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

by Celina Grace

“Of course you must.” Inspector Marks became brisk and jumped to his feet. “Well, Joan, I can’t say how very helpful I’ve found our conversation.”

  I smiled at him. “Thank you. I hope I’ve helped.”

  “Very much so.” He remained on his feet for a moment longer, looking at me as if he’d like to say more. Then he held out his hand. “Please take care of yourself, Joan. Telephone me if you think of anything else or if you feel in the slightest danger. I’m keeping a uniformed officer here.”

  That reassured me. “Thank you,” I said once more.

  “There will, of course, have to be an inquest. And inevitably, some press attention.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, but of course there would be. I sighed inwardly, remembering the madness after the murders at Merisham Lodge.

  Merisham Lodge. Something flickered in my memory, something so intangible I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Was it something to do with the house? With the people in the house? The more I tried to focus my attention on what it was, the more it eluded me before it slipped away altogether.

  The inspector had obviously noticed my period of introspection. “What is it, Joan?”

  “That’s just it,” I said in frustration. “I don’t know. Something came back to me, from when we—” I stopped myself saying ‘worked together’ just in time. “When we were at Merisham Lodge. Something about that.”

  Inspector Marks waited patiently but after a moment, I shook my head, grimacing. “Sorry. It’s just gone.”

  “Don’t fret, Joan. If it’s important enough, the thought comes back, I find.”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m sure it will.” My eyes went to the clock behind him on the wall. Help. I was so behind in what I had to do.

  Astute man that he was, Inspector Marks noticed. He bid me goodbye, repeated that I was to contact him if I needed to, and then left.

  Much as I wanted to sit down and puzzle over what I’d just half-remembered, I didn’t have the time. I shouted up the stairs for Ethel and began to get to work.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Things had been in such a state of kerfuffle that my missing play had quite slipped my mind. It wasn’t until I was dressing myself the next morning that my gaze fell on my suitcase and I remembered. How could I have forgotten? I reached for the case and opened it, hoping against hope that the manuscript would be magically restored to its rightful place. Of course it wasn’t. I put the suitcase back up on the top of the wardrobe. What on earth was going on? Why would anyone steal my play? Was it something to do with what was happening here?

  I went downstairs through the silent house, nodding to the policemen who sat solidly by the front door. What a boring night he must have had. No doubt his replacement would be on the way and he could go off duty. I put the kettle on the hob and made him a cup of tea, which he accepted with pleased thanks.

  As I prepared breakfast, I thought about my play. Was there the remotest possibility that the murderer could have removed it? The thought of a killer sneaking into my room didn’t make me feel very comfortable. But why would they? But then, who else would have taken it? And why?

  I was going around in mental circles. Ethel came into the kitchen a moment later, and I put her in charge of frying the bacon. As I began to plate up the trays to take to the dining room, I thought about what had happened. Again, that quicksilver flash of – something – something to do with Merisham Lodge. Oh, if only I had five minutes to myself to sit and think…

  After breakfast, I managed to indicate to Verity that I needed to talk to her. She understood, of course, and carried her plate into the scullery.

  “What’s the matter?” she hissed.

  I explained about my play. As she listened, I was astonished to see a guilty look cross her face.

  “V? Do you know something about this?”

  Verity bit her lip. “I didn’t think you’d notice so quickly.”

  I was both utterly astounded and jolly annoyed. “What do you mean? You took my play?”

  Verity began to giggle. “Yes, I did. Hear me out. Please, Joanie.”

  I stepped back a little, so my back hit the shelves behind me, and folded my arms. “I’m waiting.”

  “Well.” Verity shook her red head airily. “I knew you were never going to get around to doing anything with it. And I read it and, Joanie, it’s awfully good.”

  Despite my anger, I was touched and then embarrassed. “No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is, Joan. Anyway, you’re such a scaredy-cat that I knew you’d never have the gumption to send it off to anyone—”

  “Steady on,” I protested, thinking this was rather harsh.

  Verity eyed me cynically. “So, when were you going to send it off, eh, Joan?”

  “Well—I—” I stuttered to a halt.

  “Quite,” said Verity. “So, I thought it was up to me to inform the rest of the world about your genius, and I happened to know that Tommy’s director was looking for some new material, so, I crept in, pinched it and posted it off to him.”

  She gave me a big, pleased smile that I was too flabbergasted to return. “You sent my play off to a – a director?”

  “Yes, Joan. And what’s more, he likes it.”

  If I’d been stunned before, I was poleaxed now. “He likes it?” I gasped, feebly.

  “He certainly does. In fact, he’d like to meet you the next time you’re in London.”

  “When am I ever in London?”

  “There are such things as trains, Joanie. And days off.”

  I was silenced once more. A director – a theatre director – liked my play? Tommy, Verity’s uncle, had been an actor for years and would no doubt know plenty of people connected with the theatre, so I had no reason to doubt that part of the confession. But, a director liked my play? Enough to meet me?

  “Gosh,” was all I said; a very inadequate way of describing my feelings.

  Verity grinned. “I knew you’d be pleased.”

