by Celina Grace
I assumed, in the lack of any other instruction from Mrs Weston, that the breakfasts would go ahead as normal. Ethel and I began to prepare them.
Verity came down into the kitchen at five and twenty-past eight. She looked tired but less shattered than she had last night. She gave me a weary smile as she waited for me to pour boiling water into the silver teapot on Dorothy’s tray.
I set the teapot down, suddenly determined to speak out. “V, have you got a minute?”
“Not really.” Verity, despite that, looked enquiringly at me.
I jerked my head towards the walk-in pantry. “One minute. That’s all I ask.”
We scurried into the tiny space, crammed in on all sides by tins and packets, and I shut the door. Verity raised her coppery eyebrows. “What’s wrong, Joan?”
I sighed. “Well…it’s nothing – it’s probably nothing – but…” I told her, as quickly and as precisely as I could, about the drag mark I’d seen on the carpet of Mrs Ashford’s room.
Verity frowned. “But what would that actually mean?”
I’d been thinking about that myself. “Well, could someone have moved the body? Moved it to the position in which it was found?”
Verity’s frown grew deeper. “Why? Why would someone do that?”
I’d been thinking about that too. I took a deep breath. “Because perhaps Mrs Ashford didn’t hit her head on the hearthstone at all?”
A silence fell. I could clearly hear Ethel clattering the pots and pans in the room next door. Verity held my gaze for a long moment.
I couldn’t stay silent. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Verity huffed and looked away. “Like what?”
“Like – like that.”
Verity looked annoyed. “Well, why not say what you really mean, Joanie?”
Our gazes met and melded. “Which is?”
“You don’t think Mrs Ashford died a natural death.”
There. It was out there. I took a deep breath. “I’m not saying that.”
“Well, what are you saying?”
“All I’m saying is that it looked as though somebody has tried to move the body.”
There was another silence. Then Verity breathed out sharply through her nose, her nostrils flaring.
“What?” I snapped.
She shot me a look that was perilously close to dislike. “As if we haven’t got enough to worry about.” Shaking her head, she turned on her heel and groped for the door handle. “Just – just—”
“What?”
Verity’s mouth pinched. “Why do you always have to go looking for trouble, Joan?”
I was flabbergasted. “I – I don’t—”
“So, don’t then.” The final two words were almost spat at me. Verity wrenched at the door handle and was gone in a flip of red hair and outrage, leaving me behind in the pantry, speechless and upset amongst the bottles and cans.
Chapter Ten
Well, that put a bit of a dampener on things, as you can imagine. I didn’t see Verity for the rest of the morning, which was probably just as well. Luckily, Ethel and I were kept busy. Everyone’s appetites seemed to have returned, and the two nurses being in the house also made for extra work. They like their trays, do nurses.
It didn’t help that Ethel seemed somewhat distracted. She kept dropping things; things that didn’t matter, like whisks and saucepans, and things that rather did, like eggs. After the second one plummeted to the tiles to shatter in an oozing pool of white and yolk, I’d had enough.
“Ethel, what is the matter?”
She blushed even harder. “Nothing Mrs – Miss – Joan.”
I hesitated, wondering whether to take her up on it. But then I heard footsteps on the stairs and the moment passed. “Well, clean it up then,” I snapped, reaching for the kettle and feeling an urgent need for a cup of tea.
The footsteps turned out to belong to Doctor Goodfried and Mrs Weston. She ushered him into the kitchen. I noticed he cast an appreciative glance at the steaming kettle.
“Could you make the doctor a cup of tea, please, Joan?” Mrs Weston asked. She glanced around the kitchen but, thankfully, all was under control.
“Of course.” I set out the cups and a plate of biscuits that Ethel had baked that morning. Doctor Goodfried tucked in without ceremony. Mrs Weston stood there for a moment. I was about to ask her a question about the dinner that evening but something in her face stopped me. She looked…lost. As if she’d suddenly forgotten where she was or perhaps even who she was.
It was only a moment’s reflection. She seemed to come back to herself and bustled away. I watched her go uneasily.
Doctor Goodfried drained his cup with a sigh and prepared to get up. “No rest for the wicked,” he said. “I’ll be popping back in later, to check on everybody, but I think I can safely say that the worst is over.”
He didn’t mention Mrs Ashford, but why would he to me? I hesitated, wondering whether to say something about my suspicions. Then, remembering Verity’s tart words to me that very morning, I shut my mouth again.
The doctor picked up his black leather bag from the floor and was heading for the stairs when, to my utter astonishment, Verity and Dorothy came into the kitchen. I think the doctor was as taken aback as I was.
“Miss Drew? Are you all right?” he asked.
Dorothy waved a languid hand. “I’m really quite well again. It was just—” She sought me out with her gaze. I risked a look at Verity, who looked serious but not unduly annoyed.
Doctor Goodfried waited expectantly. Dorothy smiled and flapped a hand at me. “I think Joan has something to tell you.”
I gaped. Me? What did Dorothy mean?
Dorothy seemed to understand my hesitation. “Go on, Joan. Tell the doctor what you told Verity.”
