Free Death at the Manor (The Asharton Manor Mysteries Book 1) by Celina Grace

we have good reason to believe that Mr. Denford – well, did this terrible thing.”
    The inspector leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “Mr. Denford was away from the manor on the night of his wife’s death. He was staying at his club, in London. Many, many irreproachable witnesses place him there for the entire night. How is it possible that he caused his wife’s death if he wasn’t even in the house?”
    “Oh, he wasn’t working alone,” said Verity. “His lover was the one who actually killed her.”
    “His lover?” The eyebrows went up again.
    The room fell silent once more. I could hear the faint regular tick of the clock over on the far wall.
    I could see the inspector thinking quickly. “His lover?” He repeated. “You don’t mean Miss Cleo Maddox…?”
    I shook my head.
    The inspector’s tone was scathing. “You’re not telling me that you suspect Mr. Denford of having an affair with his middle-aged aunt ?”
    “Of course not, sir,” said Verity. “We’re talking about his lover. Mr. John Manfield.”
    There was another moment of silence, even longer than the first. It was broken only by the buzzing of a fly at the windowpane, a monotonous drone that seemed to fill the otherwise silent room.
    The inspector was staring intently at both of us over the tops of his fingers. I think he was starting to wonder if we were both a little mad. We certainly sounded mad enough in our theories.
    Before he could say anything else, I opened my bag for the evidence. “Mr. Manfield and Mr. Denford were friends out in Africa,” I said hurriedly. “Mr. Manfield actually introduced Mr. Denford to his sister. “
    “I know this,” said the inspector, a note of disgust creeping into his voice. “So, why on Earth would you two young ladies make such sordid allegations against these two gentlemen?”
    I said nothing but placed the photograph in my gloved hands on the table in front of him, face down as Verity had given it to me. He unsteepled his fingers, drew a spotless handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit and, holding the photograph with cotton-covered fingers, turned it right side up.
    They were wrong.  It turns out you can shock a policeman. He didn’t make much of a noise, just a sudden rushed intake of breath. He quickly turned the photograph face down on his desk.
    “You girls should not be exposed to that sort of thing,” he said sternly. “Where on Earth did you get it?”
    “Mr. Manfield’s room, sir,” Verity’s eyes had a little sparkle in them – I had the feeling she was slightly amused at the inspector’s reaction. You never could shock Verity. That was what being brought up with actors led to. “He’d hidden it well – extremely well – but I knew where to look.”
    “You did?” asked the inspector, slightly feebly. “Why on Earth would you know?”
    “I’m a housemaid, sir.” The sparkle in her eyes was more apparent now. “I know everybody’s secrets and where they hide them.”
    “Indeed.” The inspector looked down at the blank back of the photograph again. “You shouldn’t have touched this,” he went on, his tone suddenly stern.
    “We wore gloves, sir,” I said quickly. “We didn’t touch anything without gloves.”
    “Even so—”
    “And there’s this,” I blurted out, remembering what else we had found. I gave him the little hessian bag and he took it, frowning and looked within it.
    “I suppose you’re going to tell me what these are?”
    I looked at Verity and she nodded, taking over. She explained about the mistress’s illness, her symptoms, Tenganka, the seeds of the sickness tree and how Mr. Manfield had told me about the way people were ill-wished and died. The inspector didn’t say anything as she spoke, but he nodded at intervals. When she finally finished speaking, he was looking slightly winded.
    A third silence fell. I was thinking hard. I had that one final bit of evidence to disclose, but to