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

by Grace, Celina

  “What?” I asked, breathlessly.

  Verity was biting her lip. “Do you remember Gladys? She was a housemaid too, she worked with me.”

  I thought back to my visits to the Cartwright townhouse. Gladys, Gladys… after a moment I managed to recall a tall girl, rather buxom. Quite a saucy manner on her but Verity had always said she was a nice girl, if a bit lazy.

  “I think so,” I said, slowly. “Dark hair, yes? Quite an eye for the boys?”

  Verity grinned. “Yes, that was Gladys.”

  “What about her?”

  Verity stopped grinning. “Well, that’s just it. Just after the first Lady C died, Gladys gave notice. Really soon after it happened, perhaps two days afterwards.”

  “And?” I prompted because she stopped speaking again.

  “Well, I always thought it was funny.”

  I suppressed a scream with difficulty. “What was? Come on, V, spit it out.”

  Verity smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m not trying to be mysterious, I’m just thinking. I hadn’t thought about this for years but now, it’s coming back to me.” Just as I was thinking about bashing her over the head with a pillow to get her to come to the point, she shook her head and sat up. “This is the thing, Joan. Lady Cartwright, Alice Cartwright, fell down the stairs and died, about five years ago now. A day or so after she died, Gladys gave notice, and she left very quickly after that, about a week later. I don’t even think she had a new situation to go to.” She looked at me.

  “Right,” I said after a moment, realising I was supposed to make a contribution.

  “Well,” said Verity, continuing. “It was a pretty awful time, what with the accident and the police and everyone upset, so I didn’t really think about Gladys leaving so quickly or so suddenly. But now I look back it’s…odd. Very odd. Why did she just suddenly leave, for no reason?”

  I was thinking. “She wasn’t dismissed?”

  Verity shook her head. “No, definitely not. We would have known.”

  I frowned. “You don’t think… You don’t think Gladys had anything to do with Lady Alice falling, do you?”

  Verity looked shocked. “Of course not, Joan. That wasn’t what I meant at all. Gladys wouldn’t have hurt a fly; she would never do something as wicked as – as what you’re suggesting.”

  “Well, what then?” I asked, rather impatiently. “I meant, do you think the accident could have been her fault but that she didn’t mean to do it? I mean, could she, I don’t know, have loosened the stair-rod accidentally or something like that and of course not meant to hurt anyone, but when the cause of the accident came out, Gladys was terrified she would be blamed and that’s why she gave notice?”

  Verity had been shaking her head slowly through this entire speech of mine. “No. No, Joan, that’s not what I meant.” She looked me in the eye and said “But what if she saw something? Or someone?”

  Silence fell as I mulled that over. It was funny, but now Verity had made it, it didn’t seem like such an outrageous suggestion. That was what living through two murders did for you. It turned you into someone who could quite easily accept that an accident had been anything but.

  Eventually I spoke. “It’s possible,” I said slowly. I was in my own bed by this time, and I realised I was pleating the blanket nervously between my fingers. “So, what we’re really saying is, it’s possible that Lady Alice’s accident wasn’t an accident and that there may have been a witness in Gladys?”

  Verity and I looked at one another solemnly. “Yes,” she said.

  I fell back upon my pillows with a sigh. “Lord give me strength.” I remembered the bold remark I’d made to Inspector Marks that afternoon. I would really rather be a detective. What a silly thing to have said. He must have thought I was a lunatic.

  “Should I tell the inspector?” Verity asked.

  I blew out my cheeks. “I suppose so. I don’t know, though. It’s not exactly evidence, is it?”

  Verity slid down beneath the blankets, yawning. “Sorry, Joan, I can’t stay awake any longer. Tell you what we can do, though.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, catching the yawn. Looking at the clock, I could see it was almost midnight. We had both better get some rest.

  “I’ll write to Gladys. I’ve got her mother’s address, and she’ll be able to forward it on.”

  “You’re not going to ask her – well, what we just talked about, surely?”