  Pleased wasn’t quite the word I would have used to describe my feelings. As I cast around for something to say to explain them, Mrs Weston cleared her throat on the other side of the scullery door. “Joan? Verity? Time to be getting on with your work, I think.”

  We exchanged a guilty glance. “Talk to you later,” Verity whispered, hurrying out. I tried to compose myself and took a deep breath, smoothing my apron before following her.

  I had no time to sit and think about my play, or getting to London, or the murders. Mrs Weston and I had to go through the orders for the week, which always took up a good deal of time. But first, the dining room had to be cleared of the family’s breakfast dishes. Ethel and I took our trays and walked up the stairs.

  Not much had been eaten. I suppose it was understandable, given the circumstances, but I still had to suppress an exclamation of annoyance. That was an hour’s hard work gone to waste, not to mention the actual waste of the food itself. Perhaps I could refashion the leftovers into something else; goodness knows I was used to doing that. Ethel and I loaded up the trays and turned to go, but as I did, one of the silver knives slipped from my tray to crash on the floor and then skidded under the chesterfield.

  “Blast,” I said.

  “I can get it,” offered Ethel.

  “No, don’t bother. Take that tray down and I’ll be along in a minute.” I set my own tray down on the floor and got down on my hands and knees behind the sofa to see if I could reach the knife.

  It was difficult to reach it. For a minute, I scrabbled around blindly, trying with questing fingers to reach it but it was impossible. I was just about to get to my feet to go and get someone stronger than I to move the chesterfield when I heard the dining room door open and the sound of people – two, by the sounds of it – coming into the room. After a second, I real
ised it was Dorothy and Michael.

  “Michael? You’ve been awfully quiet all morning. Is there something the matter?”

  I froze in my hiding position. Should I get up immediately so they knew I was here? Suppose they thought I was eavesdropping?

  The back of the chesterfield rocked a little as they sat down, mere inches from me.

  “I don’t know.” Michael sounded troubled. “I’m not sure.”

  “Why, what do you mean?”

  “Well, that’s just it, old girl. I’m not sure – it’s something I saw – oh, it’s probably nothing.”

  I stopped worrying about eavesdropping and began to listen intently. Michael carried on talking. “Dashed difficult to know what to do. I mean, I wouldn’t want to get anyone into trouble. But then, what if it’s important? I mean, do I tell the police or not?”

  Heart thumping, I listened ever more carefully.

  Dorothy sounded worried. “The police? You’ve got something to tell them about this…all this awful mess?”

  “Well, that’s just it. Do I, or don’t I?”

  Just tell her what you saw, I screamed to him silently in my head. I was beginning to get cramp from being crouched on the floor but I forced myself to stay still. To reveal my position now would be a very bad idea, both with regard to the resulting embarrassment and because I really needed to hear what Michael knew.

  Dorothy spoke low but urgently. “Michael, if you’ve got something to tell the police, you really must tell them.” She hesitated and then said, “It might be very dangerous for you to keep whatever it is to yourself.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. She and I both knew that murderers didn’t stop at getting rid of possible witnesses if they could.

  Perhaps the sincerity of her tone convinced Michael. “Dash it all, I believe you’re right.”

  “So, what did you see?”

  I held my breath. Michael took a deep one of his own. “Well, old girl, it’s rum. That night poor old Aunt Margaret died – no, was it the night before? Anyway, the night we all got ill.” He lowered his voice even further and I strained to hear him. “Well, I saw Arabella put something in her coffee. Aunt Margaret’s coffee, I mean.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Dorothy said sharply, “Where did you see this?”

  Michael sounded unhappy. “In the hallway. There was a tray of drinks, coffee and whatnot, and I was just coming down the stairs when I saw Arabella drop something in a coffee cup and stir it.”

  “Well, she was probably just putting in some sugar.”

  “I don’t know. It didn’t look like sugar. It was powdery, not a lump of something.” He was quiet a moment and then went on. “It’s just… I didn’t think anything of it, at first. I thought, I suppose, that it was sugar if I thought anything. But…it was the way that she looked when she turned around and saw me walking down the stairs. She looked shocked. Guilty, even.” He stopped talking again for a moment. “Oh, damn it to hell. It’s nothing, I’m sure. Can’t be. I must have made a mistake.”

  Dorothy didn’t answer him for a moment. Then she said, slowly and purposefully, “You probably did make a mistake. But you must still tell the police.”

  “Oh, hell. Do I really have to?”

  “Yes.” I heard and felt the sofa shift as Dorothy stood up. “Come on, we’ll go and find that Inspector Marks right now and tell him.”

  “Hell,” Michael said once more, but I heard him stand up too. Then I listened to their footsteps going towards the door and the squeak of the hinges as it opened and closed behind them.

  At last I could move. Hauling myself to my feet with a groan, I dusted off my knees and thought about what I’d just heard. Collecting that errant knife could wait. I had other things to do.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I was frantic to talk to Inspector Marks myself but I couldn’t. One, I had no idea where he was, and two, I had work to do. Michael’s revelation about Arabella had started me thinking, but with no time to sit down and puzzle it out, I had to push it to the back of my mind and switch my train of thought onto professional tracks.

