The Hidden House Murders: Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate: Book 3
Page 18
“Of all the goddam—” A perfect string of unrepeatable curse words followed. Michael leant forward to rip the certificate from my hands, but I’d been expecting him to do that and jumped nimbly back out of the way.
“Be quiet.” Inspector Marks nodded to Constable Palmer, who approached with a set of handcuffs. “Naturally, given that Constance could have spilled the beans about your…unorthodox relationship at any moment, and the fact that her death meant that as her legal husband, you would inherit her estate, she had to be silenced too. That was a little sloppy, Mr Harrison. Not very convincing after all. I suppose it was the best you could do at the time.”
Silence fell. Michael’s face was so dark with rage, his golden good looks buried under a mask of anger. I could scarcely look at him.
Then Dorothy spoke. She sounded broken, her voice trembling, her body shivering. “No – no, I can’t – this doesn’t make sense, Inspector.”
Inspector Marks looked at her with compassion. “I’m very sorry, Miss Drew.”
“No, it’s just—” She stopped herself, swallowed painfully. “It’s just… I don’t understand. The night that – the night Constance died—” She stopped speaking, a slow tide of colour rising up in her face. She looked up at Inspector Marks as if pleading for her life. “He – Michael – was with me that night. The whole night.” She looked over at Michael, her face aghast. “You were, weren’t you?”
Michael went to say something, but we never found out what. Inspector Marks spoke over him, and his tone was extra gentle. “I’m sorry, Miss Drew. But Michael left you that evening, in plenty of time to go to Constance Bartleby’s room. He had ample time to kill her.”
“No,” said Dorothy brokenly. “No, I—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Drew. But I know that you can’t remember.” Inspector Marks paused. “You were…indisposed.”
Everyone in the room knew what he really meant. Dorothy hung her head so that the smooth golden curtains of hair on either side of her face fell to cover her flaming cheeks. I saw tears begin to fall into her lap.
Inspector Marks stood back and nodded to Constable Palmer. I stepped back to stand with Mrs Weston and Ethel, my heart beginning to return to a normal rhythm. We all listened in silence as Inspector Marks began to speak the words of the caution to Michael Harrison and to Arabella Ashford. When he’d finished speaking, there was nothing but silence in the room, punctuated by Dorothy’s sobs and the crackle and spit of the last flaming log in the fire.
Chapter Thirty
When Constable Palmer and Inspector Marks took Michael and Arabella away, the rest of us remained in the drawing room for a moment longer. We were as still and as silent as statues, all stunned by recent events, even those of us who had known what to expect. Verity was the first to move. She bent down to Dorothy, who sat white and aghast, as if turned to stone in her seat. I couldn’t hear what Verity said to her but, after a moment, she held out her hands and helped Dorothy to her feet. Our mistress staggered, and Verity braced herself against her more firmly. Doctor Goodfried hurried to assist her and they both supported Dorothy in leaving the room. I could hear her fumbling footsteps and theirs making their way up the stairs in the hallway outside. I took a moment to send a fervent prayer up to the heavens that the doctor would be able to give her a sedative of some sort. Otherwise, I had a feeling Verity and I would need to hide all the brandy bottles in the house tonight.
Mrs Weston walked unsteadily to the door and paused with her hand on the door handle. Then she turned to catch my eye. Her own were brimming with tears. “Joan—”
“Yes, Mrs Weston?” I tried to sound as gentle and as supportive as I could.
Mrs Weston closed her eyes for a brief moment. She looked bludgeoned by the events of the last hour, dark hollows beneath her eyes, a muscle spasming in her cheek. “I’m – I’m going to my room. Please… Please take over. I’m leaving the house in your hands for the evening.”
I nodded. I knew a part of me was supposed to be pleased that she thought highly enough of me to give me the responsibility, but most of me just felt impatient. I didn’t want to cook anymore. I wanted to work with Inspector Marks. Not just work with him, Joan, said that sly little demon of a voice inside me and I mentally batted it away.
After the door shut behind the housekeeper, I looked over at Ethel and resisted the urge to shut her jaw with a finger. Instead I nudged her.
There was the rustle from the leather armchair. I’d almost forgotten Raymond was in the room. He was rubbing his jaw as if checking for stubble or as if he had toothache. He caught my eye and opened his mouth.
“Joan. Could you get me…””
I didn’t say anything. I just held his gaze until his voice petered out and he cleared his throat. He looked – could it be? – wary of me. For the first time in my life, I felt a tingle of power.
Raymond switched his gaze to Ethel. “Ethel, could you get me a brandy. A large one?” I saw him glance back at me and then he added, hastily, “Please?”
I left them to it and went downstairs to the kitchen.
