The time in a house after a death is strange. Everything is muffled, but at the same time, individual noises are too loud. I dropped a saucepan when I was preparing lunch and the clang of it on the stone flags sent both me and Mrs. Cotting shooting into the air like fireworks. I’d worked in two houses before where someone had died. The first – and the worst – was one of the Jewish places I’d worked, where a newborn baby had smothered in its sleep, one night. Oh my goodness, that was a terrible time – even this horrible event at Asharton didn’t compare to that. No one in that house stopped crying for a week after it happened, servants and gentry alike. The second was another London place; there, the master’s brother had died after a long illness. He’d been gassed in the Great War and never really recovered. That was sad, but he’d been ill for so long that no one was really very shocked. As I chopped onions, wiping my eyes with my cuffs, I wondered whether that was the case here. Madam had been ill, after all, for months. Was that why she had died? It must be. It must be, I repeated to myself, in the privacy of my head, wondering whether I was trying to convince myself.
Mrs. Cotting and I prepared lunch but no one was very interested in eating. We sat picking at our food and exchanging desultory remarks about nothing in particular. The mistress’s death hung over us all, but no one dared to mention it. We’d seen the doctor’s car drive off with a black hospital van behind him and knew that the mistress was taking her final trip from Asharton. I hadn’t been in the room when the doctor had arrived and I longed to ask Mrs, Smith what he had said, but knew that I couldn’t.
The master arrived back on the express train that afternoon. We were all lined up in the hallway as he came through the front door, our hands clasped in front of us, our eyes demurely lowered. My gaze flickered up as he walked past me; his face was shut tight, like a locked box. I wondered what he was thinking or feeling. Had he loved his wife? Was he sorry that she was dead? I remembered her hissed remark to him at the dinner table that night. Was he sorry that she had gone or did he feel something more akin to relief? It was impossible to tell and I was thankful that no one around me could read my mind (or at least I hoped). I was burning to write to Verity and tell her everything, but work went on and, despite the gloom on the house, meals still had to be prepared, dishes washed, supplies ordered and everything made neat and ready for tomorrow.
Again, I was the last one in the kitchen that night. Normally, that didn’t bother me but today I felt terribly jumpy, starting at the creaking of the floorboards in the rooms above me, jumping as the tinkle of a teaspoon in the sink sounded as loud as a clashing cymbal. I decided to make myself a mug of cocoa to take up to bed with me. It was as I was reaching for one of the cups on the row of hooks on the dresser that I realised what had been bothering me all day.
The cups. The cups were wrong – or had been wrong - this morning, when I’d first walked into the kitchen. It seemed like a long time ago now, but I could still clearly recall that dart of unease, the sense of something being not quite right that I’d felt as I entered the room. And now I knew why. There should have been two cups missing this morning – the mugs I’d given to Meg to give to Mr. Manfield and Miss Cleo, filled with hot milk. But – I could see it plain as day in my memory – all the cups had been on the hooks, first thing this morning.
I made my cocoa and took it upstairs with me, frowning through the steam as I carried it all the way up the servants’ stairs. Why had those cups been put back? Not just washed up, but dried and hung back with the others? I reached my room, thankful that Annie was asleep already. I blew out the candle which was guttering, almost extinguished. I sipped my cocoa in the dark, tucked beneath the blankets, thinking hard.
Meg must have collected the cups before she went to bed. Surely? That was the simplest explanation – but I knew it was wrong. Meg, sweet on Mr. Manfield as she had been, would never have gone back to his room after he retired for the night. Nor would any of the other servants. Even the valet that Mr. Manfield shared with the master wouldn’t have deigned to bring a cup down to the kitchen if he’d seen it – let alone wash it, dry it and hang it up. So who had it been? Surely not Mr. Manfield himself? Friendly as he was to the servants, I could not see him even thinking to do such a mundane, domestic thing, let alone doing it. Why was Miss Cleo’s mug here as well? Had she brought both cups down to the kitchen? Why would she? I couldn’t see it happening.
