Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (9 page)

“I’ve been thinking a lot about Asharton Manor,” I said after a moment. Verity looked up from her plate, quickly. “I suppose it’s inevitable, given the circumstances.”

“Yes,” she said, slowly.

Now it was my turn to look down. “We did – we did do the right thing, didn’t we, V?”

Verity looked astonished. “How can you even ask that? Of course we did!”

“I know,” I said, uncertainly. Not for the first time I wished I had Verity’s strength of character, her firm and sound knowledge of her own mind. She didn’t sway this way and that, like me. She wasn’t
wishy-washy
.

At Asharton Manor, the evidence Verity and I had found had led to the hanging of two people. It was a thought that sometimes woke me up at night – that I, Joan Hart, lowly kitchen maid, could be said to be responsible for the deaths of two people.

Of course, Verity, when I’d once confessed I sometimes felt like that, had given me a stern talking to. Of course it wasn’t down to us. If people didn’t want to be hanged for murder, then perhaps they shouldn’t commit murders. I knew she was right, but…

That was what was making me drag my feet a little now. Fleetingly, I wondered whether in both cases if the murder victim had been – well, a bit nicer – I’d feel differently about catching their killer.

I thrust the thought of that horrid old manor house from my mind and turned my attention back to what Verity was saying.

“So I had it from Benton that Duncan was listening to the wireless in the snug until after half past one that night. Probably getting stuck into the whisky as well, knowing him.”

I forced myself to take an interest. “So, that clears him really, doesn’t it? How did you get Benton to tell you?” Benton was Duncan Cartwright’s valet and not given much to chatting with us kitchen maids. He was a good looking man of about thirty, but the sneer that always hovered around his countenance when he addressed us put me off him a bit.

Verity looked mischievous. “I used my feminine wiles.”

I giggled. “Meaning?”

Verity laughed. “Actually, I hardly had to do anything. He’s a bit of a goat, that one. You want to watch yourself, if you find yourself in a dark corridor with him.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said, drily. “How did Benton know he was there all evening?”

“Oh, he kept asking for things – drinks and for his cigarette box to be filled.”

I sat back in my seat and used my fingers to tick people off. “So Duncan’s in the clear, Dorothy’s in the clear, but Rosalind and Lord Cartwright are providing each other’s alibi. Is that correct?”

“Correct.”

We sat and looked at each other across the table. “What about Peter? Why
did
they release him?”

Verity shrugged. “Presumably because I told them that he was with Dorothy all that time before the gloves were found in his room.”

“Hmm.” It was the first time I’d really considered those bloody gloves. It gave me a nasty feeling. The intent, surely, had been to cast suspicion on Peter Drew, but why? Was he just a convenient scapegoat?

It was Verity who looked up at the clock on the wall above my head and exclaimed. “Goodness, Joan, I’m going to have to go. Dorothy’s dining out with Simon again tonight and I need to get her ready.”

We got up, having left the money for the tea and cakes in a convenient saucer on the table. I left an extra bit of money for the waitress. I knew what it was like to have to toil on your feet all day with no thanks.

We quickly hurried up the street and turned off to follow the footpath that led back through the fields. The sky darkened as we walked, and as we reached the stile, the first fat drops of rain began to fall, darkening the shoulders of our coats and our hats. In the end, we had to run for the kitchen door, breathlessly arriving in the kitchen in a whirl of muddy shoes and wet clothes, and there wasn’t time to say anything more than a hurried goodbye before we both had to get back to work.

Chapter Eleven

Just as Verity had said, the solicitor for Lady Eveline arrived for the reading of the will on the Wednesday of the next week. Mrs Watling and I had orders to prepare a more ambitious luncheon than normal. Rosalind Makepeace had taken to coming down to discuss the menus and the orders with Mrs Watling every morning, just as Lady Eveline had done. I presumed she was doing so on Lord Cartwright’s orders, but it still seemed a little bit of a liberty to me. I wasn’t alone in this. After she left that Wednesday morning, Mrs Watling had sniffed and tossed her head. “Thinks she’s lady of the manor already, that one does,” was her only comment.

