by Celina Grace
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Constable Watkins almost bobbed a curtsey as he turned and scurried back into the Gods. I didn’t dare look at Verity for laughing.
Inspector Marks waited until he was out of earshot and then turned back to us, the smile dying on his face. “Please tell me you girls aren’t mixed up in this?”
“We were only watching a play,” Verity said indignantly. “That’s all. It wasn’t our fault somebody got stabbed to death virtually in front of us.”
Inspector Marks looked at both of us in turn. “Is that what happened?”
He turned to me, then and gave me the look I remembered well. It’s hard to describe but it was as if he really saw me – as if he was the only person ever to really see me, as I was and without judgement or criticism, or finding me wanting. It had warmed me before and it warmed me now.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what it looked like to me. I think someone sat behind him, in the row behind him, and stabbed him through the back of the chair.”
Inspector Marks’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed, Miss Hart. Well, I’ll see for myself in a minute.” He stood back a little. “I’ll talk to you ladies later. No, indeed, tomorrow.” He glanced at the gold watch he wore on one wrist. “It’s getting late and I’ll wager you girls have work to do.” Verity and I exchanged a rueful glance. Inspector Marks went on. “I’ll let that young constable take a brief statement from both of you and you can be on your way. But—“ His voice became emphatic. “I will have to speak to you both again.”
“Of course, sir,” I said. “We understand.”
The inspector smiled. “You always do, Miss Hart.” He shook his head for a moment. “You’re wasted in your job, you know. Both of you.”
And with that startling statement, he inclined his head to us courteously and was gone.
Chapter Three
The dramatic events of the evening had completely driven the news about Lord Cartwright from my mind. I’d stuffed the newspaper into my handbag as I’d got to the theatre and hadn’t thought anything more about it until late that night, when Verity and I had finally got home and were preparing for bed. Verity had undressed first and was already under the covers by the time I got back from the bathroom. It seemed foolish to bring up such a contentious subject so late at night, and she was already almost asleep, so I merely put the newspaper on the bedside table and got into bed myself. For all the excitement of the evening, sleep came quickly, as it tended to do. I worked too hard every day to find getting to sleep a problem.
The clang of the alarm woke me as it did every morning. I groaned and slapped a hand onto the vibrating metal clock. Rubbing my eyes, I reluctantly sat up to see Verity already awake and sitting up in bed with yesterday’s newspaper spread over her knees.
“Oh,” I said reluctantly, and she looked across at me with a stricken face. “I meant to tell you last night but, well, things happened. I was distracted.”
Verity put the paper back down on her lap, her shoulders sagging. She looked down at the headline. “Dorothy’s going to be distraught.”
I said nothing. What could I say that would be a comfort? It was true. Verity was lady’s maid to Dorothy Drew, someone who, on the face of it, had everything. Dorothy was young, beautiful, high-born and rich. She was also someone whose father had died young, whose mother and brother had been murdered, and now her stepfather had been found not guilty of the murder both Verity and I knew he had committed.
I sat down on the bed next to Verity and patted her shoulder. “I know it’s hard. I suppose at least he wasn’t family. Not blood, I mean.” I meant Lord Cartwright but a second after I said it I wished I hadn’t. There had been too much blood spilled already.
I caught sight of the accursed alarm clock. “Oh Lord, look at the time. Mrs Watling will be after me.”
Verity tried to smile. “We’ll talk later, Joanie. Have a good morning. I suppose the inspector will be contacting us, won’t he?”
I paused in my frantic dressing. “Golly, I’m not sure. Should we telephone?”
Verity looked down at the newspaper on her lap. Then, with a sudden movement, she screwed it up into a messy ball and threw it hard across the room. “God! Are we never to be free of all this…this nonsense?”
