Death Below Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  I knew exactly what had happened, and remained silent. I remembered Mrs. Bowen insisting Lady Rankin take the glass of tonic, and the flash of fear in Lady Rankin’s eyes, followed by resignation. Mrs. Bowen had decided that her lady should not face the ignominy of arrest, trial, and conviction, then scandal, imprisonment, and death.

  Possibly Lady Rankin would never have gone to trial—Lord Rankin had enough power, money, and connections to have the charges dismissed, and he might appeal to Daniel and whoever Daniel worked for to help. Or, if Lord Rankin couldn’t completely keep his wife from being tried, at least he might be able to save her from the gallows. Mrs. Bowen must have believed she couldn’t take that chance.

  Lady Rankin had been aware of what Mrs. Bowen had done, I knew, and she’d chosen to drink the tonic, taking what she thought the simplest way out. Her brother had once decided the same thing.

  The preparations for Lady Rankin’s funeral took up the next few days, and I of course had to prepare the meals for those who’d return with Lord Rankin after Lady Rankin was placed into the tomb of the barons Rankin in Surrey.

  At one point as Mary and I worked on the after-funeral repast, I caught Mr. Simms in the larder with his hand on a top shelf, helping himself to cheese tucked into a cool spot—he’d been cutting bits off the edges, all the way around, so it would look uniform if anyone checked it. I scolded him soundly, and he was so guilt stricken he emptied his pockets of fruit he’d taken—pieces from different boxes so too many wouldn’t be missed. He also confessed it had been he who’d eaten the dinner I’d put aside for myself the night I’d slipped out to have a chat with Daniel. That mystery was solved, then. Bloody man.

  I was prepared to tell Lord Rankin about Simms, but decided to spare Lord Rankin for the moment when I saw how ill and shaken he looked when he climbed down from the carriage upon his return from Surrey and entered the house. He was followed by the guests and family, including the Earl and Countess of Clifford, who had their heads bowed in grief. They looked nothing like a blackguard who’d stolen an earldom and the famous beauty who’d caught his eye. Now they were middle-aged, graying, and in debt, having lost two of their children in shocking circumstances.

  Cynthia held Rankin’s arm—she was dressed in a somber black gown and hat with a veil—and he leaned on her as they walked inside.

  I had agreed to stay on through the funeral and until Lady Cynthia decided what to do. She did not want to go home to Hertfordshire with her family. Lord Rankin, in a curious fit of generosity, had told Cynthia she could remain in the Mount Street house as long as she liked, while he took a sabbatical at his estate in Surrey for a period of mourning. I was not certain what working directly for Lady Cynthia would be like, but I decided to remain where I was and see what happened.

  Mrs. Bowen had gone. She’d helped lay out Lady Rankin, then she’d departed, telling me the coroner had released Sinead’s body to her after the inquest—which had returned the verdict of death by misadventure by person or persons unknown. The blame was put down to a burglar she surprised, and the violent nature of life in the metropolis was condemned.

  Mrs. Bowen would take care of Sinead’s funeral, she’d told me in a firm voice. She was the only family Sinead had now.

  I did not see Mrs. Bowen again, and where she’d gone, I was never to learn. Perhaps she’d marry her Mr. Greer, a man who’d agreed to search the larder of a Mayfair house in the middle of the night at her command. A devoted gentleman, indeed.

  I knew Mrs. Bowen had killed Lady Rankin. She had committed murder as much as Lady Rankin had. But I said nothing. I knew why Mrs. Bowen had done it, and I hardly condoned her action even if I understood it, but proving the matter would be difficult. There was nothing to say Lady Rankin hadn’t given herself a second dose of tonic sometime later in the day, which was what the coroner believed happened. He’d already given his verdict of accidental death, and so the record stood. I decided, after wrestling with my conscience, to keep my silence. The stark truth, at this point, helped no one.

  The day after the funeral, I took my day out—Thursday was always mine, no matter what—and visited my daughter.

  I’d already written to my friend Joanna, upon my return to London, and told her that I declined her and her husband’s offer to adopt Grace. I thanked them for their kindness, as I’d told Daniel I would, but explained that I could not accept. Today, Joanna embraced me and told me she understood. I could see she was disappointed, but she was a good and kind soul, as was her husband.

  Grace, who knew nothing of this, was chatty and happy, and we had our outing, this time a walk in Hyde Park followed by our treat of tea in a shop.

  I left Grace again, holding her as I hugged her good-bye, letting her child’s arms around my neck soothe me. I walked away from the Millburns’ and trudged toward home, my eyes blurred with tears.

  As I made my way along Ludgate Hill, a young man stepped abruptly out of the crowd and halted directly in front of me.

  “James,” I said with a gasp, and pressed my hand to my heart. “You really should not do that.”

  26

  “Sorry, Mrs. H.,” James said, though he didn’t look one bit apologetic. “Only way I could think to stop you, you were walking so unswervingly. His nibs wants to see yer. In his digs.”

  “I suppose you mean your father, in his rooms on Southampton Street,” I said.

