity laughed. “I doubt it. Dorothy might like to
dabble
with men of a different class but she’d hardly go so low as a policeman. Come on, Joan.”

I sat back, feeling unaccountably relieved. “Well, that’s what I thought too, to be honest.”

Verity pushed her chair back, shaking her head. “Want me to help you clear up? Haven’t you got the pudding to do?”

I got up too, thankful that at least I had that under control. “All done and waiting to be taken up. If you could wipe the kitchen table down for me, that would be wonderful.”

“Consider it done.”

Gradually the servants’ hall emptied of staff until there was only Doris, Verity and me left. I left Doris to get on with the washing up in the scullery and got Andrew to take the coffee and cheeseboard up to the dining room.
Almost over…
Wearily, I began hanging up the copper pans and putting the washed utensils away.

The dining room bell jangled, and both Verity and I looked up in surprise. “I’ll go,” she said, getting to her feet with a groan. Nodding, I waved a tired hand at her as she left the room.

I helped Doris with the last of the washing up and then sent her up to her room at the top of the house, which she shared with Nancy. I was expecting Mrs Watling back at any moment – it was past eleven o’clock. What were the chances of Dorothy and Inspector Marks wanting any more refreshments? I wavered for a moment and then re-filled the kettle, just in case they decided to go on chatting into the night.

There was a clearing of a masculine throat behind me that made me jump. I turned around to find  Inspector Marks was standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

“Sorry to startle you, Miss Hart,” he said cheerfully, coming in. I was suddenly very conscious of my dirty apron and the strands of hair that had escaped from my cap and had plastered themselves to my forehead as I had stood, sweating, over the stove. “I just wanted to come down and thank you for a really excellent dinner.”

I smiled. “It was my pleasure, sir. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I haven’t enjoyed a meal like that in a long time. The beef was done to perfection.” I was feeling rather hot by now, under such praise. The inspector stood for a moment, looking about him. I don’t suppose he got to go into many kitchens during his usual working day.

There was a slightly awkward silence then. I could hear the faint clangs of expanding metal as the kettle began to heat up on the gas.

“Can I bring you anything else, sir?” I asked.

The inspector looked at the kettle. “Well, if you’re not too tired, I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”

“Oh, certainly.” I began to worry about where the good cups were. “Would her ladyship like a tray sent up?”

“No, I meant, I’d quite like to have a cup of tea with you. Down here. If that’s not too much trouble?”

“Of course not,” I said, a little too quickly. I covered over my confusion by busying myself with the kettle and the teapot.

The kettle seemed to take an absolute age to boil. I was being as busy as possible, putting cups out (I managed to find a few good ones at the back of the dresser) and warming the pot and hunting out some biscuits from the batch Mrs Watling had baked yesterday. Still, the silence between us stretched out uncomfortably, and in the end I broke it by asking a question he’d already answered. “So, the meal was to your liking, sir?”

He smiled. “It was wonderful, Joan. Perhaps I was a bit hasty when I told you you were wasted in your job.”

I remembered him saying that, on the staircase at the theatre. All of a sudden, my nervousness fell away. He
wanted
to talk to me, and if I had read things rightly, he wanted to talk to me about the case at the theatre. I poured him a cup of tea, my hands quite steady now, profferred the milk and sugar and then sat down opposite him at the kitchen table. After a moment, I poured myself a cup, if only to have something for my hands to do.

“Well, Miss Hart.” The inspector took a neat sip from his cup. “Here we are again.”

I took a deep breath. “You can call me Joan, sir. If you’d like.”

“Joan. Thank you.” He inclined his head courteously. “Well, Joan, I suppose you’ve been wondering why I accepted Miss Drew’s invitation tonight – well, perhaps not so much why I accepted it, more what we were talking about. Perhaps that’s more what you were thinking?”

“Well, I was, to be honest,” I said frankly. “I can only assume it had something to do with the Lord Cartwright case.”

“You thought rightly. Miss Drew wanted to go over, in great detail, exactly where I’d gone wrong.”

