The lunch for the day was a lighter one, thankfully: vegetable soup, Dover sole with accompaniments, lemon tart and cream. I reached for a chopping board and handed it to Maggie. “We may as well get the soup started now. Be a good girl and chop up some swede and carrot, will you? I’ll do the onions.”
Maggie took the board. Rooting around in the vegetable rack, she looked up at me from her kneeling position. “We’re out of swedes.”
“Well, go and get some more, then.” Honestly. Maggie was a nice girl but she didn’t have much initiative. She nodded obediently and went off in the direction of the root cellar.
Mrs Watling was already making up the batter for the Dover sole. “I wonder if they’ll all be sitting up to table again tonight?” she mused. I shrugged. No doubt Miss Rosalind would be down to consult with us, lording it over us as if she were the lady of the manor.
I’d just begun on the onions when there was a scream so violent that I jumped and the knife flew out of my hand and fell to the floor, missing my foot by an inch.
“Good God, what was that?” Mrs Watling froze by the stove, her hand up to her chest. “What was that?”
The screaming continued. Shaking, I rushed towards where the sound was coming from. As I got closer to the cellar steps, I could hear better, and I realised it was Maggie who was screaming.
The footman, Andrew, was right behind me, running, his face set. Together we almost fell down the cellar steps in our haste to reach Maggie. Even in the dim light of the cellar, I could see her standing up where the passageway turned a corner into the darkest part of the room. Her hands were buried in her hair and her mouth was an open hole.
“What is it? What’s the matter?” I gasped, skidding to a stop. Andrew ran past both of us, round the corner. I heard him gasp.
“What is it? What is it?” I asked, terrified. Maggie cast herself into my arms, weeping and gulping.
Andrew came back into view, white and shaking. “Don’t go back there, Joan,” he warned, his teeth chattering. Then he said a very bad word.
“What is it?” I don’t know why I kept asking the same things. It wasn’t as if anyone was answering me.
I could hear other hurrying footsteps up above and then thundering down the cellar steps. Verity, Albert, Nora and Mrs Watling came running up to us. They all started talking at once.
I thrust Maggie at Mrs Watling and strode around the corner. “Don’t, Joan!” Andrew said again, making a grab for me, but I jigged aside, escaping him. I already had an inkling of what it was I was going to see, but the actual sight of it stopped me dead in my tracks.
I stood, hugging my arms across my trembling body, looking at the dead body of Peter Drew. As I stood there, silent and aghast, Verity came up beside me. I heard her gasp but she didn’t say anything else. We both stood looking down at him. He looked as though he’d been dead for some time, and even in the dim light, I could see the brownish stains on his shirt-front.
After what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, Verity took me by the arm, propelled me round, and steered me back around the corner. Andrew had already disappeared, no doubt to warn Mr Fenwick to call the police. Maggie was being shepherded up the stairs, supported on either side by Mrs Watling and Nora.
“Come on,” Verity said sharply to Albert, who looked as though he were about to go and look himself. “We have to clear this room for the police.”
“What is it?” His eyes were like saucers.
Verity grabbed his arm with her free hand and pushed him back up the stairs. “Never you mind.”
“Come on, Verity—”
“It’s not your business.”
He was still arguing with her when he got back to the kitchen. I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell him – it wasn’t as if it was going to be a secret.
Albert shook off Verity’s hand and ran off in the direction of the hallway. I knew he’d gone to find Andrew, to see if he would tell him what was happening.
“Sit down, Joan,” Verity said, almost pushing me into a chair. I subsided gratefully, realising I was actually feeling a bit light-headed. Verity sat down opposite me, and we stared at each other across the table, wide-eyed and silent.
