The Asharton Manor Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4) Page 5

  There was still a subdued feel about the house. I gave Annie the film magazine I’d brought back with me from London and she thanked me nicely, but without the squeal of delight she’d have given a week ago. Mrs. Cotting merely nodded and said, “You’re back, then,” to which there really isn’t any answer, is there? She’d kept some cottage pie from lunch back for me though, so the grudgingness of her welcome was outweighed by her thoughtfulness in doing that.

  I threw myself back into work with a fervour that surprised me (and delighted Mrs. Cotting). I know now I was trying to avoid thinking too deeply. Of course, with the house in mourning and one less person to feed, the menus were a lot less complicated than they had been. I found myself helping Meg scour the copper pans at one point, a truly horrid job, but it was better than standing about idle. Also, I wanted to see what had been happening since I’d been away.

  “Have the police been back?” I asked quietly as we sat together in the scullery, rubbing the salt paste in industrially.

  Meg nodded, her mouth crimped. “They were shut up with the master for ever so long.”

  “But they left again?” What I meant was, did they leave without arresting him?

  Meg nodded again. “Oh yes. Said they might be back, but didn’t say when.”

  “They didn’t take the master with them?” I checked to be sure.

  “Oh, no. He went upstairs afterwards for a rest. He was fair worn out.”

  “Who else did they question?”

  “Mr. Manfield. They were with him for a little while. And Miss Cleo, and Mrs. Carter-Knox. Everyone, really. They even asked to speak to Mrs. Smith and Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “Did you have to talk to them?”

  Meg shook her head, clearly thankful.

  The next morning, there was a letter for me, from Verity –just a short, one-page scribble. I’ve been to Somerset House. Mrs. Denford left most of her estate to her husband, a little bit to her brother, her jewellery to Cleo Maddox and some small bequests to some of the servants. Not you, Joanie, worst luck! I smiled at that. Just one more thing, before I sign off. Where in Africa did Mr. Manfield have his ranch? Can you find out for me? Thanks – it’s important. And remember, not a word to anyone. Hide this letter. Yours ever, Verity.

  I folded the letter away carefully and hid it in my summer shoes, which were packed away in a dusty corner of the wardrobe in my room. What on Earth did Verity mean about Africa? I mentally shrugged and wondered how I would find out.

  I was walking towards the compost bin outside the back door, a bowl of carrot peelings in my hand, when I glanced up and saw the black swathe of the pine forest beyond the buildings of the manor. It reminded me of that day I got lost in the woods, when I found the grove of Astarte’s temple. I came to a sudden stop, drawing in my breath. I realised that I did actually know the answer to Verity’s question. I thought back to the conversation that Mr Manfield and I had had there. What had he said? I lived on the east coast, a place called Teganka…

  I wrote back to Verity that evening. I still wasn’t quite sure why she wanted to know. After I’d sealed and addressed the envelope and placed it in on my bedside table, I stretched and yawned. The yellow candlelight flickered.

  “Writing to your friend?” asked Annie.

  “Yes.” I looked across at her. She was sitting with her knees up and her nightdress tucked under her feet, like a little girl, reading the film magazine I’d brought her from London. I let my gaze drift up to the wall beyond her bed and my eyes rested on all the cut out pictures of the stars. It must be a strange life, being an actor. I thought of Verity’s uncle and of his friend, Ashley Turton. It was then I realised who Ashley Turton reminded me of.

  It was such a strange thought, so unexpected, that my mind wanted to reject it. Don’t be silly, Joan, I told myself in my head. But the thought – no, the knowledge was there, inescapable. How did I know? I just did.

  A little shaken, I lay down in bed and turned over to face the wall. Why had this knowledge shaken me? Did it actually matter? I tried to dismiss the thought, closing my eyes and pretending to sleep, as if I could fool myself into actually doing so.

  I was hard at work a few days later, dealing with the aftermath of breakfast, when Mr. Pettigrew appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, his formidable eyebrows pitched so high that they almost disappeared into his combed back hair.

  “There is a telephone call,” he said ponderously. “For Joan.”

  “For me?” I straightened up in shock. Who on Earth would be calling me?

  “What on Earth—” Mrs. Cotting pinched her mouth together and shook her head. “I don’t know what your friends are thinking of, Joan, ringing you up on the telephone.”

  “I don’t know, either,” I said, honestly. If I hadn’t been an orphan, I would have been worried. Surely only a death in the family would have warranted a telephone call. “May I go?”

  I could feel waves of disapproval buffeting me from both Mr. Pettigrew and Mrs. Cotting but, after a moment, she inclined her head in a snappish little nod. I’ll pay for this, I thought, as I climbed the stairs to the hallway, but I was too concerned - too intrigued by the thought of my telephone call - to be really worried about the repercussions.

  The telephone stood on the hallway table over by the staircase. It was dwarfed by one of Mrs. Carter-Knox’s monstrous flower arrangements. I picked up the receiver and disentangled myself from a wayward plant tendril which had caught on my hair.

  It was Verity, of course. I should have known.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed down the receiver. I think it was the first time we’d ever actually spoken on the telephone. Her voice sounded strange, high and excited.

