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

  The door to the staircase swung back into its frame as the two of them left. I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor for a moment, silently assessing my new domain.

  Chapter Two

  My first impressions were favourable. Although the kitchen was technically below ground, at least on one side, there was a row of windows set high into the back wall that brought the spring sunshine in. The back door was half wood, half glass panes, which brought yet more light to the room. The walls were whitewashed and the floor, thankfully, was of good red ceramic tiles, so much easier to keep clean than the pitted and rough flagstones I’d had to endure earlier on in my life. Quickly, I checked on the equipment. There was a gas stove as well as the range, which was good, but no refrigerator. A door to the side of the kitchen led me to the pantry with its marble-topped shelves. There was a large ice-box and barrels of flour, sugar and tea stood on the floor.

  I wondered whether Mrs Ashford herself would meet with me to discuss the daily menus or if she would delegate that to Mrs Weston. It was not a question I would normally have asked, but this was a slightly different household to the ones I’d been used to. I moved around the kitchen, opening drawers, peering into cupboards and trying to acquaint myself with every inch of my new workspace.

  I had just located the drawer where the aprons were kept, and was tying one about my waist, when there was a flicker of movement outside the glass of the back door. A moment later, it opened and a woman came into the kitchen.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed in surprise when she saw me. Quickly, I curtseyed, believing (rightly, as it turned out) that she was Miss Arabella Ashford, the daughter of Mrs Ashford. Verity had told me about her on the journey down. She’s adopted, Miss Arabella. Mrs Ashford and her husband were never blessed with children of their own, but they took on Miss Arabella when she was about seven, I think. She was the daughter of one of Mrs Ashford’s friends who was widowed in the war and then died…

  “You must be the new cook,” said Arabella, hesitantly. She seemed rather a colourless person: very fair with a washed-out complexion and somewhat prominent pale blue eyes. She was simply – even drably – dressed in a tweed skirt and a limp cream-coloured blouse. She had a sweet smile, though, which I saw a moment later and it brightened her face to something almost pretty.

  “Yes, that’s right, miss. I’m Joan Hart. I arrived today.”

  “Um. Jolly good.” I got the impression she wanted to walk past me but was unsure of doing so, for some reason. “I must go to my mother—”

  “Very good, miss.” I bobbed a curtsey again and moved backwards so she could pass me. She gave me another quick and nervous smile as she walked away.

  I waited until the door shut and turned back to my tasks. So, that was Arabella Ashford. Thankfully, she didn’t seem like the sort of overbearing, interfering type I’d sometimes run up against. There was another member of the household who Verity had also told me about, Mrs Ashford’s half-sister. Constance Bartleby was a widow and, from what Verity had told me, something of a poor relation. Apparently, she lived with Mrs Ashford as a sort of companion. Idly musing on what she might be like, I decided to go back upstairs to get my book.

  Every cook of any note had her own book. It was a collection of recipes, short-cuts, tricks and tips of the catering trade and it was as precious as a Bible. As I climbed the stairs, still a little hesitant about using them, I thought about my play – the collection of papers far more precious to me. I still cherished dreams of being a writer, a playwright even, although nobody but Verity knew. I’d never shown her what I’d written. Perhaps I never would. Perhaps I’d never show anybody. Who was I, anyway, thinking I could write a real play? Even a real book, one day? At that very moment, it seemed the height of silliness. I was just a servant, a cook; that was all.

  I found my book, my cookbook and trudged back downstairs, feeling melancholy. I met Mrs Weston coming up the stairs just as I was coming down. Although I knew I had a perfect right to be there, I still felt a little nervous. Mrs Weston was far more forbidding than our usual housekeeper, Mrs Anstells, although perhaps she would warm to me as she got to know me.

  “Joan? Are you looking for something?”

  “I was just fetching my book,” I said hastily, holding it out for inspection. Mrs Weston nodded.

