Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (11 page)

I told him honestly, and without embellishment, everything that I had overheard, such as it was. His face was impassive as I told him and I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was inwardly chastising me for eavesdropping or for having indelicate ideas about my employer. “It’s most probably nothing,” I finished, miserably. “But I just thought I ought to tell you.”

“Hmm.” The inspector regarded me for a moment. “Has there been a lot of gossip about this in the servants’ hall?”

“Well, not from me, sir,” I said, a little spiritedly. “It may not sound like it, but I am not a gossip. The only person I’ve even mentioned it to is Miss Hunter.”

“Hmm,” the inspector said again. “Well, thank you, Miss Hart. It’s certainly something we shall make a note of.”

I wanted to ask whether he knew that Dorothy had been frightened about being cut out of her mother’s will because of her romance with Simon Snailer but I didn’t quite dare. After a moment, I became conscious of the time. I really had to get back.

“Excuse me, sir, but I must return to the kitchen – if there’s nothing else I can help you with?”

“No, no, that’s fine. Run along.” Again, he spoke absently. I couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or intrigued by what I had told him.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll say goodbye then.”

I had turned to go and was about five yards away when a shout from the inspector stopped me. Startled, I turned around again.

“Joan Hart,” he said, half smiling. “I
thought
I recognised the name. It was when you mentioned Miss Hunter in connection with yourself.”

“Sir?”

The inspector eyed me. “Asharton Manor,” was all he said.

The shock was clearly reflected on my face. I didn’t know what to say.

The inspector took a few steps closer. “You and Miss Hunter had to give evidence in that trial, didn’t you?”

Scarlet-faced, I nodded.

“Yes, I remember now. Impressed the judge, didn’t you both? He mentioned your courage and your quick thinking in his summing up before pronouncing sentence.”

An image of the hangman’s noose flashed once more into my head. Out loud, I said, with what I hoped was some dignity, “Yes sir, both Verity – Miss Hunter – and myself were involved.” I looked him in the eye. “It was quite a distressing experience for both of us.”

“I’m sure.” He looked hard at me for a moment longer and then took a step back, dismissing me. “Run along then, Miss Hart.”

Chapter Thirteen

I got back to the kitchen with about thirty seconds to spare, whisked on an apron and was industrially chopping onions by the time Mrs Watling came through from her sitting room. “Gird up your loins, my girl,” she said as she bustled past me and towards the stove. “It’ll be a circus tonight, and no mistake.”

She had her ‘book’ under her arm – something that all good cooks made use of. Every recipe, every little twist, every time saving trick was noted down in a notebook and taken from job to job. It was every cook’s own personal bible, library and diary, rolled into one, and seeing Mrs Watling’s book under her arm made me realise, rather guiltily, that recently I seemed to spend more time scribbling in my writing and storytelling notebooks than I had in my cook’s book. As I transferred the sliced onions to the hot oil in the frying pan, listening with satisfaction to the sizzle, I made a mental note to update my cook’s book that evening, if I had the time.

As the evening wore on, I realised how unlikely that would be. With six courses to prepare for six people, plus the servants’ evening meal, there was no time to do anything but rush around from table-top to stove, from refrigerator to sink, from pantry to larder. Scarlet-faced in the steam, I chopped and boiled, mashed and rinsed, chopped some more and stirred, carried and fetched.

I was too busy to be aware of much else around me other than the job in hand. Even so, the first time Nora came into the kitchen in search of a clean apron – she was waiting at table tonight – I had to take another look. She looked as pale as milk. As she came into the kitchen, walking through the hot, heavy, food-scented air, I saw her swallow and her pallor increased to an extent that was almost alarming.

“Nora.” I put the saucepan I was carrying down and stepped smartly over to her, catching her by the arm. For a moment I thought she was going to faint. “Are you all right?”

I drew her over to the back door and onto the bottom step of the flight that led up to the courtyard. The cold night air seemed to revive her a little

“Gosh, thank you Joan.” She took a deep breath and then another. “I just – I felt rather sick. I think it was just the heat.”

I looked at her hard. “You’ve not looked well all day. Is there something wrong?”

For a moment, she looked frightened. I could see her making up her mind as to whether to confide in me but then there was a shout from Mrs Watling and I made a sound of annoyance. “Look, I’ve got to go. Stay out here for a bit, get some air.”

