The Hidden House Murders: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 3

by Celina Grace

  As luck would have it, I met Mrs Weston on her way down the second-floor stairs. She was fully dressed in her usual black, the dark circles under her eyes still pronounced. But she did look a little bit more rested.

  “Joan,” she said, frowning. “What on earth is the matter?”

  Now that I came to tell her, I found myself quailing. How long had Mrs Weston worked for the family? I had the impression it had been a long time. Had she cared for her mistress? No doubt she would be shocked and horrified, no matter how strongly she felt or not.

  I gulped some air into my lungs. “Mrs Weston, I’m so sorry. Could you – could you please come with me?”

  Mrs Weston didn’t cry out when she saw poor Mrs Ashford, but she gasped. I stepped a little closer to her, to catch her if she fainted. But she was made of sterner stuff than that. She approached the body with trepidation and stretched out a hand. She didn’t make contact. The hand stayed in the air, hovering above the poor, shrunken body, and began to tremble. I looked at her face and could see the glassiness of tears in her eyes.

  After a long moment, she spoke hoarsely. “We must fetch the doctor.”

  I braced myself. She wasn’t going to like what I said next. “And the police.”

  Mrs Weston whipped her head around to look at me, startled. “Oh, I don’t think we need to do that. Why on earth would you—” She turned her head back around to look once more on Mrs Ashford. “No, we must fetch the doctor.”

  I didn’t feel the need to press the point. I thought Doctor Goodfried had seemed knowledgeable and efficient enough. He would drive things forward if necessary.

  “Should I inform Miss Arabella?” I murmured.

  Mrs Weston looked even more shocked, if possible, than she had before. “No, indeed. What an idea, Joan. I will do that.”

  I preserved a discreet silence. Mrs Weston wasn’t to know that it wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a dead body. “I’ll go and make some tea,” was all that I said.

  I wasn’t sure if Mrs Weston even heard me. I left her staring down at the body, tears running down her face and turning spots on her black dress even darker.

  The kitchen felt like a place of refuge. I filled the kettle and slammed it down on the range. As I waited for it to boil, I attempted to gain control of my emotions. Was I fated always to end up working in a place where somebody died? I scoffed at myself but the unease remained. But surely there was nothing suspicious about this death? Mrs Ashford was an old, sick, feeble lady. It’s not your business, I told myself, staring fiercely at the boiling kettle as if it had offended me personally. Leave it to the doctor to decide what to do.

  Just as the whistle of the boiling kettle built to a scream, Verity walked into the kitchen.

  “Tea! Thank God, Joanie.”

  She looked pale but not unduly upset. For a moment, I felt dizzy. Was this still really the same day? So much had happened and we’d all only had a few hours of sleep. No wonder I was feeling so anxious.

  “You’ve heard the news? About Mrs Ashford?” Verity nodded but didn’t answer. There was so much I wanted to know. “How is Dorothy?” I braced myself for the answer, expecting to hear about hysterics and tantrums and general weeping and wailing. Not that I could exactly blame Dorothy – she’d lost her mother and her brother to murder and a sudden death would be bound to bring all the bad times back – but I always felt it was jolly hard on Verity, who was the one who had to stand firm under the onslaught.

  Verity sighed. “Sad. Subdued. She’s still not very well but she’s taken it hard. Mrs Ashford and she were close.” She went and fetched one of the trays and began to help me in laying out cups and saucers. “She’ll be better for a good pot of tea.”

  “She’s not – drinking?” I asked, timidly. It felt like a cheek to even enquire but Verity didn’t get cross.

  “No, she’s not. Of course, it helps that there’s barely anything in the house.”

  I nodded in understanding. “And – and Miss Arabella?” Given the complexity of the relationship I’d sensed between her and Mrs Ashford, I wondered what her reaction would be.

  Verity sighed again. “She’s devastated. Well, understandably.” She put the last teacup on the last saucer. “I’m not sure how Mrs Bartleby is. Mrs Weston was just going to break it to her as I came down here.”

