by Celina Grace
By the time Verity came back from the bathroom, still in high dudgeon, I was undressed and in bed, my face turned to the wall. I heard her hesitation before getting into her own bed, even heard her take the start of a deep breath, and forestalled any more questions by saying clearly, “I’m sorry, V. Forget I mentioned it, please? I’ll tell you everything when I can.”
Verity’s only response to this could only be written as ‘humph’. Then she got into her bed and turned out the light without saying goodnight.
Chapter Twenty
Verity was still a little cool with me the next morning. I couldn’t let it worry me. For some reason, Dorothy had decided to have a lunchtime drinks soiree followed by a small dinner party of several of her close chums, and Mrs Watling and I were kept too busy to worry about Verity’s moods. I did feel a little guilty. Why had I even mentioned it? I should have just kept my mouth shut. As I made the mushroom and rabbit tartlets, I thought back to our team work at Merisham Lodge – how we’d both played a part in ensuring there was justice. This time around, I knew Verity had had too much on her mind, what with Tommy and Aldous and Dorothy, to be quite as invested in solving the case as I was.
I realised how quickly I’d changed my mind – from telling myself the case was nothing to do with me, to a fever of impatience to get the evidence that would back up my theory. But how was I going to do that? All I had was the a stolen costume and the timings of a part in a play. It sounded pretty thin to me. And the most glaring fact of all was that I didn’t know why. Where was the motive?
I tried to think it through once again as I worked but it was hopeless –the dishes I was constructing couldn’t be done mindlessly or thoughtlessly. I had to give them my full attention or risk both Mrs Watling’s and Dorothy’s displeasure. I thrust all thoughts of the Connault case to the back of my mind and turned my attention to the job in hand. It was hard not to feel resentful at the lack of time to think but I supposed I should have been used to it by now.
Verity was assisting Nancy and Margaret in serving the food at Dorothy’s afternoon party, and all three girls kept whisking in and out of the kitchen to carry up the trays of amuse bouches and hors d’eouvres. Mr Fenwick kept hurrying back and forth from the wine cellar, although it was bottles of brandy, vodka and whisky that he kept taking up. I supposed they were on the cocktails up there and wondered rather pruriently whether Dorothy was behaving herself or was getting sozzled again.
Finally, the last tray had been carried up, and Mrs Watling, Doris and I had a short moment of peace and quiet before the party ended and the washing up to be done began to come back down. Efficient woman that she was, Mrs Watling had already begun preparing the evening meal for the dinner party, so at least that was underway. Thankfully, I put the kettle on the hob and prepared us all a good cup of tea.
Sitting down on one of the chairs by the range, I sipped my tea and tried to think. If my memory of the face of the woman in the theatre was correct, and now I was convinced it was, then I had a theory – a good theory, given the two pieces of evidence I possessed. But for the life of me, I couldn’t work out the motive. Was there any point in going to Inspector Marks when I didn’t know why the murder had been committed? Was there any possible way to find out? But how could I go anywhere, or find out anything, when my next afternoon off wasn’t for another week? I wouldn’t even get to go to the farewell drinks for Caroline Carpenter. I drained the last dregs of my tea, feeling cross and frustrated, a mood not helped by the fact that our brief period of respite was over, and I had to get up and start work again.
Verity came clomping down an hour later with a tea tray in her hands, piled with dirty dishes. I waited until she carried it into the scullery and then darted in after her.
“How was it?”
For a moment I thought she was still sulky with me because she took a second or two to answer, but after a moment I could see she was just tired – tired and worried. “The food was fine, Joan. Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean that.” I took the tray out of her hands, worried she would drop it, she looked so exhausted. “I mean, how was Dorothy? Was she – did she—“
“Did she get completely drunk, you mean, don’t you Joan? Yes, of course she did. I’ve just put her to bed to try and get her to sleep it off before her guests start arriving for the evening.”
“Oh, Lord. Do you think she will?”
Verity rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know. What am I going to tell them if she won’t wake up in time?”
