by Celina Grace
“I’ll let you know what happens with Dorothy later on.”
“Thank you, V.” I squeezed her arm as I hauled myself off the bed. I was tempted to just let myself fall backwards into the pillowy softness of the counterpane and go to sleep. But there were dishes to prepare and a murderer’s motive to figure out… Again, I had that funny feeling, something to do with Merisham and Asharton. I couldn’t help but think that my intuition was trying to tell me something, but what?
I waved to Verity as I trudged from the room, wondering if I could work it out by myself. At least the mystery of my missing play was cleared up. As I walked back down to my basement abode, I let my thoughts run ahead of me. How wonderful would it be to see a play of mine, an actual, real play of mine, performed on stage?
It will probably never happen, I told myself, but despite that, I couldn’t help a little surge of excitement at the possibility. Oh, to be able to see into the future! And to see into the past as well. Then I could see for myself who had killed two people already.
The smile fell from my face. Keep your wits about you, Joan. I marched into the kitchen. Reaching for my apron, I went to rouse Ethel from her contemplation of those glossy black and white images of the stars of the silver screen. “Come on, Ethel. Time to get back to work.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I was just putting the porridge pot into the scullery sink to soak the next morning when there was a thunder of feet on the stairs from the hallway and a moment later, Verity almost fell into the kitchen. Ethel and I looked up in surprise.
“Joan, come quickly. Now!”
“What is it?” I asked, frightened. Beside me, Ethel put a hand to her mouth and gave a little squeak.
“It’s Arabella. She’s been arrested.”
“What?” I dropped the tea-towel I was holding on the floor. “Arrested?”
“Come now. Inspector Marks is taking her away.”
I didn’t need telling twice. Verity and I dashed for the stairs, leaving poor Ethel behind us, no doubt in a state of utter confusion. We pounded up the stairs into the hallway and then Verity stuck a hand out to stop me, so quickly that I almost skidded over on the polished boards of the hallway. A moment later, I saw why. Mrs Weston was standing in the open doorway, looking outside to where Arabella was being supported down the front steps by two uniformed officers. Or so it first appeared. As I took another look, I realised she was being restrained, not supported. Each burly officer had a hand on her upper arm, one each side.
Dorothy, Michael and Raymond stood by the doorway to the dining room. Michael and Dorothy were holding hands and looking upset. My eyes flashed to Raymond’s handsome face. He looked…amused? Surely not. As if he’d heard my thoughts, his gaze turned to mine and the expression on his face changed to something more serious.
Wondering if I’d imagined that fleeting look of…of glee, it had seemed, I turned my attention to Mrs Weston. With a shock, I realised she was crying. Her face was impassive, just as neutral as a good servant’s should always be, but tears welled up and overflowed down her expressionless face.
Beside me, Verity rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. She shook it out, moving towards Mrs Weston and gently touching her on the arm, offering it.
“Oh, Verity. Thank you.” Mrs Weston’s face may have been impassive but her voice was not. It shook. “Please, girls, return to your work. There’s nothing to be done here.”
“Can I…” I began, without really knowing what it was I wanted to say.
Dorothy stepped forward. “Come and sit down for a moment, Mrs Weston. We’ve all had a terrible shock. Do come and sit for a moment and have a drink of something. For the shock.”
Verity tensed beside me. I knew exactly what she was thinking. Hastily, I said “I’ll make and bring up some tea, Madam.”
“Thank you, Joan.” Dorothy sounded distracted. She and Michael stepped back to allow Mrs Weston to walk into the drawing room in front of them. They all filed in, and Raymond shut the door behind himself.
Verity and I exchanged appalled glances, left alone in the hallway. “My God, if she starts again—” Verity began.
“Shush!” I dragged Verity towards the kitchen stairs, terrified of being overheard. We clattered back down to where Ethel was still waiting for us in the kitchen, her eyes like saucers.
“What’s happening?” she squeaked.
