Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (3 page)

I watched Lord Cartwright as he ate. He always cut his meat as if attacking it, with short jabs of his knife and fork, and swilled it down with wine. If he hadn’t been quite so wealthy and titled, I had the suspicion that at least some of the guests who’d eaten here on occasion might have thought him just a little bit uncouth. He wasn’t an attractive man – with his drooping moustache and ruddy complexion, he reminded me of nothing so much as a sunburnt walrus.

I found the trick to observing someone was to watch them for just long enough, but no longer. Stare intently at someone for too long, and, sooner or later, they look up and catch your eye. Try it, I assure you it’s true. So I watched Lord Cartwright for just long enough and then swapped my gaze to his wife. True to her class, she was barely touching her food, pushing it disinterestedly around the plate. I knew full well that she’d have a tray sent up later – I imagined that she’d absolutely gorge herself then, eating with both hands, with no dining etiquette to stop her. The sight of Lady Cartwright rejecting my lovingly made food began to anger me so I looked further down the table to where Peter Drew was eating, in a sort of stiff, unhappy way. He didn’t look like a man who was enjoying himself. Dorothy was seated next to him but she wasn’t eating either, just resting her sleek head on one hand, a cigarette held unlit in her long fingers. I couldn’t imagine either Lord or Lady Cartwright allowing her to actually smoke at the table. In that, I agreed with them.

Duncan Cartwright and Rosalind Makepeace were seated next to one another but weren’t talking. It may have been my fancy, but they seemed to be slightly turned away from one another, as if they were holding the side of their bodies closest to the other stiff. It made me remember that time I’d had to sit at the servants’ table at the position I’d had before Asharton – I’d had to sit next to the valet, who was a horrible man, and every dinner time it was the same; I hadn’t been able to let the side next to him relax at all.

I’d noticed that before, the slight tension that always seemed to be between Rosalind and Duncan. I made a mental note to ask Verity why she thought that was and then pulled myself together with a jump as I realised they’d finished their main course, and I was now expected to help the footmen clear the table.

After dinner came the inevitable washing up and the preparation of breakfast for tomorrow. At least Maggie, the scullery maid, was the one who had to do most of the scrubbing. Mrs Watling and I sat at the table to go through the supplies and plans for what we had to do tomorrow.

Verity came in after a few minutes, yawning. “Can I make up a milky drink, Mrs Watling?”

“Of course, love. Is it for Dorothy?”

Verity nodded, sitting down at the table. “She’s having an early night tonight, thank the Lord. I’m just about ready to drop.”

“Miss Dorothy won’t be wanting anything else to eat?”

Verity shook her head. “No, I wouldn’t have thought so.”

As she spoke, we could see one of the bells start jangling. “That’ll be Madam,” said Mrs Watling with a sigh. “She’ll be wanting her tray.”

“I’ll take it up,” I offered. I could see Lady Cartwright was in the library by the name on the bouncing bell, and I never missed an opportunity to visit the library. I love books. I love reading and writing, even if I barely get the chance to do either. The library at Merisham Lodge was large and square and filled with literally hundreds of books. I might even have a chance to sneak myself a new novel to read if I was sly about it.

“Good girl. Well, Joan, once you’ve taken that tray up you can turn in for the night. There’s nothing more to do here.”

Verity made the hot milk drink, yawning all the while, and carried it out the door, flapping a vague hand at me in goodbye. I went through to the pantry where the tray for Lady Cartwright was neatly laid out, covered in a white cloth, and picked it up with a grunt. At least the library was on the ground floor of the lodge, only one flight of stairs to climb.

There was no answer to my careful knock at the library door. I hesitated, knocked again and when there was silence, opened the door, picked up the tray from where I’d put it down on the floor, and edged inside.

I thought for a moment that the room was empty, but a second glance showed me Lady Cartwright over by the window, staring out at the dark garden. I could see her face reflected in the glass of the window and she looked deep in thought, almost, one might say, worried. Fearful, even? But of what?

“Your tray, Madam,” I murmured.

She seemed to come back to life then and turned. “Oh, yes,” she said, disinterestedly. “Put it there.”

I placed the tray on the table she’d indicated and straightened up. I knew a ‘thank you’ would not be forthcoming. “Will that be all, Madam?”

She didn’t bother to answer. She’d turned back to stare out of the window again, almost as though I wasn’t there at all. I thought about asking her whether she wanted me to draw the curtains, but decided against it. Instead, I bobbed a curtesy and saw myself out, thoughts of stealing a book forgotten.

