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

by Celina Grace

  “Do you mind? My cooking is never disgusting.”

  “No, of course it’s not, Joanie. I’m sorry.” Verity got up, stretched and yawned. “Oh my, I’m so sleepy.”

  I forced myself up. “I’ll let you get to bed.”

  “It’s fine—” Her yawn belied her words and I caught it. “Oh, there was something else.”

  “Oh yes?”

  Verity climbed into bed and I tucked the counterpane over her feet. “Oh, thanks Joanie. Gosh, it’s nice to have someone fussing over me for a change.”

  I knew how she felt. The cups of tea that Ethel made me tasted so much sweeter than the ones I made myself. “What was it you were going to tell me?”

  “Oh yes. It’s – Mrs Ashford’s will is going to be read tomorrow.”

  I was silent. Again, I was suddenly convinced that the piece of paper Verity and I had signed had been a will. Perhaps the one being read tomorrow. I chewed my lip, thinking.

  “Mr Brittain – that’s Mrs Ashford’s solicitor – is coming tomorrow, late morning.” Verity yawned again and wriggled down under the covers.

  “I wish I could hear it.” I moved over to let her push her feet past me. “But I don’t see how I can.” I looked at her pale face on the pillow, her eyes almost closing. “I don’t suppose you could?”

  She yawned again. “I’ll try. I can’t promise. It completely depends on what Dorothy wants to do.”

  “I understand.” Taking pity on her, I patted the bulge of her feet under the covers and got up. “Get some sleep, V. I’ll think of something.”

  “Night-night.” Her voice flattened out to a sleepy mumble. Smiling, I turned off the bedside light for her and tiptoed over to the doorway in the dark.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Surprisingly I slept well and didn’t dream, despite all the muddle and tension and worry of the present. I opened my eyes to bright sunlight, which always helped my mood. As Ethel and I prepared breakfast, I sent up a mental message of thanks to Verity for her tip-off about the solicitor, Mr Brittain, coming to read Mrs Ashford’s will that morning. That meant he would no doubt stay to luncheon, and I was able to draft out a suitable menu before Mrs Weston even set foot in the kitchen.

  She looked far worse than she had the night before; so ill, in fact, that I was unable to help commenting. “Mrs Weston, are you quite well?”

  She shook her head. “Joan, Ethel, I must take to my bed for a little while.” We both tried to say something but she held up a trembling hand. “Please, don’t be alarmed. I don’t believe it’s food poisoning again.” I bit my lip. Surely, she wasn’t still clinging to the false hope that it had been the food that had made everyone ill and killed her mistress? “I… I believe I have influenza. Joan, I need you to assist me today. Do you know Mr Brittain is coming to the house this morning?”

  I nodded. “Yes, and I understood he would be staying for luncheon?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” Mrs Weston’s face was sheeny with sweat.

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs Weston, I’ve already planned the meal. And I can hold the fort so you can get some rest.”

  “They will need refreshments in the drawing room when Mr Brittain arrives. Please make sure there’s sufficient seating and stay in the room in case anyone is in need of assistance.”

  I kept my face steady and nodded but felt a leap of excitement. I’d been wondering how I could find out what was in Mrs Ashford’s will and here was the perfect opportunity. “Of course, Mrs Weston.”

  “Thank you, Joan.” She looked as though she wanted to continue issuing instructions but a fresh layer of sweat broke out on her forehead. “Oh dear, I must lie down.”

  “Let me help you,” I said, hating to think of her struggling up the stairs alone. She was too weak to give me more than a token protest.

  I saw her up to her room and laid down on her bed, and I made sure she had water and an extra blanket nearby. Then I went to leave. I was almost at the door when her voice stopped me.

  “Thank you, Joan.”

  “That’s quite all right, Mrs Weston.”

  She settled her head back on the pillow and smiled, the first real smile I’d ever received from her. “I’m beginning to realise why Miss Drew didn’t want to lose you.”