“I – I—” I stuttered like a fool. Then I saw Verity give me the ghost of a wink and that made me pull myself together.
I glanced at Ethel. “Ethel, can you go and check for more eggs, please? I don’t believe the gardener’s brought them in this morning. Here, take this basket.”
Once she’d been sent on her way and out of earshot, I took a deep breath. Then I told the doctor what I’d told Verity, no more, no less. I’d seen a drag mark on the carpet by Mrs Ashford’s body and it was my opinion (I almost faltered over this bit but managed not to) that somebody may have moved the body.
Doctor Goodfried did me the courtesy of listening to me without interruption. When I’d finished speaking, he asked the obvious question. “Why would somebody do that?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I’ve been wondering whether to mention it…” I caught Dorothy’s eye and she gave me a slight, very slight nod. “It’s not my place to speculate, sir. But I do think I should have mentioned it.”
Doctor Goodfried regarded me for a moment. “Well, perhaps you’re right, Joan. Very well. You can leave that knowledge with me.”
“Very good, sir. Doctor.” I felt a proper idiot now. What on earth did I think I was doing, thinking that it was up to me to start casting doubt on what was very probably a completely natural death? What had Verity said? Don’t go looking for trouble, Joan.
But she’d obviously told Dorothy. And Dorothy had considered it worthy of comment. Dorothy had considered me trustworthy. But then, we’d all been through this kind of thing before, hadn’t we?
With a small start, I realised the doctor had gone and Dorothy with him. Verity still leant against the dresser, her arms folded across her chest.
I looked her in the eye. “Thanks, V.”
Her mobile mouth twisted in something that could have been humour. “Well, on reflection, you’re often right about this sort of thing.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry about this morning.”
“You – I could understand why you feel like that. And I don’t know about being right but – well – thank you.”
Her smile grew. “God knows what’s got into Dorothy, though. I would have thought she’d have run a mile from any suggestion of – of wrongdoing.”
I sat back down at the table and poured myself the dregs of the teapot. “She seems…different, here.”
Verity pushed herself away from the dresser. “I know. It’s odd…” She trailed off and I waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. After a moment, she tucked in a red curl and said, in a brisker voice, “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”
“Thanks, V. Really.”
She rolled her eyes at me again and left, leaving me smiling and a little relieved that our minor spat seemed to be over.
I began to clear up the kitchen table, thinking about Verity. We quite often had cross words. Verity had a temper, and although I prided myself on being more on an even keel, I was well aware that I could get snappy and irritable myself, particularly when I’d been working harder than usual. I realised I missed sharing a room with her. The novelty of having a space to myself had worn off and I often went to bed feeling a bit lonely.
The back door opened and Ethel puffed in with a basket full of eggs.
“Good girl,” I commented, aware that I’d been more than a bit short-tempered with my kitchen maid than perhaps she’d deserved. She was only a slip of a thing, really (albeit a fairly hefty slip of a thing). Scarcely more than a child. She shot me a shy smile and went to put the eggs away, and we passed the rest of the day in our respective tasks in a more amiable and comfortable mood.
Chapter Eleven
I fully expected Verity to come to my room that night after putting Dorothy to bed. I even made a pot of cocoa, in one of the less valuable tea-pots and carried it up the stairs to my bedroom, along with two mugs. But she didn’t come, and after drinking the whole pot of cocoa by myself, and trying to distract myself from sleepiness with a book, eventually I heard the creak of her bedroom door next to mine as it was opened and shut. She didn’t pop her head in, or knock on the wall, or anything. I sighed and turned out my bedside light, both a little anxious and annoyed. Was she angry at me for making more of this death than perhaps I should? Or had she just had a hard day with Dorothy and needed quietness and solitude? It could so easily be the latter. Dorothy may have encouraged me to tell what I knew to the doctor but that didn’t mean she was unaffected by what had happened. I thought back to all the death that had visited her establishment, in one guise or another, and shivered.
Of course, the blasted cocoa meant I was up and down to the lavatory half the night and spent the next morning yawning hugely over the stove. Ethel still looked jumpy as a rabbit. I made up my mind, between yawns, that I was going to have it out with her the moment I got a second to catch my breath.
After lunch, Ethel and I were tackling the washing up between us when Verity popped her head into the scullery.
“Have you got a moment, Joan?”
I wiped my wet hands on a tea-towel and headed for the door. “Of course.”
Out in the kitchen, Verity jerked her head towards the corridor. “Is there anywhere more private we can go?”
“Um—” I looked around. “Not really. What is it?”
Verity widened her eyes. She was dressed very smartly this morning, in a dark blue dress that brought out the creamy tints of her skin and set off the colour of her hair. I, inevitably, looked down at my stained apron and felt the bedraggled ends of hair on my neck and sighed. “The local bobby’s coming over this afternoon, apparently. He wants to talk to Dorothy – and you.”
“Me?” I pulled my lips back from my teeth in a grimace. “Oh, help. Does Mrs Weston know?”
Verity shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I just wanted to warn you.”
I nodded. I was about to ask her something else when she gave me a wink and hurried off, a shaft of sunlight catching her hair as she ran through it in a flash of copper.
