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

by Celina Grace

  “Well, I think that’s what Mrs Ashford would have liked, but it didn’t work out. I think Michael was a bit keener than she was.”

  “And now she’s falling over herself to get Raymond Bentham.”

  Verity re-filled her cup. “Well, she might have a bit more of a chance with him now she’s an heiress.”

  “Surely that can’t be very nice, knowing that someone’s only with you because of your money?”

  Verity turned her face up into the sunlight. “Gosh, this sun is lovely. I could stay out here all day. What was that, Joan?” I repeated what I had just said. “Oh, well, chance would be a fine thing for us, wouldn’t it?” I giggled ruefully. “Oh, who knows why anyone does anything? I don’t know anymore.”

  She sounded more defeated than I would have liked. I hesitated, wondering whether to bring the next subject up or not.

  “Um, Verity?”

  “Mm?” Her eyes were closed, face tipped up to the sky.

  “Do you remember that – that paper we signed, the first night we arrived here?”

  Verity kept her eyes shut. “What? Oh, that. Yes, what about it?”

  I recounted the strange conversation – argument, really – that I’d overheard between Mrs Bartleby and Mrs Weston. “I think it was a will.”

  That snapped Verity’s eyes open. “A will? What, the will we heard read today?”

  I paused. “Well, I don’t know. But I don’t see how it can have been. Not with the way Mrs Bartleby was going on at Mrs Weston. What if it was a new will and Mrs Weston was supposed to post it and for some reason she didn’t, and so the old will was read today?”

  Verity frowned. “Tell me again what Mrs Bartleby said, Joan.”

  I cudgelled my memory and tried to repeat, word for word, what I’d overheard. Eavesdropped, said a little devilish voice and I batted it away. Needs must when the devil drives.

  Verity frowned harder. “She said ‘you think that you knew better than your very mistress – who had just come to the same conclusion that we all had…’”

  “Something like that.” I tried to think back even further. “I overheard Arabella and her mother arguing over Raymond Bentham and her mother said something like ‘there’s only one thing I could do to change your mind’. I always wondered what she meant by that.” I remembered that nasty laugh Mrs Ashford had given during that conversation and then, the flattened tone of Arabella belying the violence of her words. I hate you.

  Verity reached for the teapot and made a noise of annoyance when she realised it was empty. “Well, if you’re right about there being another will, and if you’re right about it going missing, I still don’t understand Mrs Bartleby’s annoyance. She’s just inherited twenty-five thousand pounds. That’s a fortune, by anyone’s standards.”

  I shook my head helplessly. “I know. I don’t understand it either. Perhaps we’ve got it all completely wrong.”

  We looked at each other for a moment. Then Verity put the teapot back on the table with finality. “You need to talk to the inspector, Joan. Whether we’ve got things right or wrong, we need to tell him.”

  Although I had planned to do just that, I felt a keen pleasure at being given permission to talk to Inspector Marks by my friend. “Well, I suppose I should,” I said, absurdly, as if I hadn’t just been plotting and planning the telephone call I was next about to make.

  Verity sighed. “Come on, we’d better go back. I need to see if Dorothy’s still upright.”

  I squeezed her arm in sympathy. “You just come and find me if you…if you need help. Or Andrew.” Verity gave me a grimace. Andrew, the footman and chauffeur, had already had some experience of decanting a comatose Dorothy from the back seat of her car to her bed. To be fair to him, though, he was discreet and never mocked her. Not to our faces, anyway.

  As we walked back to the kitchen, another unwelcome thought came to me. “Oh.”

  Verity looked across as I stopped short. “Now what is it?”

  I brushed aside the shortness of her tone. “I’ve just thought of something. About Mrs Bartleby.” I lowered my voice. “You remember when Mrs Ashford died?”

  “Yes.” I could tell Verity was trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

  “Well, Mrs Bartleby was with her. With the body. In her room. Mrs Weston and I left her in there, alone.”

  Verity raised her coppery brows. “And?”

  “Well…” I hesitated. “What if it was she who moved the body? To cover up what she’d done?”