  That remark bore me down two flights of steps with a warm feeling in my chest. It was good to think that I was valued, that my hard work was recognised. I realised that was partly why I felt so drawn to Inspector Marks. I felt he really saw me as a person. He respected my opinions. He appreciated my…my skills. Because I had had some success in this strange sort of business, hadn’t I? For the first time then, my foot upon the top step of the lower flight of stairs, I realised it. I was good at this. At investigating crime. Perhaps it was the way my mind worked. Perhaps it was intuition. Honesty compelled me to add to myself that perhaps it was luck. Smiling to myself, I went back downstairs to the kitchen.

  Mr Brittain arrived promptly at eleven and I showed him to the drawing room, standing in for Mrs Weston as she’d requested. The others were gathered there already. Mrs Bartleby stood by the window, her hand to her throat, fiddling with a string of jet beads. She was dressed in deepest mourning. Everybody else wore black, or sombre shades, save for Raymond Bentham who, shockingly, wasn’t even wearing a tie. His white shirt gaped open and I could see Arabella casting sideways glances at the small triangle of brown skin revealed there. Not completely overtaken by grief then, I observed silently to myself with an inner grin. Then I told myself not to be so judgemental.

  Michael and Dorothy sat together on the chaise longue, conversing quietly with each other. I could see Mrs Bartleby giving them rather puzzled covert glances and took a closer look myself. With a twinge of unease, I could see that there was a new sort of intimacy to their posture, their heads together, leaning in towards one another. Michael was assiduous in lighting Dorothy’s cigarette. Oh well, no doubt she knew what she was doing, and it wasn’t as if he weren’t charming, handsome and a gentleman. But he was rather younger than she and I didn’t know what his prospects were. Hark at you, you sound like her mother, Joan. Dorothy was rich enough, anyway. Really, aside from the social aspect, she could marry who she liked. I dismissed the thought and turned my attention to arranging the refreshments on the sideboard. Then I stood back against the wall unobtrusively and folded my hands in front of me.

  Mr Brittain was a tall, rather stooped old man with bushy white eyebrows and an equally luxuriant moustache. He cleared his throat and walked to the front of the room. Every conversation ceased and every eye, including my own, turned to look at him.

  “Good morning, everybody, and may I first express my deepest condolences to you, Miss Arabella, and indeed you all, at this very sad time.” He looked at Arabella with stern pity; she smiled tremulously and shifted ever so slightly in her chair. “As you no doubt know, I am here in my capacity as the late Mrs Margaret Ashford’s solicitor and will shortly read her last will and testament.”

  He continued with a fairly lengthy testimony as to Mrs Ashford’s ‘strength of character’, ‘high moral sense’ and ‘astute and frugal ways’. I had never actually been to a will reading before, so perhaps this was the usual practice, but I could sense a tiny shift in the concentration of those people raptly listening as he droned on. There were tiny shifts in posture, coughs and glances at pocket watches and the clock on the mantelpiece. Raymond looked frankly bored, and I wondered if he’d get up and walk out. It wasn’t likely that he’d been left anything, was it? But he stayed put, one ankle crossed on his knee. Arabella had taken the seat directly next to his, of course. I was conscious of a spurt of pity for her.

  At long last, Mr Brittain came to the point. “The estate of my late client is quite substantial, consisting of this house, the land surrounding it and a sum in the region of fifty thousand pounds.�
�� I saw Arabella’s shoulders tense as she sat forward slightly. “As it happens, the estate will be divided as so. Miss Arabella Jane Ashford will inherit the house and the land. The remainder of the estate, held in a mixture of cash, stocks and shares and government bonds, will be divided equally between Miss Arabella Jane Ashford and Mrs Constance Mary Bartleby. A legacy of five thousand pounds will be given to Mr Michael Harrison—”

  He went on to detail various small legacies to people such as Dorothy and Mrs Weston, and several cousins and nieces and nephews, but I was no longer listening because I was watching the reactions of various people. Really, I thought, a will reading is better than the theatre. I watched Arabella jerk and then relax, sinking back into her chair, that tremulous smile growing stronger. I heard Mrs Bartleby’s gasp but couldn’t tell if it was delight or shock or horror. Michael Harrison caught Dorothy’s eye and smiled a rueful yet resigned smile. Raymond looked as though he were thinking about nothing, or possibly about his dinner.