  We grew quiet then as we continued to set out the tea trays. Luckily, I’d filled the kettle to capacity. I poured boiling water into each of the pots, lifted them onto the trays and shrouded them each with a cosy. The cosies themselves were knitted in bright wool, in alternating stripes, and I wondered for a moment whether they were slightly too frivolous for the occasion. Then I told myself not to be so silly. As if anyone would be worrying about the colour of a tea-cosy at such a moment.

  Verity took up Dorothy’s tray and I lifted the one for Miss Arabella (and Mrs Weston, who I thought had looked as though she were in dire need of a cup). As it happened, Arabella was sitting in Dorothy’s room, white and shaken. Dorothy sat next to her on the bed, rubbing her back. At first, I thought Dorothy was ill, she was so wan and pale. Of course, she had been ill but Verity had said she was better…It was only after a moment that I realised it was possibly the first time ever I had seen Dorothy without a full face of make-up.

  Her eyes met mine as I brought in the other tray. All she said was “Oh, Joan,” but that was all she needed to say. She may have been my mistress, aristocracy to my lowly origins, but right then and there, we understood one another. We’d been through it all before: Dorothy, Verity and I. We three had been through so much together. That meant something, and I felt a rush of affection, and yes, respect, for her that brought tears to my eyes.

  “I’d like to take Mrs Weston a cup, madam,” I murmured. “Where is she? In Mrs Bartleby’s room?”

  “Yes, of course you must. Poor Mrs Weston.” Dorothy drew the sobbing Arabella into her arms and spoke to me over her shaking shoulder. “No, I think Constance and she are – I think they’re – she’s…” She fell silent and indicated with a tilt of her head that Mrs Weston was in Mrs Ashford’s room. I nodded and curtseyed in silent understanding.

  I knocked gently at the door to the late Mrs Ashford’s room. After a moment, Mrs Weston’s hoarse voice said, “Come in.”

  I held the tea cup in my hand and tried to hold it steady. It was difficult, entering a room in which I knew there was a dead body. Mrs Weston looked ravaged – there was no other word for it. Pity for her rose up in my throat and almost choked me.

  “I thought you might need a cup of tea, Mrs Weston,” I said, holding it out like a peace offering. Mrs Weston was still standing in the same position by Mrs Ashford’s body as she had been before I left the room earlier. Mrs Bartleby sat in an armchair by the wall, so still and silent that for a moment I hadn’t realised she was there. “And a cup for you, Madam,” I said hastily. “I’ll just fetch it from the other room.”

  Mrs Bartleby didn’t answer me. In fact, I’m not sure she even heard me. She was staring at the body of Mrs Ashford with a blank look on her white face.

  “Thank you, Joan,” said Mrs Weston, faintly. I almost had to put the cup into her hands and close her fingers around it. “Thank you,” she said again, and tears were not too far from her voice. It was the touch of kindness that did it, I could tell. You can be strong as long as someone isn’t kind to you, and then you just crumble.

  I managed to edge Mrs Weston over to one of the dressing table chairs and gently but firmly ensured she sat down. She subsided rather quickly and I guessed that she was feeling quite weak. I hesitated, unsure of whether I was forgetting my place in the suggestion I was about to make. “Should I – should I telephone the doctor, Mrs Weston?”

  I braced myself for anger but there was none. She shook her head, weakly. “I’ve done so already. He’ll be here
as quickly as possible.” She raised the trembling teacup to her lips and took a minuscule sip. “I had to come back here. I didn’t want to leave her.”

  I didn’t quite know what to say to that. Wondering again if I were being over-familiar, I patted her shoulder. She didn’t seem to take offence.

  “Joan, I’ll have my tea in my room,” Mrs Bartleby said abruptly. Her voice was as hoarse as if she had a cold. Both Mrs Weston and I looked at her as if we’d forgotten she was in the room. We watched as she stood up unsteadily and made her way to the door, fumbling for the door handle as if she were blind. “I’ll be in my room.”

  As the door shut behind her, a voice I recognised as Arabella’s suddenly raised in a wail in the room next door. I winced and Mrs Weston jerked in her seat. I could hear the murmur of both Verity and Dorothy’s voices as they, I assumed, attempted to soothe her.