*
It was like some awful deja-vu that day. Again, the police cars came crunching over the gravel driveway, parking with a screech of brakes. Again, Mr Fenwick ponderously showed them through to the family. Again, Verity had to tend to Dorothy who was in bed having hysterics. Mrs Watling and I prepared possibly the worst meal we’d ever made, managing to burn both the meat and vegetables, dropping the prepared pudding on the floor. We looked at one another in despair before I bent down to pick up the broken pieces of china and scrape up the fruit and cream from the red tiles.
“I can’t send that up,” said Mrs Watling in a shaky voice. She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. I patted her on the shoulder, not knowing what else to do.
“Nobody’s going to eat anything, anyway,” Maggie said in a watery voice. She’d done nothing all morning but sit hunched over in one of Mrs Watling’s armchairs, which had been brought through from her sitting room.
At that moment, there was a heavy step on the stairs outside and a moment later, Inspector Marks walked into the kitchen, frowning. Mrs Watling, Maggie and I all looked at him in a sort of glazed silence.
“Peter Drew has been murdered, as I’m sure you ladies are aware,” Inspector Marks said sternly. “Miss Langton—” He turned directly to Maggie. “I understand you found the body?”
Maggie gulped and nodded. “Then I’ll need to speak to you right away,” said the inspector.
Mrs Watling cleared her throat. “Inspector, would you mind if myself or Joan sat in on that interview? Maggie is very young.”
The inspector frowned. Then he turned to me. “Miss Hart, I understand you were quickly on the scene when your colleague here screamed?” I nodded. The inspector continued. “Then you can accompany your colleague. I also have some questions for you.”
“You can use my sitting room,” Mrs Watling said tiredly. She looked as if she didn’t have the strength to rise from her chair.
The inspector ushered us through to the room ahead of him. I held Maggie’s arm and steered her in the direction of a spare chair. There wasn’t one for me and the inspector so I remained standing.
“Sit down, Miss Hart,” said Inspector Marks. I blushed and did so. He propped himself up against the edge of Mrs Watling’s sideboard.
“Now, Miss Langton. What happened this morning? Why were you in the cellar?”
Maggie gulped. “I was just getting some vegetables, sir. We’d run out and we needed them for the soup.” She stopped abruptly.
“Go on, please.”
I was too far away to give her a nudge but I sent an expressive look across the room. Her eyes flickered to mine and she sat up a little. “I don’t know what else to say, sir. I was just getting the swedes, and I went around the corner to where they were, and I – I saw him.”
“Did you touch anything?”
Maggie looked confused. “No. I don’t think so.”
The inspector looked over at me. “What about you, Miss Hart?”
“Of course not,” I said, rather more sharply than I’d intended.
“Hmm.” The inspector regarded me from under lowered brows for a moment. Then he said, “No, I expect you wouldn’t have done such a thing.” Maggie looked even more confused. “Why were you there, Miss Hart?”
“Because I heard Maggie screaming.” I could feel myself becoming a little annoyed. Perhaps it was the shock, hitting me at last. “I heard my colleague screaming, so of course I ran to help. Andrew – Mister Collier, the first footman, I mean – did too. He also saw the body.”
“I’ve already interviewed Mister Collier.” The inspector re-crossed his ankles and settled himself back again. “Now, when was the last time you were in the cellar? Before this morning, I mean.”
I thought back. “It
must have been several days ago.”
“Did you go as far into the room as Maggie went this morning? I mean, did you see anything suspicious?”
I shook my head, sure of that point. “No, sir. Nothing that was at all untoward.”
The inspector looked at me for another moment, rubbing his moustache. Then he nodded. “We’re still establishing a time of death,” he said after a moment. “So any information you could give me would be helpful. Can you and Miss Langton tell me the last time you saw the deceased, Peter Drew?”
I was silent, thinking. Maggie tentatively raised her hand. “I haven’t seen him for over a week, sir. I don’t leave the kitchens much.”
“Thank you. Miss Hart?”
Suddenly, it came to me where I had seen Peter Drew last. He’d been in Duncan Cartwright’s bedroom, sneaking out of the door. I wanted to tell the inspector, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of Maggie.