  “Listen, Joanie, I didn’t have a choice. This is really important. Are you alone? Can anyone overhear you?”

  I glanced around the hallway. It was a shadowy place, with the only light coming from the windows at the front, by the huge front door. The chandelier blazed overhead but the light it cast was dappled and strange.

  “Go ahead,” I said, quietly.

  “I went to the British Library and read up everything I could on Tenganka.”

  “Who?”

  “Not who. A place in Africa.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said, remembering. I glanced back behind me again but there was nobody there. “But why?”

  Verity rushed on breathlessly. “When you were telling me about meeting Mr. Manfield in the woods, he told you something about a local tribe - in Tenganka - that had a superstition. They used to ill wish people, who then died – remember?”

  I nodded and then realised that was ridiculous. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well,” said Verity. “I found some research papers, by a team of scientists who were studying the flora and fauna in the area. They found that the seeds from the Henget tree – which is also known as the ‘sickness tree’ - which grows in Tenganka, can induce sickness and delirium in a person and can cause death, if given in sufficient quantities.” It sounded as though she was reading from a page of notes. “The scientists found that the tribes who had this superstition actually used these seeds to make people unwell. So it was really happening, not because of something supernatural.”

  “Very well,” I said again, rather helplessly. “But why—”

  “Oh, Joanie, you comprehend, don’t you? Who at Asharton Manor kept being unwell and then getting better and then being unwell again?”

  “Oh,” I said, knowledge dawning. I swallowed. “Do you really think that’s what’s happened?”

  “Well, I don’t know for sure,” confessed Verity. “But it’s a sight odd, isn’t it? The brother turns up from Africa, straight from this place where he knows how these seeds are used to make people ill, and then all of a sudden, his sister’s horribly unwell?”

  “It could be a coincidence,” I said, feebly.

  “Well, it might.” Verity didn’t sound convinced.

  “He’s not the only person who’s been to Africa,”
I said suddenly, remembering. “Mrs. Carter-Knox lived there, too. She might have known about the sickness tree.”

  “Right,” said Verity. “The other thing is—” She hesitated. “The other thing is, I can’t see why they would do it? What’s in it for them? Mrs. Denford didn’t leave anything to her aunt and hardly anything to her brother. I suppose he – Mr. Manfield - might have hated her, but that didn’t seem to be the case did it? I—”

  I talked across her, feverishly. A firework of possibilities had just gone off in my head, shooting stars of red and green and blue. “Verity, I know. I think I know who killed her. But I need to prove it.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I don’t know, yet. Listen, is there any way – any way at all – that you could come here? I know you’ve just had a day off, but I need you to help me.”

  Verity half laughed. “Well, I could try the old ‘my great aunt is sick’ excuse. I’ve covered for Mrs. Antells, on occasion. I think I could talk her around. I could only come for the day, though.”

  “If you could be here, that would be wonderful. I don’t think I can go to the police without – well, without evidence.”

  “I’ll come. I’ll do my utmost. Listen, I’ve got to go and so should you. I’ll let you know when I can catch the train to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said and I meant it from the bottom of my heart. We said goodbye and I put the receiver down. I stared up at the glittering chandelier for a moment, through the luxuriant growth of the flower arrangement. Was what I was thinking really likely? There was a part of me that wanted to reject the thought, and I knew why. But suppose I was right? What was I going to do? What would be the moral thing - the ethical thing - to do? I had my nails in my mouth, nibbling in anxiety. Then I saw Mr. Pettigrew walking toward me from the end of the hallway, disapproval written all over his face. I bobbed a quick curtsey and scurried back to the kitchen.

  That night, I lay in bed in the darkness, wide-eyed. I could hear Annie breathing softly across the room. I turned over in bed, trying not to make too much noise.

  It wasn’t even as if I’d even liked the mistress much – I hadn’t. But I couldn’t forget that feeling of a tiny hand pushing me towards her bedroom door the night she’d died. I knew something was wrong then, that it was a silent cry for help, but I hadn’t understood in time. Now I did understand and it was up to me to right that wrong. It was up to me to see justice was done.

  I slid stealthily out of bed and dressed myself in the dark – just my dark blue dress, dark stockings, no shoes. I twisted my hair back off my face and pinned it back as best I could in the dark, without the aid of a mirror. Then I crept to the door and opened it as quietly as the creaky handle would allow. I tried to think of some excuse as to why I was wandering about outside my room that would sound plausible if I were seen. I couldn’t really think of anything and yet I had to have something. If I was discovered then I was likely to be instantly dismissed. And – although I tried not to think of it – if the person I was looking for discovered me, then dismissal was the least of my worries. I shivered, as much from fear as from the chill of the unheated corridor.

  I crept downstairs, using the servants’ staircase. When it came to leave it, I could feel my knees tremble. At least here, on the scuffed linoleum, I was relatively safe… Leave it I did, though, and I crept forward, moving soundlessly over the plush carpet in my stocking feet, hardly breathing. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness – I had always had good night vision. I knew where I would hide – in the shadow of the grandfather clock on the landing. There was a small table there and the space between the two made a small recess I could squeeze into. I would be able to see the bedroom door clearly.