I turned it over in my mind, trying to see how it could have happened, and more importantly, why. It was so late, I was so tired, but my mind would not let me rest. I felt that same strange pulling sensation as I had when I stood outside Madam’s door, the night before. The night she had died. “Stop thinking about it,” I whispered to myself. “There’s nothing you can do now.” I put the empty cocoa cup down on the floor and wriggled further beneath the covers, shivering.
I woke up early the next morning, despite a bad night’s sleep. I lit the stub of candle by my bed, reached for my writing paper and began a frantic letter for Verity. I was almost out of writing paper, so I crossed the sheet and put as much detail down as I could in the small amount of space that I had. It had crossed my mind to send a telegram but I didn’t have that much money, and I knew Verity would worry if she received one. It wasn’t as if I could put a lot of detail into a telegram. Instead, I wrote. I must see you, V – is there any way we can manage to meet up? Perhaps halfway between here and London? I need your help and advice.
At breakfast that morning, Violet was the one bold enough to ask what we were all wanting to know. “What did the doctor say, Mr. Pettigrew? Why did Madam die?”
Mr. Pettigrew harrumphed. He looked as though he was going to reprove Violet for her curiosity, but then he caught the eye of Mrs. Smith and probably came to the conclusion that we may as well know.
“The doctor is of the opinion that Madam had a sudden attack of the illness that she’s been suffering, a severe attack.”
“Is that all?” Violet said, the disappointment obvious in her voice. She caught Mrs. Smith’s eye and flushed.
After breakfast, I asked Meg if she’d cleared away the cups she’d taken up to Mr. Manfield and Miss Cleo that night. She shook her head, mystified at my asking. “Why, Joan?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. I began to hang the saucepans back on their hooks, my hands moving automatically. Why did I feel it mattered so much? She died of natural causes, I told myself. The doctor said so.
When the police arrived that afternoon, it didn’t come as the shock it should have. I think part of me had been prepared for this, ever since it had happened. We clustered downstairs, whispering, while Mrs. Smith clumped upstairs, her face set, to receive them.
“I told you,” Violet whispered triumphantly, if you can do such a thing. “She done away with herself. It’s obvious.”
In fact, Violet had said no such thing.
“Don’t be stupid,” I said, slightly more sharply than I’d intended. Violet flushed up to her eyebrows – a most unbecoming colour - and she was opening her lips to retort when Mrs. Cotting came bustling up to break up our little huddle.
“Come on, gels, back to your work. There’s nothing more to be learned here. Go on, on with you.” We hesitated and she said, as if something she’d learned by rote, “The police always have to come if it’s an unexpected death. Nothing more to it than that. Go on, now.”
We drifted back to our work, unwillingly. I wondered how Mrs. Cotting knew that for a fact. It sounded as it if were something she’d been told and she was merely repeating it, word for word. I tried to remember if the police had come to either of the deaths I’d experienced before, but I genuinely couldn’t remember. I was so tired.
Verity wrote back to me by return of post. Quickly, I scanned her words and saw that she’d suggested a date in the next week to meet in London. I put the letter against my forehead, closing my eyes in thankfulness. I could make the day she’d suggested. The thought of seeing Verity again, of being able to unload all of my wo
rries, was like a warm bath at the end of a long day. Before I did anything else, I scribbled on a postcard that we would do exactly as suggested, that I would meet her at Paddington. I’d had so little time off lately, what with all the disruption, that I knew Mrs. Cotting would agree to me staying away overnight. I added a P.S. to my note to Verity: I cannot wait to see you. Things are very bad here and I desperately need to talk to someone. After a moment, I slipped the postcard into an envelope, not wanting anyone else’s eyes to see what I had written.
A week later, I was stepped down from my train at Paddington Station and, looking up through the clouds of dirty steam, saw Verity waiting for me on the platform. A bubble of gladness almost lifted me off my feet. She flung her arms about me and kissed me on both cheeks. Then we stood back a little, appraising one another.
“You’re awfully pale,” she scolded.
“Oh, V, I am so pleased to see you.” It wasn’t like me but, for a moment, I thought I was going to burst into tears. “I can’t tell you what an awful time it’s been.”
