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

by Grace, Celina

  Of course, I had to go back down eventually. By that time, though, I’d calmed down. I walked back downstairs, determined to do what I’d originally set out to do today. All my earlier qualms about whether it was my place to start investigating had disappeared. All right, if I was going to be a kitchen maid for the rest of my life, I’d damn well start keeping my mind occupied with other things. Otherwise I’d end up like Mrs Watling, chained to the kitchen sink and, even worse, not even realising I’d ended up in prison.

  I put on a clean apron and began briskly preparing the potatoes for the evening meal. These had to be chopped very finely, so that when you held up a slice to the light, you could almost see through it. These slices would be cooked very quickly in boiling hot fat and come out (if you got them out in time) beautifully crisp and golden, and to be eaten in one satisfyingly crunchy bite.

  After a few minutes, I said pleasantly, “I’m so sorry, Mrs Watling, you were telling me about working for the family for so long. It was very interesting. What was Lord Cartwright’s first wife like?”

  If that was a bit of a non-sequitur, Mrs Watling didn’t seem to notice. She was spiking the pork joint all over with rosemary twigs and basting it with pork fat. “Lady Alice? Oh, she was a lovely lady. Quite different to Lady Eveline, God rest her. She – Lady Alice, I mean – she was very beautiful and very soft in her manner. Not strong though, physically. Nobody expected her to make old bones.” Mrs Watling jabbed the last sprig of rosemary into the meat and sighed. “And she didn’t, poor soul.”

  “It was an accident, wasn’t it?” I asked.

  “She fell down the stairs, the poor woman.” Mrs Watling shook her head.

  “Here?” I said.

  “No, no, in the townhouse.” She meant the Hampstead house. “A stair rod had come loose, or there was a bit of loose carpet – something like that – and she caught her foot in it one night and fell down. That was a terrible night, and no mistake.” Mrs Watling went to put the pork joint in the refrigerator. The door squeaked, as if underlining her words. “It took me right back, I can tell you, seeing the police here after Lady Eveline was…after she died. Of course, Lady Alice’s death was nothing but a tragic accident but, well, it gave me a nasty turn, having to remember it.”

  She bustled off into the pantry and left me with my pile of translucent potato slices. I transferred them all to a pot of cold, salted water and rinsed the chopping board in the sink. So the police had been called when Lady Alice’s death was discovered? Was that usual? I found I had no idea and resolved to ask Verity about it later.

  During the afternoon, Dorothy rang for tea to be brought up. It would normally be one of the parlourmaids’ jobs to take up the tray, but I volunteered to do it and Nora, the parlourmaid whose job it should have been, was grateful. “Thank you Joan, I owe you,” she said as I picked up the tray. I winked at her and began the trip upstairs. I felt pleased with myself. I’d be able to have a quick word with Verity, perhaps even ascertain what had happened with the will reading, and I’d made a friend in Nora at the same time. As it was, I liked Nora. She was a very pretty girl, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and she had a wicked sense of humour. Once she, Verity and I had been to the talkies together and gone for tea afterwards, and she’d had us all in stitches with her droll impressions of Greta Garbo and Joan Crawford.

  I knocked on the door to Dorothy’s room, and Verity herself opened it. She looked surprised but pleased to see me.

  I hadn’t seen Dorothy since that awkward family gathering in the drawing room, when Duncan had been so rude to Rosalind. I thought Dorothy looked a little better, not quite so drawn and red-eyed as she had been for the past week. As usual, she was smoking a cigarette, this time in a long, delicately carved holder which looked as though it were made out of ivory. I placed the tea tray on the usual table by the window and Dorothy greeted me pleasantly by name. That was true breeding, I thought, and people like Rosalind would never attain it.

  Verity indicated that I should pour the tea and I did so. Verity took Dorothy her cup.

  “Thank you, Verity.” Dorothy took a sip. “Ah, you make a wonderful cup of tea, Joan. I wouldn’t even know how to boil a kettle; it’s quite shocking. You’ll have to show me how, one day.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was being serious. Dorothy had that kind of deep, drawling voice that always sounds sarcastic. I’d noticed a lot of ladies affected that sort of voice, I suppose it was fashionable. “Of course, my lady,” I said in a tone I hoped was wry without being cheeky.

