The Hidden House Murders: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 3

by Celina Grace

  “Please do say, Mrs Hart.”

  “Well, Doctor Goodfried thought that the reason everyone became ill was because the soup had contained poisonous mushrooms.” I hesitated. I could sense the drama inherent in my next few words. “But I don’t think that can be the case, because my kitchen maid – you just saw her, Ethel – she ate the rest of the soup. And she wasn’t ill.”

  Constable Palmer regarded me. “Just talk me through that one more time, Mrs Hart. From the beginning.”

  I did so, simply, without embellishment. Constable Palmer asked very few questions but the ones he did, I was able to answer. After I stopped speaking, we regarded each other for a moment, in silence.

  I was the one to break it. “So you see, perhaps that changes everything.”

  Constable Palmer nodded slowly. Then he became brisk, putting his notebook neatly away in his breast pocket and pushing himself to his feet. “You can leave that with me, Mrs Hart.”

  Now I had a qualm that perhaps I’d gone too far. “Of course. I know it’s not my place…”

  He smiled, inclined his head and began to leave. I stopped him with my voice. I just had to know. “I’m sorry, Constable, but have we met before? You seem awfully familiar.”

  He smiled again. “We have indeed, Mrs Hart. I used to work at Scotland Yard, under a friend of yours, Inspector Marks.”

  I froze again, my teacup halfway to my lips. Inspector Marks. It had been months since I had seen him but I’d thought of him every day. “Scotland Yard?”

  Constable Palmer nodded. “Found the pace a bit much for me up there, to be honest. Then the wife inherited a cottage in the village here so we moved down.” He looked at me keenly. “I remember you well, Mrs Hart. The Inspector always said—” He stopped suddenly, leaving me agog at what he had been going to say.

  “Well, golly,” I said, rather feebly. “What a small world.”

  Constable Palmer regarded me for a moment longer. Then he nodded again, quite briskly, and said, “You can leave everything with me now, Mrs Hart. Thank you for your help. I’ll see myself out.” And leaving me to chew over the minor bombshell he’d just thrown my way, he tipped his helmet to me once more and was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  I had to speak to Verity that evening, Dorothy or no Dorothy. As luck would have it, Dorothy and Arabella went out that evening – to the pictures, I believe – and so I was able to grab Verity and haul her off to my room once I could be sure that Mrs Weston wasn’t going to object to the maids finishing work for the evening.

  “What is it, Joan?” Verity looked amused as I hustled her into my room and shut the door behind her.

  “I need to talk to you.” I wished I’d made another pot of cocoa, this time for us to share, but I hadn’t the energy to trek back down to the kitchen again. I wondered what would it be like to have a servant of my own. Someone at my beck and call, someone to do my bidding. Chance would be a fine thing. I dismissed those silly thoughts and turned to my friend, who sat down on the edge of the bed and began to undo her shoes.

  Verity yawned. “Gosh, my feet. It’s no joke being in heels all day.” I didn’t bother to ask her why she didn’t wear flatter shoes. Dorothy wanted a chic, well-turned out lady’s maid, and that meant smart shoes for Verity, all day, every day.

  “Listen.” I sat down next to her, the springs creaking musically under me. Then I lost my nerve. What if she got cross with me again? Was my new theory something she would actually want to hear?

  Verity rubbed one stockinged foot. “That Michael and his good-looking young chum are off tomorrow, I hear. Back to university. Although they’ll have to come back for the funeral.”

  I hadn’t thought about Mrs Ashford’s funeral. I wondered, given the new knowledge that I’d passed onto Constable Palmer, whether it would take place as soon as first expected. “Oh, yes?” I said, vaguely.

  “Although Lord knows when that will actually be,” said Verity, almost reading my mind. “They haven’t even read the will yet.”

  The will. Something else I hadn’t considered. Suddenly, I was convinced that the piece of paper we’d signed on the night of the poisoning had been a will. I opened my mouth to say something and then shut it again.