She tucked her arm into mine and began to gently pull me towards the exit. “Let’s go and have tea and cake and you can tell me all about it.”
We did just that. She let me talk and talk I did, the words pouring out of me just as the tea poured from the pot. I didn’t actually eat much cake, I was too busy talking. Verity didn’t say much but listened intently, frowning occasionally.
“What do the police think?” was the first thing that she asked, when I finally managed to shut up.
“I don’t know. But they did do a – what do they call it? A post mortem.”
“What was the result?”
“They didn’t find anything to show how she might have died. No arsenic, or anything like that.”
“Hmm,” said Verity. “What do you think?”
I put my cup down and twisted it in the saucer. “I don’t know either,” I confessed. “But something’s not right. Those cups…”
“Yes,” said Verity, frowning again. “I can see why that worries you.”
I picked up my cup and then put it down again. “Why would someone wash up a cup and put it back in the kitchen, unless they didn’t want anyone to notice that it had been used?”
Verity topped up my cup with the last of the tea. “Exactly,” she said.
We looked at one another.
“Who could have done such a thing?” I asked, not really wanting the answer.
Verity smiled. “It’s normally the husband, isn’t it?” she said. “You told me they quarrelled all the time. Perhaps he just wanted her out of the way.”
“I suppose so.” I smiled back. “But he wasn’t there. He was away for the night, in London. This isn’t one of your plays, you know. People don’t really do such things in real life. Do they?”
“You tell me,” Verity said cynically. “Anyway, talking of plays, I’ve got tickets for us to go tonight.”
I clapped my hands together in delight. “That’s wonderful, V. I haven’t been to the theatre since I left London. Oh, it’s just what I need to take my mind off it all.”
Verity giggled. “You might not think that when you find out what the play is. ‘Death at the Manor’! It’s a farce, though, not a real mystery.”
I laughed too. “Well, I can’t wait. Is it at the Chelsea Palladium?”
“Yes. And we can go backstage, as well. My uncle is playing the lead.”
Verity’s mother had been an actress, too. I remember when Verity told me about her parents, back when we were in the orphanage. Her father had been a minor aristocrat, second cousin to the king’s nephew, twice removed - that sort of thing. He’d fallen in love with Verity’s mother after watching her act and they’d eloped to Gretna Green, much to the shame and horror of his family, who’d promptly disowned him. So, despite the grand history, Verity’s family’s fortunes went down and down and culminated in her father blowing his brains out with his revolver, just before the war, unable to face the shame of his debts and the terror of the upcoming battle. Verity’s mother had died in the influenza epidemic of 1918, leaving Verity an orphan.
I’m ashamed to say that when I first heard her family’s tragic history, the first words out of my mouth were something like, “All my eye and Betty Martin! Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.” I can’t tell you how bad I felt when I found out it was all true. That was partly why Verity was so well read – both her mother and her father had insisted on good schooling for her; she’d even had a governess, at one point. And now she was working as a housemaid. There were those who would have been crushed by this reversal of fortune, but not Verity. She was clever and capable and she had big plans. I hoped I could be right beside her, all the way; she made me proud.
We had a gay time at the theatre and, for a while, I forgot Asharton Manor and the smell of death and the mystery of the mugs. The play was a silly thing, but amusing, and afterwards, as Verity had promised, we went backstage to meet the actors. I’d met Verity’s uncle, Tommy, before; her late mother’s younger brother was a hoot, full of charm and jokes and with Verity’s red hair. He introduced us to another cast member, Ashley Turton, whose performance – and person – we’d admired from our seats. He was quieter than Tommy, but just as nice. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t think who it could be. It would come to me later, no doubt.
“My, that Ashley’s handsome,” I said to Verity on the bus home afterwards. “A new beau for you?”
She gave me a strange look, half a smile and half a frown. “Hardly, Joan,” she said. Then she laughed a little. “He wouldn’t be interested in me!”
“Why not?” I asked, indignant on her behalf. Verity’s not exactly what you would call beautiful, but she’s got something. She’s the sort of person you like to look at.
