“You missed your own supper,” he went on. “Excellent it was too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis,” I said. “I am not hungry.”
I was, truth to tell, but I’d saved myself a heel of bread, a bit of cheese, and a chunk of the seedcake, which I’d hidden in the larder, and I’d make do with that. I was sad to see the teapot I’d used empty, and so I set a kettle on the still-warm stove to remedy that.
The master’s valet, Simms was his name, came gliding in, a shirt over one arm, a polishing box and pair of shoes in his other hand. He fixed me with a haughty eye. “Any tea, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I’ve only just put the kettle on, Mr. Simms. It will be ready directly.”
Mr. Simms gave me a sniff. “There’s a row going on upstairs, and no mistake. Lady Cynthia’s just come in with a very drunken lady friend, both of them dressed up in gents’ clothing—deplorable.” He disappeared into the servants’ hall, where I heard him drop the polishing box and shoes onto the table there.
I heaved a sigh. Mr. Davis winked at me, deposited the wine bottles on my table—they’d be for my dishes tomorrow—and returned to the servants’ hall.
By the time the water was in the teapot, the tea steeping, Mr. Davis had spread newspaper on the table in the servants’ hall and was carefully rubbing polish onto the shoes with a circular motion, the cloth wrapped around one finger. Simms sat at the table across from him, mending a tear in the master’s shirt.
I set teacups before both men and poured tea into them, then into a cup for myself. I sat down, warming my hands on my teacup. The footmen and maids were still engaged in various duties—scrubbing the night’s dishes and cleaning the servants’ area, or they were upstairs banking fires or readying the bedrooms for the family.
Of Mrs. Bowen, there was no sign. Mr. Davis volunteered, before I could ask, that she’d gone upstairs early, claiming a headache. Still upset about Sinead, he opined.
I was as well, but I’d learned that the best way to get through grief and sudden shock was to carry on working—there is a soothing element in routine. I believe that is why so many cling to religion—they know that, whatever horrors the world throws at them, they can say the words of ancient prayers or light candles or count beads as the papists do, and be comforted.
I was C of E and unlikely to become anything else, but I admitted that the rituals of our Sunday service were mired in tradition, so that one knew exactly what would happen every time. Old-fashioned and staid, some said. Refreshing, I always thought. A refuge from a mad world.
Not that I was an avid churchgoer. I went on Easter and Christmas, of course, and any other time I could get away, but a cook is expected to labor even on Sundays.
I took a welcome sip of tea, trying to banish the bite of ale and tang of cheroot smoke from my throat. Simms dipped his needle with skill into the master’s cuff, frowning as he did so.
“Did you see any of the master’s visitors yesterday, Mr. Simms?” I asked. Simms would be the closest of us to Lord Rankin—surely he’d known of Daniel’s arrival. I wanted to discover whether Simms was in on the secret.
Mr. Simms gave me an impatient look as he pulled the thread through the cloth—he’d already decided I was far beneath him, I could see.
Mr. Davis huffed a laugh. “Mrs. H. is convinced the murdering bastard came in through the front door, raced downstairs, found Ellen, and did her in.”
I shot Mr. Davis a look of disapproval at his language, but he only went on polishing the shoe.
Simms paused thoughtfully. “His lordship didn’t have no visitors last night, but I did see a man lurking, I thought.”
“Did you?” I asked in eagerness. “Where? Did you tell the police?”
Simms became haughty again. “I hardly speak to policemen, Mrs. Holloway. The fellow was outside anyway, not skulking about the house. He was sort of lingering by the railings, as though waiting for something. Or someone.”
“Well, there you are,” Mr. Davis said. “A murderer would be fleeing, wouldn’t he? Not hanging about waiting to be caught. Stands to reason.”
I said nothing, but the two of them had missed the point. Any person lurking about a house where there’d been a murder was interesting, whether they’d done the murder or not. They might have seen something, or been a lookout or some other sort of accomplice.
“Did you see what this man looked like?” I persisted.