I nodded but said nothing, concentrating on making the rabbit
quenelles
.  I was trying to remember Lady Eveline’s attitude towards her husband’s secretary. Had she been friendly with her? Or antagonistic? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.

According to Verity, the solicitor, whose name was Mr Fossick, was due to arrive at midday. When the front doorbell rang, faintly through the floorboards, at about five minutes before the hour, of course I thought it was him. But after a moment, several sets of heavy footsteps sounded up above. I looked up in consternation.

After a moment, Verity came down with Dorothy’s breakfast tray, heaped with soiled dishes. “The police are here again,” she whispered as she brushed past me on the way to the scullery.

Startled, I was distracted from my work for a moment. The police here? For the reading of the will? Why? As I bent to push the rabbit meat through a horsehair sieve to make it as fine as it could be, I wondered. Could it be that they wanted to watch people’s faces as the will was read? Were they looking for shock, or anger, or triumph?

I wanted to be able to be there myself, to see for myself, but I knew that would be impossible. I plucked Verity’s sleeve as she walked back past me. “Is there any way you can be in on the will reading?” I murmured.

Her expressive face showed what she thought of that suggestion. “Not likely. Not unless Dorothy has a fit of the vapours, or something.” I saw her expression change. “Actually, that gives me an idea. Yes, that might work… Leave it with me, Joanie.”

I had to be content with that. There was soup to be clarified, roasting potatoes to turn, cheese to remove from the refrigerator. I patted the big metal box affectionately as I took out the paper-wrapped package. I’d worked in enough kitchens to really appreciate the new-fangled appliances that were slowly being introduced to the houses that could afford them. Of course, we still got daily deliveries of meat, milk, fish and vegetables, but now we could actually keep them fresh for longer than a day. It was marvellous. Right after I’d left the orphanage, I’d worked in one awful kitchen where the cook was a right, mean old skinflint. With my own eyes, I’d seen her ‘wash out’ a smelly, slimy chicken by sticking its backside over the gas jet and letting it fill with gas like stuffing. Then she’d lit the gas to get rid of the stench of rotting meat.
Awful
. I lost a lot of weight in that job, I can tell you. I didn’t dare eat anything she’d cooked. Luckily, me and the housemaids used to steal food, when we could, and hide it in a special cupboard only we knew about.

Thinking of that horrible position made me feel rather grateful to be here now, with a reasonably sympathetic woman to work under, a decent kitchen and modern appliances to work with. I went back to the
quenelles
with a lighter heart, forgetting about the drama that was unfolding upstairs.

After the lunch was sent upstairs, and the servants’ lunch was finished, both Mrs Watling and I fortified ourselves with a cup of tea and a bun. I decided this was as good a time as any to get a bit more information on the family.

I began conventionally enough. “It’s a terrible tragedy about her ladyship, isn’t it, Mrs Watling?”

Mrs Watling sighed and rested her head against the high back of the chair. “I never thought I’d have to go through anything quite so shocking in my life, Joan, and that’s a fact. I thought I’d go to my grave without having witnessed anything quite so awful. It makes me feel quite weak.”

I knew what she meant. I was pretty sure that she wasn’t mourning Lady Eveline herself – who amongst the servants could? It was the shocking nature of her death that was so difficult to comprehend – that was what was so difficult to get past. I hesitated over my next question; it was one that could be taken the wrong way. “So what – what do you think happened, Mrs Watling? Who could have done such a terrible thing?”

Mrs Watling sat up a little. “Not one of the family, if that’s what you’re thinking, Joan,” she said sharply. “I’m sure none of them would do such an awful thing. The very thought doesn’t bear thinking of.” She was silent for a moment and then said reflectively, “No, it must have been an outsider. A tramp or a maniac. Some terrible person like that. There’s been an awful lot of desperate men out there since the war.”