  “As I said before, I’ve arranged for a cold supper tonight. The only family members here tonight are Mrs Ashford and Miss Arabella. But I’m expecting you to prepare the breakfasts tomorrow, and from then on, the kitchen is under your control.” She looked at me severely for a moment, as if she wondered whether I’d be up to the task. “You seem quite young to be a fully qualified cook, Joan.”

  “I’m twenty,” I said, unsure whether that would make things better or worse. “But I’ve plenty of experience.”

  Mrs Weston’s mouth twisted for a moment, as if weighing up the truth of that statement. “Well, Miss Drew spoke highly of you and we could certainly do with the help whilst Aggie is indisposed.”

  “I’m sure I’ll try and do the best I can.” We faced each other in the middle of the staircase.

  “No doubt.” She looked at me searchingly again for a moment. “Have we met before? Your face looks somewhat familiar…”

  I cursed inside my head. She was remembering those newspaper photographs, when the case of the Connault Theatre murders had come to court. Both Verity and I had had to testify and, being young and (in Verity’s case) comely, the newspaper interest had been huge. Thankfully, as it had with the Asharton Manor case, the tumult and publicity had quickly died down.

  “I don’t believe so,” I said, with as winning a smile as I could. “Could I just ask you about the tradespeople? Where do I find their contact details?”

  “Let me show you.” Mrs Weston led me down the stairs and thankfully, her moment of recognition seemed to have passed.

  The afternoon passed in a blur of stock-taking, making orders for the morrow, rearranging the kitchen to my satisfaction and introducing myself to Ethel, the maid of all work. She was a plump young thing of sixteen, rather adenoidal, but she seemed a nice enough girl and a willing worker. That was good, because despite it being a small household in terms of the family, there were still five servants, including myself, to cook for.

  It was a pleasant kitchen in which to work. The glass-panelled back door looked out onto the gravel drive that ran along the back of the house. At about four o’clock that afternoon, I saw Andrew drive the car past to park it over by the far garden wall. He’d obviously gone to collect Dorothy from the railway station. I wondered, somewhat uncharitably, if she’d got drunk on the train. I’d have to wait until I spoke to Verity later to find out.

  It was a tiring day, as new days in new positions are. So many things to remember; rooms and passageways and where the lavatory was located. New names and new faces. Just the smallest things took up one’s mind: where the salt cellar was kept, how the tea towels were folded, what kind of china was required for afternoon tea. It wasn’t as if I could slope off to bed early either, cold supper or no cold supper. I stayed up late, making sure everything was ready for breakfast the next day. Ethel had the job of getting the range alight and the kettle boiling, and before I said goodnight to her, I reminded her of that. She nodded nervously – she was a bit of a frightened rabbit. Mind you, I remembered my first days in service. I was a-tremble from dawn until dusk, terrified of getting something wrong. I smiled reassuringly at Ethel and dismissed her.

  I was climbing the stairs to my room when the second wrong note occurred. I passed the first floor, where the family bedrooms were located. I could hear the querulous but surprisingly strong voice of Mrs Ashford coming from one of the bedrooms, the second one along the corridor.

  “There’s no use getting in a pet about it. You can weep and moan all you like, Arabella, but that’s an end to it.”

 
Shamefully, I allowed my footsteps to slow. I could hear a female voice answering Mrs Ashford, but it was too low and tear-soaked for me to hear exactly what it was saying.

  “There’s no need to make a fool of yourself. Why in heaven’s name you would think that someone like him would be interested in someone like you, I have no idea—” A soft wail undercut this remark. “Oh, my dear, don’t take on so. There are plenty of other young men out there who are much more suited to someone of your – your temperament.”

  The other voice spoke up and this time I could hear that it was Miss Arabella. “You can’t tell me how to live my life—a”

  “No, I can’t, but I’m telling you now, Arabella, you’re a fool if you think he cares two buttons about you. And even if he did, he’s not the kind of husband that I’d like for you. He may be wealthy but his father’s as vulgar as they come.”