  Dorothy drained the cup, put it and the saucer back on the bedside table, and flung herself back against the headboard, putting the cigarette to her lips. “I suppose there’s been ever such a kerfuffle in the servants’ hall this past week? What with the police here and everything?”

  It’s funny but as curious as the servants can be about the gentry, you forget it sometimes worked the other way around. Particularly for people like Dorothy, who are easily bored. I remembered Verity telling me how, at her interview for the position, Dorothy had told her that one of the most important parts of the job would be to talk with the other ladies’ maids and servants to see what all the gossip was. Nobody knows the scandal better than a good servant, Dorothy had said to Verity.

  “It has been rather fraught, my lady,” I said, refilling her cup.

  “Ha! I can imagine. Poor Mister Fenwick must be having kittens.” Dorothy reached for her replenished teacup. “Thank you, Joan. Tell me, what does Mrs Watling think about it all? I’ve noticed the dinners haven’t been quite so up to scratch these last few days. Is she upset?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady,” I gabbled. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”

  “Oh, now, don’t. It’s perfectly understandable under the circumstances. She must be upset. Is she, Joan?”

  I nodded. “She’s very shocked. Well, we all are, my lady.” I hesitated, wondering whether to bring this up. “Mrs Watling said it brought back a few bad memories. You know, of when Lord Cartwright’s first wife was killed.”

  “Killed? Oh, but that was an accident. She fell down the stairs.” Dorothy ground her cigarette out in a brimming ashtray. “It wasn’t a great surprise to anyone, to be honest. She drank, you know.”

  Coming from Dorothy, with her enormous consumption of brandy and champagne cocktails, that was a bit rich, but of course I didn’t say anything about that. “Oh yes, I know that, my lady. I think it was just the shock of it, of sudden death, that reminded her.” I then remembered, rather belatedly, that I was talking to a girl who’d lost her mother to murder. “I’m so sorry to talk about it though, my lady, it’s not my place.”

  “Nonsense.” But Dorothy’s eyes had filled. Blinking, she looked away and lit another cigarette.

  I took that as my cue to leave and began to lift the empty cups onto the tea tray. But Verity gave me the minutest shake of the head and I hesitated. She telegraphed something to me with her eyebrows, and when I hesitated some more, unsure of what she was trying to say, mouthed ‘will’ at me.

  I took a deep breath. “Was the luncheon we prepared today to your satisfaction, my lady?”

  Dorothy was smoking and staring into space. She looked up at my voice. “What’s that, Joan?”

  “The luncheon today – for when Mr Fossick dined with you. I hope it was satisfactory? I just wanted to know, after what you’ve said about the dinners, my lady, I mean.”

  Dorothy’s frown cleared. “Oh, that. Oh yes, it was fine. To be honest, Joan, nobody really felt like eating much. We were all too nervous about the will.”

  She stopped speaking but in that way that you get the impression they want to go on, just with a bit of prompting. So I said, “The will, my lady?”

  “My mother’s will. That’s why Mr Fossick was here today, to read her will.” Dorothy spoke to me as if this would have never occurred to me and I tried not to mind. “Golly, out of all the horrible things that have happened over the past couple of weeks, at least that was a r
elief.”

  “Was it, my lady?” I couldn’t quite believe she was being so forthcoming but then Dorothy never had been that discreet.

  “Oh yes. Didn’t I say? I thought Mother might have cut me out of her will. She always threatened to, if I persisted in seeing Simon. I actually thought she’d really done it, this time. But then, she hadn’t. Or perhaps she hadn’t got around to it before – before she died.” She stubbed out her cigarette with a jab. “Poor Mother.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say, but I don’t think she was listening to me anymore. I murmured something about ‘being very glad for you in this sad time, my lady’, and then I thought I’d really better leave, Verity or no Verity.

  I closed the door softly behind me and began to make my way back to the servants’ stairs. The corridor curved sharply at a right angle, leading around to where Duncan’s and Lord Cartwright’s bedrooms were located. As I walked towards the turn, I heard the sound of a door opening around the corner, and there was something about it that made my footsteps slow. As I came up to the corner, I stopped still and peered around the wall, cautiously.

