Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) (6 page)

“Do you think she could have killed herself?” Verity asked, once I’d finished speaking.

I lifted my shoulders in the darkness. “I don’t know. I remember coming across her on the stairs that day – she looked so desperate. I suppose she might have done.”

“But if she did do away with herself, how did she do it? And another thing… perhaps she looked desperate because she’d just had a horrible shock? Didn’t she say to you ‘I don’t know what to do?’ That suggests to me that she’d found something out and she didn’t know what to do about it.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I said, slowly.

“Who inherits her money?”

“Oh, V, how would I know? Her husband, I suppose.”

“I could find out.”

“Really?” I was intrigued. “How?”

“I could go to Somerset House.”

I yawned. Much as I wanted to continue the conversation, I was fighting a losing battle against sleep. “Why don’t you do that?” I murmured and yawned again. “At least we’d know. Thanks, V.”

She said nothing but I could feel her give my leg an affectionate pat as I fell forward into unconsciousness.

We said goodbye early the next morning at the station. I felt so much better for having shared my worries; I felt as if I’d been away for a week, not just a night.

“Take care of yourself, Joanie,” said Verity, hugging me.

“You too.”

She held me at arm’s length and looked at me gravely. “No, I mean,
take care of yourself
. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me – about the cups or the mistress having a shock. Not
anyone
. Understand?”

“Yes,” I said, a little shaken by her firmness. Then the penny dropped. “Oh goodness, V, you don’t think I’m actually in danger, do you?”

Verity shrugged. She stepped back a little and adjusted her gloves. “I don’t know, Joan, but let’s be on the safe side, shall we? I can’t lose you. What would we do without one another?”

We smiled at each other affectionately. The train hooted and I jumped.

“Better get aboard,” said Verity. “I’ll write very soon.”

“Me too.”

We waved as the train pulled out and I tried not to mind too much. Her last words to me kept recurring.
Don’t tell anyone
. That meant she thought that – well, that someone in the house was responsible for Madam’s death. I leant back into my third class seat, biting my lip and looking out the window, unseeing. Verity thought someone in that house was a murderer.

For the first time since the death, I allowed myself to acknowledge that fact. Because hadn’t that been at the back of my mind all this time? But who could it be? And why? The guard slammed the carriage door open, bellowing for tickets, and I jumped a foot in the air. Once he’d clipped my ticket and gone, I tried to think again, but my thoughts had been scattered.

I had no money for a taxi from the station at Midford and, of course, they hadn’t sent a car for me. I managed to hitch a ride for part of the way home, on the back of a farm wagon laden with turnips; a fine sight I must have been, perched up on the side, trying to keep my feet out of the muddy root vegetables stacked on the floor of the cart. I didn’t actually mind too much; I had more than dirty shoes on my mind. As we drew closer to Asharton Manor, I could feel my apprehensiveness increase. The farmer dropped me off about a mile from the manor and I walked the rest of the way, swapping my overnight bag from one aching hand to the other. As I walked up the long driveway and rounded the long, swooping corner, the house gradually revealed itself to me and I felt a qualm of pure fear. Behind it, the pine forest stood, black and menacing. I remembered the grove where Astarte’s temple had stood. Human sacrifice…. I shivered and, for a moment, put down my bag and stared. Why had I taken the job here, of all places? Why couldn’t I have stayed in London, where at least I would have been safe?

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 industriously.

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.”