  “Of course not, Joanie, what do you take me for? I’ll just see if she wants to meet us, for you to be there as well. We can go into details when we see her. If we see her.”

  “Fine.” I was so tired now I couldn’t stop the droop of my eyelids. It sounded rather a hopeless plan to me, but in the face of nothing better, I was prepared to give it a go.

  “Turn off the lamp, Joanie,” came Verity’s voice, muffled under the covers.

  I did so and lay down, sliding into darkness and unconsciousness in a matter of moments.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The upheaval of the last day had driven any thought of Nora’s possible predicament from my mind, and I was sure, from Verity’s. It wasn’t until I sat down to breakfast that I remembered. Nora was still pale, still pushing food around the bowl and not really eating it. I caught Verity’s eye and nodded my head towards Nora, and Verity set her mouth and nodded.

  We caught up with her after breakfast, in the hallway, as she was making her way upstairs.

  “Nora,” Verity hissed. Nora jumped and nearly lost her footing. She turned around and saw us both gesticulating to her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Come down here a moment.”

  “I have to get the breakfast trays—”

  “That can wait a minute,” Verity said impatiently. “Come on, come in here.”

  We all crammed into one of the store cupboards, where we kept the flour and sugar and rice in big stone barrels. The dusty air made me sneeze.

  “What’s wrong?” Nora asked, looking scared. It occurred to me that she might think it was something to do with the murder.

  Verity took a deep breath. “Nora…” She trailed away and looked at me, as if for inspiration. I nodded encouragingly. “Nora, it’s hard to ask this but are you – are you in trouble?”

  Nora said nothing but her pallor was eclipsed by a rosy red flush that rose to her eyebrows. She opened her mouth to say something and then abruptly burst into tears.

  We crowded around her, clucking and petting her like a child. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” soothed Verity. “You can tell us. Don’t worry.”

  Nora raised a tear-stained face. “You can’t tell anybody,” she whispered, fiercely. “God help me, I don’t know what to do.”

  Verity looked stricken. “You’re sure, then?”

  Nora nodded miserably. I didn’t say anything – what was there to say? I just stood there in the cramped cupboard, feeling helpless.

  Nora was sobbing quietly. “They’ll turn me out without a reference and then where will I go? No one will take me on, I’ll never be able to get a job.”

  Verity’s face was creased up with sympathetic anguish. “Could you go home?”

  Nora shook her head, scattering tears. One hit my lip and I tasted salt. “I can’t – I just can’t! The shame would kill my mother – and they’ve got too many to feed as it is. Dad can’t work anymore because of his lungs…” Her voice thickened with tears and it was hard to understand what she was saying.

  At the sound of voices in the corridor outside the closed door we all froze. Silently, we stood there as if turned into stone, until the voices – it sounded like Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstells – moved further away down the corridor.

  “Okay, we can’t talk about it anymore, here and now,” Verity whispered. “But Nora, don’t worry. We’ll sort something out. We’ll see you right. Very well? You’re not to worry?”

  I couldn’t see Nora adhering to this command very strictly, but she nodded all the same. “Please, pleas
e don’t tell anyone.”

  I found my voice. “We won’t, Nora, we absolutely promise.” I looked across at Verity, and she nodded fervently.

  “Of course we won’t,” she said.

  “Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s go while there’s nobody around.” I gave Nora a quick, friendly squeeze of the arm. “Don’t worry, Nora. I’m sure there’s something to be done.”

  She gave us both a grateful, if watery, smile. Then we hurried out of the cupboard, one by one, listening out for approaching footsteps and quickly going our separate ways.

  I went back to the kitchen and started the preparations for lunch in something of a dream. A small prudish part of me was shocked – I’ll admit it. I couldn’t imagine taking the risk that Nora had. A second thought struck me. Who was the father? I stood still for a moment, staring into space, my hands full of mushrooms. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen any of the male servants paying special attention to Nora. Well, of course, they all had – she was a very pretty, lively girl. But, thinking back, had there been anyone paying her particular attention?

