by Celina Grace
I grew cold. Should I say something? But what could I say? Would it be better to bring up the subject of food poisoning myself, so that it looked as though I didn’t have anything to hide? I didn’t have anything to hide. If I had, in fact, poisoned half the household, it had been entirely inadvertently. Courage, Joan. I took a deep breath.
“Sir, I…” Despite myself, my voice failed. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Doctor, I – Mr Raymond said something about food poisoning. Do you think – is that what you think happened? Because if it is, then I must – I must have caused it…” To my shame, I found myself close to tears and had to stop talking. Verity sat next to me and a moment later L felt her hand in mine beneath the table, giving it a quick, friendly squeeze.
Mrs Weston looked forbidding but the doctor wasn’t quite so intimidating. “I really don’t know, Joan, my dear. It could very well be food poisoning. What was it that you gave them for dinner? I note that all the servants seem to be unaffected. Presumably they had a different menu to yours?”
Ethel’s teacup rattled on its saucer. We all looked at her in surprise and she blushed and said “Sorry. My hand slipped.”
I recollected myself. “Yes, that’s right. The Ashfords and their guests had, um, roast beef for the main course. Roast potatoes, peas, carrots, onions to accompany that. A lemon tart for dessert.” I was thinking hard, trying to remember what I’d cooked. “Oh, and I did a mushroom soup for the starter. Mr Harrison brought me some wild mushrooms that he’s collected on his journey down and Mrs Ashford asked me to use them.”
Doctor Goodfried’s bristly eyebrows shot up. “Wild mushrooms, eh? Hmm.” He rasped his fingers along the edge of his beard. “Well, they may well have been the culprit. Did you get a close look at them?”
I nodded. I had checked them thoroughly before I cooked them and had seen only harmless, edible varieties. One of the few memories I have of my father was of him taking me on walks in the countryside and the two of us picking mushrooms. He’d taught me the right ones to pick and the poisonous ones to leave well alone. I told the doctor as much. I could feel Verity’s surprise next to me. I’d never told anyone about that before. It was such a precious memory because I had so few of my father. I had none whatsoever of my mother as she died when I was born.
“Could you have been mistaken, Joan?”
“I suppose so,” I said, feeling that honesty was always the best policy. “I looked carefully but I suppose there’s always a margin for error.”
“Hmm. And you had no suspicions about the beef?”
If I had, I would scarcely have cooked it, let alone served it, was what I didn’t say. Instead I shook my head. “None whatsoever. It was a very good quality joint and I’m confident I cooked it well.”
I sounded more confident than I felt. Not about the beef – of that, I was sure that it had been just fine, not least because I’d eaten some of it myself (I do like roast beef). That thought made me pause for a moment. Had anyone eaten the mushroom soup that hadn’t become ill?
I said as much to Doctor Goodfried. He raised his eyebrows again and nodded.
“It will be the work of a moment to ascertain that, my dear. Leave that with me.”
“Mr Bentham wasn’t ill,” I said, rather hesitatingly. Although what I was saying was the truth, it did sound a bit – accusatory. But what was I accusing him of?
“Indeed.” Doctor Goodfried drained his second cup of tea and put the cup back down again. “Ah, that hits the spot. Right. I suppose you don’t have any of the soup left?”
“I think I do.” I was so tired I couldn’t quite remember then if I had saved some. “I think I saved some – I was going to use it as the basis for a stew later…”
Mrs Weston looked approving at this frugality. Trying to shake the tiredness off, I got up and looked for the pot that had contained the soup. It was hard to find. Eventually, I spotted it in the sink, filled with cloudy water. “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry. I must have used it all up and put the pot in to soak.”
“Oh well, it can’t be helped,” said Doctor Goodfried. “I’m not sure what good it would do anyway.”
I looked to Mrs Weston for guidance. “Do you want me to prepare any breakfasts, Mrs Weston?”