“Could you not say she’s unwell?”
“Well, that might work, except some of them coming tonight were here this afternoon. They’ll know she’s just mightily hungover. And if I don’t get it right, what’s Dorothy going to do when she finally comes round and all her friends are laughing at her?”
I could hear the helplessness in her voice and felt a surge of anger at Dorothy, for being so weak-willed and selfish. But what could Verity and I do?
“I’ll make up some really strong coffee,” I suggested. “Later on. And we’ll make sure there’s some lovely appetisers if people have to wait a little while. Surely we can get her up in time for her to just be a bit fashionably late?”
Verity gave me a look that was half hopeful, half despairing. “Well, it’s all we can do, Joanie. I can’t think of anything else.”
I began to sort the dishes out in preparation for washing them. “Why don’t you sit through in the kitchen and have a cup of tea? Rest for five minutes?”
“Yes, I will. I feel dead on my feet and the day’s not half over yet.” She smiled at me rather wanly and turned to leave. Then she turned back. “Listen, Joanie, sorry I was a bit crotchety with you earlier. I’ve had all these worries about Dorothy on my mind and I felt – oh, I don’t know – I felt a bit as if you were leaving me out.”
I smiled back, relieved. “Well, I’m sorry to have kept you in the dark. I won’t any longer because I need your help.”
Verity brightened. “Really?”
“Yes. Look, I know it’s going to be a late night tonight for both of us, but let’s see if we can stay awake long enough to talk at bedtime.”
“Very well.” Verity gave a small chuckle. “It might not be such a late one after all. If Dorothy overdoes it again, it could all be over by ten o’clock.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, although I felt a little cruel doing so at another woman’s misfortune. But I felt lighter, more cheerful, after Verity and I had worked out our little spat.
Verity waved to me and left the scullery. I set to the washing up with a will and it didn’t seem like such hard work all of a sudden.
As luck would have it, the evening didn’t finish at ten o’clock but it wasn’t so very late for an evening party. I was in bed by midnight, and Verity came in about ten minutes after that.
“Golly,” she said, flopping down on the bed. The bedsprings chimed musically beneath her. “I’m glad tomorrow’s going to be quiet.”
“It went much as expected then?”
Verity rolled her eyes. “I don’t think Dorothy had sobered up at all. She just topped herself up. Luckily everyone else was drinking quite heavily so perhaps it wasn’t very noticeable…” She trailed away, staring at the floor. “I don’t know how long she can go on like this.”
I didn’t know either. Looming up with grim inevitability was the time that Verity was going to have to ask for help from Mr Fenwick or Mrs Anstells, or both.
Verity sighed and got to her feet with difficulty. She began to undress with fumbling fingers. I wondered whether now was a good time to tell her my theory about the Connault Theatre killer after all. Would it ruin the night’s sleep for her when she so obviously needed it?
I pondered this in the time Verity went off to the bathroom to wash and brush her teeth. I was still thinking, unsure of what to do, when she came back.
It was she who actually asked me. “So, Joan, you were going to tell me?”
“Tell you?” I asked, a
s if I didn’t know what she was talking about. Cowardly of me.
“Yes, you noodle. Tell me about who you thought did the murder.”
I was silent for a moment. Then I said slowly “It’s only a theory. And I barely have any evidence. And I don’t know why they did it.”
Verity frowned. “You don’t know why they did it?”
“No. That’s just it. It doesn’t make sense to me at the moment. I’ve been wracking my brains to try and think of a motive.”
Now it was Verity’s turn to fall silent. She stared down at the tumbled counterpane on her lap for so long I wondered whether she’d actually fallen asleep with her eyes open.
After about five minutes, I said tentatively, “V? Are you all right?”
Verity blinked and came back to life. She looked over at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. Was it – was it fear?
“V?” I said again, uneasily.
“Joan—“ She stopped herself. It occurred to me then, why hadn’t she asked me outright who I thought it was? She cleared her throat and asked “What are your pieces of evidence?”
