The Asharton Manor Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1 - 4) Page 6

  I threw her a grateful smile. “It’s a bit of an adventure, isn’t it, V?”

  My heart was hammering. Verity nodded and smiled, tensely. “I’m ready, if you are.”

  I introduced Verity to the other servants. It was my afternoon off that day and everyone thought Verity and I would do something like go out for tea and cake. If they only knew what we had planned for the afternoon… I looked out Annie’s spare uniform for Verity and she wriggled into it quickly, up in my room. I helped her pin her hair back and put on the cap. She pulled on white cotton gloves.

  “What if someone comes?” she hissed as we made our way to the room in question.

  “You’re a new member of staff, that’s all,” I said, more calmly than I felt. Now that we were near the lion’s den, so to speak, I could feel sweat prickling on my upper lip. My hands were actually shaking.

  We paused for a moment, outside the door. I took a deep breath, knocked, listened, knocked again and finally opened the door. I knew the room would be empty but it was best to be on the safe side.

  “Go on,” I whispered to Verity. “I’ll stand guard.”

  She was only in there for about ten minutes, but it felt a lot longer than that. I’d brought up a duster and was industrially applying it to the skirting boards along the passageway, as I kept a sharp ear and eye out for anyone coming. Once, Violet passed me and gave me a puzzled look – I knew she was wondering why the head kitchen maid was up in the corridor, dusting the walls – but she was clearly in a hurry and so didn’t stop to ask.

  The door creaked behind me and I sprang up, heart fluttering. Verity emerged, neat in her uniform, her face buttoned down, expressing nothing. She was empty handed.

  “You didn’t—” I began. A great wave of disappointment crashed over me, followed by one of humiliation. Was I making the biggest fool of myself in this? Did I have everything wrong?

  Verity didn’t say anything but she gave a miniscule shake of her head. She set off up the corridor at a fast walk and I hurried after her.

  Safely up in my room, the door bolted, I put my hands up to my face in despair.

  “You couldn’t find anything? V – I was so sure…”

  “Hold your horses,” said Verity. She unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress, reached inside and drew out two things with a flourish, like a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. I reached for them.

  “Wait,” she said. “Put gloves on.”

  “Oh, yes.” I looked out my clean pair of gloves, the only spare pair I had. Once I’d slid them on, Verity put both finds into my hands: a small, hessian bag and a photograph. The photograph was blank side up. I turned it over and choked.

  “I know,” said Verity, taking it back from me. “Sorry, Joan. I should have warned you.”

  I shook my head, unable to say anything for a moment. Then, dismissing the image I’d just seen from my mind, I opened the bag. Even though I was expecting what I found inside, I still felt a coldness spread through me, as if I’d swallowed a long drink of cold water. The bag was full of small, round black seeds.

  I looked up at Verity and she nodded, her face grave. “I think that’s all we’ll need, Joan.”

  “Yes,” I said, looking down at our finds. “I think so, too.”

  I had never set foot in a police station before. Verity and I both stepped over the threshold and looked about us nervously. I think we were expecting to see ruffians being wrestled to the floor and billy clubs being whacked about while sirens went off but, in the event, the room just had a black and white checkered floor (rather dirty), the front desk behind which sat a pink-faced and cherubic looking young constable, and a couple of benches stood against the wall.

  I asked to see Inspector Maxwell, in a voice that was rather more hesitant and tremulous than I would have liked it to be. Luckily, the inspector passed behind the desk as we were standing there and overheard his name. We found ourselves being ushered into a room that stood off the corridor behind the desk. It was nondescript, furnished only with a wooden table and four chairs.

  “Now then,” said the inspector as he showed us to our seats. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

  Verity and I exchanged a glance. Now we were actually here, it sounded so ridiculous. I could feel my hands start shaking again and I clutched at my bag, remembering what I’d put inside it. That was evidence, solid evidence. The thought of it calmed me a little.

  “We’re here because we have some information for you, to do with the murder of Delphine Denford,” said Verity, clearly realising that I’d been struck dumb.

