Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1

by Grace, Celina

  “Oh, yes,” I said, relieved, because that had just occurred to me, and I hadn’t been sure whether it was my place to mention it or not. I didn’t know Peter Drew from Adam, really, but I wouldn’t want to get an innocent man into trouble. “Yes, I’m afraid I did overhear some sharp words between them. Both Verity and I did,” I added hurriedly, afraid that it sounded as though I’d been listening at doors.

  “What was it that was said?”

  I thought for a moment, trying to remember. “Her ladyship said something about not wanting to bail him out again. I think that was it. And he said—” I stopped for a moment, remembering Peter’s words. “He said something about how people might be interested to hear one or two things about her.”

  The inspector’s pen was poised. “About Lady Eveline?” he prompted.

  “I suppose so, sir. I’m sorry but that’s all I can remember.” I could feel my hands twisting around each other in my lap. I wanted to ask if Peter Drew was a suspect, but I didn’t quite dare.

  I was dismissed after that with a casual thank you. I got up, bobbing a vague curtsey. It’s quite hard to curtsey to three corners of the room at once. Then I walked to the door, forcing myself not to scurry.

  Outside, the hallway was empty. I hesitated and did something that surprised myself. I held my breath and leant back, in towards the closed door, listening.

  You develop a fine ear, when you’re a servant. It’s funny how often the gentry think that if they murmur something – some scandal or some complaint – it won’t be overheard. I could hear the inspector’s deep voice quite clearly through the wood.

  “Interesting that that’s the third report of the row between the mother and son,” he said.

  “Think she could have told us more?” That had to be Sergeant Willis.

  “Perhaps.” I could hear the scrape of the chair legs against the floor as the inspector got up. “You have to tread carefully with these girls. They’re apt to get hysterical if you push them too hard.”

  “That one seems steady enough.” Sergeant Willis again.

  “Yes, capable young woman, I would have thought—”

  Before I could hear anything else, the front doorbell rang, shattering the silence. I jumped about a foot in the air. When my feet connected with the floor again, I ran as quickly and as quietly towards the kitchens as I could, before Mr Fenwick could arrive and catch me eavesdropping.

  Chapter Five

  It seemed an endless day. At ten o’clock, I put the last wiped and shining pan away in the cupboard and closed it wearily. Mrs Watling had long since gone to her own room. I untied my dirty apron and bundled it in my arms, ready to carry it upstairs.

  The floors above were finally silent. There was still a police officer here, Constable Crewe, stationed in the drawing room and obviously here for the night. I’d taken him up a tray of sandwiches and coffee at nine, and he’d thanked me with real gratitude. He wasn’t a handsome man, having rather too much chin, and I could never abide a man with hairy hands. I could see the other maids didn’t share my feelings. They’d fluttered and twittered around him like a flock of silly birds and kept making excuses to take more wood and coal in for the drawing room fire, so much that you’d think it would keep burning until Christmas without being replenished. Perhaps it was the uniform.

  All these thoughts went around and around my tired head as I climbed the servants’ stairs. It was good, in a way; it stopped me thinking about the library, the blood on the carpet, and the state of Lady Eveline when Verity and I had found her. Even so, flashes kept coming back to me, like something from a bad dream, except one from which I was unable to wake.

  I was the first one back in our room, unusually. I wondered what was keeping Verity. I knew she’d eventually managed to get Dorothy to take a sleeping tablet, so it couldn’t be her mistress who was keeping her up. Or was it? Perhaps she’d had to talk to the police again. Oh, everything was in such a muddle, such confusion. I found myself wondering, rather incongruously, whether the murderer had realised what trouble they would cause when they decided to do what they did.

  I sat down before our little mirror and began to unpin my hair, massaging the ache from my head as I did so. My face, reflected in the glass, looked pale and worried. Well, I was worried. For the first time, it occurred to me that I was living in a house with a murderer. The thought gave me a nasty prickle of fear, and I was getting up to lock the door when it opened and Verity walked in, almost dead on her feet.

  She said nothing but cast herself full length on her creaking bed, burying her face in the pillow.