  “That I do.” James gave me his lopsided grin. “He said to put you into a cab so you wouldn’t have to walk. He’ll pay the fare at t’other end.”

  A hansom waited in the road for me, driven by Daniel’s friend Lewis, other vehicles moving impatiently around it. I imagined Daniel had sent Lewis and his cab not only to save my feet but to prevent me from ignoring his summons.

  Nothing for it. I headed for the hansom. James helped me in, but he did not climb up beside me.

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him in days, and I wanted to discover how he fared—I’d become quite fond of James.

  “Naw.” He shrugged. “I’m off to do a little of this, a little of that. Nothing bad, Mrs. H.,” he added quickly. “Odd jobs. For pay.”

  I shook my head. “Mr. McAdam really ought to find a house where you two can live together. So you can keep an eye on each other.”

  James shrugged again, his young shoulders jerking up and down. “I don’t know about that. If I lived with Dad, he’d be terribly underfoot, wouldn’t he?”

  I gave him a skeptical look, and he returned it with a serene, dark-eyed gaze. I supposed he and Daniel would work out between themselves what they would do. I also knew I had not mistaken the great love I’d seen in James for his father when he’d thought Daniel dead in the blast in Saltash.

  James raised his arm to wave the cabbie on, and we jolted off. Not long later, I was admitted to the house in Southampton Street by Mrs. Williams, Daniel’s landlady, who stood back discreetly and let me ascend the stairs to Daniel’s rooms alone.

  I found him in his sitting room, which had been dusted, swept, and polished until it glowed, a faint scent of wax lingering in the air. Daniel wore a neutral suit today—the only way I can describe it—a dark gray ensemble that was neither citified nor working-class. His hair hung in thick waves, the way I preferred it.

  He came to greet me with correct politeness when I entered, and he led me to the small sofa. “How are you, Kat?” he asked as I seated myself.

  “As well as can be expected,” I answered. “And you?”

  Daniel gave me a copy of James’s tilt-mouthed grin and dropped into the plain chair he’d drawn near. “The same. Tea?”

  He, or more likely Mrs. Williams, had brought in a low table filled with a tray, porcelain cups and saucers, a teapot, a mound of cakes, and two delicate plates. Daniel reached for the pot, but I waved him away and was mother—that is, I served the tea for both of us.

  “
Has the Queen summoned you yet?” I asked him as I poured out. “To give you a knighthood for saving her life?”

  “No.” Daniel looked amused as he accepted the cup I handed him. He waited until I had one ready for myself before taking a sip. “I doubt she’ll ever know I was there.”

  I lost my constrained formality and gave him an indignant look. “That is hardly fair. Without your diligence, her train would have run smack into that dynamite, and she’d have either been blown to bits, or murdered by those men lying in wait.”

  “I know,” Daniel said with irritating patience. “And your diligence too, Kat. And Thanos’s. And Lady Cynthia, who found out for us where the Queen was going on her supposedly secret journey. But it doesn’t matter. The Queen is safe—at least for now. She will praise the policemen at the scene and her brave engineer, and that will be that. I prefer it so.”

  I took another sip of tea and handed him a seedcake on one of the small plates.

  “Because you wish to remain in the shadows,” I said in sudden understanding. “So that the next villains will not know you are after them. They won’t expect you.”

  “Exactly,” Daniel said. He lifted the cake and took a large bite. “Mmph,” he said as he chewed and swallowed. “These came from a bakery down the street. Never as good as yours.”

  “Do not ply me with flattery, Mr. McAdam.” I nibbled a piece of cake and had to agree with him—my seedcakes were far richer, and I used more caraway. “Tell me why you asked to see me.”

  “To make certain you were well.”

  Daniel knew all about what happened to Lady Rankin—Mr. Davis had spied Daniel in the street before the funeral and gone out to relate the tale, though Daniel had not returned to the house with him. He’d resigned his post, Mr. Davis had said, shaking his head at Daniel’s itinerancy. Whether Daniel had concluded that Lady Rankin had killed Sinead, or still believed a Fenian had done so, I did not know, and I did not want to speak of it now. When I felt better, we could discuss things.

  However, I hadn’t seen Daniel since we’d parted at Paddington Station, and he hadn’t bothered to send word to me or tell me good-bye. He might have had a good reason why he could not—those he worked for might have kept him away—but I was not about to let him know I understood.

  “I’ll do,” I said, lifting my teacup.

  “And to explain,” Daniel went on, “why I can’t explain things.” He regarded me openly, no more guile. “I would tell you my secrets, but they are not my secrets to tell. One day—I promise you.” He reached for my hand, took the teacup from it and set it down, and then twined his fingers through mine. “One day.”

  “But not today,” I said, echoing my words from the previous occasion.

  Daniel’s expression held hope. “Can you forgive me for that?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Though it will depend on what the secret is when I learn it. What I do know, Daniel, is what you are. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a gent in a posh suit who can purchase first-class railway tickets on the spur of the moment, or a deliveryman who talks like a South London villain. I’ve seen you.”