Verity was fast asleep by the time I got back to our room. I sighed, a bit disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to chat. Instead, I fetched some clean water for the wash bowl on the stand, washed my face, cleaned my teeth and began the slow, laborious work of unpinning my hair. Verity had left the oil lamp burning, which she always did if I was going to be later than her. I could feel my eyelids drooping and knew I should just curl up under the blankets and let myself sleep, but part of me was cross that this was the only time I ever really got to myself and almost all of it was spent unconscious. I picked up my notebook and pen and started to write, continuing a story idea that I’d had while clearing up the kitchen that evening. I nurtured dreams of being a real writer, of seeing my own words in print. That was one thing I’d never confessed to anybody, not even Verity. That was the one dream I couldn’t bear to have stamped on or laughed at. Not that Verity would do either of those things, but still… It was no use, that night. I couldn’t keep my eyelids from fluttering closed. Giving in, I tucked the notebook and pen under my bed and turned off the lamp.

Chapter Three

I was up bright and early the next morning, feeling well rested for a change. My first task of the day in the kitchen was always to make a start on the breakfasts, and I set to with a will, chopping mushrooms, breaking eggs and peeling damp slices of bacon from the greaseproof packet the butcher had delivered yesterday. Maggie had just finished mopping the kitchen floor and I had to tread carefully on the wet tiles to avoid slipping.

Once everything was underway, I filled the kettle and put it on the hob. Mrs Watling liked a good, hot cup of tea first thing when she came through to the kitchen, and after my hard work of the last half an hour I was ready for one too. As I lit the gas, a sound at the edge of hearing made me catch my breath. Was that – was that a scream? I stood still for a moment, straining my ears, but there was nothing, no other sound like the one I’d so briefly heard. Or had I? Shrugging mentally, I turned to get the cups from the dresser, laid them out and poured out the tea.

Something flickered in the corner of my vision and I turned, expecting to see Mrs Watling in the doorway. It wasn’t her. It was Verity.

One glance told me something was terribly wrong.

“V? Verity? What’s wrong?”

Verity didn’t answer. She was chalk white, milk white, so pale that for a second she looked like a ghost of herself in the gloom. She was swaying very slightly.

“Verity?” I asked, now thoroughly alarmed. Quickly, I moved over to her. “What’s wrong?”

She looked at me then and I grew even more anxious. Her eyes were huge, horrified pools.

I could see Verity trying to speak but nothing came from her dry mouth. “Over here,” I said, and almost dragged her over to one of the kitchen chairs. She flopped into it as if all the strength had left her legs, and I quickly fetched her a glass of water.

She took a sip, and then another, the water splashing over the sides as her hand shook. Then she looked up at me. “She’s dead,” she whispered.

I had a sudden, shocking memory of that time in Asharton Manor, seeing Violet the housemaid run into the kitchen there, gibbering with fear.
It’s Madam, it’s Madam – she’s lying there all cold, there’s something wrong – all
cold
– I think she’s dead…

I swallowed down the bubble of nausea that had risen in my throat. “V? Verity? Who’s dead?”

Verity put the glass back on the table, having spilt most of the water. “Lady Eveline.”

I gasped. “What do you mean?”

“Lady Eveline. I went into the library to fetch Lord Cartwright’s spectacles and – and—” Her voice started to tremble. “And she’s lying there on the carpet, dead.”

Her gaze rose to meet mine, her eyes dark and horrified. For a moment, shock overwhelmed me and I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Eventually I regained the power of speech. “Do you think she had a fit or something?”

Verity shook her head. “It’s worse than that. Much worse than that.”

I went cold. “What do you mean?”

Verity said nothing for a moment. She got up from the table, moving like an old woman. “Can you come with me? I need to show you.”

I didn’t respond straight away. I looked towards the stove, where the half-prepared breakfasts were waiting. Then I sighed. “Of course. Of course I’ll come with you.”

The two of us ran up the stairs to the hallway and raced down the corridor towards the library. We didn’t meet anyone else on the way, and as we passed the staircase, I cocked an ear for sounds of the household getting up. It must have still been too early, for I could hear nothing.

Verity paused outside the library door. She was shaking, and I wasn’t much better myself.

“Oh God, I don’t think I can do it, I don’t think I can look at her again,” Verity whispered. She looked at me in anguish and then gulped and opened the door.

