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

  “You’re welcome.” Verity took a sip of tea and her shoulders dropped in a sigh. “Do you think you’ll like it here?”

  I glanced around, just in case Mrs Weston had hidden herself somewhere in the kitchen. “I’m not sure. It’s a little different, isn’t it? Not so… Not so…” I found it hard to articulate what I meant. Perhaps it was that here, I didn’t feel quite so much like another species – set apart from the wealthy and the aristocratic. But perhaps that was the changing times as much as the new house. Servants were beginning to be treated a little better now, given that there were so many more opportunities for working men and women than just going into service.

  Verity seemed to read my mind. “I know what you mean, Joan. The world’s changing, isn’t it? Even down here in the country, you feel it.”

  I thought about the new conditions of my position here. No need to wear a cap, although as a cook, I tended to do so just to keep my hair hygienically covered. A whole day off at the weekend and an afternoon off during the week. More money. And it was more than that – it was the attitude of my new employers and the sense that perhaps we were all in this together, in a way. I drank my tea, feeling more cheerful despite my tiredness.

  Verity drained her cup, yawned, and pushed it a little away from her. “God, I’m all in. Thank goodness I’ve already got Dorothy’s room ready for when she retires.”

  “Are she and Miss Arabella close?” I asked, curiously.

  Verity shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think Arabella’s a bit of a – well, a bit of a stick-in-the-mud for Dorothy.” Thinking back on Dorothy’s friends in London, I had to agree. “Still,” Verity went on, consideringly. “Now that she’s supposed to be good, who knows? Perhaps Arabella will be just what she needs.” She yawned again. “Mind you, while those young bucks are here, Dorothy might as well be part of the wallpaper. Did you see the way Arabella was looking at that Raymond?”

  “He is very handsome,” I pointed out.

  Verity grinned. “Oh, yes, noticed that, did we?”

  I kicked her under the table. “I was merely observing.”

  “Of course you were, Joan.” She winked at me and got up from the table. “You and Miss Arabella will have to fight over who’s going to take him his breakfast tray.”

  “Verity Hunter!”

  “I’m teasing.”

  I threw a tea towel at her and she ducked, giggling. “Go to bed, you.”

  Before Verity could answer, there was a creak of floorboards in the corridor outside and then the door opened to reveal Mrs Weston, frowning. Verity snatched the tea towel down from where it had landed on her head. Guiltily, I sat up, wondering if our banter had been overheard and disapproved of.

  “Oh, girls, I’m glad to catch you here.” Mrs Weston’s frown remained but she didn’t sound cross – or at least, not with us. “Could you come with me for a moment?”

  My stomach sank again. Perhaps we were in trouble after all…

  Mrs Weston turned to leave and I sent a grimace over the room to Verity who returned it.

  We obediently followed Mrs Weston up the stairs to the first floor, where we stopped outside Mrs Ashford’s bedroom. Mrs Weston knocked gently on the closed door, while Verity and I exchanged puzzled glances behind her back.

  “Come in,” said Mrs Ashford’s cracked but imperious voice, and Mrs Weston stood back to let us go into the room. She came in after us and shut the door behind her.

  The room was dim, and I saw to my surprise that Mrs Ashford was already in bed, a shawl around her wizened shoulders. Her spectacles gleamed in what little light there was from a small bedside light and the rosy glow of the coals from the fireplace.

  “Come here, young ladies.”

  As we approached the bed, I realised she had a little writing bureau on her lap, one of the wooden ones you could move from desk to desk should you need to. On it, was a document covered with a blank slip of paper. I couldn’t see what it was. I had a sudden, paranoid flash that Mrs Ashford had found my play and told myself not to be so ridiculous.

  “Now, Joan, Verity, I’d like you to do something for me. All I need is your signature, here and here.” She indicated spaces on the paper before her. “Don’t be alarmed, you won’t get into any sort of bother. It’s just I need two people to sign this for me.”

  And her daughter couldn’t do it? Or even Mrs Weston? I glanced back at her, standing statue-still by the door and saw the frown was back on her face and deeper now. She didn’t approve of this, whatever it was.

