by Alec, Joyce
It was obvious that the butler had taken the time between Francis leaving the study and this present moment to come up with a reasonable explanation.
“I think,” the butler said quickly, “that one of the footmen or maids has been snooping in their master’s private correspondence. There is no particular reason for them to do so other than the hope there might be some money in it, I should think. I will, of course, be making the most stringent of enquiries and shall send the responsible person from the house at once.”
Sighing inwardly and realizing that he was not about to get the truth from the butler, Francis cleared his throat, glancing to the kitchens that were just to his right. There was no requirement to ask any further questions, since he was quite certain that there would be nothing more than lies falling from the butler’s lips. It was time to get on with the task at hand. “The cook, if you please.”
“Cook?” The butler appeared startled, as though horrified that Francis wished to talk to the woman.
“Yes, indeed,” Francis said firmly, wondering at the butler’s reaction. “I have found something that I wish to discuss with her.”
The butler’s eyes widened but two spots of color appeared in his cheeks. “You have discovered something of significance, sir?”
Francis made a dismissive gesture. “It does not concern you, so you need not worry about what I have to say to the cook. If you will tell me where she is at present, then I shall go in search of her.”
The butler said nothing for a long moment, staring at Francis as though he wanted to say something but could not. Eventually, and with a lift of Francis’ eyebrows, the butler gestured hopelessly towards the kitchens.
“She will be there, preparing our evening meal,” he said, his tone flat. “Just within.”
“Thank you.” Francis took another moment to study the butler, wondering what it was that the fellow was doing his best to hide, before walking past him and into the kitchen.
The cook was standing with her back to him, pouring something into a large pot that she was stirring. The rough wooden door closed behind Francis and he walked inside, thinking that this was, perhaps, one of the cleanest kitchens he had ever seen. There was not a spot of dirt on the floor and everything seemed to be clean, with some of the utensils catching the light.
It was not at all likely, then, that the cook would delight in having a jar of blood about her kitchen, surely?
“Sir!”
The cook, who had turned her head to see who had come in, jumped in surprise and dropped her ladle, which clattered to the floor. She picked it up at once, her face going a deep shade of red as she held it between her hands, her head bowed.
“You need not worry,” Francis said easily, taking a seat at the long wooden table that stood in the middle of the kitchen with a few chairs surrounding it. “I have not come to chastise you in any way.” He managed a small smile, seeing the way that the cook glanced at him from under her lowered brows. She had thick, brown curls that were tied back from her face and covered with a piece of cloth. Francis considered her to be a little older than himself, as her hair had some streaks of grey and there were lines next to her small, dark eyes. She was studying him with an air of suspicion, obviously a little unsure as to why he was here or what he wanted.
“I am Mr. Newton,” Francis said, by way of explanation. “I am a dear friend of Lord Wickton and, thereby, have heard of Lady Chaucer’s plight.”
“I don’t have nothing to do with it all,” the cook said immediately, not moving an inch as she spoke. “I don’t know anything.”
Francis hesitated, not quite sure what to make of this. “I am not seeking to lay blame at anyone’s feet, and certainly not a hardworking lady such as yourself,” he said plainly, seeing a slow relief creep over the cook’s face. “But I must ask you a question or two about something I have found.”
The cook’s eyes narrowed almost at once, her hands clutching the ladle a little tighter. “Found?” she repeated, as though he had said something outrageous. “What do you mean, sir?”
Francis gave her a small smile, attempting to placate her just a little. “As I said, I have nothing to lay at your feet, no guilt to charge you with or the like. I simply seek to know whether you are missing anything from your pantry.”
The cook’s eyes did not lift from his, her expression tight with either suspicion or fear. Francis could not quite make it out.
“Missing?” she said sharply. “I know where everything is in my kitchen. I don’t lack for anything. Lord Chaucer would have my head if he were to discover something gone from here.”
“Indeed,” Francis agreed, thinking that this was the reason for the cook’s clean and well-ordered kitchen. “I can completely understand that Lord Chaucer would wish things to be done well in his house.”
“Never been late with his meals,” the cook said triumphantly. “Never missed out something from his menus, even if it’s the most difficult thing to get. Always managed to prove myself, I have.”
“And I am sure you have a good deal to be proud of,” Francis said soothingly, thinking that perhaps flattery was the way to get through to this lady. “The only reason I ask is because I found a preserving jar in a most unusual place.” He kept his gaze fixed on the cook’s expression, trying to see what it was she was thinking. “That is the only reason I wish to know whether or not something is missing. I cannot believe that you would have placed it there, given just how careful you appear to be, so therefore I must think that someone else could have taken it from your pantry without you being aware of it.”
The cook’s expression changed slowly, her eyes opening a little more from their narrow slits and her hands loosening from where she had kept them held tightly together.
“That might be the case,” she said eventually, her shoulders dropping. “What with Lord Chaucer being gone and Lady Chaucer staying with… whoever it is, I haven’t had much to do other than make meals for the rest of us down here.” She shrugged. “And our meals don’t take as much preparation as Lord Chaucer’s. No fancy ingredients for us!”