  I had left Ethel with strict instructions for the dinner – or rather, the luncheon – but I felt a qualm of anxiety as to how it was progressing. Mrs Weston’s orders or no, I decided I would have to go downstairs to make sure everything was in order. Mr Brittain had finished reading by now and was engaged in polishing his silver-rimmed spectacles. The room seethed with a variety of emotions, and I badly wanted to stay and see what was going to happen. I battled with my conscience for a moment and then duty prevailed. Also, from the view of my own self-preservation, I didn’t want this emotional group to be annoyed further by a bad meal.

  I slipped out of the room just as people were beginning to pick themselves up out of their chairs and prepare to move. I had my hand on the rail of the basement staircase when there was a rustle and swish of black silk behind me and Mrs Bartleby’s voice snapped. “Where is Mrs Weston?” The anger vibrating through her normally low and charming voice disturbed me.

  “She’s – I’m afraid she’s unwell, Madam. She’s lying down in her room.”

  Mrs Bartleby said nothing in response but huffed in what I assumed was outrage and then turned about and went towards the stairs. I stared after her as she climbed the staircase quickly, heels thudding on the treads, even over the carpet runner that flowed down the middle of the staircase. Then, casting duty and caution to the wind, I followed her, far enough behind so that she didn’t notice me doing so. Quickly, I snatched a newspaper from the sideboard in the hallway as I went past. If challenged, I could say I was delivering it to somebody’s room.

  As I crept along the corridor to the second set of stairs, I saw Mrs Bartleby’s long skirts whisk around the corner of the staircase. Now on uncarpeted wood, her heels sounded like gunshots on the boards. She was clearly very angry about something but what? I thought back to what I’d just heard in the drawing room. Surely it couldn’t be over her inheritance? It sounded, from what I’d understood, that Mrs Ashford’s estate was quite substantial and she, Mrs Bartleby, had inherited a significant portion of it. I slowed my pace, not wanting her to see my lurking at the bottom of the stairs. I heard the bedroom door open upstairs – she didn’t knock – and her voice asking crossly “Mrs Weston? Mrs Weston?”

  I took a deep breath and slowly crept up a few more of the stairs, enough to hear a little clearer. I could hear Mrs Weston’s voice, sounding – as well it might – rather weary and flat. Mrs Bartleby seemed to be taking her to task about something failing to be posted.

  “You assured me that everything was in hand, Mrs Weston – you gave me your assurance.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs Bartleby, but it was Mrs Ashford who asked me not to – not to post it. I couldn’t disobey her wishes.”

  “I don’t believe it for a second.” Scorn reverberated in Mrs Bartleby’s voice. “You had the presumption to think that you knew better than your very mistress – who, I might remind you, had just come to the same conclusion that we all had and knew what she was doing was for the best—”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs Bartleby, but she had changed her mind—”

  “Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. I can tell you now, Mrs Weston, that I am most seriously displeased—”

  Voices swelled in the hallway beneath me and I reluctantly moved away, back to the corridor. I really had to get back to the kitchen or risk a complete culinary disaster. As I scurried back downstairs, I was conscious of a spurt of anger towards Mrs Bartleby. Whatever Mrs Weston had or hadn’t done, there was something distasteful in not even being able to be indisposed without one of the family chastising you. In your bed, no less.

  I paused on the main staircase as everyone, bar Mrs Bartleby, flooded out of the drawing room and dispersed to various parts of the house. Michael and Raymond peeled off to the library, no doubt to drink whisky and play billiards. I heard Michael talking as they passed. “Frightfully good of the old girl, Ray, what? I wasn’t expecting to get a bean after – well, after all that’s happened.”

  I saw Arabella flinch a little at this as she and Dorothy walked past. Seconds later, it was as if her temporary discomfort was forgotten. If it wasn’t for the fact that her mother had just died in suspicious circumstances, I would have said that she looked happy.

