The Asharton Manor Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4)

by Celina Grace

  “Don’t envy him his job,” said Norman. “Been let go terribly, hasn’t it, ducks?”

  I nodded. “Well, they just haven’t had the manpower, have they? Or the money.”

  I swept my gaze up again, away from the sad state of the garden to the magnificence of the forest beyond. I could see the fresh green of the beech woods and the darker, thicker pine forest beyond that. As I watched, the sun went momentarily behind a cloud and the pine trees looked almost black in the dimmer light. For some reason I found myself shivering.

  “Cold, are you?” asked Norman.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” I said, not understanding where that sudden sense of dread had come from. “Someone walking over my grave, no doubt.”

  “Well, you leave me here for a bit and go inside and warm up. I’ll be fine out here.”

  I found a blanket to tuck around him and wheeled the chair around a bit to keep Norman out of the breeze. Then I went off to check on the others in Ballroom Ward and spent the next hour or so filling vases with fresh water, rolling bandages, fetching and carrying and talking to the other men. I saw Norman back into bed and tucked up cosily with his book to read before I left for the day.

  I got up the next day bright and early, ready for my next stint at the manor. It was a beautiful day and the sun was warm on my back as I cycled up the driveway. As I drew up beside the fountain and leant my bicycle against it, I noticed the young gardener a little way away, clipping the hedges that edged the remains of the formal gardens at the front of the house. As if he noticed me looking at him, he turned his head and stared at me, slightly too long for comfort. After a moment I was forced to drop my gaze. I clipped the padlock of my bike chain together, feeling his eyes on me all the time. What was wrong with him? I gave him a hard stare and he finally looked away, back to the hedge he was clipping.

  I was slightly flustered by the encounter and found myself walking towards Blue Ward, rather than Ballroom Ward. I saw Rose wiggling her way up the main staircase – she was late for work if she’d just got in, but I doubted anyone but me would notice. I hung my coat up in the women’s changing room and made my way towards Ballroom Ward.

  I reflected on the women that worked here. It was funny, but I hadn’t really become friends with any of them, as I hoped I might before I came to work here. That had been part of the reason for volunteering – to make some new friends. Rose had never warmed to me and she was a man’s woman, through and through. Nurse Bennett liked me a bit better now she could see I was a hard worker, but our conversation never went much beyond the mundane. Celia was friendly whenever I saw her, but she was always in such a rush, we never had a chance to say much more than ‘hello’ to one another. It was the same today; I passed her in the corridor as she rushed past, saying breathlessly, “Hello, Vivian, can’t stop I’m afraid. I’ve got to take Doctor Clift on a ward tour – he’s new – and then there’s all the patient files to do…” Her words trailed behind her as she sped through the doorway at the end of the corridor.

  I smiled a little as I walked into Ballroom Ward. It was funny, but the closest friend I’d made here was Norman. How strange that out of everyone here, it was a one-legged, bluff old soldier who’d become my confidant.

  “Morning, gel,” he greeted me as I came up to his bed. “Would you get me my writing paper? Got a few letters to do.”

  I looked for the writing pad, which normally rested on the tower of books on his bedside locker. It wasn’t there. I opened up the locker and saw it resting on top of a framed photograph. I took both things out.

  “What’s this, Norman?” I asked, handing him the photograph. It was of a regiment of soldiers, lined up in neat rows, guns raised to the sky like long black exclamation marks.

  “This?” He took it from me gently and regarded it with a half-smile. “This is me in the Great War, ducks. Here—“ He indicated a smiling young man in the front row. “That’s me. Nineteen years old.”

  “Golly.” I looked closely. “Gosh, weren’t you handsome, Norman.”

  He gave a shout of laughter. “Well, compared to now, I was! Gawd, seeing that takes me back.” He tapped a finger on the glass. “See this lad here, Chalky. Smashing chap. Last of a very old family, was Chalky. Rich as Croesus, he was, but you wouldn’t think it to see him. No side to him, there wasn’t. We were great pals. Medical student, he was. And this chap—“ He indicated another smiling young face. “Percy Willett. He was a pal, too. The three of us were right thick. Thick as thieves we were. People used to call us the Three Musketeers.”

  He was smiling but with an undercurrent of something else behind it.

  “Are they who you’re writing to today?” I asked.

  The smile become a wince. “No, love. Chalky died in the war. We copped a shell, right on top of us. Chalky was killed instantly, Percy was badly hurt and so was I. That’s what got me invalided back to Blighty, probably saved me life.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I felt terrible. I could see tears standing in his eyes. “Do you still write to Percy?”

  “No, it’s funny love, but I don’t. After Chalky was killed, we never saw each other again. Both in different hospitals, you see, straight after they got us out of the trenches. And after that, well, time went on and we just lost contact.”

  Norman sighed. He handed me back the photograph. “Pop this back in me locker, will you love?”

  “I’m really sorry, Norman. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Oh, bless you, love, you haven’t. It’s a long time ago now. Another lifetime.” He was silent for a moment and then repeated himself. “Another lifetime.”

