Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 (5 page)

Verity and I might as well have not been in the room. Lord Cartwright turned to his step-daughter with a look of anger and impatience. “Come on, get up,” he said brusquely. “The police want to talk to you.”

I felt a jump of unease at his words, but they didn’t seem to bother Dorothy. She gave him a slow, contemptuous look and then pulled the breakfast tray onto her lap.

“I am having my breakfast,” she said in a bored voice, after a moment.

“They aren’t going to wait around forever.”

“I will go down when I’ve finished my breakfast,” Dorothy said, still in the same bored tone, and began to shovel the food into her face.

Lord Cartwright’s ruddy face reddened further. “Don’t make me drag you out of there, girl,” he said in a tone that terrified me. I hadn’t ever seen him this angry before. His gaze fell on Verity and she clearly snapped back into existence for him. He pointed a finger at her. “You! Make sure she’s up and dressed in the next five minutes. Don’t make me have to tell you twice.”

Verity bobbed a tiny curtsey, her face set in the neutral expression every good servant learns to wear. That expression masked a lot. Outwardly, the face says ‘of course, sir’, but inwardly boils a sea of rage and hate. Lord Cartwright was getting the cursing of his life inside Verity’s head, if he only knew it.

He slammed the door behind him as he went, and the curtains at the window billowed and eddied in the breeze created.

“My lady—” Verity began, but Dorothy, swallowing the last mouthful of egg and toast, held up a hand to stop her.

“It’s all right,” she said, when she could speak. “I’m getting up. I know I can’t really keep the police waiting – and I don’t want Lord C to give you a pasting as well as me.”

Verity looked a little embarrassed, but as soon as she had finished speaking, Dorothy was off in that blank state again, staring forward into nothing. I found myself wondering, for the first time, what her feelings were towards her stepfather. What had her feelings been for her
mother
? Lady Eveline hadn’t been exactly lovable but perhaps a daughter always loves her mother, no matter what. I wouldn’t know.

Dorothy clearly loved her brother though, despite her disparaging words towards him when he’d arrived at the house. I could only begin to guess at her state of mind, thinking of him in prison. Would he be in prison yet, though? Surely not. He’d be held at the police station, at least until he was charged. Was that right? I realised I didn’t know nearly enough about the judicial system in my own country and resolved to find out more, if I could. If I ever got more than five minutes to myself to do something other than work.

It was time for me to leave so that Verity could dress her mistress. I went to pick up the tray, just as Verity said, “Please try not to worry, my lady. I’m sure that Mister Drew will be found innocent, he can’t be anything other than that.”

That snapped Dorothy out of her blank stare. I watched her eyes spark back to life just as her face contracted in misery. “I’m afraid that’s not the case, Verity.”

Forgetting my place, I cried out, “But there’s no evidence against him, is there, my lady? They can’t be holding him just because of a silly quarrel.”

Dorothy’s burning gaze came around to meet my own. I flinched at the intensity of her stare.

After a moment, she spoke, quite coolly. “Oh, don’t you know? They found gloves,
his
gloves, in his room. Gloves stained with my mother’s blood.”

Aghast, I stared at her. She held my gaze for a moment and then looked away. Stuttering out an apology, something like that, I bent to pick up the tray. My lasting impression, as I left the silent room, was of the shock on Verity’s face, mirroring my own.

Chapter Six

I slept like the dead that night. When I came to in the morning, in the cold grey light before the dawn, I saw with sleepy surprise that Verity was already sitting up in bed. She hadn’t lit the lamp, but was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, a shawl around her shoulders. She looked worried.

“Are you all right, V?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

Verity bit her lip. “I’m—” she began and then obviously thought better of it. “Listen, Joanie, go back to sleep. It’s not time to get up yet.”

So why was she awake then? I tried to formulate the right question in my head but I was still too tired. Murmuring something, I turned back over in bed to face the wall and went back to sleep.

Later, at breakfast, I could see Verity was still thinking something over. She had such an expressive face; I could see why some of her relatives had become actors. As we ate our porridge and drank our tea, I remembered Lord Cartwright yesterday, nearly knocking her for six as he thundered into the room. What a
pig
that man was. I knew I should feel sorry for him – he’d just lost his wife, after all – but I found it difficult to find even one crumb of sympathy for him.

I found it darkly amusing to wonder what Lord C would say if he knew Verity’s origins – that on one side of her family, she was actually higher born than he was. Verity’s father had been a minor aristocrat and he’d eloped with her mother, an actress, earning himself the infinite opprobrium of his high-born family and ensuring that he was cut out of his father’s will forever. It was a romantic story – I often thought it would make a good novel, not that I would ever write it for fear of hurting Verity’s feelings – but it was a sad one too. Verity’s father had killed himself eventually, worn down by shame, debt and failed honour. Verity’s mother had been left virtually penniless. She raised Verity by herself until that fateful day she and Verity, who was then just eight years old, had visited Covent Garden market in London, just as Spanish flu was beginning to spread its evil tentacles through the population of the capital. Influenza carried Verity’s mother off in a matter of days, which is how Verity ended up at the orphanage with me.

I don’t believe I have ever been so thankful for fate that she and I ended up in beds next to one another in the dormitory and that we became friends. Sometimes I felt guilty for thinking that. My good fortune in having her for a friend was entirely dependent on the fact that she’d lost all her loved ones. If I could go back and change time, make it so that her father and mother survived, would I do it, knowing it would mean we’d never meet?

Stop being so fanciful
. I scolded myself as I took my plates towards the scullery for Maggie to wash.
As if you haven’t got enough to worry about in the here and now
.