  Now it was Verity’s turn to hesitate. “I suppose it’s possible,” she said slowly. Then she seemed to shake herself and come back to reality. “Well, we can’t spend all day discussing it. Talk to Inspector Marks.” She gave me an assessing look and then her grin flashed out. “Not that that will be a hardship, eh, Joanie?”

  I dug her in the ribs with my elbow, pursing my mouth in mock disapproval and we both snorted and walked back to the kitchen giggling.

  Chapter Nineteen

  All was quiet in the kitchen when we returned. So quiet, in fact, that I could clearly hear the noise of the gramophone and the occasional loud laugh and shriek echoing from the study on the floor above. Verity caught my eye and rolled hers. I knew how she felt. Perhaps Mrs Ashford was not much missed but it did seem a trifle unseemly to be, well, celebrating the fact in such an overt manner. I hoped Mr Brittain had departed.

  Verity disappeared upstairs with promises to come and get me if I was needed. I glanced around me at the quiet kitchen and fastened my apron around my waist once more. Then I took it off again. This would be the perfect time to telephone the inspector.

  Talking on the telephone always flustered me a little, although you would have thought I’d have been used to it, given the amount of ordering I was expected to do with the tradesmen. The exchange connected me to the inspector’s inn and I waited with my heart in my mouth for the receptionist to answer.

  Glory be and hallelujah, the inspector was in his room. I waited, heart thumping ever more wildly, for him to pick up the receiver at his end.

  “Miss Hart? What can I do for you?” Was it me, or could I truly ascertain a note of pleasure in his voice at hearing from me?

  Succinctly as I could, I summarised the information I had to give him. “I would really like to talk to you, sir. I was wondering if we could meet?”

  “You have the jump on me, Miss Hart. I was about to suggest the same thing.”

  I ignored the leap of excitement in my stomach and listened to his suggestion of a meeting in an hour or so. Just as I was about to comment, I heard something on the line that made me pause. A stealthy click which I recognised as someone picking up a telephone to listen in on the line.

  I think the inspector heard it too. He merely reiterated his suggestion but there was a minute pause and a slight artificiality to his voice that made me think he was wondering if someone else was listening in.

  He confirmed that he was on his way to the house and said goodbye. “Take good care of yourself, Miss Hart,” he said, with slightly pointed emphasis on the words take care.

  “I will, sir. Good bye.”

  I put the receiver down, wondering if I really had heard someone pick up the other line. And if I hadn’t been mistaken, who had it been? Before I could hesitate and tell myself I’d been hearing things, I crept out from Mrs Weston’s parlour, where the telephone was located and quickly but quietly hurried upstairs. The only other telephone was kept in the drawing room. I pressed myself against the wall of the hallway, around from where the drawing room door was situated, and waited. Sure enough, there was the click of heels and the sound of the door being opened. I held my breath. A swish of silk and the patter of feet as someone ran upstairs from the drawing room. I peeked out, to see a flare of black material, somebody’s skirt, flutter out just
as the person, whoever it was, disappeared around the corner of the upstairs corridor.

  Mrs Bartleby. I was fairly certain it was her but thought I had better check. Quickly and quietly, I opened the door to the study, thinking I could say I had come to see if anyone wanted anything other in refreshments if I were challenged.

  I could easily see who was in the room. Dorothy, who looked as though she was quite refreshed already, was dancing with Michael Harrison. Raymond Bentham was reclining on one of the armchairs by the window, with Arabella dancing attendance on him as usual. The gramophone was making so much noise, not to mention Dorothy shrieking with intoxicated laughter, that nobody noticed my quick entrance and equally swift exit.

  I trailed downstairs and shut the kitchen door behind me. I was feeling somewhat nervous, given the telephone call, which I was now sure that Mrs Bartleby had listened to, and the inspector’s words of warning to me. Why had Mrs Bartleby eavesdropped on our conversation? As I asked myself that question, it was with a wry recollection of my own eavesdropping of her conversation with Mrs Weston. Perhaps there was nothing sinister about it at all – perhaps, like me, she was just insatiably curious. Or a snoop. I swatted that little demon away once more.