When I got there, I stood for a moment looking about me. At the scrubbed kitchen table, where we’d eaten so many meals. The dresser stacked with china. The copper pots hanging above the range. The larder and the pantry. The huge, pot-bellied flour barrel. The little jelly moulds twinkled like jewels in the electric light.
I supposed there was much to do – when wasn’t there? But at that moment, I didn’t feel like doing anything. The whole room suddenly had a sort of artifice, as if it were a stage set or a display in a department store. It didn’t seem real.
I sat down at the table, feeling flat. More than flat – adrift. As if I didn’t know my purpose any more. What was I going to do?
There was the sound of quick footsteps on the stairs outside and then Verity came into the kitchen. She looked serious but not unduly worried.
“V!” I got up and threw my arms around her. Unsurprised, she hugged me back. “How is Dorothy?”
“Out cold in her bed.”
“Not already?”
Incredibly, Verity giggled. “Oh, no, not like that, Joan. Thank goodness. The doctor gave her something to help her sleep. She’s had an awful shock.”
“Poor Dorothy.” I honestly pitied her from the bottom of my heart. “But then, V, think what a lucky escape she’s had. Imagine if she’d gone ahead and married Michael. Think of what might have happened.”
“I know.” Verity collapsed onto one of the kitchen chairs with a groan. “For a start, she’d have been bigamously married.”
“That would hardly have been the biggest problem,” I said, thinking of what Michael had done to his wife.
“I know that. I don’t think that’s occurred to Dorothy just yet. Well, it can’t have done. She’s still reeling.”
“I’m glad she’s getting some rest.”
“Me too.” Verity pushed her hands through the red curls of her hair and yawned. “Anyway, I had a word with Doctor Goodfried. He recommended a very good place near London that can cure – well, you know – help people who have this problem. Dorothy’s problem.”
“What kind of place?” I asked, curiously.
“Sanatorium. It’s very effective, apparently. Costs the earth, but it’s not as though Dorothy can’t afford it.”
“Do you think she would go?”
Verity pondered, pushing her bottom lip out. “Do you know, I think she might.”
“Well, let’s hope so.”
Verity yawned again. “Golly, I’m tired. I think I might turn in, now that Dorothy won’t need me.” She pushed herself upright. “And you, Joanie? What’s to become of you?”
“What do you mean?”
Verity smiled in a tired fashion. “Well, now that you work for Inspector Marks…”
“Hmm. Possibly.” Verity braced herself and stood up. “Well, my dear old friend, I’m off to bed. Adventures new, tomorrow or soon, for both of us, perhaps. And your play! Who knows what might happen?”
For a moment, we stood facing each other across the table. I could feel that old cord of affection and understanding binding us together and knew that it would always be there, in some way, no matter what happened, no matter in what different directions our life path led.
“Good night, Miss Hart,” Verity said, grinning.
“Good night, Miss Hunter,” I retorted, smiling back. She winked at me and was gone.
I listened to her footsteps climbing the stairs and then walking above me in the hallway. I sighed, stretched, and untied my apron, hanging it by the pantry. To hell with the breakfasts; to hell with the work remaining this evening. I, Joan Hart, was going to bed.
I was walking towards the back door, intending to lock it up for the night when it suddenly opened inwards, making me start.
“Oh! Inspector Marks.” I told myself to calm myself. He was clearly just here to – what was the word? – debrief me on our successful conclusion to the case.
“Hello, Joan.” He took his hat from his head and smiled at me.
I took my courage in my hands. “Hello, Tom.”
“I’m probably interrupting you—”
“No, please, come in. I was just—” I stopped myself and gestured instead toward a chair.
“I can’t stop for longer than a minute, I’m afraid.” Inspector Marks looked sincerely regretful. I felt my heart begin a slow but pleasurable thudding. “I know we have a lot to talk about, and I can’t thank you enough for your assistance just now—”
“It was nothing. I just followed your lead.”
“Well, I have to go to the station now. It’s going to be a long night. But I just wanted…” He looked down at the hands clasping his hat for a moment. Then he looked up, straight into my eyes. “I just wanted to know if – if you’d like to have dinner with me. Tomorrow night. If that’s possible. If you want to.”
A foolish smile wanted to spread itself across my face, and I had to fight down a nervous, schoolgirlish giggle. I took a deep breath, wanting to remain calm. I was quite proud of myself. “Yes, thank you, Tom. I’d love to.”
“Good. Let’s talk tomorrow then.” Inspector Marks put his hat firmly back on his head. He looked as if he wanted to shake my hand – or do something similar – but he caught my eye again and we both smiled a smile at each other that was both encompassing and a little sheepish.
“’Until tomorrow then,” I said, still calm although my heart was singing inside me.
“Good night, Joan.”
“Good night.” I watched him walk over to the back door and waited. He turned at the door to give me one last smile, one that warmed me to the tips of my toes. Then he nodded and left, shutting the kitchen door behind him.