  “Come on, what’s eating you?” Verity asked. “Spit it out.”

  That reminded me of Ethel and what she had told me earlier. I took a deep breath. “Listen, V – Ethel told me something today which I think could be important.”

  Verity’s smile dimmed a little. “Which is?”

  I took another deep breath. “Well, you know how everybody got sick—”

  Verity rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Sorry. But, you know they did. Remember Doctor Goodfried said that it was mushroom poisoning?”

  Verity frowned. “Well, I didn’t know that he actually said that—”

  I waved a hand. “Perhaps not in so many words, but that was the assumption.”

  “I suppose so. I suppose it was a reasonable one.”

  I nodded. “Well, they couldn’t test the soup because there wasn’t anything left of it. I thought I’d kept a bit back – I was going to use it in a stew the next day – but I couldn’t find it and I thought I’d been mistaken.”

  Verity was listening alertly now. I was suddenly catapulted back in time, to when we’d discussed our other…cases, I suppose you could call them. All those memories of how we’d worked it out, both of us contributing in our own way. I was suddenly flushed with pride and the ache of nostalgia.

  “Go on, Joanie,” Verity promoted, and I realised I’d stopped speaking.

  “Well, anyway, Ethel confessed to me today that she’d actually eaten the rest of the soup. She was hungry and so she’d eaten it and then she was too frightened of me to confess.”

  Verity’s mouth twisted in humour. “You’re so terrifying, Joan.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said, annoyed that she didn’t see it. “Ethel didn’t get sick. At all. She was absolutely fine.”

  Verity’s face remained puzzled for a moment, and then it cleared, very slowly, as the knowledge of what I was saying began seeping into her features. “Oh,” was all that she said.

  “So, whatever made everyone sick can’t have been the mushrooms,” I said, just in case that hadn’t occurred to her.

  She gave me an annoyed glance. “Yes, I realise that, Joan.” She was quiet for a moment and then asked, “So, what do you think it was?” She answered her own question. “It must have been something else they ate.”

  “It wasn’t,” I said. I’d been through this with Doctor Goodfried. “We – the servants – had the rest of the food too. We were fine.”

  “So, what was it?”

  Our eyes met. I became aware that I was biting my lip.

  “I don’t know,” I answered, honestly. It was true; I didn’t know.

  Verity put a hand to her temple. “Have you told the police this?”

  I nodded. She let her hand drop back to her lap, as if the strength had gone out of her arm. “Well, that’s all you can do.”

  I bit my lip again, this time in frustration. I wanted to thrash out the possibilities, talk through what might have happened and why, but I sensed that she didn’t want to. Perhaps she was wise. It was late, and we were both tired and really, what was there to actually know? Several of the household had got ill. Mrs Ashford, a frail, elderly lady had had a fall and died. That was it.

  “Well,” I said, slightly artificially. “I just wanted to let you know. But it probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  Verity didn’t say anything, but she put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. Then she got up and picked her shoes up from the floor. “I’m off to bed, Joanie. Have a good sleep.”

  “Good night.”
I smiled at her as she left. Still sitting on the edge of the bed, my eyes fell on my suitcase on top of the wardrobe. Then they dropped to the notebook I kept by the bed. Yes, I would do some more writing tonight, I decided. It was my first attempt at a book, this time, and I’d told nobody about it, not even Verity. If anything could take my mind off possible crime, that could. Fired with enthusiasm, I undressed, got into my nightgown, and got into bed, nestling my notebook on my lap and reaching for my pen.

