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

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Requiem (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 2)

  A Prescription for Death (The Asharton Manor Mysteries: Book 2) – a novella

  A Blessing From The Obeah Man

  Other books in the Miss Hart and Miss Hunter Investigate series:

  Other books by Celina Grace

  Death at the Manor

  A Prescription for Death

  The Rhythm of Murder

  Number Thirteen, Manor Close

  Have you met Detective Sergeant Kate Redman?

  Hushabye (A Kate Redman Mystery: Book 1)

  Extra Special Thanks Are Due To My Wonderful Advance Readers Team…

  Acknowledgements

  The Hidden House Murders

  MISS HART AND MISS HUNTER INVESTIGATE

  Celina Grace

  The Hidden House Murders

  Copyright © 2017 by Celina Grace. All rights reserved.

  First Edition: 2017

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  I didn’t think much of the house at first sight. It was big enough, I grant you; a large, red-brick stately pile surrounded on three sides by dense forest. As we drove up the winding driveway through the clustered trees, my first thought was that it was too similar to how Asharton Manor had been. Andrew parked the car in front of the front door. This house was nothing like as big as the enormous mountain of stone and glass that made Asharton, mind you. Hidden House was merely a big family home. It would be our home, mine and Verity’s, for the foreseeable future. I wondered how I was going to like it, living right back in the depths of the countryside again. Hidden House. It was an apt name. You would never know it was here, from the main road.

  Verity got out first and I scrambled after her, trying to keep my knees together in a ladylike way. I looked up at the outside of the house. A rose bush grew up the side of the front door, although now, in late March, there were no flowers to be seen.

  I was growing nervous now, as I always did when arriving at a new place. Verity and I had travelled down from London, firstly by train from Paddington to Winter Hissop, the nearest tiny train station. Andrew, the chauffeur cum footman of our London establishment, had met us at the station, which was a relief. I hadn’t been sure how we were going to travel the last five miles and hadn’t fancied walking, carrying all my goods and chattels. Not that there were very many of those.

  “When does Dorothy arrive?” I asked Verity, somehow finding myself whispering.

  She sounded distracted as she answered me. Her face was tipped up and I could only see the curve of her cheekbone beyond the edge of her purple cloche hat. “I’m not sure. Later this afternoon, perhaps, or tomorrow…” She trailed off and began to walk towards the front door.

  “Verity!” I said, shocked. “Not the front door.”

  She gave me an amused glance. “It’s fine, Joan. No servants’ entrance here. Just the front and back, and I know Mrs Ashford won’t mind us using the front.” Before I could stop her, she ran lightly up the three brick steps and rang the doorbell.

  A woman answered – which surprised me. I was used to butlers. But, I reminded myself, Mrs Ashford kept a small staff. Verity had informed me of that on the train journey down. All women, Verity had added with an expressive grimace that made me smile to recall it.

  “Ah, Verity,” said the lady who’d answered the door. She was obviously the housekeeper. You could tell, not only from the bunch of keys that hung from her belt but from the air of calm authority that she exuded. She was quite a short woman but seemed taller, given the ram-rod straightness of her spine and the set of her shoulders. “And this must be Joan Hart.” I stepped forward and bobbed a curtsey. She gave me a quick once-over and nodded once, I hoped, in approval. “I am Mrs Weston, the housekeeper here. Joan, you will report to me directly. Verity, you will do the same, but I know that you know that already. Now, girls, are these all your belongings?” We indicated that they were. “Very well. Andrew, please convey these to the girls’ rooms on the second floor.”

  Andrew began untying boxes and carpet bags from where they were strapped to the back of the car. Dorothy had insisted on her chauffeur accompanying her on this visit, as well as her lady’s maid. Apparently, Mrs Ashford didn’t drive and didn’t own a car. I wondered what the all-female staff would make of Andrew. He was quite young and quite handsome and could probably have his pick. It made me giggle a little inside to think of the flurry his arrival could provoke. I wondered about the women working here. Would they be old, young, middle-aged? Sober or gay? Suddenly, I missed our house back in London and the tightknit group of servants who worked there. Ponderous old Mr Fenwick, the butler, and Mrs Anstells, the housekeeper. The two maids, Nancy and Margaret, and the little tweeny, Doris, who helped me and Mrs Watling, the cook, in the kitchen. I wondered what they were doing in our absence.

  I’d managed to gain a place here by the skin of my teeth. I’d been all set to say goodbye to Verity and retain my place at Dorothy’s London residence – she wanted to keep her staff on even while she was ‘recuperating’ in the countryside – but as luck would have had it, the cook at Hidden House had fallen ill and was sent away for her own recovery. She would be away for some weeks, and so Verity and Dorothy had between them persuaded Mrs Ashford to take me on as a temporary cook. I knew Verity had quite a lot of influence with her mistress, but I also prided myself on the fact that Dorothy truly did enjoy my cooking. I was looking forward to running a whole kitchen by myself; no longer a skivvy or even an undercook, but the one actually running the show. I was also slightly nervous. Although I knew my way about the stove and larder by now, this was a new household. I hoped fervently they wouldn’t go in for very exotic fare or something faddy, like not eating meat. I’d known a girl who worked in a kitchen for a gentleman who never touched meat. Not even beef steak or something like that. Very odd.