Nora nodded thankfully. I hurried back to the chaos of the kitchen.

“Those potatoes are going to be mush, Joan,” gasped Mrs Watling as she hurried past me with the sirloin of beef. “Come on, look lively.”

“Sorry. Nora was ill—” It was pointless saying any more. I knew Mrs Watling was a good sort, it was just that this part of the job meant she had to snap and shout. Every dish that went up to the table up there was a reflection of the cook’s skill and efficiency, and every day could be the day when something went wrong.

Somehow, we all got through the evening. At about half-past ten, when the tray of coffee, the cheeseboard, and the fruit and savoury biscuits had been carried up, Mrs Watling and I collapsed into the two chairs in her sitting room, too tired even to think about making tea.

“Good Lord, I’m getting too old for this,” Mrs Watling murmured. I murmured something non-committal back. For a moment, I had a qualm about the future, not something I normally allowed myself to think about too much. I had ambition, definitely, but would that ever come to fruition? Or would I just end up working as a skivvy for the rest of my life, until I got too old to do it anymore and then…what? Would there still be workhouses in the future? What would happen to me?

Shaking my head to dispel these gloomy thoughts, I forced myself to sit up.

“Joan, be a good girl and pour me a small sherry.” Mrs Watling stared up at the low ceiling of her room, her eyes stretched wide. I knew that feeling. You kept your eyes open because if you shut them, even for a few moments, you would fall asleep.

“Of course.” Feeling pity for her and for myself, I heaved to my feet and staggered through to the kitchen. I was surprised to see Verity walking through the doorway, her face anxious. ”Hello, V. What’s wrong?” For some reason, I had a jump of paranoia that we, the kitchen staff, had messed up the food.

Verity tried to smile. “Don’t worry, Joan, it’s nothing you’ve done.” She had an uncanny knack of reading my mind, sometimes. “No, it’s just they’ve all just had a big row. Upstairs.”

“Upstairs? The family have?”

Verity nodded. She sat down at the kitchen table and propped her pointy chin on her hands. “Dorothy told me about it when she came up to her room. Apparently Peter wasn’t there tonight and he should have been. Lord C got really angry because apparently, the police want to talk to him again.”

“Talk to who?”

“The police want to talk to Peter again.”

“Oh.” I reached for three sherry glasses and poured a generous tot of sherry into each one. Then I slid one across the table to Verity. “Here. You have one too. I’ll just take this through to Mrs Watling.”

When I got back, Verity had drained the glass and was wiping her lips with the back of her hand like a thirsty sailor. “That hit the spot, Joan. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I sat down opposite her with my own glass. “So where was Peter, then?”

Verity shrugged. “No idea. He just didn’t turn up for dinner.”

“No wonder Lord C was cross.”

“It wasn’t just that. He made some rude remark about Simon Snailer. Then Dorothy blew up, and then
they
had a shouting match.” Verity shook her head. “Duncan pulled Dorothy up for being rude to his father, then Dorothy had a go back at him. What a mess.”

I couldn’t help but giggle at the image all these supposedly high-born, well-bred people brawling like dock-workers. Verity smiled tiredly as well. “I know, Joan. The footmen and Mr Fenwick must have got a right earful.”

I had wondered why so much of our beautifully made dinner had come back down almost untouched. They must have all been too busy shouting to eat much. I tried to feel cross at all that hard work going to waste, but I was just too tired.

Verity yawned. She braced her hands against the table and stood up. “Anyway, I just came down to get a hot chocolate for Dorothy. She’s having an early night for once, thank the Lord, up there in her room turning the air blue. She’s still absolutely
steaming
.”

“Take her a sherry,” I suggested, giggling a little.

Verity gave me a wry look. “She’s had far too much already. Hot chocolate it will have to be.”

I let her make the hot chocolate for once – I didn’t want to even touch the stove again after the evening’s work. Verity was just leaving the room when something occurred to me. I called her back.

“What is it, Joan?”

“It’s Nora,” I said. “She’s not been herself lately, have you noticed? She came in this evening and I thought she was going to drop.”

Verity looked worried again. “Now you mention it – she was sick the other morning. I was waiting outside the bathroom and I could hear her.”

We both looked at one another, the penny dropping. Verity looked stricken.