  “The murder of Delphine Denford,” repeated the inspector. “You think she was murdered, do you?”

  I tried to say something, but I couldn’t get my mouth to work properly. Verity took up the reins again. “Yes,” she said, sounding almost cheerful. “We know who did it, you see.”

  They say you can’t shock a policeman. True to this saying, Inspector Maxwell merely raised his eyebrows a little. “Indeed?”

  “Yes,” said Verity, staring him straight in the eyes. Her chin was up a little. “She was killed by her husband.”

  Silence descended over the room like a grey cloak for a moment. The inspector’s eyebrows rose slowly again. “Now, that is a very serious allegation,” he said, quietly. “You do realise that Mr. Denford has not been charged with any sort of crime?”

  Somehow, I got my voice to work. It came out a little croaky at first but soon strengthened. “Sir, I know this must seem ridiculous to you, coming from us. But you must believe us, sir, that we have good reason to believe that Mr. Denford – well, did this terrible thing.”

  The inspector leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “Mr. Denford was away from the manor on the night of his wife’s death. He was staying at his club, in London. Many, many irreproachable witnesses place him there for the entire night. How is it possible that he caused his wife’s death if he wasn’t even in the house?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t working alone,” said Verity. “His lover was the one who actually killed her.”

  “His lover?” The eyebrows went up again.

  The room fell silent once more. I could hear the faint regular tick of the clock over on the far wall.

  I could see the inspector thinking quickly. “His lover?” He repeated. “You don’t mean Miss Cleo Maddox…?”

  I shook my head.

  The inspector’s tone was scathing. “You’re not telling me that you suspect Mr. Denford of having an affair with his middle-aged aunt?”

  “Of course not, sir,” said Verity. “We’re talking about his lover. Mr. John Manfield.”

  There was another moment of silence, even longer than the first. It was broken only by the buzzing of a fly at the windowpane, a monotonous drone that seemed to fill the otherwise silent room.

  The inspector was staring intently at both of us over the tops of his fingers. I think he was starting to wonder if we were both a little mad. We certainly sounded mad enough in our theories.

  Before he could say anything else, I opened my bag for the evidence. “Mr. Manfield and Mr. Denford were friends out in Africa,” I said hurriedly. “Mr. Manfield actually introduced Mr. Denford to his sister. “

  “I know this,” said the inspector, a note of disgust creeping into his voice. “So, why on Earth would you two young ladies make such sordid allegations against these two gentlemen?”

  I said nothing but placed the photograph in my gloved hands on the table in front of him, face down as Verity had given it to me. He unsteepled his fingers, drew a spotless handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and, holding the photograph with cotton-covered fingers, turned it right side up.

  They were wrong. It turns out you can shock a policeman. He didn’t make much of a noise, just a sudden rushed intake of breath. He quickly turned the photograph face down on his desk.

  “You girls should not be exposed to that sort of thing,” he said sternly. “Where on Earth did
you get it?”

  “Mr. Manfield’s room, sir,” Verity’s eyes had a little sparkle in them – I had the feeling she was slightly amused at the inspector’s reaction. You never could shock Verity. That was what being brought up with actors led to. “He’d hidden it well – extremely well – but I knew where to look.”

  “You did?” asked the inspector, slightly feebly. “Why on Earth would you know?”

  “I’m a housemaid, sir.” The sparkle in her eyes was more apparent now. “I know everybody’s secrets and where they hide them.”

  “Indeed.” The inspector looked down at the blank back of the photograph again. “You shouldn’t have touched this,” he went on, his tone suddenly stern.

  “We wore gloves, sir,” I said quickly. “We didn’t touch anything without gloves.”

  “Even so—”

  “And there’s this,” I blurted out, remembering what else we had found. I gave him the little hessian bag and he took it, frowning and looked within it.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me what these are?”

  I looked at Verity and she nodded, taking over. She explained about the mistress’s illness, her symptoms, Tenganka, the seeds of the sickness tree and how Mr. Manfield had told me about the way people were ill-wished and died. The inspector didn’t say anything as she spoke, but he nodded at intervals. When she finally finished speaking, he was looking slightly winded.