I didn’t have the nerve to ask her to leave, not when we were both there on Inspector Marks’s say-so. Instead I inclined my head very slightly towards her, holding the inspector’s gaze, and raised my eyebrows. Would he understand?
He did, thankfully. “Thank you, Miss Langton, I think that will be all now. You may return to your duties.” Maggie got up and scuttled out of the room, her shoulders dropping with relief. Then he turned to me. “You have some information, Miss Hart?”
I nodded. “It may be nothing of course—” I went on to tell him everything I had seen. I even included the anecdote about the butler at the house I’d worked at previously, who’d been brought back to mind with Peter’s actions.
“Thank you, Miss Hart,” Inspector Marks said once I’d finished. He said it in a neutral way but I was beginning to understand that he spoke like that when he’d heard something that excited him. He didn’t want to show it but I was pretty sure that my little piece of information had been important, after all.
In the short silence that followed, I screwed up my nerve. “Sir, may I – may I ask how poor Mister Drew died?”
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer me. Then he said, rather absently, “The post mortem hasn’t yet been conducted so we don’t know – officially.”
“But, unofficially?” I asked, greatly daring.
The inspector smiled. “If I didn’t know better, Miss Hart, I’d believe you harbour ambitions to become a police officer.”
I was shocked. A female police officer? Of course, I knew in theory they existed but I’d never seen one. Besides, it wasn’t really that I was interested in police work – I was interested in solving the mystery.
“I think I’d rather be a detective, sir,” I said, so boldly I surprised myself.
The inspector laughed. Then he saw my face and his laughter died. “Forgive me, Miss Hart. You surprised me, that’s all.” He looked at me appraisingly. “You are quite surprising, Miss Hart. For what it’s worth, I think you’re wasted as a cook.”
“I’m only the undercook,” I said, stupidly. I was so taken aback by what he’d said it was all I could think of to say.
The inspector smiled. “Well, the world is changing, Miss Hart. Who knows what opportunities there will be for bright young women in the future?” He rubbed his moustache again and then stood up. “And now, I must get on with my work. Thank you for the information.”
Knowing a dismissal when I heard one, I stood up too and bobbed a curtsey. “Thank you, sir,” was an inadequate goodbye but it would have to do.
Again, I was walking away when he called me back. I turned, eagerly.
“Miss Hart, you haven’t worked here very long, have you?”
Nonplussed, I shook my head. “Only six months or so, sir.”
“So you never worked for the family in their London house?”
“No, that’s correct, sir. But of course, I will do when the family returns to London for the season.”
The inspector nodded but he had a funny look on his face, as if he were thinking that perhaps that would never happen. Then he asked “Your friend, Miss Hunter, she’s worked for them for some years, yes?”
“Yes, about eight years, sir.”
“She was working for them in London when the first Lady Cartwright died?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, puzzled.
“Right,” said the inspector. Then he suddenly became brisk. “Thank you, Miss Hart. You can go now.”
Chapter Fifteen
I was almost dead on my feet by the end of the day, but I willed myself to stay awake once I got back to Verity’s and my room. I had to talk to Verity, no matter how tired I was. Whether that meant waiting up until she could leave Dorothy at three o’clock in the morning, for example, then so be it. I’d fortified myself by sneaking up a full teapot and some biscuits, which I then hid under the bed, fortifying myself with them at intervals.
As it happened, she came in quite early. I’d checked our little alarm clock at ten and Verity came in at twenty past the hour. She sort of slumped through the doorway, her head hanging down, and sat down with a thump on her bed, staring at me with dull eyes.
“What’s the matter?” I asked in alarm and then mentally shook myself. What was I even asking that sort of question?
Verity half laughed. “What a question, Joanie.”
