Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (10 page)

“Killed? Oh, but that was an accident. She fell down the stairs.” Dorothy ground her cigarette out in a brimming ashtray. “It wasn’t a great surprise to anyone, to be honest. She drank, you know.”

Coming from Dorothy, with her enormous consumption of brandy and champagne cocktails, that was a bit rich, but of course I didn’t say anything about that. “Oh yes, I know that, my lady. I think it was just the shock of it, of sudden death, that reminded her.” I then remembered, rather belatedly, that I was talking to a girl who’d lost her mother to murder. “I’m so sorry to talk about it though, my lady, it’s not my place.”

“Nonsense.” But Dorothy’s eyes had filled. Blinking, she looked away and lit another cigarette.

I took that as my cue to leave and began to lift the empty cups onto the tea tray. But Verity gave me the minutest shake of the head and I hesitated. She telegraphed something to me with her eyebrows, and when I hesitated some more, unsure of what she was trying to say, mouthed ‘will’ at me.

I took a deep breath. “Was the luncheon we prepared today to your satisfaction, my lady?”

Dorothy was smoking and staring into space. She looked up at my voice. “What’s that, Joan?”

“The luncheon today – for when Mr Fossick dined with you. I hope it was satisfactory? I just wanted to know, after what you’ve said about the dinners, my lady, I mean.”

Dorothy’s frown cleared. “Oh, that. Oh yes, it was fine. To be honest, Joan, nobody really felt like eating much. We were all too nervous about the will.”

She stopped speaking but in that way that you get the impression they want to go on, just with a bit of prompting. So I said, “The will, my lady?”

“My mother’s will. That’s why Mr Fossick was here today, to read her will.” Dorothy spoke to me as if this would have never occurred to me and I tried not to mind. “Golly, out of all the horrible things that have happened over the past couple of weeks, at least that
was
a relief.”

“Was it, my lady?” I couldn’t quite believe she was being so forthcoming but then Dorothy never had been that discreet.

“Oh yes. Didn’t I say? I thought Mother might have cut me out of her will. She always threatened to, if I persisted in seeing Simon. I actually thought she’d really
done
it, this time. But then, she hadn’t. Or perhaps she hadn’t got around to it before – before she died.” She stubbed out her cigarette with a jab. “Poor Mother.”

I didn’t quite know what to say, but I don’t think she was listening to me anymore. I murmured something about ‘being very glad for you in this sad time, my lady’, and then I thought I’d really better leave, Verity or no Verity.

I closed the door softly behind me and began to make my way back to the servants’ stairs. The corridor curved sharply at a right angle, leading around to where Duncan’s and Lord Cartwright’s bedrooms were located. As I walked towards the turn, I heard the sound of a door opening around the corner, and there was something about it that made my footsteps slow. As I came up to the corner, I stopped still and peered around the wall, cautiously.

A man was coming out of Duncan’s bedroom. For a moment, I thought it was Benton but there was something furtive in the way he was moving that made me reassess after a moment. It was Peter Drew, I realised. What was he doing in Duncan’s bedroom? He hurried away down the corridor away from me, and there was something in the set of his shoulders that recalled to me a butler I’d once known who’d spent his time at the house spying and sneaking on the people he was supposed to serve. That butler had been dismissed in the end, I remembered, because he’d poked his nose in one too many times for comfort. And here was Peter Drew, moving in exactly the same shifty, furtive way.
He’s snooping
, I thought. I watched him scurry down the corridor and followed him slowly, letting him move out of sight before I turned the corner.

Chapter Twelve

I woke up at half past five in the morning the next day, as usual. It was worse now, in the gathering gloom of autumn, when it was beginning to get so dark and cold it felt as if it were still the middle of the night. I put my feet into the slippers that Verity had given me last Christmas and wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. Then I hurried down the corridor to the servants’ bathroom.

To my surprise, it was already occupied. I was used to being the first one up on this floor – Maggie was a bit of a slug-a-bed, and it was usually my second task of the day to get her up. Perhaps she’d managed the impossible and got herself up for once. I waited outside the bathroom, my need for the lavatory growing increasingly urgent. I was almost at the point of dashing back to my room to use the po’ when at last the door opened. I was surprised to see Nora.

She looked a little pale, and the smile she gave me was wan. She didn’t say anything though, just walked past me and back down the corridor to her room. I hurried into the vacated bathroom. The little window was wide open, letting in blasts of chilly air, and I quickly shut it, shivering.

The morning followed its usual routine – preparing the breakfasts, the clearing and washing of the pots and utensils and a quick cup of tea before the onslaught of luncheon began. Today they were having minestrone soup to begin, followed by mackerel fillets with lemon and thyme, mashed carrot, potato and swede and a dessert of peaches in chartreuse jelly and ice-cream. Followed of course by the usual fruits, coffee and cheeses.

