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

by Celina Grace

  I moved closer so I could hear her. “Well, I’d assumed that. So, what was it?”

  Verity’s dark blue eyes met mine. “It was arsenic poisoning.”

  I dropped a plate and we both jumped back to avoid the shower of sharp china shards. I wasn’t quick enough and a tiny piece nicked me on the shin, tearing my stocking at the same time. “Ouch!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I said impatiently, rubbing away the tiny bead of blood. I was annoyed about my stocking, but that was a minor consideration compared to what I’d just heard. “Arsenic poisoning?”

  Verity nodded, her mouth pinched in.

  “How do you know this?” I asked.

  “Dorothy told me. She spent almost an hour with Constable Palmer this morning. In fact, she wants you to go and see her when you can get away from the kitchen.”

  I fetched the dustpan and brush and began to clear up the broken plate, thinking fast. Arsenic poisoning. Well, that shone a whole new light on what had happened. I brushed all the pieces into the dustpan, barely seeing what I was doing. Could it have been accidental? Could arsenic somehow have contaminated the food that day? I shook my head impatiently at myself. Of course not; that was absurd. Suddenly, my mind was thronging with questions and I opened my mouth to ask Verity before realising that I should just go straight to Dorothy.

  I got up from the floor and tipped the broken plate into the scrap pail. “Listen, V, I’ll take Dorothy up some coffee or something. If Mrs Weston asks, can you tell her that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll tell Ethel to carry on here.” I began to set out a tray with a cup and saucer and reached for the kettle to re-boil it.

  Verity was looking rather lost, as if she wanted to ask something but couldn’t think of the words. As I put the finishing touches to Dorothy’s tray, she began to say “Joan, do—” but then Ethel came scurrying back into the room and Verity snapped her mouth shut again.

  “Thanks, V,” I said. “Listen, we’ll speak later.”

  She gave me a wan smile, a mere ghost of her usual marvellous grin, and slipped out. I picked up the coffee tray and began to make my way upstairs to Dorothy’s bedroom.

  When I knocked on the door, I expected to hear Dorothy’s usual languid tone asking me to ‘come in’. Instead, she opened the door to me herself, which shocked me slightly. What shocked me more was the look on her face. Dorothy looked, well, frightened – not an expression I was used to seeing on her face at all.

  “Miss Drew?” I asked.

  Anxiety gave way to impatience. “Oh, do come in, Joan. Don’t just hover there on the doorstep.”

  I hurried in and Dorothy shut the door behind me. “I’ve brought you some coffee, Madam.” Technically, Dorothy was a ‘miss’ but it always seemed a little impertinent to call her that.

  “Thank you,” she said vaguely. I will say that for Dorothy, she was always polite and well-mannered. It has obviously been bred into her from birth. “Put it down there on the table.”

  I did so and turned to face her, folding my hands before me. “You wanted to see me, Madam?”

  Dorothy reached for her silver cigarette case and extracted one. “Want one, Joan? Oh no, you don’t smoke, do you?” I wasn’t shocked by her asking; she’d always been a bit odd like that. Dorothy gave away things like it was going out of fashion. It was partly why Verity was so well dressed. “Do sit down.”

  I perched myself on the edge of one of the easy chairs. Dorothy seated herself on the edge of the huge bed, one arm draped casually around one of the high brass bedposts. “Has Verity mentioned why I wanted to see you?” she asked.

  I swallowed. Should I come out with it? “She said that you’d been speaking to Constable Palmer about – about—”

  She gave me a wry look through a grey veil of smoke. “I know that Verity would have told you what we were talking about.”

  I gulped. “She said that the police think it was arsenic that made everyone so sick.”

  The smile fell from Dorothy’s face. She looked, again, frightened. “Yes. That’s what Constable Palmer told me.” She took a last drag on her cigarette, looked about for an ashtray. I handed her one from the dressing table. “Oh, thanks. Yes. They decided to run some tests on poor Mrs Ashford because of – well, for a number of reasons really – but partly because of what you told Verity about the body being moved.”