  Once luncheon was served and eaten, I had a precious half hour in which to sit down with a cup of tea and take the weight off my feet for thirty minutes. I didn’t. Instead, I left Ethel reading her film magazine at the table, absentmindedly munching on a teacake, and took myself off. I needed to see Verity, and I was pretty sure where I could find her.

  Dorothy and Michael had driven off after luncheon, Andrew acting as chauffeur. I wondered if they were going to the police station or merely going somewhere tete a tete. Was Dorothy in love with him? Or was she, as she sometimes did, merely amusing herself? What did Michael think of Dorothy? I remembered he’d once been keen on Arabella. Odd, really, given how different she was to Dorothy, both in looks and in character. I sincerely hoped he wasn’t after Dorothy for her money, but I supposed it was a possibility – she was very wealthy. Still, she was a big girl and able to look after herself. I dismissed the thought from my mind and knocked on the door of Dorothy’s bedroom.

  “Come in,” said Verity’s voice, and I smiled, pleased to have been right about her whereabouts. She looked surprised to see me. “Hullo, Joan.”

  “Hullo.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. Verity was tidying Dorothy’s dressing table; putting jewellery back in cases, returning make-up to the drawers and dusting the mirror.

  “Have you got a bit of time off?”

  “Yes, for a change. I needed to talk to you.”

  “Oh?” Verity stopped flicking the duster and turned to face me.

  “Firstly, I never thanked you for – for sending off my play.” I smiled at her. “It was a jolly nice thing to do. If a little presumptuous.”

  Verity laughed. “Well, you know me, Joanie. Presumption is my middle name.”

  “Ha! I thought it was something other than that.”

  “Such as?”

  I grinned. “I’m not telling you.”

  She flicked me with the duster. “Oh, you. Anyway, you’re welcome. I can’t wait to see it performed. How exciting!”

  “It might not get that far,” I protested. “I haven’t even met the director yet.”

  “But tell me you’re going to?” Verity raised a threatening eyebrow.

  “I am. I promise I am. In fact, if you have his address, I’ll write to him tonight.”

  “Nothing simpler. I’ll bring it to your room this evening.” Verity sat down on the bed next to me. “Well, was that all you wanted?”

  “No.” I leant forward a little, dropping my voice. “I need to talk to you about… About the murders.”

  Verity sat back. “Oh, Joan. I don’t know what I can tell you.”

  “I need to talk to somebody.”

  “What’s wrong with the inspector?” Verity smiled slyly. “I’d have thought you’d have jumped at the chance for a cosy little chat with him.”

  I pinched her knee. “Enough of that.”

  “Come on, Joan. You are keen on him, aren’t you?”

  I wavered, torn between embarrassment and honesty. “Well…”

  Verity took pity on me. “Well, never mind that. Sorry. Go on and tell me whatever it is you want.”

  I leant back against the foot-post of Dorothy’s bed and told Verity everything I’d overheard. Then I told her about the will and the confusion over the second will.

  Verity listened silently but kept tidying. The frown on her face grew deeper and deeper as I went on.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked, when I’d reached the end of my recounting.

  Verity was silent for a moment. She hung the last of Dorothy’s silk scarves on the hanger, smoothed it down and put it away in the wardrobe, remaining silent all the while.

 
“Well?” I prompted.

  Verity turned around to face me. Biting her lip, she came over and sat next to me once more on the bed. “There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said.

  My heart began to thump. “What?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing like that. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you, Joan, I just didn’t even think of it until now.” She sighed and said, “I heard from Dorothy, the night – you know, the night that everyone got ill…”

  She paused. “Yes?” I said, trying not to let my impatience show.

  “Dorothy said that Arabella was in an awful state that night. She’d had a row with her mother – I mean, Mrs Ashford – that one you overheard, Joan, but it was more than that.” I leant forward, eager to hear more. “Apparently, you know she was keen as mustard on that Raymond?”

  “That was obvious,” I said, with a roll of my eyes. “Is obvious.”

  “Well, yes. Well, apparently, according to Dorothy, Arabella found out that day that Raymond had a lady friend, up in Cambridge.”

  “Oh.” For a second I was nonplussed. “Well, he and Arabella weren’t engaged or anything? Were they?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. To be fair, he hadn’t done anything wrong. But I think it was a big shock to Arabella. Perhaps she’d convinced herself that he was keen on her and then, once she found out about his Cambridge sweetheart, realised that he wasn’t.”

  “Hmm.” Whilst it was good to hear this, I wasn’t sure it had much bearing on what had happened. Or did it? I decided I would tell Inspector Marks and let him be the one to decide. “Was there anything else?”

  Verity shook her head, red curls bouncing. “I can press Dorothy for more, if you like. Once she’s come back.”

  “Has she gone to the police station?”

  Verity nodded. “Goodness knows what time they’ll be back.”

  “I suppose I had better assume that both she and Michael will be back for dinner.” I caught sight of the clock on the mantelpiece and groaned. Half an hour didn’t last long, these days. “No rest for the wicked. I’d better go.”