  “I must go to Miss Arabella. I shouldn’t have left her after I told her but… Miss Dorothy was there and she said to leave her and – and I – I didn’t realise Mrs Bartleby was in here. I felt I just couldn’t leave Madam on her own.” Mrs Weston looked ill. She tried to rise, and I quickly assisted her in doing so. “Joan, please stay here until I return. I can’t bear the thought of – of Madam being on her own.”

  “I’ll stay,” I said hastily. “The doctor will be here very soon, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you’re right.” Mrs Weston seemed to pull herself together a little, although she was still a little unsteady on her feet as she made for the door.

  After she’d gone, I heaved a sigh. Then I tiptoed to the window and drew back the curtains, desperate for some daylight. Being in here in the semi-darkness with a corpse was something to try the strongest of nerves. Then I turned back.

  Something on the carpet caught my eye. I frowned and moved a little closer. It was very faint, so faint that I almost was convinced my eyes were tricking me. But were they? I went closer and knelt down, careful not to disturb what I was looking at. The pile of the rug seemed to be slightly ruffled. Barely noticeable but now I had more light to see, it was noticeable. Was it a drag mark? I leant even closer, squinting hard. It looked like a drag mark.

  I sat back on my heels, feeling suddenly colder. Had the body been moved? Or was I imagining things?

  The door to the bedroom opened and Mrs Weston came back in, this time accompanied by Doctor Goodfried. I hadn’t heard the doorbell but I’d been concentrating so hard on the carpet that I must have not heard it ring.

  “Thank you, Joan,” said Mrs Weston. “You may return to the kitchen now.”

  Doctor Goodfried gave me a nod as he passed me. I opened my mouth to say something about the mark on the carpet and then shut it again. It wasn’t my place. I took one last look at the sad little tableau on the carpet and headed for the door.

  Chapter Nine

  For once, the next morning, I was glad of the hard work awaiting me in the kitchen. It allowed me to free my mind from worrying and fretting about what had happened, and it helped me to get myself back under control. The usual kitchen tasks of food preparation – washing and chopping and frying and baking – were soothing in their repetitiveness. I also took some comfort in making sure I provided a suitably sombre but easy to eat lunch for the family. Nothing too chewy, nothing too meaty. A light soup, fish pie and greens and a delicate lemon tart for pudding. I wasn’t expecting Miss Arabella to eat much, if anything, and the same probably went for Dorothy, but I was less sure about the young men. Perhaps Mr Michael was still feeling under the weather but Mr Raymond seemed unperturbed by either illness or Mrs Ashford’s death.

  Mrs Ashford’s body had been collected and driven away in a black mortuary van. I supposed that there would be a post mortem, perhaps, although as it was not being considered a suspicious death, perhaps I was wrong. I thought once more of what I thought I’d seen on the carpet. Had my tired eyes been playing tricks on me? Had I really seen it? Perhaps it had been a trick of the light or a fault in the weave of the carpet. I pushed the thought away from me more than once that day; I was too busy and too tired to think through the implications.

  That evening, I was washing my face at my dressing table when there was a light knock at the door. Before I could answer, the door opened and Verity came in. I had barely had a chance to talk to her all day, and I was so glad to see her, I flung my arms around her in a fierce hug, wetting her shoulder with my damp face.

  “Joanie, ugh!”

  “Sorry.” I swiped at my cheeks with a towel. “How are you? How is Dorothy?”

  “I wanted her to go to bed but she’s still taking care of Arabella. She’s prostrated, poor girl.”

  “She must be glad that Dorothy is here.”

  Verity rolled her eyes. “Well, her cousin’s not exactly been of great help, has he? Mind you, he’s still not well.”

  I thought of the dinner plates that had come back down to the kitchen, the food on them mostly untouched. “I suppose not.”

  “And that Raymond’s about as much help as a wet weekend.”

