Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1)

The Asharton Manor Mysteries: 1929

Death at the Manor

Celina Grace

I’d never seen anything like that house before in my life. Even using the word ‘house’ doesn’t sound right; it doesn’t convey the impression I want. I started off as a kitchen maid in one of the townhouses in Brighton and I’d thought they were grand enough, but they look like the meanest, dingiest old hovels compared to Asharton Manor. It was like Buckingham Palace, I’m telling you; the grandest place I’d ever set eyes on or foot in. They’d sent a car to meet me at the station. It was only about the third time I’d ever been in a car, and I was still recovering from the novelty when I had the shock of seeing the manor for the first time. As the car rattled up the driveway, I looked out of the window and I could feel my eyes becoming rounder and my mouth doing the same. It was four stories of golden stone, the drive sweeping around the front of it; a fountain shot upwards before it, so that the front door could only be seen through a mist of silver droplets. The front seemed to have hundreds of windows and they all glittered in the sun. They gave the place a blank, closed-in look. Although impressive, it wasn’t a welcoming house.

We drove on past the front door, of course, round the back to the stables and the servants’ quarters. The driver hadn’t said one word to me, apart from addressing me at the station: “
Car for Miss Joan Hart, that you
?” Perhaps he was a bit put out to have been sent for someone so lowly. It was a step up for me, getting this job here, head kitchen maid, but unless you’re the butler or the housekeeper, you’re never going to get much respect from the rest of the servants. I didn’t let it bother me. I was still too astonished that I was going to be living here, in a house like something you might see in films. Asharton Manor. It was a queer name. It didn’t seem to belong to the village, which was called Midford, about twenty miles west from Chippenham. I hadn’t been to this part of the country before – all my places beforehand had been in cities and my previous position had been in London. I wondered what it would be like, living in the country.

I wasn’t able to wonder much further as, by that time, I was in the kitchen, trying not to wilt before the stares of the other kitchen staff. It was a big, low-ceilinged place, with stone flags on the floor and the biggest kitchen range I’d ever seen on one side. I sighed inwardly as I thought about how long it would take to black-lead, but then brightened a little when I realised that it probably wouldn’t be my job anymore. Here, I hoped I would learn some proper cooking.

The cook came over and introduced herself to me as Mrs. Cotting. In all the places I’ve worked, the cooks have either been thin or stout. It’s funny, but there never seemed to be any cook that was in the middle, size-wise. The thin ones had given up on eating – cooking does that sometimes, it robs you of your appetite – and the fat ones had sampled too many of their own dishes. Mrs. Cotting was a thin cook and she had a sharp, shrewish kind of face that I didn’t much like. But, I must say, she shook hands quite cordially, although her glance at me was frankly assessing.

“You look strong enough, gel,” was her opening remark and I nodded. I am strong, I’ve been a woman’s size and shape since I was eleven years old and my ‘heftiness’ was what won me the first job I ever had. It was a shame that my face was so homely, not that a skivvie’s uniform was ever very flattering. You weren’t supposed to have a bit of hair showing under your cap and mine is the sort of face that could do with a bit of framing.

“You’re in at the deep end, tonight,” Mrs. Cotting said brusquely. “We’ve got a welcome back dinner for the mistress’s brother, so that’s eighteen sitting down to table.”

I quailed a little inwardly but managed to nod firmly, as if that were going to be no bother at all.

“You’ll want to see your room,” said the housekeeper, Mrs. Smith. I’d met her once before, at my interview. She was a big but graceful woman, with a no-nonsense Irish brogue. “You’ll be sharing with Annie, the under housemaid.”

She beckoned to Annie, who was a shy looking girl with smooth brown hair. She looked nice enough and I was glad.

“Take Joan to her room, Annie, and get her settled. Joan, Mrs. Cotting will want you back down here in half an hour. Do you know how to set up a table?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, slightly snappishly. I mean, honestly. That was one of the first things I learned on the job. Mrs. Smith frowned a little and I dropped my eyes, chastised, and bobbed an apologetic little curtsey. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot straight away.