THE END
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Want some more of Celina Grace’s work for free? Subscribers to her mailing list get a free digital copy of Requiem (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 2), a free digital copy of A Prescription for Death (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 2) and a free PDF copy of her short story collection A Blessing From The Obeah Man.
Requiem (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 2)
When the body of troubled teenager Elodie Duncan is pulled from the river in Abbeyford, the case is at first assumed to be a straightforward suicide. Detective Sergeant Kate Redman is shocked to discover that she’d met the victim the night before her death, introduced by Kate’s younger brother Jay. As the case develops, it becomes clear that Elodie was murdered. A talented young musician, Elodie had been keeping some strange company and was hiding her own dark secrets.
As the list of suspects begin to grow, so do the questions. What is the significance of the painting Elodie modelled for? Who is the man who was seen with her on the night of her death? Is there any connection with another student’s death at the exclusive musical college that Elodie attended?
As Kate and her partner Detective Sergeant Mark Olbeck attempt to unravel the mystery, the dark undercurrents of the case threaten those whom Kate holds most dear…
A Prescription for Death (The Asharton Manor Mysteries: Book 2) – a novella
“I had a surge of kinship the first time I saw the manor, perhaps because we’d both seen better days.”
It is 1947. Asharton Manor, once one of the most beautiful stately homes in the West Country, is now a convalescent home for former soldiers. Escaping the devastation of post-war London is Vivian Holt, who moves to the nearby village and begins to volunteer as a nurse’s aide at the manor. Mourning the death of her soldier husband, Vivian finds solace in her new friendship with one of the older patients, Norman Winter, someone who has served his country in both world wars. Slowly, Vivian’s heart begins to heal, only to be torn apart when she arrives for work one day to be told that Norman is dead.
It seems a straightforward death, but is it? Why did a particular photograph disappear from Norman’s possessions after his death? Who is the sinister figure who keeps following Vivian? Suspicion and doubts begin to grow and when another death occurs, Vivian begins to realise that the war may be over but the real battle is just beginning…
A Blessing From The Obeah Man
Dare you read on? Horrifying, scary, sad and thought-provoking, this short story collection will take you on a macabre journey. In the titular story, a honeymooning couple take a wrong turn on their trip around Barbados. The Mourning After brings you a shivery story from a suicidal teenager. In Freedom Fighter, an unhappy middle-aged man chooses the wrong day to make a bid for freedom, whereas Little Drops of Happiness and Wave Goodbye are tales of darkness from sunny Down Under. Strapping Lass and The Club are for those who prefer, shall we say, a little meat to the story…
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Have you read the first Asharton Manor Mystery? This is the book that introduces Joan and Verity and it’s available for a mere 99 cents:
Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries: Book 1)
**Please note – this is a novella-length piece of fiction – not a full length novel**
It is 1929. Asharton Manor stands alone in the middle of a pine forest, once the place where ancient pagan ceremonies were undertaken in honour of the goddess Astarte. The Manor is one of the most beautiful stately homes in the West Country and seems like a palace to Joan Hart, newly arrived from London to take up a servant’s position as the head kitchen maid. Getting to grips with her new role and with her fellow workers, Joan is kept busy, but not too busy to notice that the glittering surface of life at the Manor might be hiding some dark secrets. The beautiful and wealthy mistress of the house, Delphine Denford, keeps falling ill but
why? Confiding her thoughts to her friend and fellow housemaid, feisty Verity Hunter, Joan is unsure of what exactly is making her uneasy, but then Delphine Denford dies…
Armed only with their own good sense and quick thinking, Joan and Verity must pit their wits against a cunning murderer in order to bring them to justice.
Download Death at the Manor from Amazon Kindle, available now.
Other books in the Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate series:
Murder at Merisham Lodge (Book 1)
A mansion, a title and marriage to a wealthy Lord – Lady Eveline Cartwright has it all. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to prevent her being bludgeoned to death one night in the study of Merisham Lodge, the family’s country estate in Derbyshire.
Suspicion quickly falls on her ne’er-do-well son, Peter, but not everyone in the household is convinced of his guilt. Head kitchen maid Joan Hart and lady’s maid, Verity Hunter, know that when it comes to a crime, all is not always as it seems.
With suspicions and motives thick on the ground, Joan and Verity must use all the wit and courage they possess to expose a deadly murderer who will stop at nothing to achieve their aim…
Available now from Amazon exclusively.
Death at the Theatre (Book 2)
London, 1932. Kitchen maid, Joan Hart, and lady’s maid, Verity Hunter, intend to enjoy their trip to the theatre, especially as Verity’s uncle Tommy is one of the leading men in the play. Unfortunately, Act Two of the play is curtailed when the lights come up in the interval, and the girls realise a man has been stabbed to death almost under their very noses.