“Bloody hell,” she swore. “She can’t be—”

We were silent for a moment. I put my hand up to my mouth. “We might be wrong,” I suggested, somewhat feebly.

“God, Joanie, I hope so. Oh Lord…” Verity trailed off. “We’d better ask her,” she suggested.

I nodded, feeling grim at the very thought. “All right. But, let’s pick the moment, shall we? She might not even want to tell us if we gang up on her.”

“No, you’re right.” Verity briefly closed her eyes. “Bloody hell, this is all we need.” She gave me a quick squeeze of the arm. “I’d better go. Talk to you later.”

I finished my sherry, glad of the warmth that spread down my throat as I swallowed it. I wondered whether Peter Drew’s absence had anything to do with what I’d told Inspector Marks in the garden that afternoon. But how could it? My thoughts slipped from Peter Drew to Nora. What if Nora was pregnant? I washed up my sherry glass, feeling cold with empathic dread.

It was another hour before the kitchen was ship-shape, and by then I was almost asleep on my feet. I hung the last shining copper saucepan back on its hook, gave the table a final wipe, rinsed and hung the cloth over the sink tap and stood back, surveying the room. So much for having time to write up my book. I would be lucky to make it to bed before collapsing. I sighed and turned for the door, dreading the long climb upstairs to my bed.

Chapter Fourteen

I woke the next morning to hear the sound of heavy rain. Although it was dark and cold as usual, the patter of raindrops on the eaves above me made a cosy sort of sound. I groped for the matchbox, lit the lamp and felt for my slippers, my toes curling away from the cold linoleum. Verity was a gently breathing heap curled under the bedclothes. I made sure her feet were tucked beneath the blankets and tiptoed out of the room.

I washed, dressed and went to rouse Maggie. Together we trooped down the servants’ stairs, yawning and not saying much to one another. Maggie went to fill the kettle, and I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and went to have a look at what was on the menu for today. We followed a fortnightly pattern; mostly the same dishes on rotation, changing over every two weeks, unless the family had company or were otherwise entertaining. It made preparation and food ordering much easier.

I didn’t mind cooking breakfast. It was always the same, and by now I could almost do it in my sleep (which was handy some mornings, I can tell you). The main challenge was getting everything prepared at the same time so it could be carried up to the sideboard in the dining table for the family to help themselves. It was the one meal of the day where they weren’t waited on.

I’d forgotten about Nora in the rush of the morning but as we all sat down to breakfast, I caught Verity’s eye across the table and she inclined her head very slightly to indicate where Nora was sitting, three chairs down. Immediately recalling what we’d spoken about, I looked and my heart sank. Nora still looked dreadful; ashy pale, with great half-moons of shadow beneath her eyes. She had only eaten a miniscule bit of porridge. I looked back at Verity and shook my head very slightly. We would have to wait for the right moment to confront poor Nora. I found myself hoping quite desperately that Nora actually had some dreadful but quite innocent illness that mimicked all the symptoms of pregnancy.

The lunch for the day was a lighter one, thankfully: vegetable soup, Dover sole with accompaniments, lemon tart and cream. I reached for a chopping board and handed it to Maggie. “We may as well get the soup started now. Be a good girl and chop up some swede and carrot, will you? I’ll do the onions.”

Maggie took the board. Rooting around in the vegetable rack, she looked up at me from her kneeling position. “We’re out of swedes.”

“Well, go and get some more, then.” Honestly. Maggie was a nice girl but she didn’t have much
initiative
. She nodded obediently and went off in the direction of the root cellar.

Mrs Watling was already making up the batter for the Dover sole. “I wonder if they’ll all be sitting up to table again tonight?” she mused. I shrugged. No doubt Miss Rosalind would be down to consult with us, lording it over us as if she were the lady of the manor.

I’d just begun on the onions when there was a scream so violent that I jumped and the knife flew out of my hand and fell to the floor, missing my foot by an inch.

“Good God, what was that?” Mrs Watling froze by the stove, her hand up to her chest. “What was that?”

The screaming continued. Shaking, I rushed towards where the sound was coming from. As I got closer to the cellar steps, I could hear better, and I realised it was Maggie who was screaming.