  “You’re such a snob.” I could hear the anger in Arabella’s voice even through the closed door. “You should hear what you’re saying. You can’t control people like – like puppets, getting them to dance to your every whim, just because—”

  I could hear Mrs Ashford’s cracked, wheezing laughter. It had a cruel sound to it that made me shiver; less a sound of mirth and more of pleasure in someone else’s pain. “Oh, I can, my dear. I’ve been doing it all my life.”

  Silence emanated from the room. I held my breath. I knew I should keep walking, that it was none of my business, but I was transfixed by the drama going on unseen behind the wooden panels before me.

  After a moment, Mrs Ashford spoke up again and her voice was once more normal, no-nonsense and brisk. The nasty undercurrent I thought I had just heard was gone. “Now, let’s not argue with one another. You’ll soon see I’m right. I just wish you could understand it before you get yourself hurt.”

  “You’re wrong.” I could tell Arabella was starting to cry again.

  “Now, come along. You and I both know there’s always been one way of changing your mind, so please don’t force my hand and make me take that route.”

  A watery gasp from Arabella. “What – what do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Arabella.”

  Another silence. Unable to help myself, I pressed my ear to the door.

  Then Arabella spoke again, in a dull monotone. “I hate you.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs Ashford sounded entirely normal, not upset in the slightest. “Yes, that always was your response when you realised I was right all along.” I could hear her wheezing sigh. It was funny, but listening to her from here, without seeing her, you could almost forget she was old. Her tone changed to something much kindlier, almost wheedling. “Now, now, don’t go upsetting yourself. There’s no reason why you can’t meet someone much more suitable. Someone you might even know already. It’s not as if you won’t have money – that is, if you’re willing to—”

  A door opened below me in the corridor, and I jumped like a scalded cat, snatching my ear from the door. Heartbeat thumping in my ears, I turned and began to climb the stairs again, trying to run away from the room without making any noise. I really must not be caught eavesdropping on my first day in the job. It was a terrible habit of mine, although I knew I was far from being the only servant to do so. One had such little power in life; it seemed only fair to balance it up a bit by being aware of what was going on around you.

  I reached my room without incident, telling myself all the way that listening at doors was a little bit naughty but nothing so bad, though I had the uncomfortable feeling I was fibbing to myself. At least I didn’t snoop, I told myself. I didn’t read private letters or diaries, or poke around in drawers that didn’t belong to me. I’d only started listening because I’d overheard something. I kept trying to justify myself until I realised I had to look away from catching my own eyes in my little mirror. Think about something else, Joan, and shut up.

  With an effort, I switched my thoughts. So, Miss Arabella was in love with an unsuitable man, was she? Well, she wouldn’t be the first, and she wouldn’t be the last. I sympathised but not too much. At least she had the time and the energy to actually meet someone. Fat chance of me ever having a sweetheart, stuck in front of an oven or a sink all day… For some reason, the face of Inspector Marks came into my mind, and I sighed. Ever since our meeting, during the Connault Theatre murder case, I’d hoped – what had I hoped? That he’d visit me? Court me, even? I blushed to hear myself. There was nothing doing, I told myself firmly. A man like that wouldn’t be interested in someone like you. I laughed. Those were almost exactly the words I’d heard Mrs Ashford speak to Arabella. Perhaps we weren’t so different after all.

  I was wearily unbuttoning my dress when there was a knock at my bedroom door and a moment later, Verity’s flaming red head poked into the room.

  “Joanie. Are you dead on your feet?”

  “Very much so.” I sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh echoed by the groan on the bedsprings. “I haven’t even done any cooking today and I’m exhausted.”