“I know. Sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“Don’t I know it?” Verity allowed herself to fall sideways so that she was lying on the bed. “This is like living in a nightmare, Joan. It simply goes on and on.” She turned her head on the pillow to look at me. “Now I know what it must have been like for you at Asharton Manor, you poor thing.”
“That was different,” I said honestly. “It wasn’t – it wasn’t brutal.” Of course, I hadn’t felt like that at the time, but looking back, I could see how it had been different. “This is…” I couldn’t finish and the words just drifted off into silence.
I remembered I still had some tea left and got up to pour Verity a cup. I had to use my dirty teacup as I’d only managed to smuggle one up, but I knew she wouldn’t mind.
“It’s still fairly hot,” I said, handing her the saucer.
“Oh, thank you. Just what I need.” Verity took a sip and remarked “I should have swiped some of Dorothy’s brandy.”
“How is she?” I asked, tentatively.
Verity closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. “Not good. I had to get her to take a sleeping pill in the end. I was worried—” She stopped talking for a moment and then said, with difficulty, “I was worried she was going to hurt herself. Do something stupid. That’s why I’ve got to be up early in the morning, before she wakes up.”
“You’re not her keeper, V,” I said, but gently. It must have been hard for Verity to remain detached, given her mistress’s distress.
“I know. It’s just – oh, Joanie, it’s so awful. I know she didn’t much like her brother but he was her brother. And having lost her mother as well, and her father…” She trailed off.
It got me thinking. Surely Dorothy could have nothing to do with these killings? Surely? Will or no will? I remembered how distressed she had been when the police had arrested Peter. Surely no sister or daughter could have done these things, not unless they were a deranged lunatic, and if that were the case, surely it would be obvious. Wouldn’t it?
In my silence of the last few moments, Verity had heaved herself upright and begun undressing. Tiredly, she unpinned her hair and sat down in front of the mirror to brush it out.
“I can do that,” I offered. I could see she had scarcely the energy to lift the brush.
“Thank you.”
I drew the brush through her fine, red-gold hair, the colour of a fox pelt or of autumn leaves. Verity closed her eyes, sighing. “My mother used to do this for me,” she said in a small voice.
I couldn’t think of what to say, but I smiled sympathetically at her in the mirror. Then I remembered what it was I wanted to ask her. “Did the inspector talk to you?”
Verity op
ened her eyes. “Yes. He managed to get me after I’d finally got Dorothy to sleep. I’ve only just come up from the room they’re using for interviews.”
“What did he want to ask you?”
Verity frowned. “Well, of course I had to say when I’d last seen Peter. And that wasn’t that long ago, it was the day before yesterday. He was driving off towards the village in Dorothy’s car.”
“What else?” I’d worked out the last tangle, and I gently detached the brush from Verity’s hair and put it back down on the dressing table.
Verity sighed. “It was strange. He wanted to know all about when I worked for the family when the first Lady C was alive. Of course, I wasn’t Dorothy’s lady’s maid then, I was the second housemaid.”
“Yes?” I prompted.
“Well, he kept asking me questions about the night she died. About what her relationship with the servants was like and with the other members of the family. How his Lordship treated her.” Her gaze met mine in the mirror. “Strange, isn’t it?”
I was silent, thinking. Verity got up and made her way back to her bed. She was frowning again, the smooth white skin of her forehead bunching like creased linen.
“Maybe…” I began tentatively, and then stopped.
Verity looked at me. “What is it?”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe the inspector thinks that these deaths are related to the death of the first Lady Cartwright.”
We looked at one another in silence. Verity said “How could they be, Joan? That was an accident.”
“Was it?” I asked.
Verity’s eyes widened. “Well, of course it was. There was never any suggestion of—” She broke off abruptly.
I sat tensely. “What, V?”
Verity was staring into space, her mind obviously far away. “That’s odd you said that,” she said slowly after a moment. “That’s odd. It’s just reminded me of something strange that happened right after Lady C – the first one – died.”
Murder at Merisham Lodge: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 1 Page 11