Simms pursed his lips in annoyance. “I’m not in the habit of staring at people out of the window. He was an ordinary gentleman. He was there and then he was gone.”
I hid a sigh, sipped tea, and let the matter drop. Mr. Davis sent me a sympathetic look, one that acknowledged that Simms was full of himself.
I was hungry, so I left them to their chores and made for the larder and the food I’d stashed there. The floor had been scrubbed, all traces of Sinead and her blood long gone.
I couldn’t help raising the candle I’d lit to look into the corner where I’d found her, a lump forming in my throat when I gazed down at the clean slates. I’d barely known the young woman, but I grieved for the senseless waste of her life. She ought to have been given the chance to do more in the world, learn a trade, fall in love, bear a child.
Swallowing, I turned from the sight and lifted the cloth on the plate with the small meal I’d set aside.
I let out a very unladylike word. I found nothing on the plate but crumbs—no bread, no cheese, and only a few stray pieces of caraway to indicate seedcake had ever been there.
I growled, snatched up the plate, and carried it to the scullery. The scullery maid had already finished and gone up, so I sloshed water and soap over the plate, reminding myself that I thought rote work to be soothing. My frustration and annoyance soon put paid to such lofty ideas.
I had no idea who’d eaten my dinner—I fixed on Simms, with his superior airs, but only because I already did not like him. It might have been the scullery maid herself, hungry after her day of hard labor. I’d be less irritated at her, but even so, she should not have taken the food without asking.
I finished and put the plate away, assured myself that the kitchen door was firmly bolted, and then climbed all the way to the top of the house and my dark, cold bedchamber. I stripped my gown from my body, washed my ruddy face, and went to bed hungry.
• • •
In the morning I was sore all over and had no idea why. I pulled myself out of bed, washed with a sponge and hot water carried to me by an early-rising maid, and put on a clean frock, apron, and cap.
I moved stiffly down the stairs, realizing I was sore because I’d been holding myself rigidly since finding Sinead dead. Bracing myself against my own anger and grief, perhaps, or perhaps waiting for another terrible thing to happen.
Downstairs the oven’s fire was stoked high, the boy—Charlie, his name was—having already attended to it, the kitchen waiting for me to create meals. It was chilly this morning, but once I began cooking, I knew I’d not notice.
I approached the larder for my supplies and found as I drew near that my heart began to pound, and my throat went dry. At the doorway I halted, my feet refusing to obey my command to move forward.
I told myself not to be so silly. The odds of finding yet another member of the household dead were very slim. Sinead had been taken away, and soon would be given a decent Christian burial.
However, I could not make myself walk into the larder.
How long I stood in the doorway I did not know. I chastised myself—how could I be a cook if I was afraid to enter the room that held all my supplies? Would I have to give notice and take another post? And what reason would I give? That I was terrified of a pantry?
Yesterday, I’d been in and out of this larder, both before it had been cleaned of Sinead’s blood and after. I’d tried to hide supper for myself in here and hadn’t flinched when I’d gone in looking
for it.
There should be no reason I hesitated this morning. Except, perhaps, that I had bounced down here yesterday morning, full of ambition in my first full day of cooking, and had stumbled across Sinead quite unexpectedly. Perhaps my body expected such a thing to happen again and was bracing for it, like a horse who has fallen at the exact same spot in a road once before.
Well, this state of affairs could not continue. Either I forced myself into the room or I walked away and commanded one of the maids to fetch what I needed. I could not simply stand in the doorway all morning.
A large, work-worn hand landed on my shoulder. “Everything all right, Kat?”
I shrieked and spun around, my heart beating wildly. When my feet landed back on the earth, I spluttered, “Daniel McAdam, what the devil are you doing?”
Daniel lowered his hand and stepped away from me, his dark hair mussed, his coat misbuttoned, his eyes holding consternation rather than his usual good humor. “What is it?” he asked in a gentle voice.
I dragged in a breath. I wanted to fling myself at him and sob my troubles onto his shoulder, wanted him to hold and comfort me. Daniel had strong arms and was quite good at holding, as I had learned.