  Shaking off my thoughts, I
followed Verity and Mrs Weston into the house. From the start, I thought the house had a dull sort of feel to it. I’m sensitive to atmosphere in places. It wasn’t a bad feeling, more a sort of…fog about the place. A greyness. There wasn’t the feel of this having been a happy family home. It was nicely appointed, if a little bit shabby and worn. Old money – you could tell – but had it been old money that was now running out?

  “Follow me, girls,” Mrs Weston said, leading the way up the stairs. They were wide, handsome stairs, carpeted in a dull red with brass stair rods and a long sweep of gently curving wood on which to rest your hand as you walked upwards.

  Our room was on the top floor, of course; I hadn’t expected anything different. At least here, just as at Dorothy’s London house, there was only one staircase – not a separate one for servants. That always annoyed me. As we trailed upstairs, behind Mrs Weston’s straight back, I caught glimpses of other rooms as we passed them. A wood-panelled room on the ground floor that looked like a study or a library. A large bedroom with a four-poster bed topped with a cream silk counterpane. I wondered if that was going to be Dorothy’s room.

  “What relation is Mrs Ashford to Dorothy again?” I asked, whispering so that Mrs Weston wouldn’t hear me.

  “A very, very distant cousin, I think. More of an old family friend.” Verity’s cheeks were pink from the climb, clashing with her red hair. “She’s very elderly, something of an invalid – she doesn’t leave the house much. I think she’ll be glad of the company.”

  “Does she know why… Why Dorothy wants – needs – to come and stay?” I murmured.

  Verity twisted up her mouth. “I’m not sure. As far as I’m aware, she thinks that Dorothy’s nerves need a rest and a few months in the country would help.”

  “Hmm.” I wondered whether fudging around the issue would actually help Dorothy. Both Verity and I knew that Dorothy, whilst probably in need of a rest for her nerves, probably needed more help in battling her over-fondness for alcohol.

  But, it wasn’t exactly my worry. I meant to help Verity and Dorothy as much as I could, but I was probably better served in making sure that the meals were delicious and timely. The stairs got narrower and steeper as we left the first-floor landing. Here, I would imagine most of the family would have their bedrooms, with the second floor the servants’ domain. Still, as places go, it wasn’t the worst house I’d been in – not by a long shot.

  There was a funny, round window on the second-floor landing, rather like the porthole of a ship. Gentle spring sunshine poured through it, making a dappled circle of light on the wooden floorboards. No carpet up here, just a few rag rugs scattered here and there. Mrs Weston opened the first door off the corridor and gestured for Verity and me to walk in.

  It was quite a pleasant room, though not overly furnished and quite austere in decoration. There was an oval braided rug in the middle of the floor, a small dressing table and an equally small wardrobe. The thing I noticed immediately was that there was only one bed. Surely Verity and I wouldn’t be expected to share a bed? That little mystery was immediately solved by Mrs Weston’s next remark.

  “Joan, this is your room and Verity has the one next door.” Verity and I exchanged glances behind her back; half gleeful, half apprehensive. It was quite exciting to think about having a whole room of one’s own – but might it not be a little lonely too? Verity and I had shared a room for years; it would be strange not having her there to talk to late at night or early in the morning.

  There was a knock on the door then. Andrew brought my two small cases in and put them on the bed. He flashed me a wink as he left the room, which made me smile as I turned back to start to unpack. The bedstead was the usual iron type, although the counterpane looked quite new and the pillows relatively plump. I remembered one place I’d had where the bedspread had been an old curtain, just the brass rings removed from the top hem. What an old skinflint that master had been, rot him. And the mistress had been just as bad. I remembered the cook had had the eggs counted out for her every morning by the lady of the house. Actually counted out! I could imagine Mrs Watling giving in her notice if Dorothy ever did that to her, not that she ever would. Dorothy may have had her faults but meanness was definitely not one of them.

  Verity and Mrs Weston had already left the room – my room, how strange it sounded in my head to say that – and I could hear the low murmur of their voices in the room next door. I began to unpack, unfolding and hanging my clothes in the wardrobe where someone had thoughtfully placed some hangers. I put my good pair of shoes on the wardrobe floor. There was only one more thing in my suitcase and I lifted it out carefully.

