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

by Grace, Celina

  “It’s all right,” she said, when she could speak. “I’m getting up. I know I can’t really keep the police waiting – and I don’t want Lord C to give you a pasting as well as me.”

  Verity looked a little embarrassed, but as soon as she had finished speaking, Dorothy was off in that blank state again, staring forward into nothing. I found myself wondering, for the first time, what her feelings were towards her stepfather. What had her feelings been for her mother? Lady Eveline hadn’t been exactly lovable but perhaps a daughter always loves her mother, no matter what. I wouldn’t know.

  Dorothy clearly loved her brother though, despite her disparaging words towards him when he’d arrived at the house. I could only begin to guess at her state of mind, thinking of him in prison. Would he be in prison yet, though? Surely not. He’d be held at the police station, at least until he was charged. Was that right? I realised I didn’t know nearly enough about the judicial system in my own country and resolved to find out more, if I could. If I ever got more than five minutes to myself to do something other than work.

  It was time for me to leave so that Verity could dress her mistress. I went to pick up the tray, just as Verity said, “Please try not to worry, my lady. I’m sure that Mister Drew will be found innocent, he can’t be anything other than that.”

  That snapped Dorothy out of her blank stare. I watched her eyes spark back to life just as her face contracted in misery. “I’m afraid that’s not the case, Verity.”

  Forgetting my place, I cried out, “But there’s no evidence against him, is there, my lady? They can’t be holding him just because of a silly quarrel.”

  Dorothy’s burning gaze came around to meet my own. I flinched at the intensity of her stare.

  After a moment, she spoke, quite coolly. “Oh, don’t you know? They found gloves, his gloves, in his room. Gloves stained with my mother’s blood.”

  Aghast, I stared at her. She held my gaze for a moment and then looked away. Stuttering out an apology, something like that, I bent to pick up the tray. My lasting impression, as I left the silent room, was of the shock on Verity’s face, mirroring my own.

  Chapter Six

  I slept like the dead that night. When I came to in the morning, in the cold grey light before the dawn, I saw with sleepy surprise that Verity was already sitting up in bed. She hadn’t lit the lamp, but was sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, a shawl around her shoulders. She looked worried.

  “Are you all right, V?” I asked, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  Verity bit her lip. “I’m—” she began and then obviously thought better of it. “Listen, Joanie, go back to sleep. It’s not time to get up yet.”

  So why was she awake then? I tried to formulate the right question in my head but I was still too tired. Murmuring something, I turned back over in bed to face the wall and went back to sleep.

  Later, at breakfast, I could see Verity was still thinking something over. She had such an expressive face; I could see why some of her relatives had become actors. As we ate our porridge and drank our tea, I remembered Lord Cartwright yesterday, nearly knocking her for six as he thundered into the room. What a pig that man was. I knew I should feel sorry for him – he’d just lost his wife, after all – but I found it difficult to find even one crumb of sympathy for him.

  I found it darkly amusing to wonder what Lord C would say if he knew Verity’s origins – that on one side of her family, she was actually higher born than he was. Verity’s father had been a minor aristocrat and he’d eloped with her mother, an actress, earning himself the infinite opprobrium of his high-born family and ensuring that he was cut out of his father’s will forever. It was a romantic story – I often thought it would make a good novel, not that I would ever write it for fear of hurting Verity’s feelings – but it was a sad one too. Verity’s father had killed himself eventually, worn down by shame, debt and failed honour. Verity’s mother had been left virtually penniless. She raised Verity by herself until that fateful day she and Verity, who was then just eight years old, had visited Covent Garden market in London, just as Spanish flu was beginning to spread its evil tentacles through the population of the capital. Influenza carried Verity’s mother off in a matter of days, which is how Verity ended up at the orphanage with me.