  A third silence fell. I was thinking hard. I had that one final bit of evidence to disclose, but to do so would mark me out as horribly immodest, even someone worse than that – a voyeur, a peeping Tom. But I had to say something, didn’t I? I thought of that verse from the Bible. And the Truth shall set you free…

  I told the inspector of how I’d crept out at night and waited in hiding outside Mr. Denford’s door. I told him how I’d seen Mr. Manfield creep down the corridor like a shadow and enter Mr. Denford’s room. Then, my face fiery as if I were standing in front of a furnace, I told him what I’d heard.

  “That was my proof,” I said, tremulously. The inspector looked as though he didn’t know whether to clap me on the shoulder to congratulate me for my quick thinking or arrest me for deviance. I could feel Verity beside me give me a quick, friendly nudge with her elbow; a kind of ‘I’m here for you’ nudge. I straightened my back and spoke more firmly. “But you see, sir, I couldn’t come to you with just that. Verity and I knew that we had to have concrete proof, either of the method of poisoning or of their – their affection.”

  I stopped speaking. I could hear the fly buzzing again, and saw it moving in slow, looping circles, over by the light on the wall.

  “Well,” said the inspector. “Seeing as you girls seem to know everything about the case, perhaps you’ll tell me why you think the two men did this?”

  Verity and I exchanged a glance. We knew, that he knew, that we knew he knew full well why the murder had taken place. But – and I think we both realised this – it was his way of saying thank you. It was his tribute to our hard work.

  “Money,” I said. “The will benefits Mr. Denford directly. He and his – Mr. Manfield – get to share the proceeds, which wouldn’t have happened if Mrs. Denford had divorced him. I think she found out about their – their affair. I came across her, just before she died, and she’d had a dreadful shock. I think she’d found out about them. She said ‘I don’t know what to do’ and, very soon after that, she died. I think they couldn’t risk her talking or making any kind of scandal. So to be sure of the money, they had to kill her.”

  “Money,” said the inspector. “That’s at the root of most crimes, it’s true.”

  “And love,” Verity said suddenly. The inspector and I both looked at her. “They did it for love.”

  I said nothing. The inspector shook his head a little, as if to clear her words from his ears. That look of disgust was back on his face.

  “Yes,” I said, considering. “Perhaps for love, too.”

  We were offered a lift back from the station but refused it. Verity had to catch a train back to London and I wanted to see her off. We had to wait on the platform for a bit and found a bench to sit on. I felt strangely flat after all the excitement, as if the curtain had come down on a rather unsatisfying play.

  “Why don’t you come back to London with me, Joanie?” Verity asked impulsively.

  I hesitated. I wanted to, so much, despite not having any of my possessions with me. Just jump on a train back to the Smoke and hang the consequences. But no – after a sudden blazing desire to do just that, reality intruded and I shook my head regretfully.

  “I can’t, V. I’ve got to work my notice out, you know that. I won’t get a decent reference otherwise and without that, how can I work?”

  “Yes, I know,” said Verity with a sigh. “So you’re definitely going to hand in your notice?”

  “Yes. I’ve had enough of this place. It’s time to come back to London.”

  “Well, that is good news.” Her train had puffed into the station, steaming like a kettle. I helped her into her third class compartment and she slid the window in the door down and reached her hand out to me. “Good work, Joanie. Don’t you think? Wasn’t it exciting?”

  I laughed. “It certainly was. Better than cooking, that’s for sure!”

  We clasped hands and then, as the train hooted, let go. I watched her move away from me as the train left the platform, her frantically waving hand the last thing I could see before the clouds of steam and smoke swallowed her up. My own hand dropped back to my side.

