It was a lovely autumn day, warm for the time of year, and as it had been fairly dry that week, I decided to chance a walk, hoping the woodland paths wouldn’t be too muddy. I put on my coat, affixed my hat to my head, and took up my gloves. As I walked up the kitchen stairs into the courtyard, I took a quick look at the iron clock that hung on the gable of the stable block. At least an hour, then, before I had to head back. I strode off towards the woodlands that stood at the back of the estate, determined to enjoy my short escape.
The woods were of mainly deciduous trees: oak, beech, hazel and elm. It made for pleasant walking, with the light slanting down through the bare branches and dappling the leaf-strewn walking paths. As I had hoped, it wasn’t too muddy as yet, and the fallen leaves soaked up the worst of the damp. As I walked along, enjoying the rich smells of ferment and fresh air, and the distant farmyard waft of cattle and sheep, I thought back to Asharton Manor and how different it had felt, walking in the pine woods behind that huge old house. Even now, I couldn’t recall the clearing, where the ancient rites of Asharte had once been performed, without a shiver.
I kept an eye on the position of the sun in relation to me as I walked, and when I judged I had about forty minutes to return to the house to be in plenty of time, I turned back. I had just opened the gate that led into the gardens of the lodge and turned the sharp corner of the path when I almost ran into the tall, dark figure of Inspector Marks.
I may have squeaked in surprise. “I’m so sorry, sir, I do apologise, I – I didn’t know you were there,” I stammered.
He didn’t seem perturbed. “That’s no trouble, Miss Hart. Been out for a walk, I see?”
I composed myself a little. “Yes, sir. I like to walk when I have the opportunity.”
“Quite right.” He spoke rather absently. I looked at him more closely, and I could detect an air of – was it sadness? No, something less than that but still a negative emotion. Frustration? Annoyance?
This should have been the right time to curtsey and excuse myself. Instead, I screwed up my courage and asked “May I ask if you are any further forward with the case, sir?”
Was that too bold? I knew it was something someone like Dorothy, for example, would have no hesitation in asking. But was it really my place to enquire?
The inspector didn’t seem angry. He gave me a sharp glance from under his heavy black brows. “Servants still got the wind up about an escaped lunatic, is that it?”
“Well, sir, it’s not a very nice thought, is it? To think that there’s somebody out there capable of doing that harm to a fellow human being.”
Again, I got that glance that I’d received the first time he’d interviewed me. It was a glance of something more like respect – as if he suddenly saw me as a person, a real person, rather than just an anonymous face in a uniform. The warmth of it went through me like a glass of brandy.
“Miss Hart—” He stopped talking, regarding me for another moment. Then, as if on impulse, he took my arm and drew me further down the path, off into a little alcove formed by two dark yew bushes. Here we were sheltered a little from anyone’s view of the path.
I was half startled, half uneasy, and that must have shown in my face.
“Forgive me, miss, but there’s something I need to ask you.” He leant forward a little and lowered his voice. “I know servants see everything. They might even know something, something they think is quite inconsequential, but that might have a real bearing on the outcome of a criminal case. Think, Joan.” I was a little taken aback at his use of my first name. “Think. Is there anything that you’ve seen, or heard, or that your fellow workers might have seen or heard that has – shall we say – given you pause? Made you uneasy? Anything at all?”
I stared at him, my heart thumping. “I’m not often above stairs,” I said stupidly.
He let go of my arm and moved away a little. I got the impression my answer had disappointed him and for a moment, I couldn’t bear it, it was as if I’d sunk back in his estimation. “Wait,” I said, closing the small gap between us. “Sir, if I may, I do have – I think I do have something you might think is important.”
I fell silent. I’d said that bit on impulse but now it came to the meat of the story, I was nervous. Would he think I was completely indelicate? It wasn’t really as if I had anything concrete to say.
Inspector Marks’s attention was once more riveted on me. “Go on,” he said, underlining his remark with an inclination of his head.