Doctor Goodfried interrupted before she could answer. “I’m afraid that would not be a good idea. No, the patients must eat nothing today but take plenty of water, tea perhaps – plenty of fluids.”
Mrs Weston nodded, exhaustedly. She had that transparent look that true fatigue gives the skin. I knew just how she felt. “Joan, please ensure that there’s bread, butter and cheese for the servants. We’ll have to make do with that this morning.” She looked at me with the first sign of compassion she’d ever shown. “I think you girls should go to bed and try and get a little rest. We’ll all be needed later.”
I knew that perhaps I should protest and offer my services but I was just too tired. I was virtually swaying on my feet, and I could see that Ethel and Verity were similarly afflicted. Too tired to feel anything but a dull relief, I nodded, fetched the foodstuffs from the larder and left them on the table.
“Well, I’ll be off,” said the doctor, getting up. “Mrs Weston, please tell your mistress, if she’s awake, that I’ll call back later this afternoon. Please do telephone me if anything changes.” He paused for a moment, looking sombre. “Especially if anyone gets worse. Keep a particular eye on Mrs Ashford. She’s had a bad go of it and she’s elderly and frail.”
Mrs Weston nodded, looking worried. The doctor tipped his hat to us all and left, escorted by the housekeeper.
Us three girls looked at one another.
“Blimey,” said Verity. “What a night.”
Ethel said nothing. It struck me that she was looking particularly uncomfortable.
“Ethel?” I said, quite sharply. “Are you well?”
She blushed and nodded. “I’m fine, Mrs Hart.”
I was going to press her further but a swamping wave of exhaustion stopped me. I was just too tired.
“Let’s go up then,” I said and began the slow climb up to my room, my tired feet barely able to carry me up the stairs.
Chapter Seven
We weren’t allowed to sleep the day away. By two o’clock that afternoon, Mrs Weston came knocking at my door, rousing me from a deep slumber.
“Joan. Joan. Time to wake. Joan. Wake up.”
Groggily I sat up. I had pulled the curtains against the spring light and the room was dim. Even so, I could see Mrs Weston’s pallor through the gloom. I blinked myself awake. “I’m awake, Mrs Weston.”
“Good. Could you please return to the kitchen and make up something suitable for the invalids?” She turned, stumbling slightly. “I’m going to my room for the next hour.”
I supposed she hadn’t yet had any sleep herself. I felt something I’d never felt for her before: pity. “Of course,” I said as cheerfully as my sleepy voice would allow. “Please don’t worry, Mrs Weston. Between Verity and I, we can keep things ship-shape.” She was too senior for me to be able to urge her to go and rest but I willed her to do so in the privacy of my own head.
When she’d gone, I dragged myself out of bed, groaning. I’d taken off my dress but kept my petticoat and chemise on. I splashed water on my face from the bowl on the dressing table and blotted the drops off on the towel I kept folded next to it. The morning fire in my room had long since died and I shivered in the chill, hastily buttoning my dress and trying to fight my hair into some semblance of neatness.
Verity poked her head around the door just as I was pushing the last hairpin into my hair. “Oh, you’re up,” she said blearily.
“So are you.” I looked at her more closely. “Or at least, I think you are.”
Verity yawned. “I’m dead on my feet. We’ve just got to get throug
h the rest of the day and then we can go back to bed, thank God.”
“How is Dorothy?”
Verity shook herself and sighed. “She’s better. Quite a lot better. She’s sitting in with Arabella and Mrs Bartleby at the moment.”
“What about the young gentlemen?”
Verity grinned. “Why, want to minister to the sick?”
I threw a hairpin at her. “I’m merely asking.”
Verity sobered up. “I think Mr Michael is asleep. That Raymond is down in the study playing billiards.”
I rolled my eyes and then remembered something. “He didn’t get sick, did he?”
“No. Dorothy asked him whether he’d had any of the soup.”
“And had he?”