  Even so… As I began to prepare for afternoon tea (not that I imagined many people would be partaking after the festivities I’d just observed) and began to think about dinner, I was careful to keep an eye on both doors to the room. I remembered what had happened at Merisham Lodge. This time, there would be no Verity to save me if…if anything happened. She would have her hands full with Dorothy. For the first time in a while, it occurred to me that I was in the house with a murderer. Most probably. Most definitely, Joan.

  I began chopping vegetables at the kitchen table, which at least meant I had the advantage of being able to see all about me. I thought back to my discovery of poor Mrs Ashford’s body and tried to recollect exactly what had happened. Mrs Weston had said she’d found Mrs Bartleby in Mrs Ashford’s room. Hadn’t she? My rapid knife got slower as I thought back and tried to remember.

  Just as I swept all my chopped vegetables into the pot on the stove, a shadow darkened the outside door and I jumped, despite all my precautions. Anxiety gave way to pleasure as I realised it was Inspector Marks.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Hart.”

  “Please call me Joan,” I said impulsively.

  The inspector smiled. “Well, I will. Thank you.” He hesitated a moment and said, almost shyly, “My Christian name is Tom.”

  I almost blushed. The thought of calling the inspector by his first name! I didn’t say anything but nodded in confusion.

  Inspector Marks – Tom – cleared his throat and sat down at the table. “What was it you wanted to tell me, Joan?”

  I thrust aside all other considerations and became businesslike. “I overheard a strange conversation between Mrs Bartleby and Mrs Weston and it’s made me…uneasy.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  I sat down myself and folded my hands on the table. “I think – I think there may be another will. Another will of Mrs Ashford’s.”

  The inspector had that look on his face that I knew well, a kind of intensity, a concentration. It made me lean forward to look him directly in the face. “When Verity and I arrived, the first night we were here, Mrs Ashford asked us to sign something. A paper, a document. We couldn’t see what it was we were signing but I have a feeling it was a will.”

  The inspector sat back, smiling. “You are a clever girl, Joan. It was a will. I’ve been speaking to Mr Brittain and Mrs Weston. Mrs Ashford wrote it out herself on the night of your arrival.”

  I nodded, pleased that I hadn’t made a fool of myself. Then I frowned. “Sir, so, that was the will that Mr Brittain read out this morning?” I thought of Mrs Bartleby’s anger and Mrs Weston’s response. Something wasn’t making sense. “But…” I stopped speaking, trying to work it out in my head.

  The inspector leaned forward again. “I can’t go into too much detail, Joan, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, but I can tell you that it wasn’t the will that was read this morning. The one that Mr Brittain read out this morning was the legal will of Mrs Ashford. The…new will, I supposed you’d call it, was written, but it wasn’t posted and in the event, it wasn’t valid.”

  “Wasn’t valid?”

  “I won’t go into technicalities with you, Joan, but the legal phrasing was wrong. This is quite common when people write out their own wills, I’m afraid. Makes a jolly mess when it comes to probate, apparently.” He hesitated and added, “There was also a question – a suggestion, from Mrs Weston – that there may have been undue influence.”

  I raised my eyebrows. I could imagine who he meant. “I see,” I said, slowly.

  “Tell me what you overheard, Joan. In fact, tell me everything you can about Mrs Bartleby.”

  I did so, even though what I had to tell him wasn’t much. He listened carefully and made notes in his little book. Even as I was speaking, and enjoying having the inspector listen to me so assiduously, there was a part of me that wanted to creep away and find a quiet space so I could just think. I had felt this before in previous situations, when I knew I could find the solution to the crime if I could just sit and think.

  Just as I was drawing to a close, I heard footsteps in the corridor outside and glanced around. It was Verity, looking like thunder.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, when she saw who was sitting at the table with me. “Good afternoon, Inspector Marks.”

  “Miss Hunter. What a pleasure.” The inspector got up courteously. “Is there a problem?”

  Verity glanced at me and in that short look, I knew exactly what the problem was and sighed inwardly. “Do you need me to come, V?”