Annie and I climbed the back stairs to our room, which was one of the small ones located up in under the eaves. Later, I was able to climb the main staircase, which was very grand, but the servants’ staircase was shabby and didn’t even have carpet, just scuffed linoleum.

We climbed the stairs for what seemed like hours. Luckily my trunk wasn’t heavy – it wasn’t as if I owned a lot of things.

“You’re from London, aren’t you?” Annie asked, shyly.

“Yes.”

“Do you get to see the films much there?”

I blinked. “Um… sometimes.”

“I love the talkies,” said Annie. “We don’t have a theatre anywhere near here, worst luck. Bristol’s the nearest and that’s such a long way away it takes up all your day off. Must be lovely to live in London.”

“Well,” I said, a little helplessly. “I suppose so.”

“Ramón Novarro’s my favourite,” said Annie. “Who’s yours?”

“Um…” I said again, but was saved from replying by the fact that we’d finally reached the top of the stairs. Puffing, we both came out into a dark little corridor, with several doors leading off it. The ceiling was low enough for me to cringe a little and duck my head.

“Down here,” said Annie and led me through the last door along the corridor. Our room was a typical one; whitewashed walls, no paint or wallpaper here. Iron bedsteads along the wall, each with a lumpy mattress made up with the cast-off bedding of the better portions of the house. A washstand stood on a little wooden table between the beds and a small, battered looking wardrobe leaned against the wall. I could tell which bed was Annie’s – the wall beside it was plastered with pictures of Novarro and other movie stars, obviously torn out of various film magazines. It made me smile a little inside.

I was never much one for the talkies; I preferred the music halls. My friend Verity and I used to go as often as we could afford it. Verity’s family had had connections with the theatre and sometimes we would be able to get free tickets and even get to go backstage to meet the performers. That was a real thrill. I felt a surge of loneliness when I realised Verity was now hundreds of miles away. I made up my mind to write to her as soon as I got a moment to myself.

Annie cast herself onto her bed, which creaked like a ship in a gale. I knew mine would be the same. I heaved my trunk onto the bedspread – yes, a jangle of springs like a pair of clashing cymbals – and began to unpack.

“We’ve got someone almost as good as a film star here at the moment,” said Annie after a moment, giggling. “Madam’s brother. You should see him, he’s so good looking.”

“Oh yes?” I said, trying to sound interested.

“He only came back from Africa about two weeks ago.” She pronounced ‘Africa’ in an awed tone. “He’s been living out there for years. You should see how brown he is. Brown as a berry!”

That phase has always struck me as rather foolish. I can’t think of any berries that are actually brown. I smiled politely and then thought, well, at least I can find out a bit more about the people I’m going to work for.

“What’s the mistress like?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Annie pulled a face. “She’s a pain. Always moaning about her health and wanting different things and then not wanting them when she gets them.”

“Is she unwell, then?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Thinks she is. Always taking to her bed for one thing or another.”

My heart sank. That meant a lot of cooking different dishes to try and ‘tempt an invalid’s palate’. Still, Mrs. Cotting had no doubt been here a while, she probably had Madam well managed. I hoped so.

Annie chatted on. “Then there’s Miss Cleo, the mistress’s best friend. She’s staying here for the summer. Very glamorous, she is, looks just like Louise Brooks. She’s an Honourable.” She stumbled a little over the syllables. I tried to look impressed.

“And the master?”

“He’s all right. Quiet. Mostly he’s up in London during the week. His aunt lives here too - she’s a fussy old thing, always messing about with flowers. Mrs. Carter-Knox. Her and Madam don’t get on too well.”

“In what way?”

Annie giggled. “Mrs. Carter-Knox is always doing these big flower arrangements and Madam doesn’t like them. Calls them ‘vulgar’. I can’t see anything wrong with them, to be honest. I suppose they’re a bit big.”

I nodded. Flower arranging… I wanted to roll my eyes. Who had time to mess about with sticking flowers in a vase but a woman who had nothing else to do?