I checked the vegetable rack – we were low on both carrots and swedes. I took a basket down from where it hung on the hooks by the back door and made my way to the root cellar. This was the darkest and dankest of the cellars, situated behind the wine cellar, right at the back of the labyrinth of corridors that lay beneath the kitchen itself. I always hated a trip down there. The only light came from a dusty bulb that hung over the stairs so the far reaches of the room were always in flickering shadow.

Quickly, I walked towards the sandboxes where the root vegetables were kept and grabbed handfuls of what I needed. I wanted to get out of this dark, spooky place as quickly as possible. It smelled horrible down here too, mouldy and dusty at the same time. I picked up the laden basket and ran up the stairs as quickly as I could, as if something nasty were snapping at my heels.

Mrs Watling darted between the gas stove-top and the range, checking on pots and prodding pans. She glanced at me as I came back into the kitchen with my vegetables and gave me a look of approval.
 

I was sitting at the kitchen table, scraping industriously away with my peeler when Verity came into the room with an armful of clothes and some jewellery boxes. She greeted me, Maggie and Mrs Watling and sat herself down next to me.

“Mending?” I asked.

“What else? And some jewellery to clean, too.”

She opened up the nearest flat leather box. Inside was a beautiful string of pearls. I stared, fascinated, as Verity went and fetched a little glass of milk and began to clean the pearls with the milk and a soft cloth.

“Do you clean all Dorothy’s jewellery?” I spoke softly so Mrs Watling wouldn’t take me to task for not calling Dorothy ‘her ladyship’.

“Not the really expensive stuff. That goes to a specialist. But, yes, the paste jewels, these pearls for example – they’re not so valuable so she doesn’t mind if I do it.”

Both Mrs Watling and Maggie were otherwise occupied. I leaned in closer and murmured “So what happened with the will reading? Did you manage to get in on it?”

Verity grinned. “I persuaded Dorothy to let me come in case she had a shock and she needed me.” She paused to wipe the last pearl clean and then laid the string down gently. “You know, I think she actually thought she would have one. A shock, I mean. About the will.”

I thought back to what Dorothy had said. “You mean, that her mother might have cut her out because of that Simon?”

“Yes. I think she was really worried about it. I haven’t seen her so relieved since—” She stopped talking abruptly.

“Since what?” I asked.

Verity shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

I wanted to press her but I knew that stubborn look on her face. She wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming just now.

I changed the subject. “So, were there any surprises with the will?”

Verity was threading a needle. She bit off the thread and selected a little piece of lacy silk frivolity. “No, not that I could tell. The bulk of Lady E’s estate went to Lord Cartwright. No surprises here.”

“And Dorothy was all right.” I got up to rinse my peeler free of carrot juice and sat back down to start on the swedes. “What about Peter?”

Verity quirked her mouth. “Nothing. Just a few pieces of furniture and some pictures.”

I stared at her. “
Nothing
? He’s inherited nothing?”

Verity shrugged. “That’s what Mr Fossick said. No money.”

“But—” I remembered what Verity had said about Peter coming into money. “What about the money he said he was getting?”

Verity had finished the tear in the lace of the camisole and she folded it neatly. “I don’t know. Perhaps he
thought
he was going to inherit.”

“Gosh.” I stared blindly down at the half peeled swede in my hand. What a vindictive gesture from Lady Eveline – to reward one of her children but not the other. Had she really disliked him that much? How would that have made Peter feel?

Pushing aside that thought, I leant closer to Verity. “What else?”

Verity bit her lip, thinking. “Nothing that surprising. She didn’t leave anything to Duncan, but I suppose that was to be expected – he wasn’t her son, after all. Some small bequests to her sisters and a cousin. I think that was it.”

“Hmm.” So the principal beneficiary of Lady Eveline’s will, the main inheritor of her fortune, was her husband Lord Cartwright. That was usual, I supposed. But was it another motive?

I took the vegetable peelings up to the stove and scraped them into the stockpot which was always kept on one of the back burners at a slow simmer. I thought about Lord Cartwright and his money. I knew he was an industrialist – he’d made a lot of his fortune in manufacturing in the North of England. Had he also inherited money from his first wife?

I remembered overhearing a conversation between Mrs Anstells and Mr Fenwick, some months ago, which hadn’t made much sense at the time but now did. Mrs Anstells had said something about “the speed of the wedding had seemed rather indelicate,” and Mr Fenwick had admonished her in his ponderous way. “It’s not for us to judge, Mrs Anstells.” I’d known they were talking about the family, but now I realised they’d been talking about Lady Eveline and Lord Cartwright. Had they married quickly, after the death of the first Lady Cartwright? I decided I would ask Verity, but when I turned around, she was making her way out of the door, her arms piled with clothes and jewellery boxes. Never mind, it could wait until later.

Lunch was finished, served up and the servants’ more modest repast prepared. I sat down at the table for our luncheon with a thankful sigh. The small of my back and the soles of my feet were killing me.

I noticed Nora wasn’t eating much. She still looked pale. I leant over to murmur, “Are you feeling quite well?” in her ear.

She looked at me, startled, as if her thoughts had been far away. “I’m fine, thank you, Joan,” she said after a moment and flashed me a smile that was somehow dismissive.

