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

by Celina Grace

  Both attempts had that in common, I realised. Both were supposed to look like accidents. Somebody wanted to get away with this murder.

  I heard tired, dragging footsteps in the corridor outside and looked up sharply. I always locked my door last thing at night but I had made doubly certain it was bolted tonight. But then I realised it was just Verity. I heard the squeak of her bedroom door and, moments later, the creak of her bedsprings. Poor V. She’d obviously been up all evening with Dorothy. I felt a surge of anger at our mistress. How could she be so selfish and irresponsible?

  I unbolted the door and crept next door. “It’s me. Joan.”

  “Come in, Joanie.” She sounded exhausted.

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right.” I went in to Verity’s room to find her flat on her back on her bed, still fully dressed. “Come on, V. You can’t sleep in your clothes.”

  “At this moment, I don’t care.”

  I helped her up and helped her undress. “How is Dorothy?”

  Verity huffed. “She seems to be well enough to entertain young Michael in her room. That’s why I could leave. He came back to ‘see how she was’.”

  “Really?” Try as I might, I was a little scandalised. Even knowing Dorothy as I did, it seemed a little – well, very – fast.

  “I tell you, Joanie, I really do not care anymore. I’m fed up with her.” Verity pulled her nightdress down over her head with a cross yank. “If she calls for me later, I am not going.”

  I glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. “She surely wouldn’t want you now?”

  Verity chuckled wearily. “Not if she’s doing what I think she’s doing.”

  “V!”

  “Oh, Joan. I need to go to bed.”

  “Yes, you do.” I tucked her in and switched off the light. “Good night. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  “Night.” I could hear her slipping into sleep even as she spoke.

  My own eyelids were drooping. I went back to my room, bolted the door behind me and picked up my notebook. Probably best not to leave this lying around. I yawned and hid the notebook under my mattress. As I straightened up, my eyes fell on the suitcase on top of my wardrobe. Impulsively, I got up to fetch it down. Tired as I was, I wanted to look at my play, to remind myself of what I’d achieved. I needed to remind myself that I wasn’t just a cook, I was more than a servant, that I had other talents.

  Smiling, I popped the lock of the suitcase and raised the lid. Then the smile fell from my face at what I saw. The suitcase was empty. My play was gone.

  Well, that didn’t make for a restful night’s sleep, as I’m sure you can imagine. Tired as I was, I lay awake for what seemed like hours, staring up into the darkness and wondering what had happened. Had I moved the play and simply forgotten I’d done so? Surely not. Someone must have taken it, but who? And more importantly – why? What value could a play about a murder committed somewhere else and involving other people (all fictional but based on something that had happened to me) possibly have to someone else?

  I eventually fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and woke up the next morning feeling like I’d been run over by an omnibus. Groaning, I pulled myself from my bed and began to prepare myself for the day ahead. My gaze kept returning to the suitcase, which I replaced on top of the wardrobe. For a paranoid moment, I was convinced that I’d dreamt the play disappearing and made myself check. The suitcase was still empty. I looked under the bed and in the dressing table. No sign of it. What an absolute mystery and something I found particularly distressing. Months of hard work had gone into that play, and I knew there was absolutely no hope of me being able to rewrite it exactly as it had been.

  I stomped into the kitchen, feeling exceptionally fed up and cross. So preoccupied was I with the theft of my life’s work, I’d almost forgotten the events of yesterday. When Verity asked me for a tray to take up to Dorothy, lifting up her eyes at the same time, I had a moment of wondering why she wasn’t coming down to breakfast as normal.

  “She probably won’t get out of bed all day,” Verity said, an edge of spite in her tone. Well, it was understandable. “I feel like spiking her tea with something horrid.”

  That made me smile. “I could suggest a few things.”

  Verity laughed. “No, don’t tempt me, Joan.” She took a closer look at me and frowned. “You look terribly pale.”

  I explained about my bad night. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her about the mysterious disappearance of my play but I didn’t. She didn’t need anything else to worry her, and perhaps there was a simple explanation. But what?

  I fortified myself with a pot of strong coffee and got on with the day’s work. Thank goodness it was just to be a family dinner tonight, with only five to feed; that was if Dorothy managed to make it out of bed by then. I wondered, rather pruriently, whether Michael was still in her room. And the servants would want sustenance, of course. I wondered when Michael and Raymond would be able to go back to university. Perhaps after the inquest? And Mrs Bartleby… I thought about my ponderings of the previous night and wondered whether Inspector Marks would go so far as to arrest her. I hoped he would seek me out again, although I didn’t feel as if I could justify telephoning him once more. Really, I had nothing more to tell him, except about the commonality of the murder attempts, both disguised as would-be accidents. Was that enough for me to contact him?

  I was too tired to make a decision. The day dragged by. Mrs Weston made her first appearance downstairs for several days, coming into the kitchen just before dinner. She looked thinner and gaunter but the haunted look had gone from her face. Surprisingly, she thanked me quite warmly for making sure that everything had run smoothly in her absence.