  A man was coming out of Duncan’s bedroom. For a moment, I thought it was Benton but there was something furtive in the way he was moving that made me reassess after a moment. It was Peter Drew, I realised. What was he doing in Duncan’s bedroom? He hurried away down the corridor away from me, and there was something in the set of his shoulders that recalled to me a butler I’d once known who’d spent his time at the house spying and sneaking on the people he was supposed to serve. That butler had been dismissed in the end, I remembered, because he’d poked his nose in one too many times for comfort. And here was Peter Drew, moving in exactly the same shifty, furtive way. He’s snooping, I thought. I watched him scurry down the corridor and followed him slowly, letting him move out of sight before I turned the corner.

  Chapter Twelve

  I woke up at half past five in the morning the next day, as usual. It was worse now, in the gathering gloom of autumn, when it was beginning to get so dark and cold it felt as if it were still the middle of the night. I put my feet into the slippers that Verity had given me last Christmas and wrapped my shawl around my shoulders. Then I hurried down the corridor to the servants’ bathroom.

  To my surprise, it was already occupied. I was used to being the first one up on this floor – Maggie was a bit of a slug-a-bed, and it was usually my second task of the day to get her up. Perhaps she’d managed the impossible and got herself up for once. I waited outside the bathroom, my need for the lavatory growing increasingly urgent. I was almost at the point of dashing back to my room to use the po’ when at last the door opened. I was surprised to see Nora.

  She looked a little pale, and the smile she gave me was wan. She didn’t say anything though, just walked past me and back down the corridor to her room. I hurried into the vacated bathroom. The little window was wide open, letting in blasts of chilly air, and I quickly shut it, shivering.

  The morning followed its usual routine – preparing the breakfasts, the clearing and washing of the pots and utensils and a quick cup of tea before the onslaught of luncheon began. Today they were having minestrone soup to begin, followed by mackerel fillets with lemon and thyme, mashed carrot, potato and swede and a dessert of peaches in chartreuse jelly and ice-cream. Followed of course by the usual fruits, coffee and cheeses.

  I checked the vegetable rack – we were low on both carrots and swedes. I took a basket down from where it hung on the hooks by the back door and made my way to the root cellar. This was the darkest and dankest of the cellars, situated behind the wine cellar, right at the back of the labyrinth of corridors that lay beneath the kitchen itself. I always hated a trip down there. The only light came from a dusty bulb that hung over the stairs so the far reaches of the room were always in flickering shadow.

  Quickly, I walked towards the sandboxes where the root vegetables were kept and grabbed handfuls of what I needed. I wanted to get out of this dark, spooky place as quickly as possible. It smelled horrible down here too, mouldy and dusty at the same time. I picked up the laden basket and ran up the stairs as quickly as I could, as if something nasty were snapping at my heels.

  Mrs Watling darted between the gas stove-top and the range, checking on pots and prodding pans. She glanced at me as I came back into the kitchen with my vegetables and gave me a look of approval.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table, scraping industriously away with my peeler when Verity came into the room with an armful of clothes and some jewellery boxes. She greeted me, Maggie and Mrs Watling and sat herself down next to me.

  “Mending?” I asked.

  “What else? And some jewellery to clean, too.”

  She opened up the nearest flat leather box. Inside was a beautiful string of pearls. I stared, fascinated, as Verity went and fetched a little glass of milk and began to clean the pearls with the milk and a soft cloth.

  “Do you clean all Dorothy’s jewellery?” I spoke softly so Mrs Watling wouldn’t take me to task for not calling Dorothy ‘her ladyship’.

  “Not the really expensive stuff. That goes to a specialist. But, yes, the paste jewels, these pearls for example – they’re not so valuable so she doesn’t mind if I do it.”

  Both Mrs Watling and Maggie were otherwise occupied. I leaned in closer and murmured “So what happened with the will reading? Did you manage to get in on it?”

  Verity grinned. “I persuaded Dorothy to let me come in case she had a shock and she needed me.” She paused to wipe the last pearl clean and then laid the string down gently. “You know, I think she actually thought she would have one. A shock, I mean. About the will.”

