Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (6 page)

Chapter Seven

It was absolutely typical, as things turned out. For three days, you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting a policeman, and now that we actually
wanted
to talk to Inspector Marks, he was nowhere to be found. Verity sometimes ate breakfast in our room, particularly if Dorothy had had a late night the night before, but this morning she appeared in the kitchen and came up to me as I chopped mushrooms on one of the counters.

“I’m going to see if I can see the inspector today,” she murmured, leaning in as if inspecting my chopping skills. I could tell she didn’t want to be overheard.

“Want me to come with you?” I was wondering how I was going to manage that, given the lunch Mrs Watling and I had to prepare. It was Maggie the scullery maid’s morning off and the washing up was piling up even as we spoke. As was usual, murder or no murder, the family was expecting the full five courses for dinner.

“If you could, Joanie, that would be wonderful.” I saw her glance at the piles of vegetables by my elbow with disquiet. “If you can’t get away though…”

“I’ll try,” I promised, and she was happy enough with that.

The morning rolled relentlessly towards lunchtime. Mrs Watling asked me to make clear soup for the starter, which was a fiddly job at the best of times. I said nothing but pushed a stray strand of hair off of my forehead and nodded. I couldn’t stand it when the kitchen was in a mess like it was – it felt overwhelming, as if I’d never be able to finish anything. Mrs Watling must have caught the edge of my panic.

“Joan, don’t worry. I’ll have one of the boot boys finish the washing up. Just pile it all up in the sink and get on with the soup.”

“Yes, Mrs Watling.” I silently gnashed my teeth as I reached for the greaseproof paper. Of course, we
would
have run out.  I said as much to Mrs Watling, hoping she’d say we could do something else for the starter instead. No such luck.

“There’s more in the cupboard along from the study,” Mrs Watling said absently, her attention concentrated on the butter and peppercorn sauce for the beef. “Just run up and grab another roll.”

Fuming, I yanked at my apron strings and pulled it over my head. It was one thing to be covered in splashes and stains and grease-marks down in the kitchen but another when going ‘up above’. I’d once overheard Lady Eveline speaking sharply to Mrs Anstells about the importance of “the maids always looking neat and respectable when they are above stairs.” It would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so cross. How on Earth did her ladyship think the housemaids would be able to clean out the fires without getting covered in soot? Or the kitchen maids would be able to prepare all the food for the house without getting even a little bit dirty? Then I remembered the poor woman was dead, and guilt extinguished the flames of my anger.

I smoothed down the front of my dress, checked that my cuffs were fairly respectable, and climbed the stairs to the main hallway. The study lay off a corridor that ran behind the length of the drawing room. It wasn’t an area I knew well. I found myself almost tiptoeing as I hurried along the carpet towards the cupboard. The door to the study was slightly ajar, and as I softly walked past it, I could hear the bass rumble of a male voice coming from the room. 

Quietly, I opened the cupboard door and started looking for the greaseproof paper. There were boxes and bundles of all sorts of things in the cupboard, and I stood scanning the shelves, looking for the distinctive long cardboard box. I recognised the voice of the man in the study – it was Lord Cartwright himself. Not wanting to have him confront me – I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but then, when had that ever stopped him? – I redoubled my search efforts, carefully moving aside boxes and bags and all the time trying to be as quiet as a mouse.

“You’ve been such a godsend throughout this awful time, my dear,” I heard Lord Cartwright say. Surely he wasn’t speaking to Dorothy in that gentle tone? Curious, despite myself, I found myself listening more closely.

A woman’s voice replied. “I’m sure I do the very best I can, my lord.” Who was that? After a moment, the penny dropped. Of course, it was Rosalind. She was Lord Cartwright’s secretary, after all. It was perfectly natural that she would be working with him in the study. Despite that though, there was
something
… I found myself holding my breath, listening harder.

“A good girl, yes, a very good girl. And you know, my dear, that good girls will always be rewarded—” His lordship’s voice sank a little and I couldn’t hear any more. At the same time, I spotted the greaseproof paper box, right at the back of the cupboard. Grabbing it, I closed the door very quietly. That was when I should have left, I know. But I didn’t. Instead, I crept as close to the study door as I could and listened.