  I got him his pen and left him writing letters to the other pals who had made it back home. It was a busy day. I spent several hours in one of the storerooms, rolling bandages. It was a tedious job, but at least I could look out of the window at the green curves of the hills and forest around the manor. At one point I saw Celia crossing the lawn with a man who must have been the new doctor, although they were too far away to see clearly. I also watched the young gardener, the one who had stared at me so rudely earlier, trundle his wheelbarrow across the terrace. He was older than I’d first thought – probably less than ten years younger than myself. Dark as a gypsy, with thick black brows – that was probably what had made me feel so threatened by his stare.

  At five o’clock, it was time to leave. I collected my coat and popped into Ballroom Ward to say goodbye to Norman. He was sitting up in bed, staring into space, his hands slack on the blanket that covered him. I walked a little bit quicker.

  “Are you all right, Norman?”

  He looked up at me and I was shocked by the expression on his face.

  “Are you all right?” I repeated anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

  The stricken look on his face cleared a little. He took a moment to reply.

  “I’m fine, love. Just had—“ He stopped himself and then went on. “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?”

  Norman looked down at his hands. With a shock, I realised they were faintly trembling.

  “Can you get me some more ink?” he asked. “Me pen’s run dry and I need to write another letter.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes. It can’t wait. Well, it could. I don’t know…” He trailed off. For the first time since I’d known him, he looked his age.

  Frowning, I looked in his locker but the ink bottle was empty.

  “You’re out of ink, I’m afraid. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ll get you some from the village and bring it up with me.”

  “No! I need it now.”

  I stared. There was a crack in his voice that sounded almost like panic. I hesitated and then said, “Have my pen.” I reached into my handbag to get it. Sidney had given me that pen as a birthday present one year and it hurt a little to hand it over, but I wanted to stop that awful tremor to Norman’s voice.

  “Thanks, love. You’re very kind.” He m
anaged a smile. “Now, go on home and get some dinner. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you’re sure…” I didn’t want to leave him.

  His voice strengthened. “I’m fine. Go on with you, now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “All right.” For some reason, I leant over and kissed him on the cheek. I had never done that before.

  He patted my hand. “You’re a good girl, Vivian. Take care.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Night, ducks,” he said, absently, already intent on his letter. I hesitated for a moment and then turned and left.

  For the first time, I cycled home blind to the beauty of the countryside around me. I unlocked the cottage door and shut it firmly behind me, shooting the bolt home. I looked about me and realised that, finally, the cottage felt like home. I felt safe here, safe and welcomed. I kicked off my shoes, put a match to the fire I’d laid before I left this morning, and curled up on the settee, tucking my feet beneath me.

  The fine weather broke the next morning. I had to put my sowester and waterproof hat on and cycle through what felt like a wall of water, stopping off at the village shop to buy a bottle of ink and today’s newspaper. At least the young gardener was nowhere in sight as I leant my bicycle up against the fountain and ran up the steps to the front door of the manor.

  Celia was in the entrance hall, talking to a couple of the doctors. The fact that she was stood still was so unusual that I think I realised even then that something was wrong. She turned to face me as I walked closer and I could see that she’d been crying.

  She turned to face me fully and I think it was then I felt a little trickle of dread inch its way into my stomach.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’m really sorry, Vivian, but we had a patient die last night,” she replied. She hesitated and then went on. “I feel awful telling you because I know you were close.”

  “What do you mean?” I whispered.

  “Norman died last night,” said Celia. “He took his own life. I’m so sorry, Vivian.”

  I remembered Sidney telling me once about being shot, the first time he was invalided back to Britain in 1943. He wasn’t badly wounded but he was shot in the lower leg. I wish he had been more badly wounded then, because he wouldn’t have been sent back a year later, this time to be killed in action. But I remembered him telling me that after the impact of the bullet, for a moment there is no pain. You are in such shock that for a moment, you are encapsulated in a frozen bubble of time, an instant of peace and stillness in the eye of the storm.

  I felt just like that, hearing about Norman. There wasn’t any pain to begin with. In fact, I thought I’d misheard Celia.

  “What?” I said. I could feel myself blinking rapidly, just as I had when I got the news about Sidney. “What?”

  Celia repeated what she’d said before. This time, I heard her; I understood her and that was when the shock and pain hit me, walloping me in the stomach so I half-crouched, holding myself as if in the grip of a terrible cramp.

  “How could he? What? I don’t understand—“

  I barely knew what I was saying. There was a rustling noise in my ears, like a drift of autumn leaves being blown gently about in a breeze. The room rocked.

  The next thing I knew I was sat on a chair with my head being held firmly but gently down by my knees. A doctor crouched by me – it was Doctor Clift, the new one, and Doctor Spencer stood by him. Both of them were regarding me with compassion.

  “Now, Mrs. Holt, just take a few deep breaths,” said Doctor Clift. “Nice and slowly, now. Do you think you could sit up?”

  I did so, shakily. Doctor Clift glanced at his colleague.

  “I think perhaps you had better lie down for a while, Mrs. Holt. There’s a sofa in my office which is very comfortable. Let me help you there?”