  “Joan, come on. Stop wool-gathering.” Mrs Watling swept past with a brimming pot and made me jump. “I know we’re all at sixes and sevens at the moment, things being what they are, but we can’t all go to pieces.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered, returning to my task. As I wiped and chopped the mushrooms, I tried not to think any more about Nora, Nora and her possible suitors. It seemed slightly indelicate and I was a little ashamed of myself for being so curious.

  The half-pound of mushrooms were chopped and ready. I mixed the roux of butter, milk and flour together and began to heat it slowly on the stove. Chicken stock, lemon juice, pepper, salt and tip in the mushrooms…there was something soothing about making soup. Soothing was what I needed right then.

  Just as I was standing there, stirring the gradually thickening soup, my blasted imagination started working again. Try as I might, my thoughts returned first to Nora and then to the most recent murder. I blinked against the mushroom-scented steam. An appalling thought suddenly sprang into my head.

  I clutched the wooden spoon, trying to tell myself not to be so silly. But the thought would not budge. What if – what if Peter had been the father of Nora’s baby? What if she’d gone to him for help and he’d laughed or spurned her in some way and she’d lost her temper and – and killed him?

  You’re being ridiculous, I told myself, stirring fiercely. Yes, Nora had a temper, that was true. I suppose being with child could make you act irrationally at times. But surely, surely she wouldn’t have done such a violent, wicked thing? Your imagination is running away with you, I told myself sternly. Just stop being so silly and get back to work.

  I made a giant effort to start thinking about something else, anything else. I concentrated on the fish course; crab fishcakes covered in breadcrumbs, served with a fresh tartar sauce. As I chopped and peeled and fried, I kept my mind resolutely away from thoughts of pregnancy and murder.

  It worked – until lunchtime, when we all sat down for our hasty meal. Nora sat next to Verity, as normal, but she didn’t speak to either of us. Indeed, she seemed to be avoiding our gaze as much as possible. I sympathised, I supposed she was embarrassed. Poor girl. I stopped trying to attract her attention and focused my gaze on my cold tongue sandwich.

  The servants’ grapevine was in fine working order that morning, I can tell you. By the end of the meal, despite Mr Fenwick’s admonishments, we all knew who upstairs had an alibi and who was in the clear for Peter Drew’s murder.

  “That Duncan, he was off at his club all the evening when they say Mister Drew was killed, so he’s out,” Maggie said, her eyes like saucers. “And Miss Dorothy don’t have a leg to stand on. She was in her room all evening, but nobody except Verity saw her, and that was only for a few hours here and there.”

  “Really,” I said, a little annoyed. Much as Dorothy was lazy and spoilt, I just couldn’t see her knifing her own brother to death or bashing her own mother over the head. So alibi or no alibi, how could she have done it? And why? No, despite her bad points, Dorothy was no murderer. I was sure of that.

  Verity drew me aside as we took our plates into the scullery. “Did you know that Lord C and Rosalind had alibied themselves again?”

  “Again?” I put my plate on top of the stack and flashed Maggie, who was standing armed and ready at the sink, a sympathetic smile. “What, were they ‘working late’ in the office again?”

  Verity smirked. “Apparently.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I see.”

  We walked together towards the corridor.

  “Listen,” Verity said. “I’ve got to go back up to Dorothy. I don’t want to leave her alone at the moment.”

  “I understand.”

  Verity leaned in a little closer. “What are we going to do about Nora?”

  I stopped walking for a moment. Verity tugged me forward. “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Will she even let us help her? You saw what she was like at luncheon.”

  “She’s embarrassed,” Verity said. “And she’s terrified. No, I’ve been thinking it over.”

  “And?”

  Verity looked thoughtful. “Well, there are two possibilities. Perhaps more than two.”

  “What’s the first?” By now we had reached the foot of the stairs and I was worried about being overheard.

  “That’s the final option,” Verity said, somewhat mysteriously. “We could try something else first.”