  “Me too.” Verity came in. Tired she may have been but she still looked wonderfully smart in her silk blouse and wool skirt. Dorothy’s cast-offs, yes, but they were of such good quality that they still looked new. I sighed and yanked at the last button. Lady’s maids were expected to dress smartly, so I couldn’t exactly fault Verity for doing just that, but it always made me feel even more of a dishevelled mess than I already was.

  “Joan, you’ll have that off. Let me.” I felt Verity’s gentle fingers free the reluctant button from its button hole.

  “Thanks.” I peeled the dress off me and hung it up in the wardrobe – now there was a luxury, a wardrobe of my own. I’d been used to a peg rail before.

  “Do you think you’ll manage? With the kitchen, I mean?”

  “I hope so.” I thought, with a qualm, of the busy day ahead of me tomorrow. “Is there anything I should know about? Any visitors expected?”

  “Ah, funny you mention that. There is.” I turned expectantly to Verity, who was primping in front of the dressing table mirror. Her gaze met mine through her reflection. “Mrs Ashford’s nephew’s expected tomorrow. Him and a Cambridge chum.”

  “Oh yes?” I felt an extra spurt of anxiety. If the nephew was at Cambridge, then he was almost certainly a young man and, as I knew, young men had prodigious appetites. I hoped we had enough meat ordered from the butcher.

  “He’s called Michael, Michael Harrison. I can’t remember what his friend’s name is.”

  “So, how does he fit in here?”

  Verity tucked the last wave of hair in neatly. “He’s the son of Mrs Ashford’s sister. Not Constance Bartleby, another one. Something like that. Bit of a rogue, apparently, according to Dorothy, but nice with it. She said Arabella’s awfully sweet on his friend, whatever his name is.” She chewed her lip for a moment, staring into the mirror. “Raymond! That’s it. Yes, Arabella’s very keen, apparently, but him not so much.”

  That must have been the man that Mrs Ashford was taking Arabella to task about. “So, Arabella and Michael are cousins?” I asked.

  “Well, sort of. Not blood related. Which is probably just as well, as apparently Michael had a bit of a soft spot for Arabella at one point, but she wasn’t interested.” I listened, trying to sort out all these romantic entanglements out in my head. One thing about Dorothy, she always knew the latest gossip. Verity went on speaking. “No, she didn’t want anything to do with him, according to Dorothy. Goodness knows why, as apparently he’s really quite handsome.”

  “Really?” I said, cheering up slightly. Yes, young men in the house may have meant extra work but if they were decorative, then at least you got something out of having to run around after them.

  Verity giggled. “Well, you know Dorothy. She’s got an eye for a comely young man, hasn’t she?”

  �
�How is Dorothy?” My curiosity about my mistress was enough to distract me from the worries about the visitors. Although, I supposed that here, Mrs Ashford was technically my employer.

  Verity shrugged. “She seems fine, at the moment. She took a sleeping pill and went straight to bed.”

  I pulled my shawl over my shoulders. “Had she—” I began and then shut my mouth. I wanted to ask if she’d been drinking on the journey down here but really, what business was it of mine? It was impertinent.

  Verity looked at me enquiringly. “What, Joan?”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. Listen, V, I’m all in. I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “Rightio.” Verity came over and gave me a squeeze. “Do you think you’ll like it here, Joanie?”

  I yawned. “Sorry. Yes, I think so.”

  “You don’t think the work will be too much? You know, not having a kitchen maid as such—”

  I felt a burst of gratitude. She had been listening when Mrs Weston had mentioned that fact after all.

  “Ethel seems like a likely enough worker. I’m sure we’ll manage.”

  Verity caught my yawn. When she’d stopped, she smiled and said, “Well, it’s hardly Asharton Manor, is it, Joanie?”

  “Thank goodness.” Something occurred to me then. “We’re not that far from there, are we, V?”

  “Not that far, no.” We caught each other’s eye, and I could see she was thinking the same thing as I was. “Try not to worry about it, Joan. It’s a long time ago now. Another lifetime, almost.”