I knew what she meant, but I forbad to point out that the war had ended twelve years ago. “You’ve worked for the family for a long time, haven’t you?”

Mrs Watling sighed. “Almost twenty years, Joan. That’s why I can’t think—” She pushed up the rim of her cap and sighed. “I knew Master Duncan as a tiny boy. He was such a lovely child. Such golden curls and such a winning way about him. He used to come down to the kitchen for raisins and ask for them so sweetly. Of course, his mother put a stop to that once she found out, and quite rightly.”

I waited. She was obviously in a reminiscing mood.

“Lord Cartwright wasn’t so wealthy then but they still had to have the best of everything. My goodness, what armies of staff we had then, Joan. You would scarcely believe it. Of course, anyone who was anyone wouldn’t have dreamt of having less than three footmen. I was a kitchen maid then, and the cook was a Frenchwoman, Madame Bouchard. French cooks were the fashion, then.” Mrs Watling sighed again and then painfully eased herself from her chair. “What a long time ago now it seems. Another lifetime.”

With a sudden painful twist, I saw what she meant. For a second, my imagination showed me a young and pretty Mrs Watling, slim in her maid’s uniform, dashing hither and thither under the orders of the French cook. I looked at her now, rather stouter and greyer, and worn out from the hard work. Yes, she was a cheerful sort of woman but I realised now I knew nothing about what she’d wanted to become, what her dreams and hopes and aspirations had been. I saw myself, twenty years from now, doing the same thing. I would be ‘Mrs Hart’ but I would not be married. I would not have any children. I would have spent my entire youth slaving over a baking hot stove, making sure the fat, lazy people up above wanted for nothing, while down below my life went up in smoke and down the drain.

Shaken, I forgot about asking more about the family. Silently the two of us got up and moved towards the kitchen table, our hands reaching automatically for the pots on the stove, the utensils on the chopping board. My throat closed up. All of a sudden, the kitchen felt stifling, its walls closing about me.

“Just got to get a bit of air,” I mumbled and staggered towards the door to the courtyard outside. I saw Mrs Watling look at me in surprise but by then, I had reached the steps and run up them, to stand out in the courtyard, tipping my face up to the sky and taking deep breaths of clean, cold air.

Of course, I had to go back down eventually. By that time, though, I’d calmed down. I walked back downstairs, determined to do what I’d originally set out to do today. All my earlier qualms about whether it was my place to start investigating had disappeared. All right, if I was going to be a kitchen maid for the rest of my life, I’d damn well start keeping my mind occupied with other things. Otherwise I’d end up like Mrs Watling, chained to the kitchen sink and, even worse, not even realising I’d ended up in prison.

I put on a clean apron and began briskly preparing the potatoes for the evening meal. These had to be chopped very finely, so that when you held up a slice to the light, you could almost see through it. These slices would be cooked very quickly in boiling hot fat and come out (if you got them out in time) beautifully crisp and golden, and to be eaten in one satisfyingly crunchy bite.

After a few minutes, I said pleasantly, “I’m so sorry, Mrs Watling, you were telling me about working for the family for so long. It was very interesting. What was Lord Cartwright’s first wife like?”

If that was a bit of a non-sequitur, Mrs Watling didn’t seem to notice. She was spiking the pork joint all over with rosemary twigs and basting it with pork fat. “Lady Alice? Oh, she was a lovely lady. Quite different to Lady Eveline, God rest her. She – Lady Alice, I mean – she was very beautiful and very soft in her manner. Not strong though, physically. Nobody expected her to make old bones.” Mrs Watling jabbed the last sprig of rosemary into the meat and sighed. “And she didn’t, poor soul.”

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“She fell down the stairs, the poor woman.” Mrs Watling shook her head.

“Here?” I said.