  I let him assist me along the corridor, through several doors and into a large room which was clearly his office. Celia fussed along behind us and even Doctor Spencer followed. If I’d been in my right mind, I would have been embarrassed, but I felt nothing other than devastation over Norman’s death. How could he have committed suicide? I thought back to how he had been when I left the ward and felt a giant, swamping wave of guilt. Why had I left him? I had noticed something was wrong. Why hadn’t I asked him to tell me, to talk to me? Perhaps that would have stopped him. Thinking this, I started to cry. Celia put her arm around me and clucked and fussed.

  After a moment, I got a grip on myself. I pinched my nose and took a deep breath.

  “Are you sure he – I mean, did he mean to do it? I just wouldn’t have thought that Norman was that kind of person.”

  The three of them exchanged glances.

  “He left a note,” Celia said gently. “It was quite clear that it was deliberate. I’m sorry, Vivian.”

  “Could I see it?”

  Again, there was that quick exchange of glances. They obviously decided to humour me. I wasn’t sure myself why I wanted to see what he had written – perhaps deep down I knew I had to see it with my own eyes to truly believe it.

  Doctor Clift held out a clipboard with a sheet of paper on it. I looked but didn’t touch and blinked my eyes clear of tears to read it. It was short. It said: I’m so sorry for the trouble and I hope you can forgive me.

  “That’s it?” I asked, as if in disbelief; but it was Norman’s handwriting indisputably, the blue-black ink he always used. I’d seen him write so many letters that I knew his writing almost as well as my own.

  I stared down at the floor. The shock was abating a little and I felt more in control of myself.

  “How did he do it?” I asked quietly.

  “He took sleeping tablets. He’d obviously been hoarding them for a while and when he had enough…” Celia trailed off. We were all silent for a moment. Then I took another deep breath and pushed myself to my feet.

  “Feeling a bit better?” asked Doctor Clift. I hadn’t had the chance to notice him properly, but I could see he was quite a handsome, middle-aged man with thick, iron-grey hair and a determined chin.

  I nodded. ”Yes, I’m sorry for – well, I’m sorry.”

  Celia patted my arm. “Why don’t you go home for the day, Vivian? I think you could do with a proper rest and we can manage without you for one day.”

  For a moment, I was going to refuse – I relied on my daily trips to the manor – but then I thought of having to go into Ballroom Ward and see Norman’s empty bed, and nodded silently. I thanked the doctors and Celia, and made my way outside, walking as though I’d only recently regained the use of my legs.

  I rode slowly down the driveway through the rain. The raindrops ran down my face and mingled with the tears. I was glad the weather was awful – a sunny day would have been an affront to my mood. The awful shock had subsided somewhat but I was still numb with it. How could Norman have killed himself? I genuinely could not understand it. He’d always been so cheerful, so ready to look on the bright side of life. Had that all been a front? Had I really not known him at all? How much can you really know another person?

  I parked my bike at the side of the house and unlocked the front door. I peeled off my raincoat and took off my wet shoes and walked straight upstairs to get a towel to dry my hair. After a moment’s thought, I took off the rest of my clothes, put on my nightgown and got into bed. I was shivering.

  I think I slept a little. When I opened my eyes again, the rain was still trickling down the windowpane. I had a moment of wondering why I was in bed in the middle of the day and then memory returned, thumping me in the stomach. Norman had killed himself. Why? I clenched my teeth against the pain and made myself go back over our last conversation, when I’d said goodbye to him last night.

  He’d had a shock. That had been clear. I had never seen that sort of expression on his face before. And he’d been frantic to write that letter. I squeezed my eyes closed. Oh God, was it the suicide note he’d been so desperate to write? So desperate that he couldn’t wait
another day?

  All of a sudden the bedclothes seemed suffocatingly hot. I threw them back, got up and went through to the bathroom to draw a bath. Although Sidney’s mother had been an old fashioned woman, one of her few concessions to modernity had been the installation of this bathroom in the nineteen thirties, something for which I was daily grateful. As the tub filled, I stood by the little bathroom window, hugging my arms across my body and looking out into the dimness of late afternoon, the endless rain bringing a false, early twilight to the day. There was someone standing on the pavement outside, with a large black umbrella shielding their head. I added some bath salts to the steaming water and turned back to replace the pot on the windowsill. The person was still there. Who were they waiting for? As I looked, they tilted the umbrella back a little and I got a glimpse of the face underneath. It looked like the young gardener from the manor, but what on Earth was he doing here, outside my house? I looked harder but the driving rain and the steam clouding the windows made it difficult to see properly. I swiped a pane of glass clear of steam and peered harder. It was – surely it was him? What was he doing outside my house?

  I was conscious of two things, above the cloud of misery that currently surrounded me. One was anger. Did he think it was funny to – to persecute me? To follow me around? The second, much more sharply felt, was fear. What on Earth did he want?

  I drew the bathroom curtains sharply together with a tug. Somehow, I didn’t much feel like undressing anymore. Quickly, I ran down the stairs and drew the bolt across the front door. The back door was already locked. I peered fearfully out of the drawing room window, just in time to see him turn on his heel and walk away. I sagged against the back of the sofa with relief.