Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) Read Online Free

encircling trees. “The vicar was telling me about it, last Sunday. They used to worship one of the heathen goddesses here. Astarte, she was called. Pretty strange stuff used to go on here, by all accounts.”
    I could feel myself blushing. Heathen goddesses sounded like the sort of topic where some men would take the opportunity to make some rather broad jokes. As that occurred to me, it also occurred to me that I was alone in the middle of a wood with a man, a man who apparently had ‘an eye for the girls’. What if he—? I wondered what would be worse, to run or to stay…
    I’ve worked in a few places where the masters were awful. One place was so bad for it that you were afraid to even go to the privy on your own, in case you were grabbed. I didn’t last long, there. But, I had to say, I didn’t get the sort of feeling from Mr. Manfield. He didn’t seem like he would be a threat in that way – I don’t know how I could have felt that, but I did. I relaxed a little but kept myself wary.
    We both stood looking at the trees. They looked oddly as though they were watching us back and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
    Mr. Manfield glanced at me. “The villagers still won’t come here,” he said. “Not if they don’t have to. I suppose every village has its memories. Bad ones.”
    I nodded, although I wasn’t exactly sure of what he was saying.
    “Human sacrifice,” he said softly. I could feel my eyebrows shoot up and I began to feel nervous again. Mr. Manfield went on. “Astarte, the goddess – apparently they used to make sacrifices to her, here. Mostly animals but a few people, now and again. Horrible business, what?”
    I nodded again, fervently.
    “That’s where the manor gets its name,” he went on. “It’s a corruption of Astarte.”
    “I wondered where it came from. It’s a queer name.”
    “Yes, it is. The whole set-up is queer, isn’t it?”
    He was talking to me again like an equal. It made me thrilled and uneasy, in equal measure.
    “Reminds me of Africa, you know,” said Mr. Manfield, ruminatively. “I lived on the east coast, a place called Teganka. My local tribe had some odd superstitions. Thought they could ill-wish people. A bit rum, you know, because people did actually sicken and die, sometimes. Odd thing, superstition…”
    The sun came out suddenly, dappling the clearing with golden light. I felt my heart actually lift and the odd feeling of dread and oppression suddenly lifted.
    “Can you find your way back?” asked Mr Manfield. I wondered whether he’d experienced the same lightening of spirit as I had. He certainly looked a little happier.
    “Oh, yes, sir. I’m quite sure I can get back. Thank you.”
    “Well, I’d best be off then. If you’re sure…?”
    “Quite sure, thank you sir. You’re very kind.”
    “Righto.” He tipped his hat to me and strode off, hoisting his gun up onto his shoulder. I watched him walk away and then turned myself and began to retrace my steps, as quickly as I could without actually running. I’d had enough of the glories of nature. I wanted to be back amongst people. Even the thought of all the hard work awaiting me, later that evening, didn’t slow me down.
    Things continued uneventfully for a week or so. The master went up to London, the mistress came down every day with her menus for Mrs. Cotting. I saw Mr. Manfield go off in the direction of the woods, with his gun over his shoulder, almost every morning that week. He seemed to prefer being outdoors, unlike the mistress who was rarely seen in the gardens. I wondered whether they were close. He seemed to enjoy the company of Mrs. Carter-Knox; they would often be found talking about wildlife and gardening and exotic plants. Apparently she’d spent some time in Africa too and they often spoke about their time there. Miss Cleo spent most of her time with the mistress, although I had once come across her and the master in the library, talking together in low voices. She and Mr.