Verity laughed harder. “Take it from me, Joan, he really wouldn’t be interested. He’s one of those.”
The penny dropped and I blushed. “Oh, I see,” I said. Then I laughed too. “What a waste.”
I stayed in Verity’s room that night, top-to-tail in her bed, as we usually did. Edna, who shared her room, was away for the night visiting her mother so it was nice to talk uninterrupted, although we had to keep our voices down – difficult, as we had so much to talk about. At first we talked of the play and our work, but gradually, inevitably, talk drifted back to the death at Asharton Manor. Verity made me tell her what had happened again, from the moment I arrived at the manor to the moment I got on the train to come up to London. I thought hard, and spoke slowly, trying not to leave anything out.
“Do you think she could have killed herself?” Verity asked, once I’d finished speaking.
I lifted my shoulders in the darkness. “I don’t know. I remember coming across her on the stairs that day – she looked so desperate. I suppose she might have done.”
“But if she did do away with herself, how did she do it? And another thing… perhaps she looked desperate because she’d just had a horrible shock? Didn’t she say to you ‘I don’t know what to do?’ That suggests to me that she’d found something out and she didn’t know what to do about it.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, slowly.
“Who inherits her money?”
“Oh, V, how would I know? Her husband, I suppose.”
“I could find out.”
“Really?” I was intrigued. “How?”
“I could go to Somerset House.”
I yawned. Much as I wanted to continue the conversation, I was fighting a losing battle against sleep. “Why don’t you do that?” I murmured and yawned again. “At least we’d know. Thanks, V.”
She said nothing but I could feel her give my leg an affectionate pat as I fell forward into unconsciousness.
We said goodbye early the next morning at the station. I felt so much better for having shared my worries; I felt as if I’d been away for a week, not just a night.
“Take care of yourself, Joanie,” said Verity, hugging me.
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br /> “You too.”
She held me at arm’s length and looked at me gravely. “No, I mean, take care of yourself. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me – about the cups or the mistress having a shock. Not anyone. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said, a little shaken by her firmness. Then the penny dropped. “Oh goodness, V, you don’t think I’m actually in danger, do you?”
Verity shrugged. She stepped back a little and adjusted her gloves. “I don’t know, Joan, but let’s be on the safe side, shall we? I can’t lose you. What would we do without one another?”
We smiled at each other affectionately. The train hooted and I jumped.
“Better get aboard,” said Verity. “I’ll write very soon.”
“Me too.”
We waved as the train pulled out and I tried not to mind too much. Her last words to me kept recurring. Don’t tell anyone. That meant she thought that – well, that someone in the house was responsible for Madam’s death. I leant back into my third class seat, biting my lip and looking out the window, unseeing. Verity thought someone in that house was a murderer.
For the first time since the death, I allowed myself to acknowledge that fact. Because hadn’t that been at the back of my mind all this time? But who could it be? And why? The guard slammed the carriage door open, bellowing for tickets, and I jumped a foot in the air. Once he’d clipped my ticket and gone, I tried to think again, but my thoughts had been scattered.
I had no money for a taxi from the station at Midford and, of course, they hadn’t sent a car for me. I managed to hitch a ride for part of the way home, on the back of a farm wagon laden with turnips; a fine sight I must have been, perched up on the side, trying to keep my feet out of the muddy root vegetables stacked on the floor of the cart. I didn’t actually mind too much; I had more than dirty shoes on my mind. As we drew closer to Asharton Manor, I could feel my apprehensiveness increase. The farmer dropped me off about a mile from the manor and I walked the rest of the way, swapping my overnight bag from one aching hand to the other. As I walked up the long driveway and rounded the long, swooping corner, the house gradually revealed itself to me and I felt a qualm of pure fear. Behind it, the pine forest stood, black and menacing. I remembered the grove where Astarte’s temple had stood. Human sacrifice…. I shivered and, for a moment, put down my bag and stared. Why had I taken the job here, of all places? Why couldn’t I have stayed in London, where at least I would have been safe?
Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) Page 4