  “V?” I asked tentatively after a moment.

  “I never, ever want to live through another day like this ever again,” came her muffled voice.

  “Well, let’s hope to God we never have to.” I sat down next to her prone figure and patted her back. “Come on, you can’t go to sleep in your clothes.”

  Verity groaned and heaved herself upright. “I know. I know. God, I’m tired.”

  We both began to undress, pulling our clothes off with fingers so clumsy with fatigue that the buttons and hooks resisted. Verity cursed freely, and I felt very much like doing so myself.

  Eventually, tucked up in our respective beds, Verity leant forward to turn off the lamp. I remembered Asharton Manor, where I hadn’t even had an oil lamp to read by but had to use candles, as if I were back in Victorian times. That was something to be thankful for, anyway. A memory of Dorothy’s bedroom, with her silk-shaded bedside light and electric light bulb occurred to me with a jab of envy, but I quickly dismissed the thought. I had other things on my mind.

  I put out a hand to stop her. “Wait. Wait a moment.”

  She looked at me with crooked eyebrows. “I’m absolutely all in, Joanie. Can’t we sleep?”

  “Yes – it’s just—” I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to say. “What did the police ask you?”

  “Oh, you know, how I came to be in the library, what I saw—” Verity stopped and swallowed. “Whether her ladyship had any enemies. Had I seen anyone strange around lately.”

  “Really?” They hadn’t asked me that. Did the police think that the killer had been a stranger, someone from outside the house? At first the thought was a relief but, on reflection, I thought again. The idea of some murderous madman roaming the grounds of Merisham Lodge was almost as bad as thinking that the killer was someone we knew. I got up and checked that the door was locked. At least the door had a lock – it was because we were female and therefore vulnerable. The male servants’ rooms didn’t have a lock at all.

  Verity’s eyelids were drooping. “I had to tell them about the row Peter had with Lady E,” she said, drowsily. “They asked me about it so I had to tell them. Didn’t I?”

  “Yes, of course.” I took pity on her. “Come on, turn off the lamp and get some rest.”

  I think Verity was asleep before her head hit the pillow. I was deathly tired but somehow I just couldn’t sleep. My head was a jumble of images and thoughts, none of them conducive to relaxation. Eventually exhaustion overcame me and a black curtain fell.

  *

  The police came back first thing the next morning. It wasn’t until I realised I was holding my breath, at the crunch of tires on the gravel, that I understood I’d been waiting for them to arrive ever since I woke up.

  I forgot the bread I was making. I forgot everything. Instead, I found myself walking towards the door and towards the stairs.

  “Wait. Joan—” Mrs Watling looked as though she was going to call me back. We exchanged a glance, and she must have seen something in my face because she shut her mouth abruptly. Then she nodded, tensely.

  I turned and ran for the stairs.

  I’d reached the back of the hallway when I heard the scream. It came from up the stairs, on the first floor of the house. It made me jump and hurry forward and then I realised it was Dorothy. She was up on the landing, half collapsed in Verity’s arms. I saw Verity’s face, white and shocked,
and realised what was happening. The police had Peter Drew in handcuffs.

  “No, no, no!” Dorothy kept screaming. I could see Verity struggling to keep her upright. For a moment, I stood still, unable to work out what to do to help. I couldn’t go up the stairs – the police and Peter were coming down the staircase. Peter looked ill; his face set. The officers on either side of him I didn’t recognise. Behind the three of them, walked Detective Inspector Marks and Sergeant Willis, their faces grim and forbidding.

  They walked past me without a glance and headed for the door. I looked at Peter’s hands, held in front of him as he walked past. The cuffs looked very heavy. Biting my lip, scarcely able to think over the noise that Dorothy was making, I watched the huge front door shut behind them.

  “It’s not true!” Dorothy was almost slumped on the floor by now. Making up my mind, I hurried up the stairs to Verity. A few of the servants were standing a few feet away, staring and whispering.

  “Help me get her to her room,” Verity gasped. Between the two of us, we managed to get Dorothy to her feet and virtually carried her along the corridor to her bedroom.