  “Like what?” I thought back to all those muttered, whispered, underhand conversations that went around from girl to girl, from woman to woman. “Mustard baths? Carrying something heavy?”

  “That’s a good start. We could try gin.”

  “Oh, V.” I looked at her, exasperated. “How are we going to afford to buy gin?”

  Verity set her chin. “If it comes to that,” she said quietly but mulishly, “I’ll steal some.”

  “Shh!” I glanced around, terrified someone would hear her. “Listen, I know Nora’s nice, and she’s a friend, but there’s no need for you to get into trouble over what’s happened to her.”

  I could hear footsteps behind us, coming up the corridor. Oh, for a place to talk where one wasn’t constantly interrupted! “Listen, you’d better go. We’ll talk later.”

  “Of course.” Verity squeezed my arm. “It’ll be all right, I’m sure. We’ll manage.”

  I watched her run lightly up the stairs and around the corner out of sight. Mrs Anstells appeared at my shoulder. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, Joan?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.” I braced myself for a scolding but to my surprise she gave me quite a sympathetic smile.

  “It’s not an easy time, my dear. I appreciate how you’ve managed to keep up to your usual high standards of work. Of course, Mrs Watling runs a tight ship but – there you go.”

  I flushed, pleased at the praise. Then I nodded my head in a respectful way and made my way back to the kitchen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rosalind Makepeace hadn’t been seen in the kitchens since Peter Drew’s body was discovered. I’d supposed she’d been too busy dealing with Lord Cartwright and the police and so forth to bother coming down here to boss me and Mrs Watling about and let us know just what we were doing wrong. Talk of the devil – she came down that evening after dinner in search of Mrs Anstells. Maggie and I were busy putting away the saucepans and dishes, and it was some time before I noticed Rosalind standing in the kitchen, staring at us as if we were something you’d find in the zoo.

  As soon as I’d got to my feet and taken a proper look at her, I was ashamed of my previous thought. She looked dreadful, drawn and pale and with such shadows under her eyes they almost matched the black of her hair. She’d always been neatly turned out – not exactly fashionably dressed, not like Dorothy – but she’d always been so clean and neat and polished it was as if she’d been made in a factory somewhere, shiny and new. Now, she wore an old sweater I
’d not seen before, in a shade of muddy blue that did nothing for her complexion, and an old tweed skirt that looked as though she’d dug it out of a pre-War fashion collection.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” I asked, trying to sound as respectful as possible.

  “I was looking for Mrs Anstells,” she said, faintly, after a moment.

  “I believe she’s talking to Mrs Watling,” I said. “Shall I call for her?”

  Rosalind stared at me while I spoke. I had the odd impression she didn’t really see me. It was as if she could hear me talking but not see where the sound was coming from. The back of my neck prickled.

  She was silent for so long that I almost repeated myself, and then she said quietly, “No, don’t bother. I’ll go through myself.”

  She walked through the kitchen so quietly it was almost as if she were a ghost. Both Maggie and I rotated to watch her go – we couldn’t help it, it was so eerie.

  “What’s wrong with her?” whispered Maggie.

  I shrugged. “She’s probably under an awful lot of strain.” For the first time, I realised this was probably true and felt a flicker of sympathy for her. “She’s got to keep his Lordship happy, deal with Duncan and basically run everything with no help from anyone else.”

  Rosalind didn’t come back through the kitchen. I supposed she’d sat down with Mrs Anstells and Mrs Watling in Mrs Watling’s sitting room. I sent Maggie off upstairs while I did a last check of the room and gave the kitchen table one last wipe. Everything was in order for tomorrow. I resisted an ignoble impulse to go and listen at Mrs Watling’s door and forced myself to leave the room.

  After the long and weary climb up the back stairs, I entered our room to find Verity already there, unlacing her shoes and rubbing her feet.

  “They can’t hurt worse than mine,” I remarked, flopping gratefully onto my bed.

  “No, probably not.” Verity straightened up, sighing. “Lord, what a day.”