  I don’t believe I have ever been so thankful for fate that she and I ended up in beds next to one another in the dormitory and that we became friends. Sometimes I felt guilty for thinking that. My good fortune in having her for a friend was entirely dependent on the fact that she’d lost all her loved ones. If I could go back and change time, make it so that her father and mother survived, would I do it, knowing it would mean we’d never meet?

  Stop being so fanciful. I scolded myself as I took my plates towards the scullery for Maggie to wash. As if you haven’t got enough to worry about in the here and now.

  Life below stairs seemed slightly more normal than it had been for the past couple of days. The police were still here, interviewing the family. I’d caught a glimpse of Duncan Cartwright sitting next to Dorothy in the morning room with his arm around her shoulders. He looked pale and shocked, and Dorothy was in tears again. It was the first time I’d ever seen Duncan do anything sympathetic for anyone. I wondered whether he was mourning his stepmother. He and Lady Eveline had always seemed to get on quite well.

  As Mrs Watling and I began preparations for dinner, I found myself wondering anew who could have murdered her ladyship. From overhearing Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstells, I knew the police had found that a window in the library had been forced on the night of the murder. Whilst not conclusive in itself – the murderer could have done that to cover his or her tracks – it did suggest that there was a possibility the killer could have come from outside the house. How much the family must have been hoping for that, I thought, pushing steak through the mincer. It was still difficult to look at raw meat without a shudder of nausea but I had to get over that. It was either get over it or have to look for another kind of job, and where on Earth would I go and what would I do? Cooking was all I was trained to do.

  Verity was very quiet all day; not that I saw much of her. Dorothy had been interviewed again by the police, and not long after, Verity had seen her back to her room. She came marching down to the kitchen with a set face, asking for more strong coffee. I had the impression that Dorothy was back to drowning her sorrows. Not that I could exactly blame her, but it made me cross for Verity, who had to bear the brunt of Dorothy’s inebriation and mess-making and deal with all the clothes ruined by slopped brandy and spilled cigarette ash.

  It was bath night, that night, and as usual, the female servants took it in turns to use one of the two servants’ bathrooms on the top floor. A hot bath should have been a luxury, but it was always icy in the bathroom, with no heating and no fire. Verity and I usually shared the bath water – not at once, but taking it in turns, one after the other – and we used to help each other wash our hair. It was such a fuss with very long hair; the soap always took an age to rinse out. Verity kept threatening to get hers bobbed but I knew I probably wouldn’t have the nerve.

  There was satisfaction to be had, it was true, tucked up in bed in clean nightgowns, comfortably conscious of being washed, powdered and smelling sweet for once. I kept sticking my nose down the front of my nightgown to enjoy my clean, soapy scent.

  “Joanie, stop doing that, you look deranged.” Verity sat at the dressing table, carefully pinning up her damp hair. She caught my eye in the little mirror, and grinned. I stuck my tongue out at her.

  Verity finished her pin curls and wound a filmy chiffon scarf around her head. She drew her shawl a little more firmly about her shoulders. Once we’d broken eye contact, the smile dropped off her face and she was back to looking worried once more.

  I sighed and put down my book. “V, what is it?”

  Her eyes met mine again in the mirror. “What?”

  “You’re worried about something. What is it?”

  V
erity bit her lip. Then, getting up, she checked the door to the room was locked and then got into bed. She looked over at me, her bottom lip pinched beneath her teeth.

  “All right,” she said after a moment. “I am worried.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s what Dorothy said to us yesterday.”

  “What about?”

  “The gloves.” Verity’s eyes met mine, wide and shocked. “Remember? She said the police had taken Peter because they found his gloves, bloody gloves, in his room.”

  I winced. “Yes, I remember. Horrible.”

  Verity hugged her knees to her chest, looking like a little girl. “It’s just this,” she said. “I took some washing into Peter’s room quite early in the morning before they arrested him.”

  There was clearly more, but she stopped speaking. “Go on,” I prompted.

  “Well,” Verity said, hesitantly. “That was a few hours before they made the arrest, right? They must have searched his room that morning, after I’d been in there.”