The footman, Andrew, was right behind me, running, his face set. Together we almost fell down the cellar steps in our haste to reach Maggie. Even in the dim light of the cellar, I could see her standing up where the passageway turned a corner into the darkest part of the room. Her hands were buried in her hair and her mouth was an open hole.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” I gasped, skidding to a stop. Andrew ran past both of us, round the corner. I heard him gasp.

“What is it? What is it?” I asked, terrified. Maggie cast herself into my arms, weeping and gulping.

Andrew came back into view, white and shaking. “Don’t go back there, Joan,” he warned, his teeth chattering. Then he said a very bad word.

“What is it?” I don’t know why I kept asking the same things. It wasn’t as if anyone was answering me.

I could hear other hurrying footsteps up above and then thundering down the cellar steps. Verity, Albert, Nora and Mrs Watling came running up to us. They all started talking at once.

I thrust Maggie at Mrs Watling and strode around the corner. “Don’t, Joan!” Andrew said again, making a grab for me, but I jigged aside, escaping him. I already had an inkling of what it was I was going to see, but the actual sight of it stopped me dead in my tracks.

I stood, hugging my arms across my trembling body, looking at the dead body of Peter Drew. As I stood there, silent and aghast, Verity came up beside me. I heard her gasp but she didn’t say anything else. We both stood looking down at him. He looked as though he’d been dead for some time, and even in the dim light, I could see the brownish stains on his shirt-front.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, Verity took me by the arm, propelled me round, and steered me back around the corner. Andrew had already disappeared, no doubt to warn Mr Fenwick to call the police. Maggie was being shepherded up the stairs, supported on either side by Mrs Watling and Nora.

“Come on,” Verity said sharply to Albert, who looked as though he were about to go and look himself. “We have to clear this room for the police.”

“What is it?” His eyes were like saucers.

Verity grabbed his arm with her free hand and pushed him back up the stairs. “Never you mind.”

“Come on, Verity—”

“It’s not your business.”

He was still arguing with her when he got back to the kitchen. I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell him – it wasn’t as if it was going to be a secret.

Albert shook off Verity’s hand and ran off in the direction of the hallway. I knew he’d gone to find Andrew, to see if he would tell him what was happening.

“Sit down, Joan,” Verity said, almost pushing me into a chair. I subsided gratefully, realising I was actually feeling a bit light-headed. Verity sat down opposite me, and we stared at each other across the table, wide-eyed and silent.

*

It was like some awful deja-vu that day. Again, the police cars came crunching over the gravel driveway, parking with a screech of brakes. Again, Mr Fenwick ponderously showed them through to the family. Again, Verity had to tend to Dorothy who was in bed having hysterics. Mrs Watling and I prepared possibly the worst meal we’d ever made, managing to burn both the meat and vegetables, dropping the prepared pudding on the floor. We looked at one another in despair before I bent down to pick up the broken pieces of china and scrape up the fruit and cream from the red tiles.

“I can’t send that up,” said Mrs Watling in a shaky voice. She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. I patted her on the shoulder, not knowing what else to do.

“Nobody’s going to eat anything, anyway,” Maggie said in a watery voice. She’d done nothing all morning but sit hunched over in one of Mrs Watling’s armchairs, which had been brought through from her sitting room.

At that moment, there was a heavy step on the stairs outside and a moment later, Inspector Marks walked into the kitchen, frowning. Mrs Watling, Maggie and I all looked at him in a sort of glazed silence.

“Peter Drew has been murdered, as I’m sure you ladies are aware,” Inspector Marks said sternly. “Miss Langton—” He turned directly to Maggie. “I understand you found the body?”

Maggie gulped and nodded. “Then I’ll need to speak to you right away,” said the inspector.

Mrs Watling cleared her throat. “Inspector, would you mind if myself or Joan sat in on that interview? Maggie is very young.”

The inspector frowned. Then he turned to me. “Miss Hart, I understand you were quickly on the scene when your colleague here screamed?” I nodded. The inspector continued. “Then you can accompany your colleague. I also have some questions for you.”

“You can use my sitting room,” Mrs Watling said tiredly. She looked as if she didn’t have the strength to rise from her chair.

The inspector ushered us through to the room ahead of him. I held Maggie’s arm and steered her in the direction of a spare chair. There wasn’t one for me and the inspector so I remained standing.

“Sit down, Miss Hart,” said Inspector Marks. I blushed and did so. He propped himself up against the edge of Mrs Watling’s sideboard.