“Oh.” I tried to read his tone but it was neutral.

Then the inspector smiled ruefully. “I must say, she sugared the pill rather well with that delightful dinner. Normally when I get hauled over the coals it’s standing on the cold linoleum of my superior’s office floor.”

I smiled, relieved. “Her ladyship would never want a guest to go without a good dinner, no matter why they were here.”

“I agree. True breeding there.” He looked as though he was going to say something else then but obviously thought better of it.

There was another silence that threatened awkwardness again. I decided to be bold. “Can I ask you if you’re any further forward with the murder case at the theatre, sir?”

Inspector Marks leant back in his chair and sighed. “Well, as you’ll no doubt see from the papers tomorrow, the body has finally been identified.” I sat forward in excitement and he shook his head ruefully at me. “However, there’s a strong suspicion that he was actually travelling under a false  name and his real identity hasn’t yet been uncovered.”

“Was he a spy?” I asked, fascinated.

“Now, that’s a good question, Joan. I’d like very much to know that.” The inspector was silent for a moment and then added, “There was something so clinical about his death – almost like an execution. A professional murder, if you will.”

I took a sip of my tea. His words had just made me recall something I’d thought of earlier, when I was thinking about how Verity and I had sat in those theatre seats, our eyes glued to the action on stage.

“Sir, if I may…” I faltered and then took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about that, about how he was killed, I mean. And I think it’s something to do with the theatre.”

Inspector Marks looked at me. “Go on,” he said, after a moment.

“Well, I don’t necessarily mean to do with anyone
at
the theatre. Anyone who works there, I mean. But it was the timing of it that made me pause. I mean, it was a very dramatic play and we were all mesmerised by it. I don’t think I would have noticed anything going on around me in the seats. Well, I
didn’t
notice anything, apart from the woman that came in right before the play started. Once the play had started, I might have been in another world. So you see, sir, it was a very good place for the murderer to strike, because nobody was taking any notice of them.” I subsided, gripping my cooling tea-cup with both hands. I hoped it hadn’t sounded as though I was implying Inspector Marks didn’t know his job.

“That’s very interesting,” Inspector Marks said. I breathed an inner sigh of relief. “That’s very interesting indeed, Joan. Thank you.” After another brief silence he went on. “Your friend, Miss Hunter – her uncle is one of the actors at the theatre, isn’t he?”

“Yes, Tommy – I mean Mister Vance – is Verity’s uncle. That’s why we were able to see the play – he’d arranged for free tickets.”

“Hmm.” The inspector drained his cup and put it back on the kitchen table. “I suppose you girls know the actors and the crew quite well?”

“Well, Verity more so than me,” I confessed. “But we’re going back there on Tuesday to see the play – the whole of it, I mean, this time. Unless anybody else gets killed.” I laughed a completely brainless laugh after I said this and the inspector smiled minutely but didn’t laugh in response. I could feel the surging tide of blood in my cheeks at my stupidity. “I’m sorry, I mean – I’m sure nothing like that will happen.” I still tinkled a laugh on the end of this sentence.
Hold your tongue, Joan.

“So you ladies will be going backstage, after the play?” The inspector sounded quite casual but there was just a shade of something in his voice, something that made me forget my blushes and my silly girlish giggling and meet his eye.

“That’s right,” I said slowly. “We’ll get to meet everyone then. I hope.”

“I understand,” said Inspector Marks. We continued to hold each other’s gaze for a moment. It was as if he was trying to tell me something telepathically. But what? Was he – was he giving me permission to try and
investigate
what happened?

For a moment, I was sure that he was, and then his gaze dropped and he got up from the table, brushing his hands together to remove the biscuit crumbs. Quickly, I leapt to my feet too.

“Do let me know if you hear anything interesting, Miss Hart. Joan.”

“I will, sir.”

For a moment I thought he was going to shake my hand but he obviously thought better of it. He nodded again, with a rather embarrassed smile, and then he was gone.