There was, however, a slight gleam in her eye which Francis took to mean that, despite her protests, she had, in fact, been adding one or two additional ingredients to the staff meals. Maybe taking and using things that were only meant to be for Lord Chaucer. Perhaps she thought he might never come back, and so would not notice if things were gone. Or perhaps she thought he would not notice after a prolonged absence.
“You cannot say for certain whether you are missing something from the pantry, then,” he said, after a few moments. “Therefore, you cannot tell me whether or not what I have found has come from your kitchen.”
The cook looked exasperated and, much to Francis’ surprise, sat down heavily in one of the other vacant chairs, looking at him with sharp eyes. Apparently, the lady was comfortable enough with his presence to speak plainly and to sit instead of stand, as she would do in front of her betters. That was, Francis thought quietly, rather a good thing.
“I think, sir, that you had better just show me what it is you have found,” the cook said firmly, eyeing him. “I saw that you were carrying something in your hand when you came in. I’m guessing that be it?”
“It is, yes,” Francis agreed without hesitation. “It was not my intention to reveal it to you, however, unless you were able to tell me whether or not it was missing from the pantry. That way, I would know for certain where it had come from.”
The cook shook her head. “You don’t think I’m going to tell you the truth, do you?” She sighed heavily and set the ladle down on the table. “The thing is, sir, everyone here is frightened of Lord Chaucer, and with good reason, I might add. He is cruel and hard and stern and he’ll let you go from his house without even a penny if you so much as put a foot wrong.” She leaned forward in her chair, pinning Francis with her severe gaze. “But I ain’t never been afraid of him. I know that just so long as I do what he asks and so long as I do it well, there’s
nothing to worry about now, is there?”
Francis, a little surprised by her directness, nodded but chose not to say anything.
“I’ll tell you the truth about Lord Chaucer, sir, because I’m not afraid of him and what he might do.” She shrugged, a wry smile plucking at the corner of her mouth. “He’s not here to listen to me talk and by the time he comes back—if he comes back—then no one’s to know what was said and by whom. You can ask me anything, sir, and I’ll tell you the truth of it.”
“Very well,” Francis murmured, finding that he did want to believe the lady. There was something about the way she spoke, something about the sternness of her eyes and the practical way she seemed to explain everything that told him he could trust what she said.
“So, what is it?”
Francis lifted the jar onto the table and, without hesitating, pulled off the cloth.
The cook did not so much as flinch.
“Blood,” she said, looking at him. “What about it?”
Francis lifted an eyebrow. “You see this often?”
“Course I do,” the cook replied with a shrug. “One of Lord Chaucer’s favorite dishes is boiled calf’s head. I usually have to steep the head in the blood, but sometimes I take some of it out and store it for a time.”
Francis felt his heart pick up speed, realizing that he had finally found out something significant about the jar in Lord Chaucer’s wardrobe.
“And sometimes, a few of us goes down to the slaughterhouse, to take the blood in case we get consumption,” the cook continued, reminding Francis of the practice he had heard of and never partaken of himself. It was widely believed that taking the fresh blood of a slaughtered animal would build up resilience to consumption, but he had never thought much of the idea himself. In fact, even the thought would turn his stomach.
“I might take some back with me, for them that didn’t make it.” The cook pulled a face. “It’s not as fresh and warm as down at the slaughterhouse itself, but for those of them who can’t face the place, or who had duties here, it’s better than nothing at all.” She shrugged again. “Not my fault if they didn’t come to drink it.”
Closing his eyes at the thought of drinking warm blood, Francis shoved the picture away and tried to focus on what the cook was saying.
“So, you would sometimes store blood in this kind of jar.”
The cook nodded, spreading her hands. “Of course. It won’t last for long, though. Where did you find that jar?”
Not wanting to tell her too much, Francis pressed on with another question. “Are you missing a jar like this? Did you have blood stored recently that might have been missed?”
The cook hesitated, frowning hard. Lines formed over her forehead as she leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. “I did get some about three weeks ago, I think. Down at the slaughterhouse we were, and I brought some back for the folk who didn’t get to go.” Her frown darkened just a little. “They always know that I keep it in the pantry. They know where to get it. If it’s not drunk by the time I go to check on it in a couple of days, then it goes out and they have to wait until the next time. Although that jar looks to be half empty and I certainly wouldn’t have kept a half jar of blood for too long.”
“But you do not remember seeing it?” Francis asked urgently. “You cannot be sure if this is yours.”
Sighing, the cook sat back up again. “Most likely, it is,” she said, lifting her hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “Where else would it come from? If I count all my preserving jars, I’m guessing I’ll find that I’m short of one.”
“Can you do that now?” Francis requested, feeling urgency growing deep within him. “It is more important than you know.”
The cook eyed him for a few minutes, before she got up from her seat. “I’ll go count ‘em now,” she said, disappearing around the corner, her voice becoming a little fainter. “Can you go stir my soup? I don’t want it to burn and this is going to take a few minutes.”
Francis felt almost breathless with excitement, hurrying towards the pot and stirring it with probably a good deal more force than was needed. If this jar was hers, if the blood had been hers, then that meant that the person responsible for moving it to Lord Chaucer’s room was within the staff itself. His mind went immediately to the butler, wondering if he was going to have to force the man somehow to tell him everything he knew. There was more going on in this house than even Henrietta was aware of.