There was silence from within the room, then a rustle. Was that a giggle I heard from Rosalind? I couldn’t tell. Eyes wide, I inclined my head a little further towards the gap.

There was a creak of floorboards within the room and the sound of footsteps walking towards the door. I jumped, lost my head and instead of turning back down the corridor towards the kitchens, ran further along it to where a small alcove housed an ornament cabinet. I flattened myself against the side of it just as the door to the study opened fully. I could see quite clearly through the glassed-in side of the cabinet. Rosalind walked out of the study, carrying an armful of books and papers. Her hair was as neat and smooth as normal but her cheeks were stained pink. I stared, wondering exactly what it was I’d just overheard.

Once she’d disappeared around the corner, I snuck out from my hiding place, clutching my greaseproof paper, and hurried back along the corridor, my face burning.

I was quite pleased to have a job that demanded some concentration when I got back to the kitchen. Those few overheard words raced around and around in my head. Had I actually witnessed anything untoward or not? Was I imagining things? And did it signify anything if indeed I
had
witnessed some sign of affection between his lordship and his assistant? Mechanically, I whisked the soup with crushed egg-shells, skimming off the scum that formed on top until most of it was gone. The greaseproof paper was then used to clarify the soup until it reached the desired clear golden colour.

Maggie had returned, thank God, and she and the youngest boot boy, Norman, were busy at the sinks. The beef was resting and Mrs Watling had just brought the beautifully cooked vegetables out from the stove. Everything was back under control – in the kitchen, at least.

Lunch was served upstairs and then we all sat down to our more modest offering. Verity was nowhere to be seen. I wondered whether she was eating with Dorothy in her room – she did that sometimes, when Dorothy wanted company but didn’t want to bother with the luncheon table downstairs. Had Verity had time to talk to the inspector yet? Having heard what I’d just heard, I wondered whether that was something I ought to mention as well. Then again, what hard evidence did I have that something was going on between Lord Cartwright and Rosalind Makepeace? Absolutely none, I told myself firmly, arranging my knife and fork neatly on my empty plate.

After lunch, Mrs Watling and I had a rare hour of relaxation before preparation for dinner got underway. Mrs Watling had a cup of tea and a doze in the armchair by the fire in the servants’ hall. I decided I’d try and find Verity. I wanted to talk to her about whether she’d managed to relay her information about the gloves to the inspector – and whether she’d ever seen or heard anything untoward between his lordship and Rosalind.

I checked our room, Dorothy’s room and all of the main rooms in the house. I made sure I carried a small stack of aprons and took care to bustle.
Always look as if you’re going somewhere specific
, Verity had told me once. 
Never be empty-handed. Then you always look as though you’re meant to be wherever they might find you. It’s the girls who lollygag about who get reprimanded.

As it was, I saw none of the family and precious few of the other servants. The house could be like that sometimes – it was almost eerie, the way that it seemed to empty out at times. I wondered whether Verity had accompanied Dorothy out – but even I couldn’t see Dorothy off shopping or partying just days after the brutal murder of her mother. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway as I went past and saw that it was nearly time to go back to work. What a waste of a free hour…

Just as I was coming back into the kitchen, I almost cannoned into Verity in the doorway itself. The surprise made us both shriek.

“There you are,” I exclaimed. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Verity grabbed my arm and drew me back into the kitchen. “I’ve just spotted the inspector, he’s out in the garden. I’m going to see him now.”

“Oh, right out in the open?” I felt a qualm. “Are you sure that’s wise, V?”

“I might not get another chance. Dorothy’s asleep at the moment but she won’t be for long. Are you coming?”

I glanced at the clock and then quickly tiptoed into the servants’ hall. Mrs Watling was still asleep, the newspaper covering her lap like a papery rug. “I’m coming,” I whispered, tiptoeing back.

“Come on, then.”