  She nodded, trying to smile unconcernedly. “Please don’t let me interrupt you, though. I can manage.”

  The inspector and I looked at one another. “You must help your friend, Joan.” Verity’s eyebrows twitched at the sound of my Christian name. “We can meet again soon.” Verity’s eyebrows were almost at her hairline. “I’ll see myself out. Good day to you both, ladies.”

  He replaced his hat, tipped it to us and left by the back door. Verity allowed me thirty seconds of silence before she grabbed my arm. “’Joan’? ‘We’ll meet again soon’?”

  I snorted. “It’s nothing, V. He wanted to talk to me about the – the case, that’s all.”

  “Hmm.” The look she gave me told me that the subject was far from closed. To forestall her, I asked her what was wrong.

  “Is it Dorothy?”

  Verity rolled her eyes. “She’s incredibly drunk. I’m not sure even you or I could get her up to bed between us.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Thoughts of Inspector Marks flew out of my head. “I’ll come and help.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Last thing that night, I sat down on my bed to unbuckle my shoes and rub my tired feet. What a day. Dorothy had indeed been so intoxicated that she could barely stand. When Verity and I had got back to the study, she’d been slumped on the chaise longue like a sack of potatoes. Arabella stared at her in alarm and Raymond, damn him, was openly laughing at her. I had to restrain myself from slapping his face as we walked past him.

  Michael, fairly tipsy himself, sat next to her, patting her hand, saying, “Dotty, old girl? Wake up, what? Dotty?” Verity leant over and whispered something in his ear and he looked up, blinking in owlish confusion. Then, clearly understanding, he nodded.

  Michael carried Dorothy up to her room. There were a few anxious moments on the stairs when he looked as though he might drop her – Verity and I stood poised to catch either of them – but disaster was averted. He plunked her down on her bed and she groaned and rolled over. I ran to get a bucket from the kitchen.

  When I got back, Michael was gone, and I was too late
with the bucket. Verity was sponging her mistress’s face with a flannel. I sighed and helped her strip the counterpane and took it downstairs to soak. “Come and get me if you need anything,” I whispered to her when I left and dropped a kiss on the top of her bright hair. She smiled at me gratefully.

  Such had been the to-do that I hadn’t really had a moment to think about what the inspector had told me. Now, in my room, I had the peace and quiet I needed. I undressed, washed, and cleaned my teeth and climbed into bed. I mustn’t fall asleep before I had puzzled it all out… After a moment, I climbed back out and fetched my notebook and a pencil.

  Now…the will. The will read this morning – was it only this morning? – had made beneficiaries of Arabella and Mrs Bartleby. Oh, and Michael, although a much smaller amount. I remembered Mrs Bartleby’s gasp as it was read out. She had expected the new will to be read, of that I was now fairly certain. And she had been furious when the old will had been read instead. So that must mean that the new will had been much to her advantage, surely? Why on earth hadn’t I asked the inspector what the new will had said, even if it hadn’t been valid? Oh well, that was a question for when I next saw him. If Mrs Weston had suspected Mrs Bartleby of unduly influencing Mrs Ashford to change her will, that would explain why she hadn’t posted the new will. I remembered how worried and lost she’d looked, which could now be explained. But why had Mrs Ashford changed her will?

  I looked up from the notebook and remembered the row she’d had with Arabella. What had she said? Something about only one thing being able to change Arabella’s mind? Was that what she had meant?

  But, as far as I was aware, Arabella wasn’t aware of the new will. But Mrs Bartleby had been. So what did that mean?

  I looked down at my scribblings. What that meant was that Mrs Bartleby had had a big motive for Mrs Ashford’s death. I remembered Mrs Weston saying she’d found her with Mrs Ashford in the bedroom after Mrs Ashford had died. With a chill, I also remembered something Inspector Marks had told me a long time ago. Poison is a woman’s weapon. Had Mrs Bartleby attempted to poison Mrs Ashford, and when that hadn’t succeeded, she’d finished her off with a blow to the head and attempted to make it look like an accident?