  I thought back to what Dorothy had said. “You mean, that her mother might have cut her out because of that Simon?”

  “Yes. I think she was really worried about it. I haven’t seen her so relieved since—” She stopped talking abruptly.

  “Since what?” I asked.

  Verity shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

  I wanted to press her but I knew that stubborn look on her face. She wasn’t going to be any more forthcoming just now.

  I changed the subject. “So, were there any surprises with the will?”

  Verity was threading a needle. She bit off the thread and selected a little piece of lacy silk frivolity. “No, not that I could tell. The bulk of Lady E’s estate went to Lord Cartwright. No surprises here.”

  “And Dorothy was all right.” I got up to rinse my peeler free of carrot juice and sat back down to start on the swedes. “What about Peter?”

  Verity quirked her mouth. “Nothing. Just a few pieces of furniture and some pictures.”

  I stared at her. “Nothing? He’s inherited nothing?”

  Verity shrugged. “That’s what Mr Fossick said. No money.”

  “But—” I remembered what Verity had said about Peter coming into money. “What about the money he said he was getting?”

  Verity had finished the tear in the lace of the camisole and she folded it neatly. “I don’t know. Perhaps he thought he was going to inherit.”

  “Gosh.” I stared blindly down at the half peeled swede in my hand. What a vindictive gesture from Lady Eveline – to reward one of her children but not the other. Had she really disliked him that much? How would that have made Peter feel?

  Pushing aside that thought, I leant closer to Verity. “What else?”

  Verity bit her lip, thinking. “Nothing that surprising. She didn’t leave anything to Duncan, but I suppose that was to be expected – he wasn’t her son, after all. Some small bequests to her sisters and a cousin. I think that was it.”

  “Hmm.” So the principal beneficiary of Lady Eveline’s will, the main inheritor of her fortune, was her husband Lord Cartwright. That was usual, I supposed. But was it another motive?

  I took the vegetable peelings up to the stove and scraped them into the stockpot which was always kept on one of the back burners at a
slow simmer. I thought about Lord Cartwright and his money. I knew he was an industrialist – he’d made a lot of his fortune in manufacturing in the North of England. Had he also inherited money from his first wife?

  I remembered overhearing a conversation between Mrs Anstells and Mr Fenwick, some months ago, which hadn’t made much sense at the time but now did. Mrs Anstells had said something about “the speed of the wedding had seemed rather indelicate,” and Mr Fenwick had admonished her in his ponderous way. “It’s not for us to judge, Mrs Anstells.” I’d known they were talking about the family, but now I realised they’d been talking about Lady Eveline and Lord Cartwright. Had they married quickly, after the death of the first Lady Cartwright? I decided I would ask Verity, but when I turned around, she was making her way out of the door, her arms piled with clothes and jewellery boxes. Never mind, it could wait until later.

  Lunch was finished, served up and the servants’ more modest repast prepared. I sat down at the table for our luncheon with a thankful sigh. The small of my back and the soles of my feet were killing me.

  I noticed Nora wasn’t eating much. She still looked pale. I leant over to murmur, “Are you feeling quite well?” in her ear.

  She looked at me, startled, as if her thoughts had been far away. “I’m fine, thank you, Joan,” she said after a moment and flashed me a smile that was somehow dismissive.

  Mentally shrugging, I turned back to my lamb stew. After lunch, I had a lovely two whole hours free before the onslaught of the evening meal preparation began. It would be a big meal tonight, with all of the family present, plus Dorothy’s beau, Simon Snailer. I knew Mrs Watling was planning some elaborate centrepiece for the main course, which would no doubt involve hours of tricky, fiddly work, sweating from the heat of the stove. Oh well. I pushed the thought away and scraped the last bit of gravy from my plate. It made me remember the first place I’d ever worked, when I was just a girl recently released from the orphanage, the one with the skinflint cook. At that place, during the servants’ meal, you learned to eat quickly because once the housekeeper and the butler had finished what was on their plates, that was it – the meal was over for the rest of us, regardless if you’d actually finished eating or not. The memory of it still made me cross. I got up to put my plate in the scullery sink, thanking my stars that I was working here now and not there, murder or no murder.