“Yes.”
The cook appeared in front of him again, reaching for the ladle.
“Yes?” Francis repeated, stepping back. “You are missing one?”
“I am,” the cook said, glancing at the jar on the table. “Although you’re going to have to throw that out if I’m to have the jar back. It’ll be putrid by now.”
Francis could not breathe for a moment, staring at the blood and remembering how he had seen the pool of blood streaming across the rug from under Lord Chaucer’s body. How were the two connected? What possible reason could someone have for storing a jar of blood in Lord Chaucer’s room? And why had the knife been hidden and the rug burned, so that all appearance of Lord Chaucer’s death had been wiped from the room?
“You do not look well, sir.” The cook’s voice had become a trifle more gentle, her eyes searching his. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, no.” Francis reached out a hand and steadied himself at the table, his head feeling heavy with thoughts. “I thank you but I must return to my friend’s abode. He is waiting for me.” He began to make his way towards the door, choosing to leave the jar with the cook.
“I see.” The cook nodded slowly, her eyes filled with warning. “Be careful as you go, sir.”
The words tugged at Francis’ heart, sending a jolt of concern through him. When he looked back at the cook, he saw that her back was turned and she was stirring the soup, just as she had been when he had first arrived.
What was it she had meant about being careful? What was there to be afraid of? Feeling a frisson of fear attempt to make its way into his heart, Francis took in a long breath, set his shoulders, and made his way from the kitchen.
He had a good deal to tell Henrietta.
11
“Where is he?”
Henrietta could not help but pace up and down the parlor, looking anxiously at Lord Wickton and Charlotte, who were both seated near to the fire although she noticed that they both wore identical expressions of concern.
“I am quite sure he will return very soon,” Lord Wickton said placatingly. “He said he would return presently, did he not?”
Henrietta shook her head. “I did not think he meant that he would return tomorrow, Wickton. Did you?”
Lord Wickton hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I did not,” he admitted quietly. “I thought him to be but a few minutes and then he would return to the house here to dine with us.”
“And yet he has not done so,” Henrietta exclaimed, her stomach twisting in knots as she wrung her hands. “Something has occurred, I am quite certain of it.”
There was a moment of hesitation, only for Charlotte to rise to her feet. “Brother, I think we must take this with the gravest consideration. Have you written a note and sent it to his residence?”
Lord Wickton closed his eyes and nodded. “I have, of course,” he stated evenly. “The man has not yet returned. But I do not think there is need to—”
“What is it that you discovered in my husband’s study, Wickton?”
Henrietta stopped pacing and allowed her gaze to become steely, looking unwaveringly at Lord Wickton. “I must know,” she continued, when he said nothing. “I am aware that you found something, for Francis said he would speak to me of it later on, did he not? At the time that I had discovered both the blood and the knife.”
Lord Wickton sighed and nodded. “That is correct,” he said with resignation. “It was concerning a letter that we discovered, as well as the fact that some of Lord Chaucer’s correspondence was alread
y opened after the time of his disappearance.”
Henrietta started, shock running through her. “Did you state that this came after my husband was seen by Francis?”
“Yes, that is it precisely,” Lord Wickton said slowly, “although the correspondence itself was not at all interesting. It was as if someone wanted to look through the letters to ensure that something of importance was not missed.”
Settling one hand against her stomach and trying to take in steady breaths, Henrietta began to think quickly. “Someone within the house, then?”
“It must be,” Charlotte murmured, slowly resuming her seat. “So the staff, then? Surely that must mean that Francis could be in some sort of danger, then, Wickton? To be alone there, with those who might have been involved in Lord Chaucer’s death? To be asking questions about the circumstances also, as well as what Henrietta herself has found, must surely be concerning the person responsible.”
It made a good deal of sense and Henrietta felt a rush of fear flood her as she looked at Charlotte, seeing her pale expression. “We must return to the house.”
“No, I do not think that can be done,” Lord Wickton said immediately. “If there is a danger within that house, then to have you present is not at all wise.”
“But I will not leave Francis there alone,” Henrietta declared, her voice rising. “I cannot leave him there alone, as well you might understand, Lord Wickton.” She began to pace yet again, her hands cutting through the air as she gesticulated. “I am doing all I can to remove myself from the shackles that have held me for so long. My father always tried to remove every single last speck of self-determination and hope from me and yet I could not ever be that sort of young lady. I have seen now that to be able to live a life of independence, to be permitted to make my own choices without fear of consequences, is something that I must be strong enough to fight for. I shall do that now, even though I have failed somewhat in the past. I must return to my husband’s townhouse and seek out Francis, for I will not allow any weakness or fear to hold me back. Not any longer.” Fire seemed to burst from deep within her as she spoke, her hands clenching into fists. “I cannot allow Francis to become involved in this dreadful situation when it is not of his doing. I must do all I can to ensure he is safe.” Tears began to spark in her eyes but she blinked them away rapidly. “Please, Lord Wickton. Can we not go together? The three of us would be quite safe together, would we not?”