  I walked back to the manor. I had lost all track of time but the sun was low in the sky, shining on the windows of the huge house as I rounded the corner of the footpath, so that they glittered and shone as if a fire burned behind the thousands of panes of glass. I was fifty yards away when I saw the cars come down the driveway, three of them. I stopped dead, level with the edge of the lawns. From my vantage point. I could see the inspector and three uniformed officers walk up the long sweep of steps to the front door. They weren’t hurrying but they had a grim, unrelenting rhythm to their stride that made me realise that they weren’t going to leave unaccompanied.

  I stayed where I was for five long minutes, my hand clutching at the rough bark of the tree next to me. I could hear my heart thrumming, a thunder of blood in my ears. When the policeman reappeared, they had both Mr. Denford and Mr. Manfield with them. Both had their hands cuffed in front of them. Miss Cleo stood to one side, clasping her arms across her body. I thought of how she’d always seemed to dislike Mr. Manfield. Could she have known what he was, and what he was doing to his sister? Surely not the latter, or wouldn’t she have said something? Perhaps she’d known, or sensed what he really was.

  The two men were taken to the vehicles. I was too far away to see properly but it looked as though they reached out to one another, before they were roughly dragged away and put in separate cars. Absurd tears sprang to my eyes. I scrubbed them away with my sleeve, looking up and away, my gaze resting on the pine forest behind the house. From this viewpoint, it encircled the manor like the black, shaggy paws of a giant beast. I thought of Mr. Manfield, of meeting him in the forest and how he’d always been kind to me. But he was a murderer, who’d cold-bloodedly poisoned his own sister, giving her the sickness seeds in his own mug of hot milk. He was the one who’d washed the cups and hung them back up; I realised that now. That would be something else to tell the inspector. I remembered what he’d said in the woods. Human sacrifice. Had that given him and the master the idea? Was it Astarte, working through them, wanting her pound of flesh, wanting their souls? Are you satisfied now? I asked her silently and then I shivered, because a small, superstitious part of me knew that you didn’t rouse the attention of the goddess. Not if you knew what was good for you.

  I would write about this, one day, I realised. I thought of the silly play Verity and I had seen, Death at the Manor, and thought, no, I will write the real play, the one it should have been. I knew I could do it. I had i
t in me.

  The sun had disappeared behind grey clouds and it was beginning to rain. I tore my eyes from Astarte’s forest and began to walk back to the manor, for the last time.

  THE END

  The Asharton Manor Mysteries

  A Prescription for Death (1947)

  Celina Grace

  © Celina Grace 2014

  I had a surge of kinship the first time I saw the manor, perhaps because we’d both seen better days. It made me sad, until I reflected on the job I was actually going to the manor to do. I realised that although I might be older, greyer and more worn-out, at least I wasn’t blinded, maimed or mentally traumatised, like the poor soldiers I was going to take care of.

  I rode up the driveway on my bicycle. We hadn’t owned a car – neither Sidney nor I was well off when we married, although we had enough to be comfortable. I brought my trusty old bike with me when I moved down here from London and she was still going strong, only requiring a new tyre every now and then. It wasn’t too far from the village, Midford, to the manor, but the driveway was in a bad state, pot-holed and weedy and, in some places, broken to bits by the tanks that had once rumbled over it to be stored in the fields behind the house.

  It was still a beautiful house, despite the peeling paint, the broken window panes patched up with cardboard and the overgrown gardens. The fountain before the front door had obviously been dry for years; the stone basin which used to collect the water was covered with algae and moss, thick as a furry green carpet. The door itself was chipped and marked and the tarnished brass door knocker hung loose from a nail. It was still an imposing entrance, though. I leant my bike up against the balustrade at the front and ran up the steps.

  The door stood ajar and no one came to answer my knock, so I pushed it gently open. The entrance hall had once been very grand, with a staircase that split in two and flowed upwards to the upper stories and some lovely wood panelling on the walls. Like the exterior of the house, it had seen better days. There was a wooden trestle table set up by the front door, a battered chair standing empty behind it, and a variety of folders, pens and various administrative bits were scattered over the table top. But there was no one around. Puzzled, I stood there for a moment, looking at the walls and the high ceiling, where I could see the massive hook where perhaps a chandelier had once hung.