It was dark in the library, close and stuffy, and the usual smells of musty old books, old cigarette smoke and wood-smoke were undercut by something else, something sharp and coppery and dangerous.
Blood
, I told myself, holding my arms across my body to stop myself shivering. Fearfully, I looked where Verity was pointing.

At first I didn’t think it was too bad, as I only saw her feet to start with. Lady Eveline was lying by her desk, crumpled onto her side, one arm out flung on the Persian rug beneath her. It was dim in the library, only one curtain pulled back at the window, and I stepped forward to see a bit better. That was when I saw her head, and the damage that had been done to it, and I screamed despite myself.

“Don’t! Don’t, Joan.” Verity clutched my arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said, gasping. “It was just the shock.”

Lady Eveline had been bludgeoned to death. I tore my eyes away from the blood and looked at the patterns on the carpet, trying to force the image from my head. I looked until the swirls of the pattern began to echo inside my head.

“Joanie—”

I came to with a start. Verity was shaking me gently.

“Joanie, keep yourself together. I don’t want you to faint.”

“I won’t faint,” I muttered. Trying to breathe deeply, I pulled myself upright. “We have to tell someone straight away.”

Verity nodded, her eyes huge. “Shouldn’t the police be informed?”

“That’s not our job.” I thought of who we should tell. Mr Fenwick, the butler, or Mrs Anstells, the housekeeper.

“I suppose it should be Mister Fenwick,” Verity whispered, reading my mind.

“Come on, then.” I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the door, desperate to get out of that blood-soaked room.

We flew down the corridor and down the stairs to where Mr Fenwick had his butler’s pantry. I had only ever been in there once, to receive a ponderous message of approval for a dinner party for which Mrs Watling and I had worked like slaves. Mr Fenwick seemed old to me, even for a head butler.

He opened the door to our hurried, loud knocks with disapproval already knitting his tufty white eyebrows.

“What is the meaning of this? Verity? I’m surprised at you.”

We fell over ourselves to explain, talking over one another.

“It’s Madam—”

“She’s been killed, she’s lying there dead in the library—”

“Mister Fenwick, you have to help—”

It took some time before we could make ourselves plain. Almost as white as his eyebrows, Mr Fenwick ordered us to remain where we were and marched out of the room.

Murder has its own rhythm. I knew that, after what I’d been through at Asharton Manor. Within twenty minutes of Mr Fenwick discovering that we’d been telling the truth about Lady Eveline, the whole house was in uproar. Verity had to go upstairs to tend to Dorothy, who’d apparently fainted when she was told of her mother’s death. Mrs Watling and I attempted to get some sort of breakfast together but we might as well have not bothered – nobody was eating a thing. I collected the untouched dishes from the dining room, gone stone cold, and was walking back through the hallway to the kitchen stairs when I saw something through the front windows that made me freeze. Three black cars approached the house and as they got closer, tyres crunching over the gravel, I could see the ‘Police’ signs on the car roofs of all three. They hadn’t wasted much time, I thought and then jumped as the doorbell rang. Hurriedly, china chinking on the tray, I went downstairs again. As I put the loaded tray on the kitchen table, I could hear Mr Fenwick’s footsteps, approaching the front door up above, somewhat faster than his normal, stately tread.

It was a strange day. Verity hurried down the stairs to the kitchen about three hours after she’d first gone up to Miss Dorothy.

“Have we got any brandy?” she asked in a rush.

“Yes,” I said, reaching for the bottle. “Want to put some in Dorothy’s coffee, is that it?”

“I don’t know what else to do.” Verity sounded close to tears. “She’s hysterical. She keeps screaming and crying and yelling. I thought if she could just get some sleep…”

She was very pale herself, and there were large dark circles under her eyes.

“Have you eaten anything today?” I asked sharply.

Verity shook her head.

“Right,” Mrs Watling said, taking charge. She took the silver breakfast tray from Verity’s shaking hands and put it on the table. “Sit down here.” She almost shoved Verity into a sitting position. I slid a plate of bacon and bread in front of her.

“Mrs Watling’s right,” I said. “If you don’t eat something you’ll faint, and then you’ll be no good to Dorothy at all.”

“That’s true.” Verity fell on the food ravenously. I put a mug of tea down in front of her as well, and Mrs Watling followed it up with a small glass filled with the cooking sherry.

“Get that down you, too, Verity,” she said firmly. “We’ve all a long day ahead of us.”

I watched Verity eating, wishing I could be more help to her, but what could I do? My duties lay down here. I turned back to the stove-top and began stirring the soup, listening to the thump of policemen’s feet up above my head.