A fine thing that would look when any of the servants happened into the passage. Simms in particular would be scathing. I curled my hands to fists and lifted my chin.
“Nothing,” I said with difficulty. “I am quite all right. But as long as you are here, please be useful and fetch me a rasher of bacon and the butter from that cupboard.” I pointed into the larder at a tall chest. “Oh, and the loaf of sugar—it’s on the top shelf. But don’t you dare tread your muddy boots into my kitchen. Make sure you’ve scraped them clean first.”
I caught a twinkle in Daniel’s eye as I sailed past him and back to the kitchen, trying to ignore the rumbling chuckle behind me.
• • •
Daniel’s presence in the house that day both made me feel better and unnerved me. On the one hand, I started every time I heard his voice, but on the other, I looked over my shoulder when I didn’t hear him to see whether he was about.
His presence distracted me so much that I found myself reaching for washing soda instead of arrowroot to put into frothing eggs that I beat for a sponge cake; mistaking thyme for dill; and plunging a runner bean instead of a vanilla bean into a bowl of sugar. Only the diligence of Mary, who’d learned something from her mistakes yesterday, stopped me.
Daniel was no sham at being a man-of-all-work. He had the knack for turning up the moment he was needed, producing exactly the right tool to fix a leaking drain or to stop a creaking window or locating the correct copper pots I needed for my sauces. Notwithstanding how well Daniel could assume the mannerisms of a middle-class gentleman, he obviously knew how to take care of a house. This Daniel had to be the real one, I argued to myself.
Mr. Davis was appreciative of Daniel’s help. He showed this appreciation by sitting at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, reading a newspaper while Daniel did the work of footmen, maids, grooms, and errand boys.
“These Fenians are becoming a handful,” Mr. Davis said from behind the long page. “Imagine laying dynamite in railway stations to blast into innocent people, children and all. Happened in the north just yesterday.” He made a noise of disgust as he turned the page. “We should put the lot of them in boats and shove them back to Ireland.” Mrs. Bowen had expressed a similar sentiment, I recalled, when she’d told me of Sinead’s mother killed in such an event.
“You would depopulate a large portion of this country,” I remarked as I pounded butter into puff pastry dough. “Including many of the servants in this house. You would have to do extra work.” I folded the dough over and rolled it hard with my rolling pin.
Mr. Davis lifted his paper out of the way of the scattering flour. “We’d hire Welshmen and good English girls,” he said decidedly. “You Irish, Daniel?”
Daniel, who was crossing the room bearing a coal scuttle in each hand, shook his head. “Scots,” he said, without a trace of any accent but London, and went into the scullery.
“Mmm.” Mr. Davis continued to read. “Ah, this might be more agreeable to relate. A chap with a telescope reckons he’s spied the planet that wanders about on the other side of the sun and pulls other planets out of their rightful paths.”
I stopped rolling and blinked at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Davis chortled. “It’s not on earth at all. According to gentlemen from Cambridge, there is a planet on the other side of our sun, which is why Mercury doesn’t go around right. And now a chap reckons he’s spied it.”
I had my rolling pin poised in the air as I stared at him. Mr. Davis turned the page, moving on to the next story, and I slammed the pin back to the dough. If the butter melts while puff pastry is being rolled, the layered effect is ruined, and one has to begin again.
“I’ve never heard such utter nonsense,” I proclaimed, putting an end to the matter.
Mr. Davis continued to read silently, offering no more argument, as I folded and rolled my dough several more times before I set it aside to rest and chill. Then I went to the scullery to wash my floury, buttery hands. Daniel was there, now scraping a patch of mold from the wall in the corner.
“You there,” I said imperiously. “I’m off to the market. You will come with me and carry things. Is that all right, Mr. Davis?” I called back into the kitchen. “May I take him?”
Mr. Davis didn’t move from behind his paper. “We’re ahead of things because of him. Don’t keep him away too long though.”