  Ethel and I carried the dishes up to the dining room. I was curious to see if Dorothy was there, and she was, though she was rather pale and shame-faced and drank only water. She didn’t catch my eye. Indeed, she kept her gaze on her plate for the most part and spoke little. I wondered if perhaps this lapse into her previous bad habits had reminded her of how much she had to lose. Perhaps this was the real turning point?

  It was only as I turned to go that I realised that Mrs Bartleby was nowhere to be seen. Michael seemed to come to the same conclusion a moment later.

  “Why, where is Constance? It’s not like her to be late for dinner.”

  Raymond looked bored and didn’t answer. Arabella looked enquiringly over at the empty chair, as if she’d only just noticed. “I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute,” she said. She was sitting next to Raymond, of course.

  “Well, we can’t start without her,” Michael said rather irritably. “Somebody had better go and rouse her.” There was a moment’s silence as nobody volunteered. Then Michael caught my eye. “Joan, do you think you could go and give her a knock? She’s been in her room most of the afternoon. I suppose she’s nodded off or something.”

  “Of course, sir.” I bobbed a curtsey and made my way to the door.

  Climbing the stairs to the first floor, I felt a qualm. Although I had no specific evidence that Mrs Bartleby was the killer, I had enough unease to make me hesitate before raising my hand to knock at her bedroom door. Don’t be silly, I told myself. She’s not going to hurt you. She doesn’t know you know anything.

  Silence followed my knock. I tried again. Still nothing.

  “Madam?” I called softly as I tried the door handle. It wasn’t locked. As I entered the bedroom, I had a flash of memory back to the day I went into Mrs Ashford’s room to find her body. And as it turned out, this was exactly like that. Because when I opened the door and walked into Mrs Bartleby’s room, I found her laid out on the bed, white and still. Dead.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next morning, the house seemed full of policemen. They were thickest in Mrs Bartleby’s room, naturally, but could also be
found in the drawing room. There were even a couple in the kitchen, taking a statement from me whilst Ethel sat nearby, goggling silently.

  “I was sent to call her down to dinner,” I said. Inspector Marks sat once more at the table but this time, he and I weren’t having a tete a tete. “She didn’t answer the door so I knocked again and went into the room. I saw her straight away – she was lying on the bed.” I took a deep breath and clasped my hands together under the table. Perhaps I wasn’t quite as hardened to violent death as I thought.

  “Go on, Miss Hart,” said the inspector. We were back to formality again, although that could have been because of the others who were there. This wasn’t the time to worry about it, anyway.

  “I could see she was dead straight away.” I repressed a shudder, remembering the horrible sight; the vomit, the foam on her lips. “I didn’t touch her, not even to feel her pulse. I could see it was no good.”

  “Quite right,” said Inspector Marks. “But I’d expect nothing less from you, Miss Hart.”

  We exchanged faint smiles and the sergeant sitting next to him and taking notes looked a little surprised. He gave me a glance that was slightly more respectful.

  “I shut the door and went to tell Mrs Weston. It wasn’t my place to call the police, but I knew she would have it in hand.” I went on, telling them everything I could remember. When I got to the bit where the news had to be broken to the family and their guests, I tried to think back. Was there anybody in that room who hadn’t looked quite as shocked as the others? But it was hopeless. I’d done my best, but even I couldn’t watch four different faces at once. I’d watched Arabella and I could have sworn that the horror on her face was genuine.

  Mrs Bartleby’s death changed everything. Now I really did need time to sit and think. Fat chance of that happening now. And how was I going to get any meal prepared with all these policemen in my kitchen?

  I was just about to speak up on that very point when the inspector forestalled me. “Mrs Bartleby left a note.”

  “A note?” I said, blankly.

  “Did you not see it? It was by her bedside table. A suicide note.”

  “Suicide?” I began blinking very fast. Mrs Bartleby had committed suicide? But what did that mean? Had I got everything wrong?

  “That surprises you?” The inspector watched me closely.

  “I must say it does, sir.” I was suddenly filled with the urge to question Inspector Marks intently. But how? I cleared my throat. “Um… Inspector, I’ve told you all that I know. And I know the circumstances are…special, but there’s still a house full of people who will need feeding. Do you think… Could your officers…”

  Our eyes met, and I could see he understood exactly what I meant. I felt a surge of something – pleasure, perhaps, or anticipation. He understood me. What a rare and wonderful thing it is, to have someone truly understand you.

  “Of course, Miss Hart. Gentlemen…” He stood up and began directing the officers towards the back door and the stairs. “There are plenty of rooms upstairs to use, and we must allow Miss Hart to get on with her work.”

  I spoke to Ethel. “Ethel, go up to your room and have a rest for ten minutes or so. I’ll give you a call when I need you.”

  When Ethel had left and when the last blue uniform had filed out, Inspector Marks waited a moment and then turned to me. “Joan?”

  I fought the urge to grab his hands. “Do you honestly think it was suicide?”

  He sat down at the table and gestured for me to do the same. “No. As it happens, I don’t.”

  I leant forward. “How did she die?”