I pleated the blanket between my fingers. “Well, I hardly have any, to be honest. But I’ll tell you what I know.” I went on to detail the little that I did know; the stolen costume that Gwen had reported, the timings of particular scenes in the play. Without naming whoever it was that I believed was the killer, it sounded even thinner than I’d anticipated, and I started to stumble over my words, particularly when I saw the sceptical look on Verity’s face. The scepticism was mingled with something like relief. Why was she relieved?
“There is one other thing,” I added, almost mumbling.
“What’s that?”
“It’s just – well – I saw her. Her face.”
“Who’s face? The murderer’s?”
I nodded. Verity bit her lip.
“Why didn’t you tell the police that, then?” she asked, not unreasonably.
“Because I didn’t realise I had seen her face. It was almost as if I’d forgotten it and one night – the night at the pantomime, actually – it suddenly came back to me. Like a memory I’d forgotten.”
“At the pantomime?” The note of fear was back in Verity’s voice.
“Yes. It was like a sudden flash, as if my mind had brought back the memory I’d forgotten.”
There was silence as we stared at one another. I thought Verity was going to ask me something else but after a moment, she said, in quite an artificial voice. “Joan, do you mind if we talk about this another time? I’m just about all in.”
“That’s fine,” I said, slightly hurt and perhaps a bit disappointed. But what could I say?
Verity gave me a slight smile. Then she said, “Goodnight, then,” and turned and lay down in her bed, turning her head away from me and closing her eyes.
I stared at her for a moment, half wanting to take her up on whatever was bothering her. But after a moment, I too lay down in bed. I turned off the bedside light and lay there in the darkness, wide-eyed and wondering.
Chapter Twenty One
I don’t know whether I expected Verity to change her mind about wanting to know who I thought the killer was but she didn’t. The subject just didn’t come up between us again. The next day was quiet in terms of our workload, thankfully, with just Dorothy’s and the servants’ usual meals to prepare. Ironically, now that I didn’t really need it, I had more time to think. I had hoped that my conversation with Verity would have brought me new insight, helped me see with fresh eyes, but that hadn’t happened. For some reason, she’d cut me off and that was another mystery.
That evening the servants were having kedgeree, quite an easy dish to make. I carefully lifted the eggs into boiling water with a teaspoon and turned the egg timer on the dresser over so I knew when they’d be hardboiled. The kitchen was filling up with steam and I went over to the window to open it a little. It was a grey, cold day, with the odd squall of sleet occasionally darkening the pavements.
I’d expected to see more of Verity that day, given that Dorothy was likely to stay in bed until late and probably spend the afternoon on the chaise-longue in the drawing room in the front of the fire. I stretched and eased the ache in my back, feeling that old familiar feeling of envy. What I wouldn’t give for hours and hours of emptiness, of time to be filled however I wanted it to be. I was quite sure I would have been able to solve this Connault case if only I’d been given enough time to think.
As it was, I barely saw Verity. She didn’t come down for supper but asked for a tray to be sent up to Dorothy’s bedroom. I frowned as Nancy delivered the message. Was Verity trying to avoid me? Nancy was waiting expectantly for my answer. “That’s fine,” I said, thinking about things. “I’ll bring it up, don’t you worry. Go in, Nancy, and have something to eat.”
Dinner on nights where Dorothy wasn’t entertaining was a less formal affair than it might have been. Of course, we still looked to Mr Fenwick and Mrs Anstells for permission but we sat next to whom we pleased and we were allowed to chat as we ate. I had been hoping that Verity would come down so I could talk to her, but as she wasn’t going to, I was going to have to corner her myself. Was it possible that she was trying to avoid me? Why?
As I climbed the stairs to Dorothy’s room, I pondered it uneasily. Was it something I had done to offend her? Something I had said? I wracked my brains as I shifted the tray about in my hands, trying to open the bedroom door, but nothing came to mind. Was it just that she was bored with my constant musings on who might have been the Connault killer? Or did she think I was overstepping the mark and should leave well enough alone?