I mentally shrugged and made my way back to the kitchen. Ethel had almost finished the washing up. I helped her put the last of the crockery and cutlery away and then filled the kettle. “Sit down for a minute,” I suggested. “Let’s have a cuppa and take the weight off our feet for a moment.”
Ethel smiled gratefully. I decided that this was as good a chance as any to ask her what was bothering her. I didn’t go so far as to actually make her tea – that was a skivvy’s job – but I gave her a big smile and said, as warmly as I could, “Thanks for all your help here, Ethel. It’s made my life a lot easier.”
This was stretching the truth a bit but a bit of flattery never hurt anyone. Ethel almost blushed and sipped her tea through a smile.
I took the bull by the horns. “Is there anything bothering you?”
Immediately, her shy smile fell away. “No – No, Miss – Mrs – Joan.”
“Come on,” I prompted. “You’ve been nervy as anything the last few days. What is it?” I hazarded a guess. “I know it’s been awful here with poor Mrs Ashford’s passing away and all the sickness—” I stopped, because her colour had deepened. “What, Ethel?”
She was almost the colour of one of the red poppies on Dorothy’s silk dressing gown. “Um… Um…”
“Come on, girl. Out with it.”
Ethel gulped. “Well, Mrs – Joan – that’s just it. It’s the – well, when everyone was sick from the mushrooms, it… I—”
I was beginning to feel impatient with her incoherence. I took a deep breath. “What about it?”
Ethel looked frightened. “Well, Mrs – Joan – you know you were looking for the rest of the soup – the mushroom soup – to give to Doctor, well – I—”
She stuttered to silence again. I nodded encouragingly.
Ethel gathered her courage. “Well, it was me, Mrs – Joan. I ate the rest of it. I’m ever so sorry.”
She looked as though she were about to burst into tears. With difficulty, I kept a straight face. “You ate it?”
Ethel gulped again. “Yes. I’m ever so sorry. I don’t know what came over me, I was that hungry.”
I forced my mouth to look stern, which was difficult, as I felt like shrieking with laughter. All that worry and angst about a little bit of soup! “Well, there’s no harm done, Ethel. Next time, ask me though, please? I was going to use it for one of the dishes the next day.” A thought occurred to me. “Still, it was probably just as well I didn’t, given how everyone reacted.”
Ethel nodded fervently, clearly relieved to have escaped a dressing down. “Yes, miss. Sorry, Joan.”
I drained the dregs of my tea. “That’s fine. Well, we’d better get on.”
I don’t know why it took so long for the penny to drop. I must have been tired. It wasn’t until I was well into setting the bread for the next day that it occurred to me. I gasped and stood still for a moment, hands frozen on the breadboard in a cloud of flour.
Ethel was chopping vegetables beside me. She looked up at my exclamation. “What is it?”
I took a grip of myself. The ramifications had clearly not occurred to Ethel, and I wasn’t about to enlighten her. I had to be sure myself. “Um… You weren’t ill, yourself, were you, Ethel? The other night?”
Ethel shrugged her shoulders a little. “No, I was fine.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” I almost laughed as I realised I meant the exact opposite. But I didn’t want to alarm Ethel and so began talking of the dinner menu and what we had to do before supper. I was still talking nineteen to the dozen when there was a knock at the kitchen door and we both looked up to see a uniformed constable in the doorway.
I’d been expecting him, thanks to Verity’s warning, but it was still a shock. I recovered myself quickly though and greeted him. He introduced himself as Constable Palmer.
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“I understand you have something to tell me, Mrs Hart?” He was quite a pleasant looking man, perhaps thirty-odd, with a thick thatch of sandy brown hair. The oddest thing was that he looked faintly familiar too. Surely we couldn’t have already met? He didn’t have the local accent, that was true, but where on earth would I have met him before?
All these things went through my mind like lightning as I wiped my hands on a tea-towel and gestured to the constable to sit down at the kitchen table. Ethel hung back, looking frightened again. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Ethel, you can have five minutes to please yourself. Why not go and get some fresh air?”
After she’d scurried off, I turned back to Constable Palmer. He still looked familiar. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if I knew him when he forestalled me by asking his own question. “So, you have some concerns about Mrs Ashford’s death, do you, Mrs Hart?”
I didn’t abuse him of the honorific. I thought it might give my testimony more weight. He didn’t sound as though he was humouring me; he sounded honestly interested. Thank you, Dorothy.
I poured him a cup of tea and sat down myself and told him all I knew, which didn’t sound like much. He listened and nodded gravely and made copious notes in his little notebook.
After I’d said all I could on the subject of the body being moved, I hesitated. Should I tell him about the soup? But why not, I asked myself. Surely that was one piece of evidence that pointed to the death being suspicious? The annoying thing was that I hadn’t had a chance myself to work out exactly what it might mean…
“There’s one more thing,” I said slowly. Constable Palmer, who had been in the process of putting away his notebook, looked up. “I’ve only just realised – I mean, I’ve only just found this out myself. So perhaps it’s nothing.” I cursed myself inwardly. Why did I always second guess myself? I knew jolly well it wasn’t nothing.