  Mrs Ashford must have caught my hesitation. “Don’t tell me you girls can’t write?” She demanded, incredulously.

  “Oh, it’s not that—” I bit my lip, holding back what I was going to say. I wasn’t best keen to sign something when I didn’t even know what it was, but I was hardly going to be able to say no, was I? I could tell Verity was thinking the same thing.

  “Well, hurry up and sign it, please.” Mrs Ashford sounded impatient. “I’m exceptionally fatigued and I’d like to go to sleep.” She repeated herself. “You won’t get into any trouble.”

  Mentally shrugging, I took the fountain pen she held out to me and signed my name where she indicated. Then I handed the pen to Verity, catching her eye. Her face was a wealth of non-expression and for a moment, despite my anxiety and weariness, I had to stop myself laughing.

  As soon as Verity had signed, Mrs Ashford snatched the pen back from her hand. “Thank you. You may go.”

  Mrs Weston held the door open for us and shut us both out after we’d hurried through. I didn’t dare look at Verity until we were safely upstairs, out of earshot of the family.

  “What the blazes was that all about?” Verity asked, raising her eyebrows and her hands in amazement.

  “Who knows?” Suddenly, I was too bone-tired to even talk about it. “Sorry, V, I’m all in. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  She caught my yawn. “You’re right. Good night, Joanie.”

  “Night, V.” I watched her shut herself into her room. Then I turned back to mine, all thoughts of that strange little interlude out of my head. All I could think about was getting to bed.

  Chapter Five

  I was fast asleep that night, too deep even for dreaming, when I was rudely awakened by a hand grabbing my arm and a voice calling me urgently.

  “Joan. Joan! Wake up.”

  I muttered something and rolled over in bed, thick with sleep. The hand wouldn’t leave me alone.

  “Joan! It’s me, Verity. You have to get up. Joan.”

  Verity? Groaning, I forced my eyes open to confront inky blackness. I couldn’t see anything in the dark. “What?” I said thickly, trying to wake myself up fully.

  There was a noise of impatience and then a bright explosion of light as Verity clicked the bedside light on. I screwed up my eyes against the dazzle, blinking hard.

  “V?” I managed to sit up and once my vision had cleared, saw Verity crouched down by the side of the bed, her face tight with worry and a shawl about her nightdress-clad shoulders. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everyone’s ill. You have to come and help me.”

  “What?” I said again, stupidly. For a moment, I thought I must still be dreaming. As if she read my mind, Verity reached out and pinched the bare skin of my arm.

  “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, but Joan, I need you to come with me. Everyone is ill. I can’t manage it all on my own.”

  “Ill?” I pushed the covers back and put my bare feet to the cold linoleum, my toes shrinking from the contact. “What do you mean?” I spotted my slippers, under the bed, and hauled them out, slipping them thankfully on my cold feet.

  Verity flung another shawl around my shoulders – I recognised it as one of hers. “Everyone’s vomiting. And worse.” She shuddered. “Please, can
you help me?”

  “Of course, of course.” The shock of the cold floor had wakened me fully and we both hastened to the door. “Where’s Mrs Weston?”

  “She’s telephoning the doctor.” Verity took my arm and hurried me along the corridor to the stairs. “Dorothy’s in a bad way, and I sent Ethel down to Mrs Ashford’s room. I haven’t even had a chance to check on Miss Arabella—” We were thundering down the stairs by now and Verity almost shoved me in the direction of Mrs Ashford’s room. Behind the closed door of the family’s bathroom, I could hear groans and retching. I screwed up my face.

  “Is it contagious?” I asked Verity. Stupid of me – she wasn’t a physician. I wondered queasily if I was beginning to come down with something myself, although it was probably just the power of suggestion.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s—” Verity coloured and shut her mouth tightly.

  “What?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No time for discussion, Joan. I must get back to Dorothy. Can you check on Mrs Ashford and Miss Arabella?”

