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

by Grace, Celina

  Lunch was served upstairs and then we all sat down to our more modest offering. Verity was nowhere to be seen. I wondered whether she was eating with Dorothy in her room – she did that sometimes, when Dorothy wanted company but didn’t want to bother with the luncheon table downstairs. Had Verity had time to talk to the inspector yet? Having heard what I’d just heard, I wondered whether that was something I ought to mention as well. Then again, what hard evidence did I have that something was going on between Lord Cartwright and Rosalind Makepeace? Absolutely none, I told myself firmly, arranging my knife and fork neatly on my empty plate.

  After lunch, Mrs Watling and I had a rare hour of relaxation before preparation for dinner got underway. Mrs Watling had a cup of tea and a doze in the armchair by the fire in the servants’ hall. I decided I’d try and find Verity. I wanted to talk to her about whether she’d managed to relay her information about the gloves to the inspector – and whether she’d ever seen or heard anything untoward between his lordship and Rosalind.

  I checked our room, Dorothy’s room and all of the main rooms in the house. I made sure I carried a small stack of aprons and took care to bustle. Always look as if you’re going somewhere specific, Verity had told me once. Never be empty-handed. Then you always look as though you’re meant to be wherever they might find you. It’s the girls who lollygag about who get reprimanded.

  As it was, I saw none of the family and precious few of the other servants. The house could be like that sometimes – it was almost eerie, the way that it seemed to empty out at times. I wondered whether Verity had accompanied Dorothy out – but even I couldn’t see Dorothy off shopping or partying just days after the brutal murder of her mother. I glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway as I went past and saw that it was nearly time to go back to work. What a waste of a free hour…

  Just as I was coming back into the kitchen, I almost cannoned into Verity in the doorway itself. The surprise made us both shriek.

  “There you are,” I exclaimed. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Verity grabbed my arm and drew me back into the kitchen. “I’ve just spotted the inspector, he’s out in the garden. I’m going to see him now.”

  “Oh, right out in the open?” I felt a qualm. “Are you sure that’s wise, V?”

  “I might not get another chance. Dorothy’s asleep at the moment but she won’t be for long. Are you coming?”

  I glanced at the clock and then quickly tiptoed into the servants’ hall. Mrs Watling was still asleep, the newspaper covering her lap like a papery rug. “I’m coming,” I whispered, tiptoeing back.

  “Come on, then.”

  We bounded into the yard outside like a couple of puppies. I hadn’t been outside all day and it was only then I realised how stifled and claustrophobic I’d felt. Verity and I tore across the gravel, trying to fight down our giggles. One of the groundskeepers was clipping the beech hedge that edged the kitchen garden and he whistled at us as we ran past. Verity stuck her tongue out at him.

  We skidded to a halt as we came to the edge of the lawn. I could just see the black back of the inspector as he made his way into the lime tree walk that led away to the little wilderness and the lake.

  “Mrs Anstells will kill you if she sees you talking to the police,” I said, sobering up. “Won’t she?”

  “She won’t be too happy,” said Verity. “She’d say I should have come to her first, not go racing off the police like someone who doesn’t know their place.”

  “Well...” I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was for Verity to be dismissed.

  Verity stuck her pointy chin out even further. She had an elf’s face; a wide, white forehead and high cheekbones, tapering down to her little chin. Topped with that flaming red hair, it was a face that wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it had a certain vivacity. “Let’s just go round the long way. We might catch him before he gets back to the house.”

  Gulping down my anxiety, I followed Verity. She kept behind the high hedges, out of sight of the main house. She obviously knew these grounds a lot better than I did, but then she had a lot more time to explore, either with Dorothy or without her. I began to feel nervous again, mainly about the fact that I was now supposed to be back in the kitchen. I kept following Verity, though.

  We caught up with the inspector just as he was turning back along the path that led to the terrace at the back of the house.

  “Sir,” Verity panted, slightly out of breath from our dash. “I was hoping to speak to you, sir.”