  “You two chaps aren’t going to moulder indoors on a day like this, are you?” Dorothy enquired of the young men. “How about a game of tennis after lunch?” She looked up and caught my eye. “Oh, Joan. When are we having grub?”

  “Within the hour, Madam,” I said, hoping that I wasn’t inadvertently lying. I really had to get back to the kitchen.

  “Jolly good.”

  “Join us for a pre-luncheon snifter, eh?” Michael smiled at the women. “Toast my good fortune – and yours too, Arabella.” She looked at him quite warily before she smiled, uncertainly. “And we must raise a glass to my dear, late aunt, of course.”

  “What a good idea,” Dorothy said, with a lot more enthusiasm than I would have liked. I watched the four of them disappear towards the library and sighed, wondering if I should warn Verity. But there wasn’t much that she could do, really, was there?

  Mr Brittain emerged last from the drawing room and looked around, as if surprised to be alone. Before he could ask me anything, Mrs Bartleby came stalking down the staircase and swept past me as if I weren’t there. She had a hard smile on her face that might have fooled you, if you hadn’t just been party to what she’d been saying to Mrs Weston.

  “Oh, Mr Brittain, do come and have a sherry before luncheon.”

  “Well, Mrs Bartleby, that would be very kind…”

  I watched them walk back into the drawing room and then pelted for the kitchen, hoping against hope that Ethel had everything under control.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As it turned out, I was worrying for nothing. Ethel – the good girl – had the pots bubbling and the plates heating. I could simply whisk in, make a few last-minute adjustments and begin dishing everything up.

  Once the family’s meal was underway, I prepared one for the servants. What with Mrs Weston being out of the way, they could sit down to a cold meal for once; cold meats, cheese, bread and some of the chutneys that had been made here last year. I made up a tray for the invalid and Ethel carried it up.

  After we washed up, I said, “Ethel, you did marvellously this morning. Thank you. If you wish, you’re welcome to have the next couple of hours off. I can manage dinner.”

  Of course she wished to. I didn’t blame her. Much as I honestly wanted to reward her, I also wanted her out of the way for the afternoon. I had to talk to Verity and – if I could manage it – I had to talk to Inspector Marks.

  Verity was easy. I found her coming out of the study with an empty whisky bottle in her hand and a grim look on her face.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked in a low voice, although the hubbub behind the study door meant I was in little danger of being overhe
ard.

  “What do you think?” She waved the empty bottle at me.

  “Oh, V. There’s nothing you can do—”

  “I know that. It’s just… It’s frustrating.”

  Selfishly, for I could see she was worried, I realised that if Dorothy was on the toot for the next hour or so, that meant I could have Verity’s undivided attention. “Come downstairs for a cup of tea,” I suggested. “Have a little rest for a while. Dorothy will be fine. She’s a… She’s a big girl.”

  Verity rolled her eyes but she didn’t protest. I made tea and took it out to the little terrace out the back where I’d sat with Inspector Marks. He was staying at the inn in the village, I remembered him telling me. If I had time later, I would telephone him there and leave a message if he wasn’t there to receive my call.

  I let Verity talk about Dorothy for a bit as I could see that if she didn’t, she was going to explode.

  “I thought she was doing so well and being here seemed to be just the thing. Arabella’s not really one for cocktails – she’s not very gay, at all really, in any way, is she? Dorothy was doing so well, and then these two young men arrive and it’s straight back into bad habits…”

  “Are Dorothy and Michael… Er…?” I asked, curious, and thinking that a change of subject might be a good thing.

  “Are they ‘er’?” To her credit, Verity stopped ranting and laughed. “They might be. He is awfully handsome, isn’t he? And Dorothy’s always had an eye for a good-looking man.” She sighed, and added “Perhaps I should encourage it. It might take her mind off the demon drink.”

  “Didn’t he once have an amour with Arabella?” I said this merely to keep Verity off the subject of Dorothy’s intoxication.