  A bundle of paper, bound in string. I read the words typed on the first page; Death at the Manor and then the three words written underneath. By Joan Hart. I thought of all the snatched minutes and hours it had taken me to write it, pecking away at the ancient typewriter I had found in a cupboard at Dorothy’s London house. Of course, I had checked with her that it would be fine for me to use it. Dorothy being Dorothy had waved a hand airily and told me to throw it out of the window if I wanted to, that old thing. “Type away, Joan,” she’d said, “someone in the house may as well make use of it,” and she’d lit another cigarette. I held my precious play in my hands and then tucked it back into the suitcase, which I heaved onto the top of the wardrobe.

  Pushing thoughts of my play away, I sat down on the edge of the bed to survey my new domain. Wonder of wonders, I had an electric bedside light, with a silk shade, and a small vanity mirror. Even a tiny shelf by the bed for books and ornaments. Feeling content, I got up, unpinned my hat and put it on the shelf. A rose-patterned china jug and washbowl sat on the dressing table but there was no water within it, so I went in search of the bathroom in order to wash my hands. I was glad to see there was a fireplace there – believe me, bathing in an unheated bathroom is not one of life’s most comfortable experiences. I suppose, in one way we were fortunate to have a bathroom to ourselves at all, especially in a smaller house.

  Verity, myself and Mrs Weston all met in the corridor outside, and Mrs Weston gestured for us to follow her. “I’ve already arranged for a cold supper for this evening, Joan,” she said over her shoulder as she bustled away towards the stairs. “I suggest you make yourself acquainted with the kitchen and introduce yourself to Ethel, who’s the maid of all work here. She’ll be able to help you get settled.”

  That was the first, slightly wrong note in my new position. I kept my face neutral and nodded, but I was conscious of a flash of annoyance. I wouldn’t even have my own kitchen maid? Verity, who naturally hadn’t thought anything of Mrs Weston’s remark, given her own position, hummed a little tune under her breath. I tried to be philosophical. This was a small household with an invalid mistress – it wasn’t likely that there would be heaps of grand dinners or evening soirees to cater for.

  The three of us trooped back down the stairs, our heels clattering noisily on the bare floorboards of the first flight of stairs, the sound hushing once we reached the carpeted treads of the main staircase. As we passed through the downstairs hallway, a querulous but aristocratic voice was raised from behind the panels of one of the doors.

  “Arabella? Is that you?”

  Verity and I glanced at one another. Mrs Weston paused as if hesitating, and then moved towards the door behind which the voice had spoken. “It’s I, Mrs Ashford,” she said, turning the brass handle. “I’m just showing the new maids to their quarters.”

  The cracked old voice spoke again, quite imperiously. “Why, then, you must bring them in to meet me.”

  Verity and I exchanged glances that were somewhat alarmed. It was unusual to be formally introduced to the people you were engaged to work for. One may have encountered them at the interview for the position, but not always, and certainly not in the larger establishments. This would be a first.

  Mrs
Weston didn’t seem fazed by the order. “Come with me, girls,” she said, gesturing for us to go forward into what turned out to be the drawing room.

  Again, it was comfortably if not luxuriously furnished. The carpet and furniture was a little worn although well maintained. A good fire burned in the grate at the end of the room and beside the blaze, in a green velvet armchair, sat the mistress of the house, Mrs Ashcroft herself.

  She was a diminutive figure, more wizened and much older than I had anticipated. It was only as one got closer that one became aware of the undimmed gleam in her grey eyes and the firm set of her jaw, which spoke of someone used to getting her own way.

  “And who might you be?” she demanded, as Verity and I got closer. Her left hand rested on the ebony head of a cane, the knuckles of her fingers swollen and bluish against the wrinkled skin of her hand. She wore an old fashioned ruby engagement ring, a cluster of blood-red stones that caught the light of the fire in an answering gleam.

  Verity dropped a flawless curtsey. “I’m Verity Hunter, Miss Drew’s lady’s maid,” she said, in the proper, hushed, respectful tone.

  “I see. And you, miss?” asked the formidable old lady, turning to me.

  I swallowed, less confident than Verity. “I’m – I’m Joan Hart, the new – the new cook, milady.”

  “Humph. I’m not a lady. Madam or Mrs Ashford will do for me.” I blinked and nodded. “Mrs Weston will assist you should you need anything or need to know of anything. You’ll find we run a tight ship here, but we all pitch in.” She favoured us with another penetrating gaze from those gleaming grey eyes and then nodded, dismissing us.

  Mrs Weston led us out of the room and down the back staircase at the back of the hallway that led to the basement kitchen. I was dying to talk to Verity alone, to find out what she thought about all this, but it didn’t look as though I was going to get the chance. Mrs Weston ushered me into the kitchen and, after exhorting me to ‘get myself settled in’, whisked Verity away in the direction of Dorothy’s rooms. All we had time for was a wink from Verity as she went out the door and a grimace from me, hastily dropped from my face as Mrs Weston looked back.