  If the inspector was surprised at her forwardness, he didn’t show it. In our brief interview before, he’d struck me as an astute judge of character – I suppose it went hand in hand with his job. Perhaps Verity had already impressed him during their earlier meeting. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

  By now, Verity had regained her composure. “I have some information that I think would be very important for the investigation, sir.”

  The inspector’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? That sounds quite serious.”

  Verity looked sober. “Yes, I think so, sir. Given the gravity of the situation.”

  The inspector glanced at his watch, and in his doing so, I caught sight of the time. I really had to get back to the kitchen. “Well, Miss – Hunter, isn’t it? Would you like to talk to me here or shall we proceed back to the house?”

  Before Verity could open her mouth to answer him, I grabbed her sleeve. “V, I must get back. I’m so sorry.” I looked at the inspector and bobbed a curtsey. “Please excuse me, sir, I’m wanted in the kitchens.”

  Verity gave me a pleading look but it was no use. I had to get back or risk my place. Trying to convey all of this through my facial expressions, whilst simultaneously attempting a respectful and sober face for the benefit of the inspector, would have taxed Charlie Chaplin himself. I probably just ended up looking like a lunatic. Then I bobbed another hasty curtsey and took off at a gallop for the kitchens.

  “Where have you been?” Mrs Watling said sharply as I skidded into the kitchen, red in the face with exertion.

  “I’m so sorry, I lost track of time.” I swiped my arm across my sweating forehead, feeling resentful at her tone. The hours of my life that I spent in this kitchen, the hard work that I put in…it seemed as if none of that counted against five minutes’ tardiness. I reached for a clean apron, trying to think of something else apologetic to say that would get past the block of resentment that currently sat in my throat.

  “Well, get on with your work and we’ll say no more about it,” Mrs Watling said, in a slightly more mollified voice. Perhaps she was thinking what I was thinking.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to sound sincere. I looked up at the menu board where Mrs Watling wrote up the meals for the day in chalk. Tonight, the family were having tomato and olive soup, followed by pork cutlets dressed with dill and cucumber, fried potatoes, honeyed carrots and parsnips, and then home-made vanilla ice-cream for pudding. As was usual, I marvelled at the decadent amount of food, the sheer excess of it all. Just one of the meals that the gentry had eaten today would have filled the bellies of five or six of the poor families in the village. Such a frivolous waste of money…but then, it was keeping me in a job, so what right did I have to complain? I took down a chopping board, collected the bowl of tomatoes, and began chopping up the fruits in a dim sort of mood.

  Chapter Eight

  I didn’t get a chance to talk to Verity until the next morning, when we were washing and dressing in our room. She’d had to accompany Dorothy out the night before and hadn’t got back until the small hours, when I was fast asleep. She was heavy-eyed that morning, yawning frequently. I helped her do her hair and make-up.

  “Thank you, Joanie,” she said, tipping her head back and closing her eyes as I brushed her hair.

  “So, how did you get on with the inspector?”

  That made her sit up and open her eyes. “Well, I told him about the gloves. I said I was absolutely certain that they weren�
�t there first thing in the morning and that they must have been put there during the morning, while Peter was with Dorothy.”

  I carefully slid the pins into her hair, smoothing it under my fingers. “So did you actually say that someone else must have put them there?”

  Verity made a face. “Not exactly that. I mean, it would have looked as though I was trying to tell him his job, wouldn’t it?” I had to agree. “He’s not stupid, Joan. He’ll come to that conclusion by himself.”

  I slid the last pin into place. “There, done. Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Listen, there’s something I need to talk to you about.” I glanced over at the little alarm clock that stood on our bedside table. “Lord, we’re going to be late; it’ll have to be later. Come on, V.”

  We found out something else after breakfast. Apparently the post mortem had been performed on her ladyship, and, in the usual manner of servants’ gossip, the facts about it were already circulating, despite Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstell’s attempts to stop it.