  It was a beautiful morning, the next day; golden, clear and sunny. I set to preparing the breakfasts with Ethel’s help and renewed enthusiasm. I’d written almost a whole chapter last night and I was pleased on two counts – one, in that I’d managed to write something, several pages, in fact, and two, I was happy with what I’d written, in the main. I fried bacon, wiped mushrooms and beat eggs whilst picturing my future. Should I send off the play I’d already written? Should I just at least try to do something with it? I flipped the sizzling slices of bacon, picturing my name in lights at a theatre in the West End (well, why not? If one is going to imagine something, one may as well make it worthwhile). Imagining great actresses and actors of the future falling over themselves to land a part in one of my plays, newspapers giving me glowing reviews… It was silly, but it was fun and the morning’s work had never flown past so quickly. Ethel seemed far less jumpy now she’d revealed her guilty secret, which helped. Clearly, the ramifications of what she’d confessed hadn’t occurred to her, and I wanted to try and keep it that way.

  I carried the breakfast dishes up to the dining room myself, wanting to make sure everything was just right. It had been a topsy-turvy time since poor Mrs Ashford’s death, with some people eating breakfast in bed, some wandering into the dining room just as I was hoping to start clearing it (Michael and Raymond were particularly guilty of this). But today, as I returned to the dining room with the last serving of toast in the white china rack, I could see that everyone was gathered around the breakfast table. Arabella still looked like a ghost of herself, and she wasn’t eating much either. Dorothy at least looked fully recovered from her illness, and the young men seemed back to their chipper selves. Mrs Bartleby looked wan but in control of herself. As I prepared to leave the room, I was struck by the fact that nobody particularly appeared to be grieving, except perhaps Arabella. Mrs Ashford had been respected, perhaps, but not particularly loved. Sad but not particularly unusual. I took one last look at the breakfast sideboard, checking everything was in place, and turned to go.

  Mrs Weston came into the room and there was something in her stance, a coiled tension in her straight shoulders that communicated itself, firstly to me and then, I could see, to the rest of the room. Arabella started, her hand closing in a fist on her napkin.

  Mrs Weston looked ill. “Miss Ashford, may I request an audience with you?” She seemed oblivious to the other guests staring at her. “In private?” she added.

  Arabella unclenched her fist. “Of course,” she muttered, getting up and moving swiftly towards the door. Mrs Weston followed her, shutting the dining room door behind her.

  I flung a glance at Dorothy. She frowned and appeared deep in thought. Then she looked up and saw me. “Oh, Joan. I think I’ve had enough to eat. Could you tell Verity to come up to my room? I need to get dressed.”

  I nodded. Michael buttered toast with what looked like cheerful unconcern but I saw his eyes dart to the closed door. Raymond did, at least, appear oblivious to the tension in the room. Mrs Bartleby’s hand quickly replaced her teacup onto her saucer, the musical chink of crockery meeting crockery ringing out across the room.

  I walked quickly towards the kitchen where I knew Verity was having breakfast. As I passed the study, I heard the murmur of voices behind the closed door. As I passed it, there was a sharp cry of “No!” which I knew must have been Arabella. Mrs Weston’s voice came quickly, raised but attempting to soothe.

  “I’m sure it’s just procedure, Miss. I don’t really see how we can say no…”

  Burning with curiosity, I knew that I couldn’t stay and eavesdrop. I hurried downstairs to where Verity, bless her, was just rinsing off her dirty plate in the scullery. She turned and caught sight of my face. “Golly, Joanie, what’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Something’s happened.” I told her what I’d overheard, adding that Dorothy was looking for her. Verity looked annoyed.

  “Blast, I can’t call my soul my own. Honestly, Dorothy’s five and twenty years old. You’d think she’d be capable of flinging a dress and some earrings on by herself, wouldn’t you?”

  I stared at her. I’d never heard Verity speak like that about her mistress before. She caught my eye and flushed. “Oh, ignore me, Joan, I’m just a bit fed up at the moment.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Verity stared down at the plate in her hand. “Oh, nothing. Everything. You know.”

  I didn’t, really, but I could sympathise. She handed me the clean but wet plate, rolling her eyes,and said, “See you later, Joan. We’ll talk then.” She was gone before I could even say another word.