Verity grinned again. “Apparently, his exact words were “Mushrooms? Never touch the damn things. They’re disgusting.””
“Well, it was probably lucky for him that he felt that way.” I looked at my reflection in the little mirror. My eyes looked worried. Had it been the mushroom soup? It must have been, I told myself. Everything else was fine.
“You didn’t have any of the soup, did you, Joanie?”
I shook my head. “No. I tasted it, of course. But there wasn’t enough for the servants as well.”
“Lucky for us.” Verity shivered theatrically.
“Yes.” I regarded myself for a second longer, obscurely troubled. Then, shaking off my anxiety, I joined Verity at the door and we made our way downstairs.
Ethel, good girl, was already in the kitchen, stoking up the range. The kettle was throwing clouds of steam into the air. I fell upon it like a parched traveller throwing themselves into a desert oasis. What on earth did working people do before tea was discovered and brought to England? I asked Verity as much.
She yawned and shut her mouth with a snap. “Sorry. They drank beer, I think. Small beer.”
“Now, that I could appreciate.” The three of us giggled and then shut up abruptly as Arabella Ashford came into the kitchen. She looked wan but better than she had last night.
“Oh, Joan, I was wondering if you had a tray I could take up to Mother. She’s feeling a little better and doctor thinks she should try and have something light to eat.”
“I’ll make one up straight away, Miss.” I tried to cudgel my fuzzy brain into working. “I’ve yet to make up a broth but I could cut some bread and butter and beef tea won’t take long to make at all.”
“Thank you.” As she spoke, her pallor increased alarmingly and she swayed, putting a hand out to steady herself on the kitchen table.
Verity took charge. She was experienced in coaxing Dorothy to do whatever it was she had to do, and someone like Arabella was even easier to persuade. “Miss Ashford, I think you should be back in bed. You look terribly pale and we wouldn’t want you collapsing here, would we? Let me help you back to your room.”
“I need to take Mother her tray…” Arabella whispered.
“Joan can do that,” Verity said firmly She looked at me for confirmation and I nodded and echoed the words.
I could see Arabella felt too ill to protest. I watched Verity lead her gently but firmly away to the stairs and turned back to the stove. I could use the remnants of that roast beef for the beef tea. I would test it first by eating it. Paranoid, I knew, but the last thing I wanted was for everyone to get even sicker.
I set Ethel to making up the servants’ meals and something for Raymond Bentham, whose appetite was in no way diminished. Mrs Bartleby seemed quite recovered too, although had apparently gone back to bed, according to Verity on her return to the kitchen. It was then I remembered her mysterious absence in the chaos of the last night. Where had she been? Not that it mattered. I reminded myself that she’d probably gone upstairs to use the servants’ bathroom as I made up a tray of scrambled eggs, toast and tea for her. Then I made a start on the vegetable broth. The two nurses Doctor Goodfried had promised us had already arrived, and they would no doubt need endless trays of their own, if they were anything like the other nurses I had worked with in previous places.
Once everything was under control, I fetched one of the big silver trays from the pantry and set out everything that Mrs Ashford might need upon it. A delicate china cup and saucer, a small silver teapot, a wisp of steam rising from its spout. A plate of bread, spread corner to corner with best butter, the crusts cut off. A rolled napkin encased in one of the bone napkin rings from the kitchen dresser. I would normally have put a bud vase with a single flower in it on the tray but unless I went outside grubbing for daffodils, there weren’t a great deal of flowers available this early in the year. I decided Mrs Ashford was probably feeling a bit too poorly to worry much about flowers on her tray anyway.
“I’m just going to take this up to Madam,” I said to Ethel, who was scrubbing away at the porridge pots, her round cheeks scarlet with the effort.
The tray was heavy and I climbed the cellar stairs carefully. I could hear the music coming from the study; some rather raucous jazz on the gramophone. Raymond Bentham amusing himself, no doubt. I carried on up to the first floor, setting the tray down on the hallway floor before knocking gently at Mrs Ashford’s bedroom door.