“Don’t fret yourself into a tizzy,” I said, patting her on the arm. “We’ll be all right.”
“But what… Is it Miss Arabella?”
“The police just wanted to ask her some questions,” I soothed. “It’ll be fine, Ethel, don’t worry.”
“But—”
“Just get on with your work, there’s a good girl, eh?”
Still squeaking a little, like a distressed mouse, Ethel allowed herself to be shepherded back to the scullery. I shut the door on her and came back out, catching Verity’s eye and jerking my head towards the back door.
We hurried to the same spot where I’d sat with Inspector Marks – Tom – the other day. It was a grey, still sort of day, white-skied but warm. The leaves on the trees were almost fully out now, and a lush green canopy spread over our heads.
“So, what happened?” I clutched at Verity’s arm.
Verity blew out her cheeks. “Oof, Joanie, I don’t know the ins and outs of it. All I know is that Dorothy came back from seeing the inspector and told me that she’d told him all she knew – what Michael saw and the state Arabella was in on the night everyone got sick. Then she came home. That’s all I know.”
I sat back, releasing her arm. “Tom – I mean the inspector – must have thought those were sufficient grounds to arrest her.”
Verity was watching me. “Well, Joan, she’s got the biggest motive, hasn’t she? She was about to be disinherited.”
“Was she, though? Did she know that?” I thought of what I was saying and shook my head. “How stupid of me, of course she knew that. I heard Mrs Ashford, well, threaten her with it.” I thought for a moment. “And Arabella knew where the cyanide was kept. She said so.” I paused again. There was something about that that troubled me. I voiced it aloud. “But, if you wanted to kill someone with cyanide and get away with it, why would you draw attention to the fact that you know where that particular poison is kept?”
“That’s easy,” Verity said cynically. “She was shamming. What do they call it, a double bluff?”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. But then I didn’t really know where I was with this situation, did I? I felt hopeless for a moment, as if I were trapped in a cage, simply pacing around and around in circles, the illusion of movement disguising the fact that I wasn’t going anywhere.
Verity took my hand. “Joan, I don’t want to speak out of turn but I can see that this is eating you up. You’re fretting terribly about finding out who did this and you mustn’t.” She paused and spoke very deliberately. “It’s not your job to find out.”
We stared at each other for a moment. Then I sagged. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“I know you want to help, but there comes a time when you just have to accept that it’s out of your control.” She paused and said, diffidently, “Besides, I need you right now. I can just see what’s going to happen.”
I looked at her. “Dorothy, you mean?”
Verity nodded unhappily. “I can recognise the signs.”
I thought for a moment and then pushed thoughts of the murders from my mind. It took quite a mental effort. “All right. What can I do to help?”
“Help me get her away from the cocktail cabinet, if she hasn’t started all ready. If I can just distract her…”
“By doing what?”
Verity chewed her lip. “I might suggest she go shopping. Or maybe to the talkies. Yes, that’s
it. I’ll see if I can get her to go out for a bit—”
Still talking, she gestured for me to follow her and we walked back to the kitchen. Ethel was measuring out flour at the kitchen table, and I gave her a reassuring smile as we walked past. “I’ll be just a minute, Ethel. Carry on with what you’re doing.”
Mrs Weston was just emerging from the drawing room as we reached the hallway. Believing herself to be unobserved for a moment, her face crumpled. Then, as she heard our footsteps and saw us, she straightened up, becoming neutral once more. “Oh, girls, where is that tea?”
I cursed inwardly; I’d totally forgotten to make it. “It’s on its way, Mrs Weston,” I said, hastily, trying to beam a silent message to Ethel down below our feet.
“Miss Drew is asking for you, Verity,” said Mrs Weston. She raised the twisted handkerchief to her eyes for a second. “I’m sure I don’t know whether I’m coming or going today, I truly don’t. There’s poor Mrs Bartleby’s room to be seen to and goodness knows how many for dinner. Surely, this situation with Miss Arabella is some mistake?”