  I nodded, listening but not commenting.

  Dorothy went on. “Well, that clearly put the wind up them. So, they ran the tests and found arsenic in her stomach.” She shuddered.

  “Is that – Is that why she died?” I asked, wondering if I were being unfeeling by asking so bluntly.

  Dorothy’s face fell again. “No. She died of head injuries but she’d also had an almost lethal dose of arsenic as well.” She lit another cigarette and I smothered a tiny cough. The air in the bedroom was blue with smoke already. “I got the impression that they don’t actually know exactly what killed her. But that could be my interpretation.” She looked up at me. “So, Joan, whatever happened, it looks as though it was a suspicious death.”

  I pinched my lips together and nodded, not sure of what to say.

  Dorothy leant back on her elbows and blew smoke at the ceiling. I watched as her lit cigarette end got perilously close to the embroidered surface of the eiderdown and inwardly winced, but of course, it wasn’t my place to say anything. Or should I? “Madam – Miss – your cigarette—”

  Dorothy looked down, vaguely. “Oh, yes.” She sat up again.

  The silence in the room grew. I was on the verge of asking whether that was all when she spoke again, quite suddenly.

  Dorothy sounded bitter. “I tell you, Joan, I sometimes feel as if I’m cursed.”

  What could I say? I knew what she meant. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady.”

  Dorothy stared up at the writhing coils of smoke above her. “Cursed. Wherever I go, I can’t seem to escape death.” She flung herself back to a prone position again, uncaring of her cigarette, and stared fiercely ahead of her at nothing. “Sometimes I can’t bear it.”

  The empty, exhausted tone of her voice worried me. “Should I get Verity for you, Madam? Can I get you anything?”

  Dorothy took in a big gasp of smoke. “You can get me a brandy, Joan. A big one. In fact, bring me up a bottle, if you can.”

  “Oh…” I felt three different things simultaneously; panic, guilt and sympathy. What the hell was I supposed to do? I couldn’t refuse my mistress but she wasn’t supposed to be drinking. Oh, help…

  I took the coward’s way out. “I’ll – I’ll go and see what I can do, Madam.” I bobbed a curtsey and fled for the door.

  “Wait.” Dorothy’s voice stopped me. I turned, hoping she’d changed her mind. She gestured to the writing desk over by the far wall. “Get me my writing paper, would you Joan? Before you go?”

  I did so. Then I saw myself out and hurried off to find Verity, hoping against hope that she’d be able to sort out this mess better than I could myself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hidden House wasn’t particularly big, as houses go, and one would have thought that I would have been able to track down Verity within a matter of minutes. I checked her bedroom, Dorothy’s bathroom, and then hurried downstairs to look into the drawing room, the kitchen and the study. At least here, I could move freely about the house without anyone questioning my presence. I was rather startled to find Michael Harrison and Raymond Bentham playing billiards in the study, gramophone blasting out jazz. Luckily, the machine was making so much noise that my opening the door and exclaiming in shock went unnoticed, and they carried on bending over the billiard table with their cues, quite unaware of my presence. I quickly shut the door. Much as I needed to find Verity, seeing two of t
he house guests had reminded me that I really needed to get on with my work.

  Oh, what on earth was I going to do about Dorothy? Should I take her the brandy? I was fairly sure that that would be a terrible idea but how could I refuse? Dorothy wasn’t unreasonable, not normally, but she was under an enormous amount of strain (as were we all) and if she was gasping for a drink and I refused to give it to her, what would she do? She was well within her rights to dismiss me if I refused to carry out an order of hers. Oh, help… and where in damnation was Verity?

  I found Mrs Weston in the linen cupboard, checking the sheets and towels. She looked up and caught sight of the look on my face. “Joan? What’s wrong?” She looked frightened all of a sudden. “Are the police here again? Have they spoken to you?”