I swallowed. Now I came to say it, it sounded so…so thin. “Well, sir, it’s probably nothing. But about three days after the – after the incident, I was just getting some kitchen things from the cupboard by the study…”
I told him honestly, and without embellishment, everything that I had overheard, such as it was. His face was impassive as I told him and I couldn’t help but wonder whether he was inwardly chastising me for eavesdropping or for having indelicate ideas about my employer. “It’s most probably nothing,” I finished, miserably. “But I just thought I ought to tell you.”
“Hmm.” The inspector regarded me for a moment. “Has there been a lot of gossip about this in the servants’ hall?”
“Well, not from me, sir,” I said, a little spiritedly. “It may not sound like it, but I am not a gossip. The only person I’ve even mentioned it to is Miss Hunter.”
“Hmm,” the inspector said again. “Well, thank you, Miss Hart. It’s certainly something we shall make a note of.”
I wanted to ask whether he knew that Dorothy had been frightened about being cut out of her mother’s will because of her romance with Simon Snailer but I didn’t quite dare. After a moment, I became conscious of the time. I really had to get back.
“Excuse me, sir, but I must return to the kitchen – if there’s nothing else I can help you with?”
“No, no, that’s fine. Run along.” Again, he spoke absently. I couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or intrigued by what I had told him.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll say goodbye then.”
I had turned to go and was about five yards away when a shout from the inspector stopped me. Startled, I turned around again.
“Joan Hart,” he said, half smiling. “I thought I recognised the name. It was when you mentioned Miss Hunter in connection with yourself.”
“Sir?”
The inspector eyed me. “Asharton Manor,” was all he said.
The shock was clearly reflected on my face. I didn’t know what to say.
The inspector took a few steps closer. “You and Miss Hunter had to give evidence in that trial, didn’t you?”
Scarlet-faced, I nodded.
“Yes, I remember now. Impressed the judge, didn’t you both? He mentioned your courage and your quick thinking in his summing up before pronouncing sentence.”
An image of the hangman’s noose flashed once more into my head. Out loud, I said, with what I hoped was some dignity, “Yes sir, both Verity – Miss Hunter – and myself were involved.” I looked him in the eye. “It was quite a distressing experience for both of us.”
“I’m sure.” He looked hard at me for a moment longer and then took a step back, dismissing me. “Run along then, Miss Hart.”
Chapter Thirteen
I got back to the kitchen with about thirty seconds to spare, whisked on an apron and was industrially chopping onions by the time Mrs Watling came through from her sitting room. “Gird up your loins, my girl,” she said as she bustled past me and towards the stove. “It’ll be a circus tonight, and no mistake.”
She had her ‘book’ under her arm – something that all good cooks made use of. Every recipe, every little twist, every time saving trick was noted down in a notebook and taken from job to job. It was every cook’s own personal bible, library and diary, rolled into one, and seeing Mrs Watling’s book under her arm made me realise, rather guiltily, that recently I seemed to spend more time scribbling in my writing and storytelling notebooks than I had in my cook’s book. As I transfe
rred the sliced onions to the hot oil in the frying pan, listening with satisfaction to the sizzle, I made a mental note to update my cook’s book that evening, if I had the time.
As the evening wore on, I realised how unlikely that would be. With six courses to prepare for six people, plus the servants’ evening meal, there was no time to do anything but rush around from table-top to stove, from refrigerator to sink, from pantry to larder. Scarlet-faced in the steam, I chopped and boiled, mashed and rinsed, chopped some more and stirred, carried and fetched.
I was too busy to be aware of much else around me other than the job in hand. Even so, the first time Nora came into the kitchen in search of a clean apron – she was waiting at table tonight – I had to take another look. She looked as pale as milk. As she came into the kitchen, walking through the hot, heavy, food-scented air, I saw her swallow and her pallor increased to an extent that was almost alarming.