  “And?”

  Verity sighed. “Those gloves weren’t there. They weren’t there that morning.”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Verity became animated. “I asked Dorothy and she said the police found these bloody gloves stuffed at the back of a drawer, his underwear drawer, as it happened.” She half smiled. “Well, I had to put some clothes away for him in that drawer, and I never saw any gloves there, bloody or otherwise.”

  I was silent for a moment, thinking. “Could he – could he have put them in there after you put the clothes away?”

  Verity shook her head decisively. “No. He couldn’t have, because he was with Dorothy that whole morning, right up until they came to arrest him.”

  She stopped speaking and we stared at one another.

  “So,” I said slowly, unwillingly. “So, that means that someone else must have put them there. Right?”

  Verity was silent for a moment. “I can’t think of another explanation that fits,” she said. “I’ve been trying all day to see if I can think of another reason, but I can’t.”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Oh Lord, this is all we need.”

  Another silence fell. Selfishly, I wished for one moment that Verity hadn’t told me. I really wished she hadn’t told me just before bedtime. Now I would probably lie awake all night, worrying about it and what to do.

  I looked over at Verity and saw the dark half-moons under her eyes. My momentary anger vanished. Now I realised why she’d been up so early. I felt bad then, that my good friend had fretted and worried while I slumbered beside her, no help at all.

  “So what do we do?” I asked.

  Verity bit her lip again. “I think the only thing to do is go to the police.”

  “Yes.” I couldn’t see any way around that. “And V – one thing. Don’t go mentioning this to anyone else, all right? It could be dangerous.”

  Verity half smiled. “I remember giving you much the same warning, once.”

  “Well, quite. And you were quite right to.”

  Verity yawned and slid down beneath her covers. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone except Inspector Marks. And now, I really must sleep, I’m ready to drop.”

  “Good night, then.”

  I sat there in the dim light, listening to Verity’s breathing softening into sleep. Then I turned off the lamp, watching as darkness slid into the room. After a moment, I slid down in the bed, pulled the blankets up to my chin, and laid there, staring at nothing, looking into the night.

  Chapter Seven

  It was absolutely typical, as things turned out. For three days, you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting a policeman, and now that we actually wanted to talk to Inspector Marks, he was nowhere to be found. Verity sometimes ate breakfast in our room, particularly if Dorothy had had a late night the night before, but this morning she appeared in the kitchen and came up to me as I chopped mushrooms on one of the counters.

  “I’m going to see if I can see the inspector today,” she murmured, leaning in as if inspecting my chopping skills. I could tell she didn’t want to be overheard.

  “Want me to come with you?” I was wondering how I was going to manage that, given the lunch Mrs Watling and I had to prepare. It was Maggie the scullery maid’s morning off and the washing up was piling up even as we spoke. As was usual, murder or no murder, the family was expecting the full five courses for dinner.

  “If you could, Joanie, that would be wonderful.” I saw her glance at the piles of vegetables by my elbow with disquiet. “If you can’t get away though…”

  “I’ll try,” I promised, and she was happy enough with that.

  The morning rolled relentlessly towards lunchtime. Mrs Watling asked me to make clear soup for the starter, which was a fiddly job at the best of times. I said nothing but pushed a stray strand of hair off of my forehead and nodded. I couldn’t stand it when the kitchen was in a mess like it was – it felt overwhelming, as if I’d never be able to finish anything. Mrs Watling must have caught the edge of my panic.

  “Joan, don’t worry. I’ll have one of the boot boys finish the washing up. Just pile it all up in the sink and get on with the soup.”

  “Yes, Mrs Watling.” I silently gnashed my teeth as I reached for the greaseproof paper. Of course, we would have run out. I said as much to Mrs Watling, hoping she’d say we could do something else for the starter instead. No such luck.

  “There’s more in the cupboard along from the study,” Mrs Watling said absently, her attention concentrated on the butter and peppercorn sauce for the beef. “Just run up and grab another roll.”