  I fear we dumped her rather roughly on the white satin quilt but for someone so slender, she was awfully heavy. Verity drew the counterpane up to Dorothy’s chin.

  “Just rest, my lady,” I heard her whisper. Dorothy sobbed and gulped.

  Verity looked at me. “We’d better get her a drink,” she murmured, pulling at my arm to lead me from the bedroom.

  Hastening down the corridor together, I almost felt like crying myself. Everything seemed so chaotic; I wasn’t sure what to think. Had Peter Drew killed his mother? It was a horrible thought.

  Mrs Watling was at the stove when we reached the kitchen, stirring something with feverish energy. She whirled around as soon as we arrived.

  “Tell me it’s not true,” she said. There was pleading in her voice.

  Verity sat down at the table as if all the strength had suddenly run out of her legs. “They’ve arrested Peter for the murder of her ladyship,” she said flatly.

  “That can’t be true,” Mrs Watling said. She sounded near tears. “It must be some mistake.”

  “I don’t know what to think,” said Verity. “Dorothy’s in a dreadful state. I need to get her a brandy or something.”

  “Well – run along and ask Mister Fenwick if you can use the drinks cupboard.” Mrs Watling turned back to the pot on the stove and stabbed at its steaming contents with the wooden spoon in her hand. “We’ll all need a stiff drink by the end of the day and no mistake. My goodness, it feels as if I’m living in a nightmare. Mister Peter, arrested for murder? I can’t believe it.”

  I said nothing but silently tied my apron strings more tightly around my waist – they’d slipped loose as we’d carted Dorothy to her room. Verity sighed, got to her feet and squeezed my arm in farewell as she headed to wherever she could find Mr Fenwick.

  I looked at the menu written up in chalk on the board over by the sink. Who could think about food at this time? It all seemed so meaningless. My hands automatically began to gather the utensils I needed but my brain was thinking of other things. Why had the police arrested Peter? On what evidence? Just on the fact that he’d had a quarrel with his mother the day before she was killed? From the sounds of it, that was quite usual whenever he turned up. Why had he killed her, if he had killed her? Because she wouldn’t give him money?

  It didn’t sound very likely to me. I began chopping onions, blinking my eyes against the harsh fumes. Running my wrists under cold water sometimes worked to take the sting away, but not today. I dabbed my streaming eyes with my cuffs, glad of an excuse to have reddened eyelids. Perhaps it wasn’t so unusual, but I felt rather like having a good cry and longed for the end of the day when I could hide my head under the blankets and sob.

  I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Verity coming back into the room. Her face looked as tired as I could feel mine to be.

  “Mrs Watling, Joanie, I’m so sorry to be a bother but could you make up a tray for Dorothy? She’s not really eaten anything since it happened, and I’m worried she’s going to faint.” Verity pinched the bridge of her nose as she spoke, screwing up her eyes. “I shouldn’t have taken her the brandy. I can’t keep her from pouring it down but at least I can try and soak some of it up.”

  “Of course,” said Mrs Watling just as I nodded in agreement. “Joan, scrambled eggs and a little bit of bacon, something like that. Lots of bread.”

  “And a strong pot of coffee,” Verity said, slumping down at the table.

  I put the onions to one side, thankfully, and turned to the stove to start assembling the tray. I was feeling impatient and annoyed with Dorothy but, as I slowly heated the pan for the eggs – it was important not to have too high a heat, as that was when the mixture would go rubbery – I realised I needed to be a bit more sympathetic. The poor girl had just lost her mother, after all, and in the most hideous way possible. And she’d lost her brother too, perhaps forever. Thinking back, I remembered her father had died some years ago. She was facing the loss of her whole family – I shouldn’t be so hard on her.

  I opened the oven door to turn the toast, thinking. On what evidence were the police holding Peter Drew? Surely not just that he’d had a quarrel with his mother the day before? I drew out the hot, crisp toast and slathered it with butter.

  The tray arranged, the napkin folded, and the steaming coffee pot placed upon it, Wearily, Verity got up and went to take it.