  Before I could say anything, she raced away up the corridor of the first floor towards Dorothy’s room. As I stood, flabbergasted, the bathroom door opened and Arabella shakily emerged.

  She looked dreadful, white as candlewax with a sheen of perspiration over her face. “Oh, Joan,” she said, faintly, and then staggered. Alarmed, I hastened to give her my arm, worried she was going to collapse.

  I steered her back to her bedroom and into her bed and, after a moment’s thought, discreetly placed the chamber pot near the head of her bed. I left her lying down, her face almost as white as the linen of her pillow, and hurried back towards Mrs Ashford’s room. Thankfully, just as I was about to knock and enter, Mrs Weston appeared from downstairs.

  “Oh, Joan,” she said, looking frantic. “What a to-do. I’ve telephoned the doctor and he’ll be here as soon as he is able.”

  “But what’s happened to everyone?” I asked, feeling rather frantic myself.

  “I don’t know.” Perhaps it was the fraught environment that lent a stiffness to Mrs Weston’s tone.

  “Can I help—” I began but she waved me aside.

  “I shall deal with Madam,” was all that she said. “How is Miss Arabella?”

  At least I could give her an account of how I’d helped the young woman to her bed. Mrs Weston nodded, her face tight and her mouth folded in like a purse.

  “How are the young gentlemen?” she asked, when I paused for breath.

  “The young—” I stopped myself just in time. It would be fair to say that I’d forgotten the existence of Michael Harrison and his chum, Raymond Bentham. “I’ll go and check on them right away. Um, where are their rooms?”

  The gentlemen were housed at the very end of the corridor on the first floor, Michael Harrison’s room next to Dorothy’s. As I knocked gently on his door, I could hear the low murmur of Verity’s voice in the room next door and it brought me a strange sort of comfort.

  There was a silence after I’d knocked and then I heard shuffling footsteps approaching the door. After a moment, it opened and Michael Harrington’s haggard face appeared in the doorway.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you, sir,” I began. “But I’m afraid everyone appears to be ill and I was just checking that you yourself were—”

  He’d been staring at me as if I were speaking a foreign language and just as I began to ask if he were alright, he gave a gasp, a retch and then jack-knifed forward. I jumped out of the way just in time.

  “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” gasped Michael from the floor, his head level with my knees. “I’m so sorry—”

  I overcame my disgust. The poor man couldn’t help it.

  “Please don’t worry, sir. Here, let me help you.” Wondering whether I was being too forward and then dismissing the worry – the man was ill and I had to help him – I leant down and helped him to his feet. He clutched at me gratefully.

  “Let me help you back to bed…”

  “Better take me to the bathroom,” he said, with a ghastly attempt at a grin. “Quick as you can.”

  I gulped and fairly bundled him down the corridor to the bathroom, which was thankfully unoccupied. I virtually heaved Michael into the room and quickly closed the door. He’d have to help himself from now on.

  I left the poor man to a semblance of privacy and headed back down the corridor, thinking that I must at least clean up the carpet before I did anything else. My mind was so occupied with thoughts of finding a mop and bucket that the opening of the very farthest door on the corridor made me jump.

  Raymond Bentham strolled out, belting his navy-blue dressing gown closed. He looked both sleepy and faintly annoyed but – crucially – he wasn’t vomiting and sweating and groaning.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  I forgave him his bad language. It was a bit of a madhouse. “I’m so sorry sir, but everyone’s been taken ill. Are you feeling well yourself?”

  “I’m absolutely fine. What do you mean, everyone’s been taken ill?” He caught sight then of the unpleasant pool on the carpet by my feet. “Ugh. Good God. What is it, food poisoning?”

  It sounds silly to say, but that thought hadn’t yet occurred to me. I stared at Raymond Bentham whilst the sensation of a heavy weight felt as if it were falling slowly through my body. Oh God… If it were food poisoning, then… “It’s my fault,” I whispered, almost to myself.

  “What’s that?” Raymond was looking at me suspiciously. Incongruously, it occurred to me once more how very good looking he was; almost matinee idol good looks.