I didn’t actually see the mistress until she came down to the kitchen, two days later, to discuss menus with Mrs. Cotting.  She was pretty, I’ll give her that; little and blonde and dainty, with her hair in lovely marcelled waves over her shapely head. She wore diamond earrings, so whenever she turned her head there was an answering sparkle that flashed from her ears. She was quite simply dressed, but you could tell that whatever she was wearing cost the absolute earth.

I stood respectfully by while she and Mrs. Cotting talked. I’ve worked in households where the cooking was on the plain side and I’ve worked in Jewish houses, where they had all sorts of outlandish dishes, but I realised, after listening to Madam, that here I would be cooking the fanciest, most messed-about, fashionable dishes you could have. I didn’t mind that, so much – it was always interesting to try something new and I’ve always liked a challenge. What I could have done without was Madam’s simpering little voice; a soft, flannelly sort of voice that, I was sure, could easily become shrewish.

Still, she wasn’t as such talking to me. She wafted out of the door after about twenty minutes and Mrs. Cotting beckoned me over.

“You can make a start on this sauce, Joan,” she said. “You’ll find everything you need in the larder and the cool box.”

They didn’t scrimp on the food at Asharton Manor, I’ll give them that. Every day we had deliveries of fresh meat, milk, cream and cheese and the fish man came around three times a week. That first night I was there we’d done six courses, starting with a savoury, a soup, a fish course, the main course—which was rack of lamb—followed by pudding, then cheese, fruit and coffee. It being my first day on the job and all that, what with the travelling I’d done and the worry of all the new faces and ways, it was a miracle I didn’t drop dead with exhaustion. But, as I’ve said before, I’m young and strong and managed to somehow get through it. Luckily that was the only entertaining they did that week; although as I worked there, I grew to realise that they liked to entertain a lot.

I didn’t see the mistress or the master, the brother or anyone else the day after the dinner party. Sleeping off all the wine and cocktails and brandy they’d consumed, no doubt. Mrs. Cotting had gone to bed at midnight but I’d had to stay up ‘til one o’clock to get the kitchen shipshape. Annie was a vague snoring shape in the other bed by the time I’d stumbled up the stairs to our room. I didn’t even wash, I was so tired; I just stripped off my clothes and rolled into bed. One thing hard work does for you, it gives you a good sleep. I didn’t stir until Annie woke me at six thirty the next morning and, even though I’d barely had six hours sleep, I felt quite sprightly again and eager to make a start.

One morning after I’d been there a week, I was walking back to the kitchen door, my feet crunching over the gravel, when a man rounded the corner. I knew immediately who it was – the mistress’s brother. He had a shotgun slung over one shoulder and an old felt hat pushed back on his head. I saw what Annie had meant. He was very good looking, fair hair greased back but with a lock that fell over one eye. You could see the resemblance to the mistress, something in the chin and the cheekbones, but he didn’t have her fair skin. He looked like a polished bronze statue, he was so brown.

“Hello,” he greeted me. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

I could feel myself flushing red as a beetroot. Why was he talking to me, when he could clearly see by my uniform that I was a servant?

“I’m John Manfield,” he went on, easy as you like. “You must be Joan. Did you do those delicious little pork things at the dinner the other night?”

I managed to pull myself together and nod. After a moment, I came to my senses and curtseyed.

“Oh, don’t bother about that,” Mr. Manfield said, hefting his rifle onto the other broad shoulder. “Can’t stand the stuffiness of this country, sometimes. Not like this in Africa. Well, I’d better get on.”

He tipped his felt hat to me – I felt my cheeks go scarlet once more – and sauntered off. I was so flustered I found myself walking into the dairy rather than the kitchen and had to turn myself about and retrace my steps.

“Oh, he’s always like that,” Mrs. Cotting said a little later, when I had to explain why I’d messed up the mayonnaise. I was still a bit flustered at being talked to as a, well, an ordinary person, by a member of the gentry.

“He’s used to native servants,” Mrs. Cotting went on. “He’s always talking to us if he comes across us. Makes the mistress mad but he just shrugs it off.”