She sounded desperate. I restrained myself from patting her arm and merely said, in as soothing a tone as possible, “Don’t you worry about dinner, Mrs Weston. I’ll make enough for…for everyone.”
“Oh, thank you, Joan. Miss Drew is calling Mr Brittain right this moment—” She broke off, clearly wondering why she was telling me this piece of information. I smiled to put her at her ease.
It seemed incredible but in the turmoil and drama, I’d almost forgotten Mrs Bartleby. She’d been murdered because – why? Because she knew something, something about Mrs Ashford’s murder. Was it possible that she had killed Mrs Ashford? Because she thought she would inherit the majority of the estate because Mrs Ashford had altered her will? But if that were the case, why had she died? Had she truly committed suicide out of remorse for what she’d done?
All these questions were buzzing around in my head, so much so that I barely noticed that Verity had gone into the drawing room. I tiptoed to the open door and inclined my head towards the gap to listen. From what I heard, it seemed unlikely that Verity was going to persuade Dorothy to go to the pictures. I could hear Dorothy speaking on the telephone, in a voice very unlike her usual, drawling, languid tone.
“Yes, Mr Brittain, arrested. I know. Yes, I know. It’s imperative that you attend the police station, as soon as you can. Miss Ashford needs you. Yes, I do understand—”
Footsteps came towards the door and I straightened up hurriedly and quickly walked away. I didn’t see who emerged but after a moment, Verity’s voice made me look behind me. She hurried towards me, looking relieved.
“Is she all right?” I asked, meaning Dorothy.
Verity nodded, widening her eyes to indicate her relief. “For the moment. She’s trying to organise legal representation for Arabella.”
I didn’t let on that I knew. “Well, that’s something, at least.”
Verity followed me down into the kitchen. Ethel, that obedient child, was deep into the bread-making. Hurriedly, I filled the kettle and slung it onto the gas.
“I’d better take that up,” Verity said once I’d made it.
“Yes, you better had.” I hesitated for a moment, wanting to talk to her about what had happened but realising with reluctance that this was neither the time nor the place.
She tipped me a wink and hefted the tray. “I’ll see you later, Joanie. Don’t think too much.”
I snorted and waved her away. Then I turned back to the table and began to help Ethel. Perhaps Verity was right. There was a houseful of distressed people to feed and I needed to concentrate on that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Arabella did not return for dinner. I don’t suppose any of us really believed that she would. Her place, along with Mrs Ashford’s and Mrs Bartleby’s seats, sat horribly empty. Still, she was alive and in no danger, safely incarcerated in the local police station. Ethel and I carried the dinner dishes into the dining room, where the others were sat around the table in silence. Only three now. Michael and Dorothy looked unhappy, Raymond looked, as usual, rather bored. I was glad to leave and return to the kitchen.
Mrs Weston didn’t join the rest of the servants for dinner, either. I carried a tray to her room and she took it from me at the door with a murmured, “Thank you, Joan,” but that was all. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and it was obvious she had been crying. It would have been impertinent, not to mention cruel, to have commented. Ethel, Verity and I ate our own meal in subdued silence. It was Andrew’s evening off.
Even as I ate, I was thinking furiously. Was Arabella guilty? I reviewed the evidence against her as I scraped the last of the mashed potato from my plate. The motive – she was about to be disinherited. That was inescapable. Michael’s testimony of seeing her put something in her mother’s – adoptive mother’s – coffee. Could he have lied? Why would he? He had sounded completely convincing, and one thing I was good enough at, by now, was ascertaining whether someone was telling a falsehood or not. Of course, it was harder when you couldn’t see their face as they were speaking, but I was fairly convinced he was telling the truth. But could he have been genuinely mistaken? It could have been that Arabella really was stirring sugar into Mrs Ashford’s coffee. Or perhaps a medicine, or a tonic, or something like that. I made a mental note to ask Inspector Marks whether they had spoken to Doctor Goodfried on that subject.