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry sir, but I’m needed downstairs. Are you quite sure you’re not – you’re not indisposed?”

  “I tell you, there’s nothing wrong with me. Where’s Michael?”

  “He’s, um—” I gestured down the corridor in what I hoped was an eloquent enough gesture. “He’s, er, in there.”

  Raymond got my meaning. He sighed, cast up his eyes and retreated back into his bedroom, shutting the door firmly.

  I puffed out my cheeks. Of course, he was a gentleman. I hadn’t exactly expected him to pitch in and help, but…it seemed a little unfeeling to simply cut oneself off from everybody like that. But perhaps if he were wrong – and I felt a leap of gladness at the thought – about it being food poisoning, and instead it was something contagious that had swept through the house like wildfire, perhaps he was sensible to keep himself apart from those who were already afflicted.

  That left Mrs Bartleby to check on. I knocked on the only other door on that floor that could have been hers, the one next to Mrs Ashford’s room. There was no answer. I knocked again, somewhat louder, and called, softly at first, “Mrs Bartleby? Mrs Bartleby? Are you well?”

  Still no answer. I opened the door and poked my head into the dim interior, dreading what I might see. But the room was empty, and the bed didn’t look as though anyone had been taken ill there. The counterpane was pushed back on one side and the pillows were dented but that was all. Where was she?

  She must have gone to the bathroom already. But no, Michael was in there; she couldn’t be there. Where on earth was the woman? She must have slipped off to another bathroom, perhaps even the servants’ one upstairs. I thought for a moment of going to look for her and then dismissed the idea. If she were well enough to leave her bed, she was well enough to look after herself for a moment. I really needed to get that carpet clean.

  I turned back, determined to find some cleaning utensils, and almost ran straight into Verity, who had just emerged from Dorothy’s room. Her arms were piled high with a load of soiled sheets.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Verity rolled her eyes. She looked exhausted but thankfully didn’t seem to be ill. “Dorothy’s not so bad now. I think
she’s got rid of everything that she could. There’s nothing left to come up.”

  I grimaced. “I need to find a mop and bucket. Do you know where they’re kept?”

  “I think so. I need to get these in to soak, anyway.” We both began to hurry towards the stairs. I could hear Mrs Weston talking inside Mrs Ashford’s room but without being able to hear what she was saying. I felt a qualm – should I go in and try and help? But Mrs Weston was an efficient woman, and she’d been with her mistress a long time. No doubt she had the situation under control. The doorbell rang just as we reached the hallway and although I wouldn’t normally have taken it upon myself to answer it, I made a guess that it would be the doctor. As it happened, I was right, and I directed him upstairs to Mrs Ashford’s bedroom before hastening after Verity, who had disappeared down the kitchen stairs.

  Chapter Six

  It was almost light by the time Verity, Mrs Weston, Ethel, myself and Doctor Goodfried sat down to a much-needed cup of tea at the kitchen table. None of the servants had been taken ill, thankfully, but we all looked just as dreadful as if we had; haggard, sweating, dark semi-circles under our tired eyes. Nobody spoke until we’d all drained our cups and I wearily got up to refill the teapot with some more hot water.

  Mrs Weston sighed. “My goodness me, what a dreadful night.”

  Doctor Goodfried replaced his teacup on the saucer with a clink. “I think the worst is over now. I’ll engage a nurse to come in for a few days. Mrs Ashford will need some specialist care.”

  Mrs Weston looked worried. “Is she very bad, Doctor? She seemed more…more at peace, when I left her.”

  “She’s had a bad run of it, and of course, being so elderly, she’s bound to suffer more. Miss Ashford and Miss Drew seem to be slightly better. Mrs Bartleby seems to be sleeping quite peacefully, and I’ll double-check on Mr Harrison before I leave.” He inclined his cup hopefully towards me, and I quickly poured him some more tea. “Thank you, my dear.” He seemed a nice man, rather round and tweedy, like a bearded teddy bear. “Now, I suppose we really need to get to the bottom of what happened.”