“Nora.” I put the saucepan I was carrying down and stepped smartly over to her, catching her by the arm. For a moment I thought she was going to faint. “Are you all right?”
I drew her over to the back door and onto the bottom step of the flight that led up to the courtyard. The cold night air seemed to revive her a little
“Gosh, thank you Joan.” She took a deep breath and then another. “I just – I felt rather sick. I think it was just the heat.”
I looked at her hard. “You’ve not looked well all day. Is there something wrong?”
For a moment, she looked frightened. I could see her making up her mind as to whether to confide in me but then there was a shout from Mrs Watling and I made a sound of annoyance. “Look, I’ve got to go. Stay out here for a bit, get some air.”
Nora nodded thankfully. I hurried back to the chaos of the kitchen.
“Those potatoes are going to be mush, Joan,” gasped Mrs Watling as she hurried past me with the sirloin of beef. “Come on, look lively.”
“Sorry. Nora was ill—” It was pointless saying any more. I knew Mrs Watling was a good sort, it was just that this part of the job meant she had to snap and shout. Every dish that went up to the table up there was a reflection of the cook’s skill and efficiency, and every day could be the day when something went wrong.
Somehow, we all got through the evening. At about half-past ten, when the tray of coffee, the cheeseboard, and the fruit and savoury biscuits had been carried up, Mrs Watling and I collapsed into the two chairs in her sitting room, too tired even to think about making tea.
“Good Lord, I’m getting too old for this,” Mrs Watling murmured. I murmured something non-committal back. For a moment, I had a qualm about the future, not something I normally allowed myself to think about too much. I had ambition, definitely, but would that ever come to fruition? Or would I just end up working as a skivvy for the rest of my life, until I got too old to do it anymore and then…what? Would there still be workhouses in the future? What would happen to me?
Shaking my head to dispel these gloomy thoughts, I forced myself to sit up.
“Joan, be a good girl and pour me a small sherry.” Mrs Watling stared up at the low ceiling of her room, her eyes stretched wide. I knew that feeling. You kept your eyes open because if you shut them, even for a few moments, you would fall asleep.
“Of course.” Feeling pity for her and for myself, I heaved to my feet and staggered through to the kitchen. I was surprised to see Verity walking through the doorway, her face anxious. ”Hello, V. What’s wrong?” For some reason, I had a jump of paranoia that we, the kitchen staff, had messed up the food.
Verity tried to smile. “Don’t worry, Joan, it’s nothing you’ve done.” She had an uncanny knack of reading my mind, sometimes. “No, it’s just they’ve all just had a big row. Upstairs.”
“Upstairs? The family have?”
Verity nodded. She sat down at the kitchen table and propped her pointy chin on her hands. “Dorothy told me about it when she came up to her room. Apparently Peter wasn’t there tonight and he should have been. Lord C got really angry because apparently, the police want to talk to him again.”
“Talk to who?”
“The police want to talk to Peter again.”
“Oh.” I reached for three sherry glasses and poured a generous tot of sherry into each one. Then I slid one across the table to Verity. “Here. You have one too. I’ll just take this through to Mrs Watling.”
When I got back, Verity had drained the glass and was wiping her lips with the back of her hand like a thirsty sailor. “That hit the spot, Joan. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I sat down opposite her with my own glass. “So where was Peter, then?”
Verity shrugged. “No idea. He just didn’t turn up for dinner.”
“No wonder Lord C was cross.”
“It wasn’t just that. He made some rude remark about Simon Snailer. Then Dorothy blew up, and then they had a shouting match.” Verity shook her head. “Duncan pulled Dorothy up for being rude to his father, then Dorothy had a go back at him. What a mess.”
I couldn’t help but giggle at the image all these supposedly high-born, well-bred people brawling like dock-workers. Verity smiled tiredly as well. “I know, Joan. The footmen and Mr Fenwick must have got a right earful.”
I had wondered why so much of our beautifully made dinner had come back down almost untouched. They must have all been too busy shouting to eat much. I tried to feel cross at all that hard work going to waste, but I was just too tired.