Life below stairs seemed slightly more normal than it had been for the past couple of days. The police were still here, interviewing the family. I’d caught a glimpse of Duncan Cartwright sitting next to Dorothy in the morning room with his arm around her shoulders. He looked pale and shocked, and Dorothy was in tears again. It was the first time I’d ever seen Duncan do anything sympathetic for anyone. I wondered whether he was mourning his stepmother. He and Lady Eveline had always seemed to get on quite well.

As Mrs Watling and I began preparations for dinner, I found myself wondering anew who could have murdered her ladyship. From overhearing Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstells, I knew the police had found that a window in the library had been forced on the night of the murder. Whilst not conclusive in itself – the murderer could have done that to cover his or her tracks – it did suggest that there was a possibility the killer could have come from outside the house. How much the family must have been hoping for that, I thought, pushing steak through the mincer. It was still difficult to look at raw meat without a shudder of nausea but I had to get over that. It was either get over it or have to look for another kind of job, and where on Earth would I go and what would I do? Cooking was all I was trained to do.

Verity was very quiet all day; not that I saw much of her. Dorothy had been interviewed again by the police, and not long after, Verity had seen her back to her room. She came marching down to the kitchen with a set face, asking for more strong coffee. I had the impression that Dorothy was back to drowning her sorrows. Not that I could exactly blame her, but it made me cross for Verity, who had to bear the brunt of Dorothy’s inebriation and mess-making and deal with all the clothes ruined by slopped brandy and spilled cigarette ash.

It was bath night, that night, and as usual, the female servants took it in turns to use one of the two servants’ bathrooms on the top floor. A hot bath should have been a luxury, but it was always icy in the bathroom, with no heating and no fire. Verity and I usually shared the bath water – not at once, but taking it in turns, one after the other – and we used to help each other wash our hair. It was such a fuss with very long hair; the soap always took an age to rinse out. Verity kept threatening to get hers bobbed but I knew I probably wouldn’t have the nerve.

There was satisfaction to be had, it was true, tucked up in bed in clean nightgowns, comfortably conscious of being washed, powdered and smelling sweet for once. I kept sticking my nose down the front of my nightgown to enjoy my clean, soapy scent.

“Joanie, stop doing that, you look deranged.” Verity sat at the dressing table, carefully pinning up her damp hair. She caught my eye in the little mirror, and grinned. I stuck my tongue out at her.

Verity finished her pin curls and wound a filmy chiffon scarf around her head. She drew her shawl a little more firmly about her shoulders. Once we’d broken eye contact, the smile dropped off her face and she was back to looking worried once more.

I sighed and put down my book. “V, what is it?”

Her eyes met mine again in the mirror. “What?”

“You’re worried about something. What is it?”

Verity bit her lip. Then, getting up, she checked the door to the room was locked and then got into bed. She looked over at me, her bottom lip pinched beneath her teeth.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “I am worried.”

“What is it?”

“It’s what Dorothy said to us yesterday.”

“What about?”

“The gloves.” Verity’s eyes met mine, wide and shocked. “Remember? She said the police had taken Peter because they found his gloves, bloody gloves, in his room.”

I winced. “Yes, I remember. Horrible.”

Verity hugged her knees to her chest, looking like a little girl. “It’s just this,” she said. “I took some washing into Peter’s room quite early in the morning before they arrested him.”

There was clearly more, but she stopped speaking. “Go on,” I prompted.

“Well,” Verity said, hesitantly. “That was a few hours before they made the arrest, right? They must have searched his room that morning, after I’d been in there.”

“And?”

Verity sighed. “Those gloves weren’t there. They weren’t there that morning.”

I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

Verity became animated. “I asked Dorothy and she said the police found these bloody gloves stuffed at the back of a drawer, his underwear drawer, as it happened.” She half smiled. “Well, I had to put some clothes away for him in that drawer, and I never saw any gloves there, bloody or otherwise.”

I was silent for a moment, thinking. “Could he – could he have put them in there after you put the clothes away?”

Verity shook her head decisively. “No. He couldn’t have, because he was with Dorothy that whole morning, right up until they came to arrest him.”

She stopped speaking and we stared at one another.

“So,” I said slowly, unwillingly. “So, that means that someone else must have put them there. Right?”

Verity was silent for a moment. “I can’t think of another explanation that fits,” she said. “I’ve been trying all day to see if I can think of another reason, but I can’t.”

I closed my eyes briefly. “Oh Lord, this is all we need.”

Another silence fell. Selfishly, I wished for one moment that Verity hadn’t told me. I
really
wished she hadn’t told me just before bedtime. Now I would probably lie awake all night, worrying about it and what to do.

I looked over at Verity and saw the dark half-moons under her eyes. My momentary anger vanished. Now I realised why she’d been up so early. I felt bad then, that my good friend had fretted and worried while I slumbered beside her, no help at all.

“So what do we do?” I asked.

Verity bit her lip again. “I think the only thing to do is go to the police.”

“Yes.” I couldn’t see any way around that. “And V – one thing. Don’t go mentioning this to anyone else, all right? It could be dangerous.”

Verity half smiled. “I remember giving you much the same warning, once.”

“Well, quite. And you were quite right to.”

Verity yawned and slid down beneath her covers. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone except Inspector Marks. And now, I really must sleep, I’m ready to drop.”

“Good night, then.”

I sat there in the dim light, listening to Verity’s breathing softening into sleep. Then I turned off the lamp, watching as darkness slid into the room. After a moment, I slid down in the bed, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and laid there, staring at nothing, looking into the night.