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

a sob.
    I was holding my breath (which was not easy after running down and up a flight of stairs), but nearly screamed when there was a ponderous clearing of a throat behind me. I turned to see Mr. Pettigrew, with a newly opened bottle of port in his hand.
    “What seems to be the problem, Joan?” he asked, frowning.
    “Nothing - nothing at all,” I stuttered and pushed open the dining room door with my free hand.
    Madam had her golden head down, her fingers clenched around the silver cutlery. I thought I saw a tear fall onto her plate. Mr. Denford was busy cutting up his pie but his jaw was clenched – in fact, his whole body was clenched, tight, like an angry fist. I put the gravy on the table, prickling all over with embarrassment. Had they realised I’d been listening at the door? Before I could think anything else, the mistress dropped the knife and fork with a musical tinkle, pushed back her chair and fled the room. I could see Mr. Pettigrew regarding her with astonished eyes before his training took over and the mask of the impersonal servant settled back over his features.
    If I had been Violet, I would have regaled the other servants with this little piece of drama. I didn’t, though. It felt wrong, to have eavesdropped and to be witness to such emotional distress. What had the mistress meant? Did the master and her brother not get along? I thought of the way she’d said cosy little chats with Cleo, in a voice loaded with sarcastic meaning.  As I got undressed that night and put my weary bones to bed, I thought of the hissed venom in her voice, clear enough even through a wooden door.
    Annie was back in her position the next day, sniffling, coughing and red-eyed, but I was too thankful not to have to wait at table again to be too sorry for her. I made her a hot toddy when Mrs. Cotting’s back was turned, with an extra spoonful of Madeira in it. There were no extra guests expected this week and it was with a small shock that I realised there hadn’t been any real entertainment at the manor for over a month. The vicar and his wife had come to dinner a week ago, but that had been a comparatively simple menu and Mrs. Cotting, Meg and I had coped with it without really turning a hair. I thought back to the frantic days when I’d first arrived; the elaborate menus, the multitude of guests that would arrive for sumptuous banquets. Now all that had gone.
    I busied myself with the mayonnaise, but I was all fingers and thumbs; it just wouldn’t mix properly. Instead of a smooth, thick, creamy paste the colour of custard, all I was getting was curdled cream and separated eggs. I threw away the latest lumpy batch and began again, slowly dripping in the olive oil, one bit at a time, and whisking it steadily. I was aware of a strange feeling about the house, a sort of oppressive heaviness. A bit like those breathless few hours before a really violent storm, when the very air itself seems to press on you. I was getting the same sort of headache that I got in those circumstances. I’m sensitive to atmosphere. If you’d grown up in an orphanage, you would be, too.
    The wretched mayonnaise curdled again. I threw out the second batch, guiltily thinking of what a waste of good food I was making. Mrs. Cotting stirred the soup for tonight, grumbling about her sore feet. You suffer terribly with your feet when you’re in service, you’re always on them. Some days, I didn’t sit down for hours at a time. It gave you an awfully sore back, too.
    The third batch of mayonnaise mixed properly, thank goodness. I transferred it to the ice-box, taking a little longer than usual to close the lid. It was so pleasant to feel that cooler air on my face. The ice came from the manor grounds, where there was an ice-house close to the lake, in a dank little hollow, stocked each winter and chipped away for use, piece by piece, throughout the year.
    “Joan, those cuffs are absolutely filthy,” Mrs. Cotting said sharply, as I came back into