There was no answer. I bit my lip and tried again, knocking a little louder. I could hear the sound of female voices coming from Dorothy’s room. Still no response from Mrs Ashford. To hell with it. I opened the door, picked up the tray and gently nudged it open with my foot.
“It’s just me, Madam, with your tray.”
Again, there was no answer. I sensed a stillness emanating from the room; something intangible that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. She’s just asleep, don’t panic. I swallowed and edged further into the dim room. I stood still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, trying to remember what it had looked like when Verity and I had been in here the night before. Could it really have only been the night before? Our signatures on that piece of paper… For the first time, I realised what that paper could have been. A will? Or something else completely? I could see that the heavy velvet drapes were drawn tightly against the sunlight but a single shaft of golden light had slipped through and dust motes whirled and danced in the beam.
The big, four-poster bed was directly ahead of me. The covers were rumpled and thrown back but the bed itself was empty. Puzzled, I stood still for a moment. Then, realising Mrs Ashford was probably just in the bathroom, I moved forward again, balancing the heavy tray. There was a chest of drawers over near the window, and I walked towards it, thinking that I must at least put the blasted tray down before I dropped it.
I walked past the end of the bed, glanced over at the dying embers of the fire, and promptly gasped. It was almost a scream, except the breath was driven from my lungs in what felt like a hard blow. Mrs Ashford lay on the rug in front of the fire, face down and motionless.
How I didn’t drop the tray then, I don’t know. Shaking, I lowered it to the carpet and then hastened over to Mrs Ashford. She was terribly still; so still, in fact, that I think I knew then, before I even touched her, that she was dead. I reached trembling fingers out to her fragile neck. She was still warm and, for a moment, I was filled with a rush of relief. I spoke her name. “Mrs Ashford? Mrs Ashford? Can you hear me? Are you all right?”
A stupid question, I know, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Now I was close to her, I could see the blood in her hair and on the edge of the hearthstone. I couldn’t see if she were breathing. I put a hand on her back, the bones of her ribcage frail as a bird’s beneath my fingers. No pulse, no heartbeat. Even as I felt for her pulse again, I could feel the warmth ebbing away from underneath my fingertips. Frantically, I looked around for help, as if there were any to be had. Over by the bed was a pair of slippers, one kicked sideways. Had Mrs Ashford stumbled over them as she got out of bed? Stumbled and fallen and hit
her head? It seemed likely. She was old and frail and had been very unwell. Perhaps she’d had a fit or something and had hit her head on the hearthstone as she fell. Oh, Lord. What a calamity. I felt absurdly guilty, as if by coming into the bedroom, I had caused this all to happen. If I’d just stayed outside, would Mrs Ashford even now be slumbering peacefully in her bed?
Don’t be absurd, Joan. I spoke to myself as sharply as any Mrs Weston could. Mrs Weston! That was who I had to tell and straight away. I jumped to my feet. The small, frail body of Mrs Ashford lay before me and I hated to leave her, so vulnerable and exposed in her white lawn nightgown, but I knew I mustn’t move her or touch her any more than I already had. I took one last, desperate look at the former mistress of the house and then ran for the door.
Chapter Eight
As I ran past Dorothy’s bedroom door I felt an urge to go in and get Verity to come with me. I felt I could use the support. But I knew that I mustn’t. Lady’s maid she may have been, but the housekeeper reigned supreme, and I knew Mrs Weston would never forgive me if I undermined her authority.
I stopped for a moment, confused. Why was I running this way, down to the bedrooms of the young gentlemen? Mrs Weston’s room was on the top floor, along with my own room, Verity’s and Ethel’s. I could hear faint snores coming from behind Michael’s bedroom door and of course Raymond was downstairs in the study. Shaking my head and starting to realise that I was beginning to tremble from the shock of discovering the body, I wheeled about and ran for the stairs.