“Now, Miss Langton. What happened this morning? Why were you in the cellar?”

Maggie gulped. “I was just getting some vegetables, sir. We’d run out and we needed them for the soup.” She stopped abruptly.

“Go on, please.”

I was too far away to give her a nudge but I sent an expressive look across the room. Her eyes flickered to mine and she sat up a little. “I don’t know what else to say, sir. I was just getting the swedes, and I went around the corner to where they were, and I – I saw him.”

“Did you touch anything?”

Maggie looked confused. “No. I don’t think so.”

The inspector looked over at me. “What about you, Miss Hart?”

“Of course not,” I said, rather more sharply than I’d intended.

“Hmm.” The inspector regarded me from under lowered brows for a moment. Then he said, “No, I expect you wouldn’t have done such a thing.” Maggie looked even more confused. “Why were you there, Miss Hart?”

“Because I heard Maggie screaming.” I could feel myself becoming a little annoyed. Perhaps it was the shock, hitting me at last. “I heard my colleague screaming, so of course I ran to help. Andrew – Mister Collier, the first footman, I mean – did too. He also saw the body.”

“I’ve already interviewed Mister Collier.” The inspector re-crossed his ankles and settled himself back again. “Now, when was the last time you were in the cellar? Before this morning, I mean.”

I thought back. “It must have been several days ago.”

“Did you go as far into the room as Maggie went this morning? I mean, did you see anything suspicious?”

I shook my head, sure of that point. “No, sir. Nothing that was at all untoward.”

The inspector looked at me for another moment, rubbing his moustache. Then he nodded. “We’re still establishing a time of death,” he said after a moment. “So any information you could give me would be helpful. Can you and Miss Langton tell me the last time you saw the deceased, Peter Drew?”

I was silent, thinking. Maggie tentatively raised her hand. “I haven’t seen him for over a week, sir. I don’t leave the kitchens much.”

“Thank you. Miss Hart?”

Suddenly, it came to me where I had seen Peter Drew last. He’d been in Duncan Cartwright’s bedroom, sneaking out of the door. I wanted to tell the inspector, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of Maggie.

I didn’t have the nerve to ask her to leave, not when we were both there on Inspector Marks’s say-so. Instead I inclined my head very slightly towards her, holding the inspector’s gaze, and raised my eyebrows. Would he understand?

He did, thankfully. “Thank you, Miss Langton, I think that will be all now. You may return to your duties.” Maggie got up and scuttled out of the room, her shoulders dropping with relief. Then he turned to me. “You have some information, Miss Hart?”

I nodded. “It may be nothing of course—” I went on to tell him everything I had seen. I even included the anecdote about the butler at the house I’d worked at previously, who’d been brought back to mind with Peter’s actions.

“Thank you, Miss Hart,” Inspector Marks said once I’d finished. He said it in a neutral way but I was beginning to understand that he spoke like that when he’d heard something that excited him. He didn’t want to show it but I was pretty sure that my little piece of information had been important, after all.

In the short silence that followed, I screwed up my nerve. “Sir, may I – may I ask how poor Mister Drew died?”

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer me. Then he said, rather absently, “The post mortem hasn’t yet been conducted so we don’t know – officially.”

“But, unofficially?” I asked, greatly daring.

The inspector smiled. “If I didn’t know better, Miss Hart, I’d believe you harbour ambitions to become a police officer.”

I was shocked. A female police officer? Of course, I knew in theory they existed but I’d never seen one. Besides, it wasn’t really that I was interested in police work – I was interested in solving the mystery.

“I think I’d rather be a detective, sir,” I said, so boldly I surprised myself.

The inspector laughed. Then he saw my face and his laughter died. “Forgive me, Miss Hart. You surprised me, that’s all.” He looked at me appraisingly. “You
are
quite surprising, Miss Hart. For what it’s worth, I think you’re wasted as a cook.”

“I’m only the undercook,” I said, stupidly. I was so taken aback by what he’d said it was all I could think of to say.

The inspector smiled. “Well, the world is changing, Miss Hart. Who knows what opportunities there will be for bright young women in the future?” He rubbed his moustache again and then stood up. “And now, I must get on with my work. Thank you for the information.”

Knowing a dismissal when I heard one, I stood up too and bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you, sir,” was an inadequate goodbye but it would have to do.