  “He’s a man. And a student.” I thought of Mrs Bartleby, who’d spent most of the day in her room. Was it grief, or idleness, or recovery from her illness? How ill had she been, anyway? I remembered looking for her that night everyone became sick. Well, it wasn’t important. I began to unpin my hair and brush it out. “Has the doctor said anything to Dorothy?”

  “About what?”

  Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “About poor Mrs Ashford of course.”

  Verity looked startled. “Why? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing. That’s why I’m asking you. I’ve been slaving over a hot stove most of the evening.”

  Verity flumped down on the edge of my bed and the springs groaned beneath her. “I saw the – the body being removed. As far as I’m aware, Doctor Goodfried thinks she had a fall.”

  I nodded. That did seem the most likely explanation. Again, I pushed aside that momentary unease I’d felt when I’d seen that mark on the carpet. I was just too tired to start looking for shadows that weren’t there.

  “Well,” said Verity, yawning. “I think I’ll turn in now that Dorothy’s unlikely to need me. It seems like we’ve been up for about a week.”

  I caught the yawn. Was it really only the night before last that everyone had become ill? So much seemed to have happened since then. “I’ll do the same. I can scarcely keep my eyes open.”

  “Good night then.”

  “Good night, V.”

  I flapped a tired hand at her as she went out of the doorway. Then I kicked off my slippers, turned out the bedside light and fell thankfully forward into bed.

  Strangely, I was awake the next morning long before I ought to have been. Perhaps it was the increasingly light mornings and the sweet spring songs of the local birds that woke me. Perhaps it was something else. I lay there for a moment, in my narrow bed, and drew the counterpane up to my chin. It was chilly in my room without a fire and I knew it would be a while before Ethel came to light it.

  Go back to sleep, Joan, while you can, I urged myself, but it was no good. I was as wide awake, as if I’d swallowed a pot of very strong coffee. Sighing, I got up and bundled myself into my dressing gown; it was a good thick woollen one that Dorothy had given me once for Christmas. It made me giggle a little to think of her buying it – it was so obviously something she wouldn’t be seen dead wearing, being made of a tweedy blue plaid. It was so unlike the satin and silk wraps that she favoured, but I was very grateful for it all the same. These old houses really held onto the cold. I pushed my feet into my slippers, watching my breath plume into the chilly air.

  The house was silent as I made my way downstairs. I had noticed that before, after a death; a kind of stillness. A hush falls over the house, muffling sounds, dampening down the atmosphere. I cast a glanc
e at Mrs Ashford’s room as I passed it. The image of the drag mark on the carpet reoccurred to me. I had seen it, I realised that now. It had been a drag mark. Frowning, I made my way all the way to the kitchen and began to stoke up the stove. Technically it was Ethel’s job, but it wouldn’t hurt matters to make a start.

  The kettle eventually boiled and I poured myself the first, marvellous cup. I remembered Mrs Watson, Dorothy’s London cook, saying to me once, “I don’t ever really taste that first cup of tea – it goes down too fast.” I knew just what she meant. Fortified by that first cup, I began to think about the day ahead, but try as I might, I couldn’t push the image of that drag mark on the carpet out of my head.

  All right. Think, Joan. What does it mean?

  I sat at the kitchen table, sipping my second cup as I thought. Had the body been moved? Why would it have been moved? That didn’t make sense. Mrs Ashford had died from a fall, hitting her head on the corner of the hearthstone, so why would her body have been moved?

  I was just beginning to reach a glimmer of understanding, a cold twinkle of perspicacity, when Ethel came hurrying through the kitchen door, completely distracting me from my thoughts.

  “Ooh, sorry, sorry Mrs Hart. Sorry, I overslept—”

  It still gave me a jolt to be called ‘Mrs Hart’. Of course, I knew that cooks, along with housekeepers, were awarded an honorific, despite their marital status or lack of it, but it still seemed strange to me. I made up my mind.

  “You don’t have to call me that, Ethel. I’m quite happy for you to call me Joan.”

  Ethel blushed and muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. Again, I was reminded of her jumpiness at the table yesterday. But perhaps that was understandable, given the circumstances.