I felt guilty then. Although Verity and I had been instrumental in tracking down the murderers of Dorothy’s family, it had meant a very big upheaval in our lives. Dorothy had moved back down to London after the dust settled and had taken most of the staff of Merisham Lodge, Lord Cartwright’s summer residence, with her. I had been glad at the time – glad to still have a job, glad to be working with the cook, Mrs Watling, who was an amiable woman and a good employer to work under. I was still glad. As jobs went, this one really wasn’t too bad. Plenty of time off, good food and most of the staff had worked together for long enough that most little annoyances between us had been smoothed away. But the shadow of what had happened at Merisham Lodge still hung over us. I suppose it always would.
I squeezed Verity’s arm in farewell. “What are you up to today?”
Verity rolled her eyes. “Calming Dorothy down, by the looks of it. Do you think the newspapers will call?”
I hadn’t even thought of that aspect of it. “I suppose they might. Mr Fenwick will head them off, though.” Mr Fenwick was the butler, a rather ponderous and elderly gentleman but a very good butler. I was slightly surprised that he’d agreed to join the staff in Dorothy’s establishment, having been butler to Lord Cartwright for so long, but then I suppose the scandal of Lord Cartwright’s arrest and subsequent imprisonment on remand had meant that working for Dorothy probably seemed like the best option for a servant nearing retirement.
Lord Cartwright. I spared him a thought as I hurried down the stairs, tucking my hair up under my cap and trying to slide the pins in to fix it in place. Quite difficult without a mirror. What would Lord C do now he was free? Surely he would not be able to rejoin polite society? No, I decided, as I hurried into the kitchen, if I were him, I’d head off abroad somewhere. Somewhere far away.
Late as I was, at least Mrs Watling hadn’t yet appeared in the kitchen. I hurriedly filled the kettle and put it in the hob. We didn’t have a kitchen maid here, just the tweeny who helped out when she was needed, in between doing the fires and the floors and all the horrible jobs that I was very thankful I didn’t have to do anymore. Dorothy’s establishment wasn’t large. She lived alone (well, alone apart from all the servants) and it was only really when she was entertaining that there was a frantic rush. In fact, it was more work looking after the servants’ needs than it was dealing with the demands of the lady of the house.
Of course, that would change if she got married. I knew from Verity that there were several suitors keen on making an honest woman of her, but also nobody that Dorothy liked enough to relinquish her spinster status. She was now an extremely wealthy woman, having inherited her mother’s entire estate, but she wasn’t happy. Although I didn’t see as much of her as Verity did, when I did spend time with her, I could see the unhappiness almost seeping out of her like a grey fog. Dorothy had always had a kind of languid, world-weary deportment – it was the fashion amongst rich young women, I’d noticed – but after the events at Merisham Lodge, it was as if that cynicism, that fatigue with life, had developed into a kind of armour, a shiny beetle-like carapace that Dorothy hid behind. Not that I could blame her, poor woman. She’d gone through enough in her short life to weary anyone.
The kettle whistled away to itself on the hob. I wrapped my hand in a tea towel to take it off the stove and poured the boiling water in the waiting teapot.
“Good morning, Joan.” Mrs Watling had arrived in the kitchen. She always greeted me pleasantly, such a nice change from a few employers I’d had before. “How was your theatre trip?” She accepted the cup of tea I held out to her with thanks. “I suppose you’ve seen the papers?”
She meant the news about Lord Cartwright? Or did she? Had the murder at the theatre mad
e the front pages already or wasn’t it of sufficient importance to get a headline? I made a note that at some point that day I would go out and buy myself a newspaper.
“Was it a good play?” Mrs Watling asked, nodding in approval as she saw the preparations for breakfast already underway.
I was silent for a moment. Where to begin? For a moment I quailed at having to give her the news that Verity and I were now involved in another criminal case. It wasn’t very fair, was it? We’d been innocent bystanders, just there for the play.
Mrs Watling was looking at me expectantly.
“Oh, well – it was, er, well – it was quite dramatic.” I began breaking eggs into a bowl, my hands not quite steady.
Mrs Watling laughed. “Well, you were at the theatre, Joan!” Then she sighed and said “I could have done with a trip out last night too. Get away from the news. Miss Drew was in an awful state. Mrs Anstells said it took hours to calm her down. We could have done with Verity here.”