  I’d almost forgotten that that’s what she’d told me earlier that day. “No, Mrs Weston, I haven’t seen them. I’m just looking for Verity.”

  “Is there something the matter?”

  Curse my expressive face. “It’s just Miss Drew is looking for her.”

  Mrs Weston looked relieved. “I believe Verity went into the village to run some errands. She should return shortly.”

  Damn it. What was I going to do about Dorothy’s request for brandy? I thanked Mrs Weston and trailed back to the kitchen, thinking frantically. Ethel looked up from peeling potatoes.

  “Mrs – Joan? Are you all right?”

  I must have been muttering out loud. “I’m fine, Ethel, thank you.” I caught sight of the bottle of cooking sherry that stood on the shelf by the range. That would have to do. I wasn’t going to give Dorothy brandy, mistress of me, or not. I hunted out a sherry glass from the cabinet in the pantry, poured out a generous measure and carried it upstairs to Dorothy’s room.

  “I’m so sorry, Madam, but we seem to be out of brandy.” I held the little glass of blood red liquid out before me like a peace offering. “I’ve brought you a sherry for…for your nerves.”

  For a moment, I thought Dorothy was going to be angry. Then, her innate sense of fairness and, perhaps, a little shame, made her give me a wry smile and hold out her hand for the glass. “Thank you, Joan. Send Verity up to me when you find her, will you?”

  I bobbed, nodded and got myself out of the room. As I scurried off downstairs, I reflected on how much time I wasted on worrying myself half to death on things that never turned out to eventuate after all.

  All the same, as Ethel and I began to plate up luncheon for the family and then for the servants, I thought about what I would say to Verity about Dorothy’s request. Because I would have to say something. As I reflected, dumping spoonfuls of steaming stew onto plates, in an odd kind of way, Verity and I were the only real family that Dorothy now had. I wondered if Dorothy ever thought that herself. Probably not. The thought of an aristocratic lady being utterly emotionally reliant on a pair of servant girls would probably be the world’s most horrifying thought. I drained the cabbage, turning my face from the cloud of rank steam that billowed up from the sink, and put all thoughts of our odd relationship away from me. Unlike Dorothy, I had a job to do.

  I didn’t even see Verity at luncheon. I was beginning to think the fairies had spirited her away. As Ethel and I set to the washing up, a shadow fell over the outside door and I looked up to see Verity coming in through the doorway looking purposeful.

  “Joan, you do realise it’s your afternoon off?” She said in a scolding tone. I gaped. I’d completely forgotten, given my worries about work, and Dorothy, and whether there was a poisoner at work amongst the household.

  “Oh,” I said, lamely. “Actually, I had forgotten.” It seemed incredible, but the ways of this household were so much more relaxed than any of my previous places that free time didn’t seem quite so important as it once had. Although, now that I realised Verity was right, I felt a leap of gladness at some time to myself.

  “Come on,” said Verity. “I’ve got a little picnic here. We can go for a walk and enjoy the sunshine by the river.”

  I flashed her a grateful look as I whipped off my apron and hung it up. Giving Ethel some last minute instructions (I wasn’t too worried – dinner plans were well underway and all she had to do was make sure it was served hot and on time), I attended to my untidy hair in the hallway mirror, pinched my cheeks and went to fetch my hat and coat.

  We didn’t speak until we were well away from the house, following a footpath through the forest. It was a beautiful spring day, and golden sunlight dappled the forest floor where the mist of early bluebells began to spread an azure carpet through the trees. The buds on the branches were gently unfurling in that special fresh green that lasts so little time before darkening.

  “Phew,” Verity said, tipping back her hat. “It’s good to get away, isn’t it?”

  “Haven’t you been in the village all morning?”

  Verity nodded. “Yes. Dorothy had me send a telegram.” She looked over at me as if considering telling me something and then obviously thought better of it.

  “What is it?”

  “Never mind. You’ll see.”

  “V—” I warned her.