  “There were splinters,” Maggie whispered to me in the pantry as we gathered the ingredients for the minestrone planned for that day’s lunch. “In her head.”

  “How horrible,” I said with distaste. “Don’t let Mrs Watling catch you talking about it, mind.”

  “Yes, but Joan, think about it. Doesn’t that mean someone must have hit her with one of the logs in the library fireplace?”

  “I suppose so.” I hurried her over to the kitchen table and started her chopping the onions. “Don’t let’s talk about it anymore, all right?”

  Maggie crimped up her mouth, clearly longing to pick over the grisly facts a bit longer. I began seasoning the lamb, which was going to be the main course for luncheon, thinking about what Maggie had told me. Her supposition that the murder weapon had to have been one of the library logs seemed accurate. Did that mean the murder was not premeditated? Surely using a lump of wood as a weapon meant that the murderer clearly hadn’t planned to do it? Didn’t it?

  I shook my head in impatience at myself. What business was it of mine? I turned my attention back to the food beneath my hands, trying to keep my mind on the job and off the murder.

  Verity came down to lunch and we managed to sit together. The order of precedent wasn’t always firmly observed at the servants’ table, something for which I was thankful because it gave us a chance to talk.

  “Where did you go last night?” I asked.

  Verity yawned and covered her mouth. “Oh, sorry. We went to La Petite Bouche.” This was a restaurant in Buxton. “I had to wait for her in the cloakroom for two bloody hours while she had a nice meal with that Simon.”

  “Which Simon?”

  “You remember. Simon Snailer.”

  I remembered the name. “Oh, so she’s still seeing him then? What’s he like?”

  Verity grinned. “Let’s just say it’s probably just as well Lady E isn’t here anymore. She would definitely not have approved.”

  I half laughed, although I was a little shocked. “In what way?”

  “Well, he’s got no money, for starters. He’s a gentleman but he’s not highborn in any way. And he looks very much like a disreputable artist.”

  “Is that what he is?”

  “I think so. A painter, or something like that.” Verity put her knife and fork neatly in the middle of her plate and took a drink of water. “That was lovely food, Joanie. Thank you.”

  “It was nothing,” I said, but I was pleased. It was nice to have some acknowledgement of the time and effort I put into my work. I certainly wasn’t going to get it from anyone upstairs, that was for sure.

  Lowering my voice, I told Verity about what Maggie had mentioned to me. “Had you heard?”

  Verity looked sombre. “Yes. Dorothy’s been obsessing about it. Well, that’s hardly surprising really, is it?”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “What?”

  I hesitated, feeling it was a little indelicate even to be talking about it. “If the – the murder weapon was one of the logs, doesn’t that indicate that it wasn’t planned? I mean, it’s not a very likely weapon, is it?”

  Verity was chewing her lip. She rotated her teacup on its saucer, obviously thinking. “Actually, Joanie, in some ways it’s the perfect weapon. Why do you think they haven’t found it yet?”

  “Haven’t they?” I realised I’d raised my voice in my surprise and that Mrs Anstells was starting to cast glances our way. I spoke more quietly. “How do you know that?”

  “Dorothy told me. The inspector told her.”

  “Oh. Well, why haven’t they found it yet?”

  Verity gave me an exasperated look. “Because whoever did it probably put it straight in the fire afterwards. It’s all been burnt up. Nicely concealing things like fingerprints.”

  I frowned. “Would you be able to get fingerprints from a piece of firewood?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. But my point is, that even though on the surface it doesn't look premeditated, it doesn’t actually mean that it wasn't.”

  Mrs Anstells was definitely looking now. “No, no, you’re right,” I said hastily. “Let’s talk about it more tonight.”

  After lunch, Mr Fenwick asked me to go and help the footmen clear the dining room. Slightly resentfully, because that wasn’t really my job, I clambered up the stairs to the ground floor of the house and went into the dining room. Andrew and Albert were already stacking the trolley that would be rolled into the service lift for transportation to the kitchen for washing up.