“I can imagine. It was a shock.” I was fed up with talking and thinking about Lord Cartwright but I could understand Mrs Watling wanting to hash it over. “I wonder what will happen now?”
“I imagine he’ll go abroad,” said Mrs Watling, echoing my thoughts of the morning. “There’s nothing left for him here.”
I seasoned the eggs and began whisking them. For a moment, I thought about the other murderers of Merisham Lodge, the ones who had been caught. They were both dead now, one hanged and one dying in prison whilst awaiting trial. The newspapers said it had been pneumonia but I wondered. Suicide seemed as likely to me.
I shook myself, trying to shake off the melancholy mood that was overwhelming me. To cap it all, I now had to tell Mrs Watling that I was expecting a visit from the police at any moment. Damn it to hell, I thought to myself viciously and gave the eggs an extra good beating as a way of working out my frustration.
Verity came down from the upper floors of the house to collect Dorothy’s breakfast tray. She caught my eye and inclined her head towards Mrs Watling, who at that moment was just leaving the room to talk to the delivery boy from the grocer who’d brought the day’s supplies.
“Have you told her yet?” Verity hissed.
“I haven’t had a chance,” I said. “It was as much as I could do to get her off the subject of Lord C.” I paused and then asked, “How is Dorothy?”
Verity pulled a face. “Not wonderful.” She looked at the tray piled high with food and said “I don’t think she’ll be eating much of that. Sorry, Joanie.”
I shrugged. It was out of my control so it didn’t worry me too much.
“Talk to you later,” Verity said, picking up the tray. She tipped me a wink and I grinned, rather reluctantly.
Mrs Watling bustled back with the grocery lists for tomorrow, while behind her the boy brought in the boxes and bags of food. I waited until he had left and then cleared my throat. “Um, Mrs Watling?”
“Yes, Joan?” She was only half listening to me, occupied as she was with checking off the list against the deliveries.
“Um, something rather strange happened at the theatre last night—“ I began. Mrs Watling looked up at me, her attention caught and then, right on cue, the kitchen door opened to admit, first Mr Fenwick and then behind him, Detective Inspector Marks.
For a moment, I thought Mrs Watling was going to faint. I could see she recognised him straight away. It must have taken her right back to those awful days after the murder at Merisham Lodge.
“Detective Inspector Marks,” she said, faintly.
“Mrs Watling, isn’t it? Do excuse me for intruding. I assume Joan has let you know why I’m here?”
All three of them looked at me. I tried to smile and explain but I didn’t get much further than stammering out something about “I was just trying to say…”
“Ah, well, it’s probably easiest if I just speak to Joan directly and she can put you in the picture, afterwards? Hmm?”
Mrs Watling nodded, her hand to her throat. Mr Fenwick stood, ponderously observing the scene. “Inspector, you may use my pantry if you would so wish,” he said, after a moment.
I followed the inspector towards Mr Fenwick’s room. Did Mrs Watling think that the inspector was here because of something to do with Lord Cartwright? Why hadn’t I just taken the bull by the horns and told her it was because Verity and I were now mixed up in another murder?
Inwardly chastising myself, I sat down opposite Inspector Marks, folded my hands in my lap, and waited.
“Now, Miss Hart. Joan, if I may?” I nodded and the inspector went on. “What happened when you got to the theatre last night? Take your time and try and tell me everything.”
I did take my time. I talked slowly and carefully, giving him time to write it in his notebook (I was a little amused to see he was still using the cheapest sort). I told him how I was late meeting Verity, how we’d had to find our seats in the dark. I told him that the Gods were relatively empty, just Verity and I and Tophat’s little group in front of us. I even shut my eyes, thinking back on the memory, trying to remember every last detail. Then I remembered the woman.
My eyes shot open. Inspector Marks must have seen the expression on my face because he leant forward a little.