  I began to clear the kitchen table and tried to think about what I had to do that day in terms of food. It was difficult. What was it that I had heard Mrs Weston say? I’m sure it’s just procedure… Did that mean something to do with Mrs Ashford’s death and Constable Palmer’s visit yesterday? Or was it something completely unrelated? Something to do with the funeral arrangements?

  I came to with a start, realising I was stood like a statue by the kitchen table with a damp cloth in my hand. Ethel gave me an uneasy look. I shook my head and tried to give her a reassuring smile. Keep your mind on your work, Joan. All of a sudden, I was swept with longing to see Inspector Marks. I mean, I was swept with a more specific longing, other than the usual, every-day longing I had to see him. I remembered how we’d once talked over a table such as this, late at night; how he’d listened to me and given me that look that I’d never once had from another person, not even Verity, who knew me best in the world. Inspector Marks looked at me like – like – I couldn’t describe it. All I knew was that when his eyes met mine in that way, it warmed me through like a long drink of brandy.

  I began wiping the table with renewed fervour. I would write to him, I decided there and then. There was no harm in that, surely? I would write to him and tell him what had happened here and, perhaps, ask his advice? Or would that be too forward? He’s probably forgotten you even exist. I frowned and wiped savagely at a particularly stubborn stain.

  Mrs Weston came into the room. I looked up and saw her face was shut tight like a box. All thoughts of asking what the matter was left me.

  “Joan—” she began and hesitated. Her hand went up to the lace collar on her dress, the only bit of decoration on unremitting black. She tried again. “Joan, the police are coming back. I believe they might have a few more questions for you.”

  In an earlier life, when I was younger and more inexperienced, I would have immediately started to worry that I’d done something wrong. I didn’t feel that now. Instead, I felt – yes – a leap of excitement, almost anticipation.

  I managed to keep my voice calm and unexcited. “What do you think they want to know?”

  “I don’t have the least idea, I’m afraid.” Her eyes flickered as she said this and I was fairly sure she’d just told me a falsehood. “They’ll be here within the hour. Is luncheon underway?”

  I felt a little surge of pride when I could answer in the affirmative. “There’s one thing I do need to know, Mrs Weston, on that front.”

  “Yes, Joan?”

  “How many will be sitting down? I heard that Mr Harrison and Mr Bentham would be returning to Cambridge.”

  Mrs Weston hesitated again. I had the feeling that whatever she was going to tell me was going to be told with extreme reluctance. “They – I believe they’re staying ano
ther night, after all.”

  “So, there will be five to dine?”

  “Yes.” A muscle flickered in her cheek and our eyes met. There was something in her gaze that tugged at me. Was she… Was she asking for my help?

  I made up my mind. “Mrs Weston, is there… Is there something wrong?”

  That tightly shut face wavered for a moment, and I could see she wanted to say something. But then Ethel came bustling through from the pantry with her arms full of carrots and potatoes and the moment was lost.

  “No, Joan. Thank you for your concern.” She regarded me for a moment longer, nodded, and then swept away. I turned back to the kitchen table, questions turning themselves over and over in my mind.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lunch was prepared and served. I set out the servants’ rather more humble meal, and Ethel and I sat down to await the arrival of Verity, Andrew and Mrs Weston. Verity entered in a hurry and, when we were all seated, ate her food in a kind of hasty, absentminded fashion that was quite unlike her. As I thought it, she caught my eye across the table and jerked her eyebrows upwards. My own went up in recognition of the fact that she had something to tell me.

  “What is it?” I hissed as she helped me carry the dirty plates into the scullery. Ethel wasn’t there and I felt we could talk reasonably safely.

  Verity looked tense, her dark auburn eyebrows pulled down into a frown. “I know why the police are coming back.”

  I caught her tension, aware of the thump of my heart. “Why?”

  Verity began to stack plates by the sink, making a lot of clatter. She kept her voice low. “They know now that it wasn’t food poisoning, or mushroom poisoning, that made everyone ill.”