Mentally shrugging, I turned back to my lamb stew. After lunch, I had a lovely two whole hours free before the onslaught of the evening meal preparation began. It would be a big meal tonight, with all of the family present, plus Dorothy’s beau, Simon Snailer. I knew Mrs Watling was planning some elaborate centrepiece for the main course, which would no doubt involve hours of tricky, fiddly work, sweating from the heat of the stove. Oh well. I pushed the thought away and scraped the last bit of gravy from my plate. It made me remember the first place I’d ever worked, when I was just a girl recently released from the orphanage, the one with the skinflint cook. At that place, during the servants’ meal, you learned to eat quickly because once the housekeeper and the butler had finished what was on their plates, that was it – the meal was over for the rest of us, regardless if you’d actually finished eating or not. The memory of it still made me cross. I got up to put my plate in the scullery sink, thanking my stars that I was working here now and not there, murder or no murder.

It was a lovely autumn day, warm for the time of year, and as it had been fairly dry that week, I decided to chance a walk, hoping the woodland paths wouldn’t be too muddy. I put on my coat, affixed my hat to my head, and took up my gloves. As I walked up the kitchen stairs into the courtyard, I took a quick look at the iron clock that hung on the gable of the stable block. At least an hour, then, before I had to head back. I strode off towards the woodlands that stood at the back of the estate, determined to enjoy my short escape.

The woods were of mainly deciduous trees: oak, beech, hazel and elm. It made for pleasant walking, with the light slanting down through the bare branches and dappling the leaf-strewn walking paths. As I had hoped, it wasn’t too muddy as yet, and the fallen leaves soaked up the worst of the damp. As I walked along, enjoying the rich smells of ferment and fresh air, and the distant farmyard waft of cattle and sheep, I thought back to Asharton Manor and how different it had felt, walking in the pine woods behind that huge old house. Even now, I couldn’t recall the clearing, where the ancient rites of Asharte had once been performed, without a shiver.

I kept an eye on the position of the sun in relation to me as I walked, and when I judged I had about forty minutes to return to the house to be in plenty of time, I turned back. I had just opened the gate that led into the gardens of the lodge and turned the sharp corner of the path when I almost ran into the tall, dark figure of Inspector Marks.

I may have squeaked in surprise. “I’m so sorry, sir, I do apologise, I – I didn’t know you were there,” I stammered.

He didn’t seem perturbed. “That’s no trouble, Miss Hart. Been out for a walk, I see?”

I composed myself a little. “Yes, sir. I like to walk when I have the opportunity.”

“Quite right.” He spoke rather absently. I looked at him more closely, and I could detect an air of – was it sadness? No, something less than that but still a negative emotion. Frustration? Annoyance?

This should have been the right time to curtsey and excuse myself. Instead, I screwed up my courage and asked “May I ask if you are any further forward with the case, sir?”

Was that too bold? I knew it was something someone like Dorothy, for example, would have no hesitation in asking. But was it really my place to enquire?

The inspector didn’t seem angry. He gave me a sharp glance from under his heavy black brows. “Servants still got the wind up about an escaped lunatic, is that it?”

“Well, sir, it’s not a very nice thought, is it? To think that there’s somebody out there capable of doing that harm to a fellow human being.”

Again, I got that glance that I’d received the first time he’d interviewed me. It was a glance of something more like respect – as if he suddenly
saw
me as a person, a real person, rather than just an anonymous face in a uniform. The warmth of it went through me like a glass of brandy.

“Miss Hart—” He stopped talking, regarding me for another moment. Then, as if on impulse, he took my arm and drew me further down the path, off into a little alcove formed by two dark yew bushes. Here we were sheltered a little from anyone’s view of the path.

I was half startled, half uneasy, and that must have shown in my face.

“Forgive me, miss, but there’s something I need to ask you.” He leant forward a little and lowered his voice. “I know servants see everything. They might even know something, something they think is quite inconsequential, but that might have a real bearing on the outcome of a criminal case.
Think
, Joan.” I was a little taken aback at his use of my first name. “Think. Is there anything that you’ve seen, or heard, or that your fellow workers might have seen or heard that has – shall we say – given you pause? Made you uneasy? Anything at all?”

I stared at him, my heart thumping. “I’m not often above stairs,” I said stupidly.

He let go of my arm and moved away a little. I got the impression my answer had disappointed him and for a moment, I couldn’t bear it, it was as if I’d sunk back in his estimation. “Wait,” I said, closing the small gap between us. “Sir, if I may, I do have – I think I do have something you might think is important.”

I fell silent. I’d said that bit on impulse but now it came to the meat of the story, I was nervous. Would he think I was completely indelicate? It wasn’t really as if I had anything concrete to say.

Inspector Marks’s attention was once more riveted on me. “Go on,” he said, underlining his remark with an inclination of his head.

I swallowed. Now I came to say it, it sounded so…so thin. “Well, sir, it’s probably nothing. But about three days after the – after the incident, I was just getting some kitchen things from the cupboard by the study…”