  There was still an awful lot of food left. No doubt, it would be mine and Mrs Watling’s job to refashion the leftovers into the evening meal for the servants. Sighing inwardly, I began to clear plates from the dining table.

  The doorbell rang. Both men and I looked up in surprise. The dining room stood off the entrance hall to the house and, after a moment, I could hear Mr Fenwick’s ponderous footsteps wending their way to the front door. It gave that distinctive two-tone creak as he opened it.

  “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Lady Dorothy.” It was a man’s voice, rather drawling and affected. The two footmen and I exchanged a look.

  “And whom might I say is calling?” Mr Fenwick asked.

  “Simon Snailer.”

  Alight with curiosity, I put the plate in my hand back on the table and moved closer to the door. I could feel the glances of the two men hit my back but I ignored them.

  There were footsteps outside, lighter than Mr Fenwick’s. Then Dorothy spoke. “Simon! You’re early.”

  “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

  As I watched, I saw them both walk past the half-open dining room door. Simon Snailer was tall and broad-shouldered, with a shaggy mop of dark hair and a moustache. He looked rather louche and I remembered what Verity had said about him. His clothes, in the brief glimpse that I had, were shabby and paint-marked. He wore a worn tweed jacket and no tie. Mr Fenwick followed the two of them, radiating disapproval.

  Their footsteps faded from hearing and I turned reluctantly back to the dining table.

  “Nosy,” Andrew said, grinning. I rolled my eyes at him.

  Verity was in the kitchen when I got back, sitting at the table with a bottle of oil, a heap of red rose petals and some salt.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, curious.

  “Mixing up a potion,” said Verity absently, occupied with shredding rose petals.

  “It smells nice,” I said, sniffing appreciatively.

  Mrs Watling came bustling over and shrieked. “What knife are you using, Verity? Oh, no, no, not that one!” She pulled it out of Verity’s hand. “This one’s just for meat. Oh, I wished you’d asked me.”

  “Sorry,” Verity said, annoyance edging her tone. “Which one can I use, then?”

  Mrs Watling slapped a knife down in front of her. “This one. And you’ll need to hurry up because we need the table for prep soon.”

  “All right,” Verity muttered. She gathered up the rose petals an
d dumped them into the bowl in front of her. Then she poured over the oil and began to mix it all together with the knife.

  “Is this for Dorothy?” I asked, fascinated.

  Verity nodded. “This is all part of being a top-notch lady’s maid. You have to be able to mix up beauty potions, do her hair, do her make-up, do her manicures and pedicures.”

  “Lord, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  Verity grinned. “Stick to cooking, Joanie. You’re good at it.”

  “Verity—” warned Mrs Watling.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” Verity gathered her things together. She gave me a look and inclined her head very slightly to one side.

  I followed her out of the room. “What’s the matter?”

  “Was there something you wanted to talk about? You said so, this morning.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t think of what she meant, but then I remembered. I glanced around at the open kitchen door and gestured for Verity to follow me. We walked further down the corridor to where we couldn’t be overheard.

  “What is it?” Verity asked.

  I spoke in a low tone. “Have you – have you ever seen anything strange going on between Lord Cartwright and Rosalind?”

  Verity’s eyes widened. “Lord Cartwright and Rosalind?” I saw her gaze go off to the side as she obviously sifted back through her memories. “By strange, do you mean—”

  I nodded at her raised eyebrows. “Yes, that. Have you ever seen or heard anything?”

  Verity looked sombre. “Why are you asking, Joanie? Have you seen anything?”

  I told her what I’d heard – or not heard – in the study. “Of course, I could be completely mistaken. But...I don’t know – it’s odd.”

  Verity frowned. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything. But—” She paused dramatically. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if she was setting her cap at him. Now he’s widowed. She’d probably love to get her feet under the table. You know how rich he is.”