I’d spent so long trying to balance the tray with getting the door open that eventually Verity opened it herself. She looked – yes, she did – startled to see me.
“Hello, thought I’d bring this up myself,” I said.
She didn’t look very pleased although she thanked me. “Just leave it over there, Joan. Thank you.”
I did so. There was an awkwardness between us that had never been there before, and I couldn’t think of why that would be. “I thought you might come down to eat with us,” I said, unsure of whether to take her up on it.
“I didn’t feel like it tonight. I’m too tired.”
“Oh.” Another heavy silence fell. To hell with it, I thought, and threw caution to the wind. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Verity said coldly.
I frowned. “Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything, Joan.”
“Yes you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
But—“ I stopped, frustration strangling me. I knew Verity though – she could be as stubborn as any mule. If she didn’t want to tell me what was bothering her, she wouldn’t.
I swallowed and gathered my courage. “It is something I’ve done?”
Verity made a noise of impatience. “There’s nothing wrong, Joan. Don’t keep on about it. I’m just very fatigued. It’s been a fairly awful week.”
We stood for a moment, looking at one another. Half of me wanted to carry on, to have a proper argument and at least get what was bothering her out of her system and into the open, but after a minute, I sighed and turned away. I didn’t have the energy for a quarrel.
“Very well. Just ring down when you’ve finished and one of the girls will collect your tray.”
“Thank you,” she said, but very formally, as if I were a stranger. I shook my head, wanting her to see my frustration, and then left without saying goodbye.
Well, that made for a bit of a gloomy evening, I can tell you. I went back downstairs and sat down for dinner but ate the kedgeree as if it were cardboard – I couldn’t taste a thing. Doris and I cleared the kitchen and washed up, while Mrs Watling went through the order sheets for tomorrow. All the time, I was thinking about Verity and wondering what was on her mind. Could it be Dorothy and her drinking? Was that worry enough to cause Verity to act the way she was?<
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I could have done with a drink myself that night, to be honest. Of course, I didn’t have one. I made myself a cup of cocoa, said goodnight to Doris and Mrs Watling, and carried it up to bed with me. I fully expected Verity to be in our room, perhaps already asleep as she’d said she was so exhausted. But she wasn’t there. I stood for a moment in the doorway, frowning.
I drank my rapidly cooling cocoa, undressed, washed and brushed my teeth. I was tired but I didn’t think I would be able to sleep just yet, despite my fatigue. There were too many thoughts running around in my head, too many emotions running around in my heart. I brushed out my hair in front of the mirror, expecting to hear Verity’s footsteps in the corridor outside any moment, but she didn’t come.
Climbing into bed, I thought that I would read for a little while. Hopefully a good book would distract me, help me calm my thoughts and prepare myself for sleep. But I realised I was without a novel, or at least without one I’d not read several times before. I made a sound of annoyance. I thought, briefly, that this would be a good opportunity to do some writing of my own, but I didn’t feel like it. I doubted I would be able to write anything down that was worth re-reading.
The nearest book to me was Voyage of the Heart, lying on the bedside table. But I’d already read that… I picked it up, idly flicking through it. It was quite a handsome book, with a fly-leaf covering the red leather binding. I flipped through the pages of the play, marvelling again how those black markings on white paper could become real human emotion on the stage. It was like magic, really.
I realised I’d never actually read right to the back of the book and had put it down once I’d reached the end of the actual play. I did so now, leafing through the mostly blank pages until I got to the very back cover. Then I realised there was something tucked into the flyleaf at the back, a slip of paper.
It was hard to remove. I tried grasping it with my fingernails but it stubbornly resisted. In the end, I had to get up and find Verity’s eyebrow tweezers before I could grab a corner and pull it free. I opened up the paper curiously. I think I had thought for one giddy moment that it could be money and was already thinking of how I could return it to Tommy, if that was the case.