  I reached the landing, reached the recess, pressed myself back into the shadows. My heart was hammering so loudly I wondered, for a second, whether anyone would be able to hear it. Gradually, as my breathing slowed, the thumping and rushing of the blood in my ears subsided. I waited, uncomfortably, for long, long minutes. After what felt like nearly an hour, I was getting angry with myself. This was a stupid idea, Joan. You’ve no real evidence for thinking what you think. Just push off and go back to be—

  There was a click and a squeak from down the hallway – a bedroom lock going back, a handle turning. I forgot to breathe again, pressing myself back against the panelling of the wall. I could see a dim shape emerge from the bedroom down the hallway and creep along the passageway, just as I myself had crept from the staircase.

  I pressed myself back into the shadows. I was suddenly terrified, and with good reason. This was a person who I knew had killed once before. I held my breath, dropped my gaze so what little light there was wouldn’t shine off my eyes, and prayed that the booming of my heart couldn’t be heard.

  The stealthy footsteps crept past me. I didn’t dare breathe until they stopped at the end of the corridor. There was another click as the other bedroom door opened, a tiny creak as it shut and the whisper of the bolt being pushed home. I let out my held breath in a muted gasp. I waited a few minutes, just in case. Then I pushed myself upright, wincing at the soreness in my cramped muscles. I walked carefully down the corridor, my own footsteps as stealthy as the ones I’d just heard go by. Then I stopped outside the bedroom door, inclining my head to listen.

  Even though I was expecting it, the faint noises from within made my face go hot. I wished there was some way of capturing what I was hearing but, of course, there wasn’t. It was enough just to confirm to myself that my suspicion had been correct. I listened for a moment longer, cheeks burning. Then I crept away again, back up the stairs to my room. I bolted the door.

  Verity’s train got in at ten o’clock the next day. She must have left Lord Carthright’s before dawn to be able to make it down here in that time. I was grateful. I’d managed to get to the station to meet her, under the guise of doing some errands for Mrs. Cotting. The duck eggs, sausage meat and herbs were packed away in my basket and I stood on the station platform, waiting for Verity as she’d waited for me at Paddington in London.

  She practically jumped onto the platform and flung her arms around me in a fierce hug. Then she released me and stood back. Her eyes searched my face. “Did you find out what you needed to?”

  “Oh yes,” I said. I wanted to blush again at the memory, but I fought it down. “I’ll tell you all about it on the way to the manor. It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Verity stoutly. “I’m not afraid of a country walk or two.”

  We set up, the basket swinging between us. I told her everything that I knew or had surmised, as quickly and as quietly as possible. She didn’t say much – her eyes widened at one point – but I could see her quick mind turning the possibilities over.

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  “Oh yes?”

  “I’ve got you down here for a bit of a busman’s holiday, I’m afraid.”

  Verity looked over at me, clearly puzzled. “Why’s that, Joan?”

  “If I lent you a uniform, do you think you could pretend to be – well, staff?”

  Verity laughed out loud. “Seriously? Yes, of course I could. What’s your housekeeper going to say, though?”

  “We’ll have to risk it,” I said. “Perhaps we can say that you’re a cousin of mine and you wanted some experience…”

  I trailed off, half amused at the thought. We were walking off the road now, along a footpath that ran alongside the river. I could hear it chattering and burbling to itself as we walked along.

  “And why?” Verity continued. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to search a room.”

  That brought her up short. “Really?”

  I glanced around. There was nobody in sight of us. I beckoned and sat us down on a handy log by the side of the path.

  “Listen,” I said in a low voice. “There’s no point going to the police, now. We don’t have a shred of proof. But if we could find defin
ite evidence, we could take it to the police station. Then they would have to listen to us.”

  “Yes,” said Verity, frowning. After a moment, her frown cleared. “At least I know where all the hiding places are! I’ve tidied and dusted enough rooms.”

  “Well, quite,” I said. “You know, V, it’s occurred to me that we actually have a bit of an advantage over the police. You know what we’re always told, about being the perfect servant…”

  “’We have to be invisible,’” Verity chanted, remembering our training at the orphanage.

  “Yes. Don’t you see? They want us to be invisible but we’re not, not really. We’re there and we can listen and see and understand. But to them, they only see us when they want to. And that, Verity, gives us a real advantage.”

  “I’d never thought of it like that before,” Verity said slowly. “You’re right, Joanie. Clever old you.”

  We had reached the turn in the lane by now and the manor itself was slowly revealed as we walked on further. Verity made a whistling sound with pursed lips. “Goodness, Joan, you weren’t joking. It’s enormous.”

  “It is,” I agreed.

  “But it’s not a happy house, is it?” she said, frowning. “Not a pleasant place. Rather sinister, in fact.”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  Far ahead of us, I could see the tiny figure of Miss Cleo crossing the lawns in front of the manor. A tennis racket swung from her hand. I swallowed.

  “Steady,” said Verity, who had heard the change in my breathing. “Invisible, remember?”