  Verity giggled, always a pretty sound. “You’ll see, Joanie. That’s all.”

  “Hmm.” I had no idea why she was being so mysterious but at that moment, we reached the edge of the forest and a beautiful sight was before our eyes. The river foamed in sparkling silver waves across smoothly rounded stones and ferns and flowers danced in the breeze on the riverbanks.

  “How delightful!” I exclaimed.

  “It’s lovely here,” Verity agreed. “I came across it the other day.” She gestured to a couple of large boulders by the edge of the bank. “We could sit there.”

  The rocks had been warmed by the sun. We sat there in silence for a moment, watching the little wavelets breaking over the riverbed stones. A fish leapt and splashed in a shining momentary streak of silver.

  I could feel the tension in my shoulders ebb away as I watched the rippling water. Even so, I knew I should mention Dorothy’s request for brandy to Verity. I did so and braced myself for her anger.

  It didn’t come. Instead she sighed and said “Well, she’s been doing so well so far. I can understand why she might – might slip now.”

  This seemed as good a time as any to mention what I’d been thinking. “Who in the family would have wanted Mrs Ashford’s death?”

  Verity looked a little startled at my bluntness. She turned to stare at the river once more. “I don’t know,” was all she said, after a long moment’s silence. I could see her forehead creasing into a frown.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I asked, after a moment.

  Verity didn’t look at me. After a second, she muttered, “The police have been asking Mrs Weston about the arsenic. About whether she kept any in the house.”

  “Oh.” I considered that for a moment, remembering the tension I had seen in Mrs Weston’s face. “What did she say?”

  “She said she couldn’t say for sure but she didn’t think they kept any arsenic.” Verity pushed a wisp of hair away from her face. “Arabella apparently told the police that there was some cyanide in the garden shed because the gardener used it for getting rid of wasps.”

  “But Mrs Ashford didn’t die of cyanide poisoning, did she?”

  “No.”

  We were both silent for a moment. “Could it have been a mistake?” I muttered, almost to myself.

  “What’s that, Joanie?”

  “The poisoning. Could it have been accidental?”

  Verity looked unconvinced. “I don’t see how.”

  “No, I suppose not.” I remembered something Inspector Marks had once told me and added, “Apparently, if you soak fly-papers, you can get arsenic that way. Are there any fly-papers here?”

  Verity shru
gged. “I don’t know. Probably.”

  We sat in silence for a few moments longer. Then, because I could no longer keep it inside myself, I asked “Do you not want to talk about this, V? Is that it?”

  Verity didn’t answer. Then she sighed and turned to face me. “Joan. I know that you – you enjoy this. I don’t mean that in a macabre way,” she added, when she saw I was about to protest. “But you do enjoy it. You like finding things out and working out puzzles and mysteries. And you’re not scared, that’s the thing. You’re not scared of all this death and all this – this wickedness.”

  I was so flabbergasted for a moment that I couldn’t respond. Verity, sensing that, pressed on. “I’m not like that. Oh, I know it was fun, to start with. At Asharton Manor. But we weren’t really close to it there, or at least I wasn’t. It was like…play acting. It didn’t seem real and so it didn’t scare me.”

  She fell silent. By now I’d recovered my tongue. “So, what are you saying, V?”

  Verity looked as though she hadn’t heard me. There was an urgency, a passion to her voice that I hadn’t heard before. “Joan, I hate it. I hate being around all this – this malevolence. My mind doesn’t work like yours; I can’t see things like you do. It’s like I’m blind and flailing around in the dark, and the only person who can stop me from falling down a deep hole, a hole I can’t see, is you.” She was quiet for a moment and then added, softly, “And that scares me.”

  I really didn’t know what she meant by that and said so. Verity sighed.

  “It’s just…we won’t always be working together,” she said. “Not always. Life moves on and perhaps so shall we.”

  Now I was scared. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, sometime in the future, perhaps we won’t be maids any more. We’ll be married, or working in something different…”