  Fuming, I yanked at my apron strings and pulled it over my head. It was one thing to be covered in splashes and stains and grease-marks down in the kitchen but another when going ‘up above’. I’d once overheard Lady Eveline speaking sharply to Mrs Anstells about the importance of “the maids always looking neat and respectable when they are above stairs.” It would have made me laugh if I hadn’t been so cross. How on Earth did her ladyship think the housemaids would be able to clean out the fires without getting covered in soot? Or the kitchen maids would be able to prepare all the food for the house without getting even a little bit dirty? Then I remembered the poor woman was dead, and guilt extinguished the flames of my anger.

  I smoothed down the front of my dress, checked that my cuffs were fairly respectable, and climbed the stairs to the main hallway. The study lay off a corridor that ran behind the length of the drawing room. It wasn’t an area I knew well. I found myself almost tiptoeing as I hurried along the carpet towards the cupboard. The door to the study was slightly ajar, and as I softly walked past it, I could hear the bass rumble of a male voice coming from the room.

  Quietly, I opened the cupboard door and started looking for the greaseproof paper. There were boxes and bundles of all sorts of things in the cupboard, and I stood scanning the shelves, looking for the distinctive long cardboard box. I recognised the voice of the man in the study – it was Lord Cartwright himself. Not wanting to have him confront me – I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but then, when had that ever stopped him? – I redoubled my search efforts, carefully moving aside boxes and bags and all the time trying to be as quiet as a mouse.

  “You’ve been such a godsend throughout this awful time, my dear,” I heard Lord Cartwright say. Surely he wasn’t speaking to Dorothy in that gentle tone? Curious, despite myself, I found myself listening more closely.

  A woman’s voice replied. “I’m sure I do the very best I can, my lord.” Who was that? After a moment, the penny dropped. Of course, it was Rosalind. She was Lord Cartwright’s secretary, after all. It was perfectly natural that she would be working with him in the study. Despite that though, there was something… I found myself holding my breath, listening harder.

  “A good girl, yes, a very good girl. And you know, my dear, that good girls will always be rewarded—” His lordship’s voice sank a little and
I couldn’t hear any more. At the same time, I spotted the greaseproof paper box, right at the back of the cupboard. Grabbing it, I closed the door very quietly. That was when I should have left, I know. But I didn’t. Instead, I crept as close to the study door as I could and listened.

  There was silence from within the room, then a rustle. Was that a giggle I heard from Rosalind? I couldn’t tell. Eyes wide, I inclined my head a little further towards the gap.

  There was a creak of floorboards within the room and the sound of footsteps walking towards the door. I jumped, lost my head and instead of turning back down the corridor towards the kitchens, ran further along it to where a small alcove housed an ornament cabinet. I flattened myself against the side of it just as the door to the study opened fully. I could see quite clearly through the glassed-in side of the cabinet. Rosalind walked out of the study, carrying an armful of books and papers. Her hair was as neat and smooth as normal but her cheeks were stained pink. I stared, wondering exactly what it was I’d just overheard.

  Once she’d disappeared around the corner, I snuck out from my hiding place, clutching my greaseproof paper, and hurried back along the corridor, my face burning.

  I was quite pleased to have a job that demanded some concentration when I got back to the kitchen. Those few overheard words raced around and around in my head. Had I actually witnessed anything untoward or not? Was I imagining things? And did it signify anything if indeed I had witnessed some sign of affection between his lordship and his assistant? Mechanically, I whisked the soup with crushed egg-shells, skimming off the scum that formed on top until most of it was gone. The greaseproof paper was then used to clarify the soup until it reached the desired clear golden colour.

  Maggie had returned, thank God, and she and the youngest boot boy, Norman, were busy at the sinks. The beef was resting and Mrs Watling had just brought the beautifully cooked vegetables out from the stove. Everything was back under control – in the kitchen, at least.