“There was another woman there,” I said. I could even picture her, that little glimpse that I’d had, just of the curve of her cloche hat and the momentary gleam of what little light there was from the jewellery around her neck. “She came in even later than we did. And I think—“ I swallowed, suddenly realising something. “Yes, she did. She sat at the end of the row, our row, so directly behind the – the man who was killed.”
“Give me as much of a description as you can,” said Inspector Marks, writing busily. I did as best I could but I really had so little to go on.
“I barely saw her,” I said honestly. I could hear the frustration in my voice. Why hadn’t I looked more closely? “She had a cloche hat on and some sort of necklace or jewellery around her neck. She was fairly tall…” My voice trailed away. What I had to say sounded laughably weak.
“You can’t tell me anything else? Was she old? Young?” I shook my head. “Pretty? Ugly?” I shook my head again, feeling helpless.
“I’m really sorry, sir,” I said. “I just caught the briefest glimpse and then the curtain went up and the play began, and I didn’t notice anything else. I really am sorry.”
“Don’t worry yourself, Miss Hart. Joan.” The inspector spoke absently. He had that look on his face that I remembered from Merisham Lodge – the inward, preoccupied look of someone who had just had a flash of insight. I wondered what it was and whether he would share it.
There was a short silence. I gathered my courage together and asked, “Has the victim been identified yet, Inspector?”
Inspector Marks blinked and came back to himself. He half smiled. “I’m afraid not. Not yet.” He hesitated and then added, “There was nothing on the body to identify it. No wallet, no letters, no papers.”
I frowned. “That’s unusual, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes it is,” agreed the Inspector.
I talked almost to myself. “It’s as if someone doesn’t want him identified. Now why would that be?” I suddenly realised I was thinking out loud and almost blushed. It wasn’t my place to speculate.
The Inspector was looking at me in a way I couldn’t quite place. He leant forward again. “Now, another strange thing is that one of the other witnesses, a Mister George Parkinson, was under the impression that you were – how shall I put it? Working for the Metropolitan Police Force?”
Now I really did blush, a roaring tide of blood that heated my cheeks and thumped in my ears. I looked down, twisting my hands in my lap. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure why he got that impression. I think he may have misheard me.” Inspector Marks arched an eyebrow and in the silence that followed, I rushed on with something a little more honest. “Sir, I’m so sorry but I didn’t know what else to do. I could tell that unle
ss I could get him to move back he would have been all over the body and destroying evidence and I – I just couldn’t think of how – how to stop him—“
I was becoming incoherent – and tearful. I managed to shut myself up and stared down at my hands, blinking hard.
“I understand,” Inspector Marks eventually said, and something loosened a little inside me. I almost gasped with relief. “But don’t let there be any similar…misunderstandings again, Joan. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “I’m sorry—“
He raised a hand. “Let’s leave it there for now, Joan. Is there anything else you can tell me?” I thought furiously, wanting there to be something so I could get back into his good books again, but there was nothing. I shook my head miserably.
“Well, here’s my card if anything else occurs to you,” he said. The look he gave me then was kind but dismissive. “I’ll go and see Miss Hunter now, if she’s available.”
He got up and I scrambled to my feet, bobbing a curtsey. To my surprise, Inspector Marks reached out and shook my hand. “Thank you, Joan. We’ll speak again soon.” I was too surprised to say anything and just nodded dumbly.
He was on the verge of leaving the room when I said, on impulse, “I’m very sorry, sir, about the case – about the case with Lord Cartwright. It doesn’t seem fair.”
Inspector Marks stopped with his hand on the doorhandle. His shoulders seemed to slump a little before he turned back to face me. His face was rueful. “Oh, well, Joan. You win some, you lose some.”
“Yes, I suppose you do, sir.”
We regarded each other for a moment. Then he inclined his head, said goodbye, and left the room.
Chapter Four
I didn’t see Verity for the rest of the day, and I was kept busy, both with cooking and with answering Mrs Watling’s frantic questions. By the end of the day, I was glad to crawl upstairs and into bed. I was just pulling the covers up to my neck when Verity came in.