“No, indeed.” I removed my cap and tied on my bonnet—my everyday one of dark blue with lighter blue lining, then put on my coat and picked up the basket I used for my shopping. “Come along, Mr. McAdam.”
Daniel shuffled along behind me without complaint, and we left Mr. Davis to his paper.
“I’m not only going to the market,” I confided to Daniel once we reached the street. “I wish to visit Lady Cynthia’s casualty, Mr. Timmons.”
Daniel nodded. “An excellent idea, Mrs. Holloway. Well done. It’s this way.” He set off at a brisk pace east toward Davies Street, and I had to jog to catch up with him.
9
Daniel led me to Oxford Street and then up the Edgware Road, retracing my steps of the night before. Then along to Great Marylebone Road, where he convinced me to go down a flight of steps to the underground Metropolitan train that would take us east toward our destination.
I disliked the underground trains—too much smoke, noise, and danger. Who knew what would befall us in the dark tunnels? Or how the smoke escaped—if it did—instead of choking us all to death? But I would not let Daniel guess how nervous I was, and so simply followed him below the earth.
Daniel paid for my ticket like a gentleman. If he’d truly been helping me with the shopping as a menial, I’d have bought our tickets with some of my household money. Daniel, however, had approached the ticket man and procured our passage before I could say a word. I merely said my thanks and let him help me into the train.
We chugged through tunnels past Baker Street and Great Portland Road, Daniel and I sitting side by side, me with my basket perched on my lap. We said little, since we were surrounded by fellow passengers, and rode in silence, his shoulder pressing mine as the train jerked and rumbled through the tunnels.
We emerged into daylight at Gower Street. I spent time brushing down my skirt from the soot it had acquired, and then Daniel took me northward behind Euston Station with its many rails and yards full of trains. Unused cars rested forlornly on side tracks, patiently waiting to be called for.
Daniel led me to a narrow street lined with a row of tall houses, each built of monotonous gray brick. The colorlessness was relieved every once in a while where one of the inhabitants had decided to paint their door a bright color. This effect was ruined by long exposure
to London grime, however, and these lively red, blue, or green doors were now blackened, their paint cracking.
Mr. Timmons lived in a house in the middle of the row. The four-story dwelling had once been a single home, but the owner had turned it into rooms—the Timmonses lived together in two chambers on the top floor. Daniel gave the landlady his warmest smile, but either she was immune to his smile or shortsighted, as she only grunted and pointed the way up the stairs.
I’d learned as we’d walked that Daniel had been here yesterday, looking in on Mr. Timmons. I reflected that Daniel had been very quick to rush here and then to Lord Rankin’s, but I held my tongue for now.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Mrs. Timmons said as she opened the door to us. She was a tired-looking woman with gray in her brown hair and a lined face. Her reddened hands told me she washed more dishes than only her own. “He’s taken a turn.”
I was sorry to hear that. Mrs. Timmons ushered us from the front room to the back one, a tiny space under the eaves. We barely fit into this small room, and the fire that burned fitfully on the hearth hardly kept it warm. Mr. Timmons lay on his back in bed, covers over his chest, his splinted arm resting on the quilts.
Timmons looked much as he had the day before yesterday, his face pale and drawn, his brown eyes holding pain. The fringe of hair on his head was going to gray.
Seeing the man now confirmed my belief that he’d never rushed down to the kitchen, bashed Sinead over the head, and sprinted out the door. He could barely move. He recognized me, I could tell, but whether or not the memory was a pleasant one, I could not say.
“Why did you leave Lord Rankin’s house?” I asked him after Mrs. Timmons had informed her husband brightly that he had visitors. I stood at the foot of his bed and viewed him critically. “You were hardly fit to go anywhere at all.”
Timmons glanced at Daniel then back to me and wet his lips. “Didn’t want to be a burden,” he said, then he shook his head. “Truth to tell, missus, I didn’t like staying there. You were kind to me, but the others made it clear I weren’t wanted. I were afraid the master would have me thrown to the pavement if I stayed too long, so when I felt a bit more myself, I legged it.”
Death Below Stairs Page 9
