Page 108 of The Fortunes of Ashmore Castle

‘But what’ll we do with the milk?’ Ogg asked feebly.

‘How do I know? Better out than in, that’s all I know.’ Beattie scuttled off in satisfaction. Rose stopped Ogg as he was about to follow. ‘What happened in the house?’

‘I don’t know. All I know, Mr Woodrow came out of the kitchen all over blood and told me to send a boy to get the police, urgent. And they come and took Mr Woodrow and Miss Woodrow away. Oh, thank God, there’s Mr Richard!’

Rose turned to see Richard coming in at the gate almost at a run. His eye brushed over Rose without taking her in, such was his urgency. ‘For God’s sake, get those bloody cows milked!’ he shouted at Ogg. ‘I can hear ’em half a mile away.’

Rose backed carefully out of his line of sight and left, hurrying back to the house, hoping she hadn’t been missed. She chewed over the meagre information she had. No doubt word of what had happened would reach the below-stairs community soon – exciting stories always had wings – but until then she could only torment herself with questions.

‘It seems she tried to kill him with a knife. He managed to overcome her, and tied her up with her own apron,’ Afton said to Mrs Webster. ‘I don’t know how seriously he was wounded, but he was able to send someone for the police, and apparently got into the police wagon under his own steam, so perhaps not too badly.’

Mrs Webster stopped him with a look as Rose passed the door, and he turned, and said, ‘Ah, Rose.’ He beckoned her in. ‘A job for you, if you’re willing. It’s not a very nice one, but it needs to be someone we can trust not to have hysterics. And not to talk about it, either.’ He paused. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit pale.’

‘I’m always pale,’ Rose said curtly. It wasn’t true. She had felt pale ever since the grocer’s boy burst in. ‘What’s this job?’

‘There’s been an incident at Hundon’s,’ Mrs Webster said.

‘I heard. Something about Mr Woodrow being wounded.’

‘Yes,’ said Afton. ‘There was some kind of – a fight, or struggle, between him and his sister. We don’t know all the details, but Mr Richard says the kitchen is in a mess, and he’d like it cleaned up before Mr Woodrow comes back. He thinks very highly of him, you know.’

Mrs Webster took it up. ‘It seems there was some blood spilled, and he says it wouldn’t be good for Mr Woodrow to come back to it, after such a shock. So would you go and see to it? I can’t force you to, but I’m asking nicely.’

Rose said, ‘Now?’

‘Yes, right away, if you will. Here’s the key. Mr Richard locked the kitchen door when he left. Don’t let anyone else in, will you? Rumours will have got about and there are always some gawkers.’

There was no-one in the yard when she arrived for the second time that day, and the cows must have been let out, because there was no bovine sound. The dogs had been tied up, and barked as she appeared. She went across to talk to them, and they looked at her anxiously, wondering if she had come to restore order to their disrupted world.

Fly stood up and wagged his tail. ‘I don’t know what’s come of him,’ she said, as she petted him. Jess, lying down chin on paws, twitched her eyebrows. ‘Good dogs. It’ll be all right,’ she said.

She unlocked the kitchen door, and stood just inside for a moment, taking it in. The evidence of a struggle was clear. Two chairs had been overturned. The cloth had been half pulled off the table, and what had been on it had mostly ended up on the floor. The teapot remained balanced on the edge like a clifftop house that had narrowly survived a landslip. Some of the crockery was broken. The heel of the loaf of bread had been kicked across the room. A jam jar was smashed in a mess of raspberry jam, which had been trodden about. There was also a broken glass by the sink, and some kind of brownish liquid, presumably its contents. The kitchen range had gone out, and the kettle that had been left on it had boiled dry – she could smell the tang of burned metal. And there was blood – splashes and drips of it all over the place, and a blood-soaked dish-towel lying on the draining-board, as if it had been used to staunch the wound. Or wounds?

Mr Afton was right to send her, she thought. Any of the housemaids was physically capable of the job, but which of them would not be overcome with horror, or at least want to rush out and find someone to babble to? She shut her lips tightly, and started methodically to restore order. She collected the broken glass and crockery into a box she found in the larder, scraped up the jam and put it, with the bread, into the pig bucket. She raked out the range, re-laid and lit it, scoured out the kettle – it hadn’t burned through, luckily – and went to refill it, to find no water in the tap. She went into the scullery to prime the pump and pump it up, then filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

She cleared the table and put the four chairs upside down on it, put the tablecloth in to soak with the dish-towel, and when the kettle was hot, got a bucket and cloths from under the sink and began to wash the floor. When that was done, she got a fresh bucket and cloth, and went round eliminating all the smears and splashes. She had just refilled the kettle and put it back on when the dogs barked, and she turned to see Michael Woodrow coming across the yard, his face white and drawn, his arm in a sling.

She avoided his eyes, embarrassed after their last meeting to be found in his house. ‘Mr Richard asked me to come in and clean the kitchen. He gave me the key,’ she said.

‘That was . . . kind,’ he said. He put a hand to his head and rubbed vaguely.

‘Are you all right? You look as if you ought to sit down,’ Rose said. He stepped across the threshold and looked around the kitchen with the air of not really knowing where he was. She pulled out a chair, and said, ‘Sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea before I go.’

‘You did all this?’ he said hoarsely. ‘You’re very kind.’

She went about making tea without answering. When she put the teapot on the table and was turning away to find a cup, he said, ‘Rose – Miss Hawkins. Please. I want to apologise.’

‘What for?’ she said, her back to him.

He waited until she brought the cup to the table, and said, ‘Please sit down. I must talk to you.’

She sat, but still avoided his eyes, busying herself with stirring the pot and pouring.

‘You won’t look at me. You’re angry with me. I don’t blame you. I should have listened to you.’

She shrugged.

‘She’s my sister,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to believe she’d . . . How could I?’