But, on the debit side, I knew arsenic was bitter. Coffee would have disguised the taste and, as I knew Arabella was normally responsible for pouring out the coffee, she could have added a little to each cup, enough to make everyone suitably ill. Then a bigger dose for Mrs Ashford, intended to be fatal. I shivered inwardly.
But the poison hadn’t worked. Or it hadn’t worked quickly enough for the murderer’s liking. As a frail, old woman, Mrs Ashford may have eventually died from her illness, but perhaps that would have been too uncertain an outcome for the murderer to risk. One thing I was convinced about was that the matter of the will – or wills – was of prime importance. Arabella couldn’t risk Mrs Ashford changing her will. So, when the poison wasn’t sufficient, a more drastic measure had to be introduced. A quick blow to the head of an elderly woman too weak to resist and then pose the body as if she had fallen and hit her head. No suspicion of foul play. The sickness of everyone was to be attributed to the consumption of wild mushrooms. The fall and resulting death of an old, sick lady merely an unfortunate accident. Was that how it had been?
“Joan. Wake up. You’re miles away.”
I started. Verity gently nudged me with her foot under the table. “Oh, sorry.”
“You’re wool-gathering. Didn’t I tell you to stop thinking?”
I smiled reluctantly. “Well, you know me.”
“Yes, I do. Come on, I’ll help you and Ethel with the washing up. Then we can go to bed early.”
Ethel and I were both cheered by this suggestion. Between the three of us, we quickly cleared the kitchen and prepared it for the next day.
I had been looking forward to a chat with Verity before retiring, but Dorothy had other plans. She and Michael were apparently heading out to the pictures, and she needed Verity to help her change. Rolling her eyes and muttering, Verity stomped upstairs. I dismissed Ethel and stood for a moment in my peaceful, silent kitchen, thinking, for once, that I didn’t have such a bad job. Then I made myself a cup of cocoa and carried it up to my room.
I undressed, slipped on my night dress, and bolted my bedroom door. Then, retrieving my little notebook from its hiding place, I climbed into my creaking bed. I was going to note down all the thoughts I’d had over dinner to see if they made more sense when set down in black and white.
My cocoa had almost gone cold by the time I’d finished writing. Hurriedly, I threw its cooling dregs down my throat and re-read what I’d written. Wou
ld it reveal anything I’d not seen before?
I read through once and then once more. I was conscious of some sort of creeping unease. Something about my conclusions was wrong, but what? What had I missed?
I sat back, feeling the hard poles of the bedstead against my back, and stared ahead. I thought back to the night when everyone had become ill. How long ago that now seemed, although it could have only been little more than two weeks. Mrs Weston had been attending Mrs Ashford – was that right? And Mrs Bartleby had been in that room. Dorothy had been with Arabella. Then Mrs Weston had gone into Arabella’s room… Had Arabella ever been on her own? Had she been on her own long enough to creep into Mrs Ashford’s room to finish what she’d started?
I stared down at my scribbled notes, feeling a coldness at the back of my neck. If my memories were correct, I didn’t think she had. I didn’t see how she could have done it.
After a moment, I glanced at my little clock. It was close to eleven o’clock at night. Far too late to ordinarily make a telephone call, but these were special circumstances, weren’t they? Did I dare? After hesitating for almost a minute, I pushed back the covers and swung my legs out of bed. At least, at this hour, I was fairly certain of where I could find Inspector Marks.
I felt a qualm of fear as I unbolted my door. After a moment’s thought, I went back and retrieved my hot water bottle from beneath my bed. It had been too warm to worry about filling it up for several days now, but it would do as an excuse for wandering the house after dark if I happened to be challenged. I knew that there was no policeman standing guard tonight – the station couldn’t spare a man, given how hard they were now working on this baffling case.