Verity yawned. She braced her hands against the table and stood up. “Anyway, I just came down to get a hot chocolate for Dorothy. She’s having an early night for once, thank the Lord, up there in her room turning the air blue. She’s still absolutely steaming.”
“Take her a sherry,” I suggested, giggling a little.
Verity gave me a wry look. “She’s had far too much already. Hot chocolate it will have to be.”
I let her make the hot chocolate for once – I didn’t want to even touch the stove again after the evening’s work. Verity was just leaving the room when something occurred to me. I called her back.
“What is it, Joan?”
“It’s Nora,” I said. “She’s not been herself lately, have you noticed? She came in this evening and I thought she was going to drop.”
Verity looked worried again. “Now you mention it – she was sick the other morning. I was waiting outside the bathroom and I could hear her.”
We both looked at one another, the penny dropping. Verity looked stricken.
“Bloody hell,” she swore. “She can’t be—”
We were silent for a moment. I put my hand up to my mouth. “We might be wrong,” I suggested, somewhat feebly.
“God, Joanie, I hope so. Oh Lord…” Verity trailed off. “We’d better ask her,” she suggested.
I nodded, feeling grim at the very thought. “All right. But, let’s pick the moment, shall we? She might not even want to tell us if we gang up on her.”
“No, you’re right.” Verity briefly closed her eyes. “Bloody hell, this is all we need.” She gave me a quick squeeze of the arm. “I’d better go. Talk to you later.”
I finished my sherry, glad of the warmth that spread down my throat as I swallowed it. I wondered whether Peter Drew’s absence had anything to do with what I’d told Inspector Marks in the garden that afternoon. But how could it? My thoughts slipped from Peter Drew to Nora. What if Nora was pregnant? I washed up my sherry glass, feeling cold with empathic dread.
It was another hour before the kitchen was ship-shape, and by then I was almost asleep on my feet. I hung the last shining copper saucepan back on its hook, gave the table a final wipe, rinsed and hung the cloth over the sink tap and stood back, surveying the room. So much for having time to write up my book. I would be lucky to make it to bed before collapsing. I sighed and turned for the door, dreading the long climb upstairs to my bed.
Chapter Fourteen
I woke the next morning to hear the sound of hea
vy rain. Although it was dark and cold as usual, the patter of raindrops on the eaves above me made a cosy sort of sound. I groped for the matchbox, lit the lamp and felt for my slippers, my toes curling away from the cold linoleum. Verity was a gently breathing heap curled under the bedclothes. I made sure her feet were tucked beneath the blankets and tiptoed out of the room.
I washed, dressed and went to rouse Maggie. Together we trooped down the servants’ stairs, yawning and not saying much to one another. Maggie went to fill the kettle, and I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and went to have a look at what was on the menu for today. We followed a fortnightly pattern; mostly the same dishes on rotation, changing over every two weeks, unless the family had company or were otherwise entertaining. It made preparation and food ordering much easier.
I didn’t mind cooking breakfast. It was always the same, and by now I could almost do it in my sleep (which was handy some mornings, I can tell you). The main challenge was getting everything prepared at the same time so it could be carried up to the sideboard in the dining table for the family to help themselves. It was the one meal of the day where they weren’t waited on.
I’d forgotten about Nora in the rush of the morning but as we all sat down to breakfast, I caught Verity’s eye across the table and she inclined her head very slightly to indicate where Nora was sitting, three chairs down. Immediately recalling what we’d spoken about, I looked and my heart sank. Nora still looked dreadful; ashy pale, with great half-moons of shadow beneath her eyes. She had only eaten a miniscule bit of porridge. I looked back at Verity and shook my head very slightly. We would have to wait for the right moment to confront poor Nora. I found myself hoping quite desperately that Nora actually had some dreadful but quite innocent illness that mimicked all the symptoms of pregnancy.
Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 Page 10