We bounded into the yard outside like a couple of puppies. I hadn’t been outside all day and it was only then I realised how stifled and claustrophobic I’d felt. Verity and I tore across the gravel, trying to fight down our giggles. One of the groundskeepers was clipping the beech hedge that edged the kitchen garden and he whistled at us as we ran past. Verity stuck her tongue out at him.

We skidded to a halt as we came to the edge of the lawn. I could just see the black back of the inspector as he made his way into the lime tree walk that led away to the little wilderness and the lake.

“Mrs Anstells will kill you if she sees you talking to the police,” I said, sobering up. “Won’t she?”

“She won’t be too happy,” said Verity. “She’d say I should have come to her first, not go racing off the police like someone who doesn’t know their place.”

“Well...” I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was for Verity to be dismissed.

Verity stuck her pointy chin out even further. She had an elf’s face; a wide, white forehead and high cheekbones, tapering down to her little chin. Topped with that flaming red hair, it was a face that wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it had a certain vivacity. “Let’s just go round the long way. We might catch him before he gets back to the house.”

Gulping down my anxiety, I followed Verity. She kept behind the high hedges, out of sight of the main house. She obviously knew these grounds a lot better than I did, but then she had a lot more time to explore, either with Dorothy or without her. I began to feel nervous again, mainly about the fact that I was now supposed to be back in the kitchen. I kept following Verity, though.

We caught up with the inspector just as he was turning back along the path that led to the terrace at the back of the house.

“Sir,” Verity panted, slightly out of breath from our dash. “I was hoping to speak to you, sir.”

If the inspector was surprised at her forwardness, he didn’t show it. In our brief interview before, he’d struck me as an astute judge of character – I suppose it went hand in hand with his job. Perhaps Verity had already impressed him during their earlier meeting. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

By now, Verity had regained her composure. “I have some information that I think would be very important for the investigation, sir.”

The inspector’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? That sounds quite serious.”

Verity looked sober. “Yes, I think so, sir. Given the gravity of the situation.”

The inspector glanced at his watch, and in his doing so, I caught sight of the time. I really
had
to get back to the kitchen. “Well, Miss – Hunter, isn’t it? Would you like to talk to me here or shall we proceed back to the house?”

Before Verity could open her mouth to answer him, I grabbed her sleeve. “V, I
must
get back. I’m so sorry.” I looked at the inspector and bobbed a curtsey. “Please excuse me, sir, I’m wanted in the kitchens.”

Verity gave me a pleading look but it was no use. I had to get back or risk my place. Trying to convey all of this through my facial expressions, whilst simultaneously attempting a respectful and sober face for the benefit of the inspector, would have taxed Charlie Chaplin himself. I probably just ended up looking like a lunatic. Then I bobbed another hasty curtsey and took off at a gallop for the kitchens.

“Where have you been?” Mrs Watling said sharply as I skidded into the kitchen, red in the face with exertion.

“I’m so sorry, I lost track of time.” I swiped my arm across my sweating forehead, feeling resentful at her tone. The
hours
of my life that I spent in this kitchen, the hard work that I put in…it seemed as if none of that counted against five minutes’ tardiness. I reached for a clean apron, trying to think of something else apologetic to say that would get past the block of resentment that currently sat in my throat.

“Well, get on with your work and we’ll say no more about it,” Mrs Watling said, in a slightly more mollified voice. Perhaps she was thinking what I was thinking.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to sound sincere. I looked up at the menu board where Mrs Watling wrote up the meals for the day in chalk. Tonight, the family were having tomato and olive soup, followed by pork cutlets dressed with dill and cucumber, fried potatoes, honeyed carrots and parsnips, and then home-made vanilla ice-cream for pudding. As was usual, I marvelled at the decadent amount of food, the sheer excess of it all. Just one of the meals that the gentry had eaten today would have filled the bellies of five or six of the poor families in the village. Such a frivolous waste of money…but then, it was keeping me in a job, so what right did I have to complain? I took down a chopping board, collected the bowl of tomatoes, and began chopping up the fruits in a dim sort of mood.