  “The post mortem hasn’t been performed yet, but I’d say it was a pretty clear case of cyanide poisoning.”

  Cyanide. Why did that ring a bell? I groped for the memory and eventually found it. Verity, telling me Arabella had said something to the police about cyanide being kept here to get rid of wasps. I told the inspector just that.

  “I see. Thank you.” He made a note in his little book. “So, Joan. I don’t think it was suicide. In fact, I’d say it was murder. I know there’s a murderer in this house. I need your help to find him. Or her. Can you help me eliminate somebody? Anybody?”

  I nodded. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Please, Joan. You can call me Tom. If you like.”

  I blinked, astonished. “Oh. Oh, I – I don’t know—”

  Was the inspector blushing? “Well, I’ll leave it up to you.”

  Now I blushed. I looked down at my lap, trying to recollect myself. This is serious, Joan. Concentrate. I looked up, straightening my shoulders. “Well, er – Tom—” I stumbled a little but hurried on. “I – um… What I wanted to ask was when do you think Mrs Bartleby died?”

  The inspector looked at his notes. “The doctor seems to think it was sometime in the early hours of last night. Perhaps one o’clock in the morning. Between one and three o’clock.”

  “Oh.” I thought back. Really, at that hour, what hope did I have of knowing where anybody was, apart from in bed? Bed. That made me recollect something and I began to blush again, wondering whether I should say something.

  “What is it?” The inspector could see that I had something to tell him.

  Sorry, Dorothy. I sent the apology to her within my mind as I opened my mouth. “Well, er – Tom, I think Miss Drew and Mr Harrison can be eliminated because…” I trailed away. I was treading in dangerous waters.

  “Go on, Joan.”

  I took a deep breath and told him what Verity had told me. “Of course, I know that doesn’t necessarily mean much but – well – I thought I should tell you.” My entire face felt like it was on fire.

  “That’s fine, Joan. I’ll have to interview Miss Drew and Mr Harrison, of course, but it’s useful to know.” The inspector had become very matter-of-fact. “You can’t tell me about anyone else?”

  “I’m afraid not. I know Verity – Miss Hunter was fast asleep, but I couldn’t say about anyone else.” I thought back through my memories and recollections. There was something else I’d needed to tell the inspector about, wasn’t there? After a moment, I recalled exactly what.

  “Ins – er, Tom, there’s one more thing I’ve thought of. The murder of Mrs Ashford – both attempts, I mean – they were designed to look like accidents. First food poisoning, or mushroom poisoning, and then, when that didn’t work, the head injury disguised as a fall.”

  The inspector nodded, his eyes on my face (luckily, that had returned to its normal colour). “That’s astute of you, Joan.”

  “So, it’s very likely that this murder was disguised as something else as well.” I thought of something else. “What did the note say? Mrs Bartleby’s note, I mean?”

  The inspector didn’t say anything. Instead, he held out a piece of paper, using his handkerchief. “Don’t touch it,” he warned.

  “Of course.” I bent to read it. It was a piece of cream coloured notepaper, torn at the top and it was typed but had Mrs Bartleby’s signature at the bottom. It was short. I am sorry. I can’t go on like this knowing what I know. I must do what’s right for me.

  “Well,” I said slowly. “That’s not even very convincing, is it? It’s clearly been torn off the end of a letter.”

  The inspector nodded. “I imagine it had to suffice, at the last minute. The murderer thought it was worth a try.”

  I read those words again. I can’t go on like this knowing what I know. “She was killed because she knew something, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes. She knew who killed Mrs Ashford.”

  “And the murderer thought she was going to tell. So he or she had to act quickly.” I stopped speaking and the inspector and I stared at one another. “What’s the motive?” I whispered, almost to myself. “If we knew the motive, we’d find the killer.”
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br />   “Yes, that’s true.”

  I leant forward again. “Who benefits from Mrs Ashford’s death?”

  Inspector Marks began to tick people off on his fingers. “Arabella. Mrs Bartleby. Michael Harrison. Mrs Weston.”

  I got up and paced around the kitchen. “Mrs Ashford was going to change her will. She got Verity and me to sign the new one.”

  “And that new will benefitted Mrs Bartleby.”

  I reached the far wall and turned on my heel to walk back. Walking helped me. “Arabella knew that her mother was going to change her will. I think she did, anyway. And Mrs Bartleby knew because she overheard. Mrs Weston knew because Mrs Ashford gave her the new will to post, although as it happened, she didn’t. Michael – did he know?”

  The inspector watched me closely. “I don’t believe he did.”

  “He only inherits a small amount, anyway.” I half laughed as I said it. What I wouldn’t give for five thousand pounds of my own! “Is that the case with the new will?”

  “Yes. The other bequests remained the same. The only change was that Arabella was, well, effectively disinherited.”

  I stopped walking and went back to my seat at the table. My mind felt so tangled up with confusion that for a moment, I found it difficult to speak.

  After a moment, I looked at the clock. “Oh, help. Inspector – Tom, I mean – I really do need to get on with my work. I’m sorry.”