  “It’s all right,” I said quickly. “If Mrs Watling doesn’t mind, I’ll take it up for you.” I shot a quick glance at the cook and she nodded her agreement. I felt a burst of gratitude for having such a sympathetic employer. She knew I was concerned about Verity.

  “Thank you so much.” Verity followed me out of the room as I bore the tray before me like a peace offering to place before a demanding god.

  I hadn’t seen Dorothy since Verity and I had deposited her weeping, shaking form on her bed that morning. Now, when we entered the room, she seemed scarcely aware of our presence. She sat in her satin dressing gown, in the middle of her rumpled bed, smoking and tapping the ash into an already brimming ashtray on the coverlet. The air in the room was blue with smoke and heady with the faint fumes from the empty brandy glass on the bedside table. The brandy bottle stood half-empty by its side. Dorothy stared into space, mechanically bringing the cigarette to her lips every other minute but otherwise doing nothing.

  I heard Verity give a tiny sigh. I put the tray on a free portion of the bed. I wondered whether it would be rude to give my condolences or whether it would be more impertinent to speak at all.

  As I put the tray down, Dorothy seemed to come back to life a little. Her dull gaze flickered and her red-rimmed eyes met mine.

  “Oh, Joan,” was all she said, very faintly.

  “I’m so very sorry, my lady,” I said on impulse, and for some reason tears came into my eyes. Her own filled in sympathy and her lips moved but I couldn’t hear what she said. I think it was ‘thank you’.

  Verity bustled about, opening the window to let in some fresh air, taking the full ashtray away and replacing it with a clean one. She offered the plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and tomatoes to Dorothy, who cringed back as if it were a plate of horse dung.

  “Please, my lady. You must eat something to keep your strength up,” Verity pleaded. Dorothy said nothing but shook her head. Verity looked at me in despair but what could I do? I had less authority than Verity herself.

  The door to the bedroom slammed back at that instant and Lord Cartwright strode in. He was so big and so unexpected that all three of us jumped. Verity had been standing nearest the door and if she hadn’t quickly leapt out of the way, he would have knocked her over. As I saw her stumble back against the wall, I was conscious of a fierce surge of anger. We could have been invisible to him, that was the thing. We cleaned his house, cooked his food, made up his bed, emptied his chamber pots and did absolu
tely everything to ensure his life was one of ease and comfort, and what thanks did we get? Absolutely bugger all, as Verity would say. He treated us not as if we were the lowest of the low but as if we didn’t exist in the first place. We weren’t lowly to him, we just weren’t even people at all.

  Verity and I might as well have not been in the room. Lord Cartwright turned to his step-daughter with a look of anger and impatience. “Come on, get up,” he said brusquely. “The police want to talk to you.”

  I felt a jump of unease at his words, but they didn’t seem to bother Dorothy. She gave him a slow, contemptuous look and then pulled the breakfast tray onto her lap.

  “I am having my breakfast,” she said in a bored voice, after a moment.

  “They aren’t going to wait around forever.”

  “I will go down when I’ve finished my breakfast,” Dorothy said, still in the same bored tone, and began to shovel the food into her face.

  Lord Cartwright’s ruddy face reddened further. “Don’t make me drag you out of there, girl,” he said in a tone that terrified me. I hadn’t ever seen him this angry before. His gaze fell on Verity and she clearly snapped back into existence for him. He pointed a finger at her. “You! Make sure she’s up and dressed in the next five minutes. Don’t make me have to tell you twice.”

  Verity bobbed a tiny curtsey, her face set in the neutral expression every good servant learns to wear. That expression masked a lot. Outwardly, the face says ‘of course, sir’, but inwardly boils a sea of rage and hate. Lord Cartwright was getting the cursing of his life inside Verity’s head, if he only knew it.

  He slammed the door behind him as he went, and the curtains at the window billowed and eddied in the breeze created.

  “My lady—” Verity began, but Dorothy, swallowing the last mouthful of egg and toast, held up a hand to stop her.