“No, no, in the townhouse.” She meant the Hampstead house. “A stair rod had come loose, or there was a bit of loose carpet – something like that – and she caught her foot in it one night and fell down. That was a terrible night, and no mistake.” Mrs Watling went to put the pork joint in the refrigerator. The door squeaked, as if underlining her words. “It took me right back, I can tell you, seeing the police here after Lady Eveline was…after she died. Of course, Lady Alice’s death was nothing but a tragic accident but, well, it gave me a nasty turn, having to remember it.”

She bustled off into the pantry and left me with my pile of translucent potato slices. I transferred them all to a pot of cold, salted water and rinsed the chopping board in the sink. So the police had been called when Lady Alice’s death was discovered? Was that usual? I found I had no idea and resolved to ask Verity about it later.

During the afternoon, Dorothy rang for tea to be brought up. It would normally be one of the parlourmaids’ jobs to take up the tray, but I volunteered to do it and Nora, the parlourmaid whose job it should have been, was grateful. “Thank you Joan, I owe you,” she said as I picked up the tray. I winked at her and began the trip upstairs. I felt pleased with myself. I’d be able to have a quick word with Verity, perhaps even ascertain what had happened with the will reading, and I’d made a friend in Nora at the same time. As it was, I liked Nora. She was a very pretty girl, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and she had a wicked sense of humour. Once she, Verity and I had been to the talkies together and gone for tea afterwards, and she’d had us all in stitches with her droll impressions of Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford.

I knocked on the door to Dorothy’s room, and Verity herself opened it. She looked surprised but pleased to see me.

I hadn’t seen Dorothy since that awkward family gathering in the drawing room, when Duncan had been so rude to Rosalind. I thought Dorothy looked a little better, not quite so drawn and red-eyed as she had been for the past week. As usual, she was smoking a cigarette, this time in a long, delicately carved holder which looked as though it were made out of ivory. I placed the tea tray on the usual table by the window and Dorothy greeted me pleasantly by name. That was true breeding, I thought, and people like Rosalind would never attain it.

Verity indicated that I should pour the tea and I did so. Verity took Dorothy her cup.

“Thank you, Verity.” Dorothy took a sip. “Ah, you make a wonderful cup of tea, Joan. I wouldn’t even know how to boil a kettle; it’s quite shocking. You’ll have to show me how, one day.”

I wasn’t sure if she was being serious. Dorothy had that kind of deep, drawling voice that always sounds sarcastic. I’d noticed a lot of ladies affected that sort of voice, I suppose it was fashionable. “Of course, my lady,” I said in a tone I hoped was wry without being cheeky.

Dorothy drained the cup, put it and the saucer back on the bedside table, and flung herself back against the headboard, putting the cigarette to her lips. “I suppose there’s been ever such a kerfuffle in the servants’ hall this past week? What with the police here and everything?”

It’s funny but as curious as the servants can be about the gentry, you forget it sometimes worked the other way around. Particularly for people like Dorothy, who are easily bored. I remembered Verity telling me how, at her interview for the position, Dorothy had told her that one of the most important parts of the job would be to talk with the other ladies’ maids and servants to see what all the gossip was.
Nobody knows the scandal better than a good servant
, Dorothy had said to Verity.

“It has been rather fraught, my lady,” I said, refilling her cup.

“Ha! I can imagine. Poor Mister Fenwick must be having kittens.” Dorothy reached for her replenished teacup. “Thank you, Joan. Tell me, what does Mrs Watling think about it all? I’ve noticed the dinners haven’t been quite so up to scratch these last few days. Is she upset?”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lady,” I gabbled. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“Oh, now, don’t. It’s perfectly understandable under the circumstances. She must be upset. Is she, Joan?”

I nodded. “She’s very shocked. Well, we all are, my lady.” I hesitated, wondering whether to bring this up. “Mrs Watling said it brought back a few bad memories. You know, of when Lord Cartwright’s first wife was killed.”