  Daniel’s dark brows went up. “I’m not certain I like that.”

  “You ought to. I’ve seen that you’re a good man. You sacrifice much for the well-being of others. You’re kind to your son—a lad you could have turned your back on, and no one would have condemned you for it. Except me, of course. No matter which guise you wear, that man is beneath it.”

  “Well.” Daniel’s voice turned soft, and he caressed the backs of my fingers. “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway.”

  His lips parted as though he would like to say something else, then he shook his head and closed his mouth again.

  “What?” I asked. His hand on mine was making my heart beat erratically, and I wasn’t comfortable with that. I did not draw away, however.

  “I was thinking how fortunate I was to have met you,” he said. “Remembering delivering a bushel of potatoes to Mrs. Pauling a year or so ago, tramping down into the kitchen to behold a cook with glossy dark hair turning a rather scornful expression on me—with eyes I could drown in.”

  I remembered the occasion well, how I’d stood numbly at the stove, holding a spoon in midair while hot fat dropped onto the slates at my feet. I’d had to scrub them hard later.

  Daniel had smiled at me, and the world had changed.

  “Do not be so silly,” I said, easing my hand from his clasp. “You cannot drown in eyes.”

  Daniel sat back and took up his teacup but didn’t drink. “You don’t like poetry, then.”

  I did enjoy this, having tea with Daniel as though we belonged together, with nothing pressing at us, nothing taking us from the moment.

  “Poetry has its place, I suppose,” I said, as he seemed to be waiting for my response.

  He shrugged. “Ah, well. I will search until I find something you do like.”

  “I doubt that will take long. I am easy to please. A comfortable chair, seedcake that is better than this, and good company. I can’t ask for much more than that.”

  Daniel sent me a knowing look. “So you claim to be uncomplicated. But I know better. There are layers and layers of you—each time I peel one layer back, I find another more intriguing beneath it.”

  “What absolute rot,” I said. Grace was right—rot was a perfectly good word.

  Daniel shook his head, his laughter rumbling. “You’ll be the death of me, Kat Holloway.”

  “Goodness, I hope not.”

  A vision flared through my head of the explosion on the river, of the blinding light in the darkness, James screaming for Daniel, as I could only stand mutely, fearing a loss that would tear me in two.

  Daniel was beside me in the next moment, his arms around me, and I found myself drawing a long, burning breath, though I hadn’t been aware I’d been holding it.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t blame you if you chucked me in, told me to go to the devil.”

  “No, indeed,” I struggled to say. “I would never use words like that.”

  Daniel laughed softly as he kissed my hair. “I will weather what I have to if I can count you as my friend.”

  “Of course.” I cleared my throat, finding it difficult to speak. “I will save tea and scones for whenever you waltz into my kitchen without so much as a by-your-leave.”

  “Will you make it seedcake?” His lips touched my hair again.

  “You will take what I have on hand, you daft man.”

  “That’s enough for me, Kat.” Daniel tilted my head toward him and gave me a brief kiss on the lips. “That’s plenty enough for me.”

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading!

  I conceived of Kat Holloway, the young cook in Victorian London, so long ago now that I no longer remember my first inspiration for the stories (this was before my very first novel was published). I know that the no-nonsense Kat in command of her kitchen has been dancing around in my head for years, as well as the mysterious Daniel McAdam and his son, and various other characters in her saga.

  The inspiration for finally putting Kat’s story into readable form, however, was a broken water heater. This modern and conventional appliance flooded our house, with the result that we had to tear up all the old flooring and have new put down. This forced me to clear out closets that hadn’t been emptied in a good long while, and there, in a box, I found a folder with the beginnings of a Kat Holloway mystery.

  I’d had many books published since jotting down the few chapters, and I grew excited as I remembered Kat and my plans for her series. I transferred what I’d written of the story to my laptop, and then kept typing. That story turned into A Soupçon of Poison, which I published to introduce Kat to my readers.

  The response was amazing—so many wrote to tell me how much they enjoyed Kat Holloway and hoped to see
more! I sat down and started working on a full-length novel, and the result is Death Below Stairs.

  I very much enjoy writing about a cook and the world beneath London’s elegant houses. My primary resource for Kat’s kitchen and all she makes in it is Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management, first published in 1861.

  Isabella Beeton was a young Englishwoman who wrote articles on cookery and housekeeping for a magazine her husband edited and published—she was more or less a food blogger of her day. The Book of Household Management was a compendium of articles and magazine supplements she and her husband had put together, published into one volume.

  The book was an instant bestseller and went on to become an enormous success, even after Isabella’s tragic death in childbirth at the young age of twenty-eight. Edition after edition was published well into the twentieth century, and the book still continues to be printed.

  In it, the Victorian housewife could learn everything she needed to know about the running of a household, the duties of various servants, where to find a good stove, and of course hundreds of recipes, many of which contain ingredients familiar today (e.g., a recipe for a pastry crust consists of flour, sugar, salt, butter, and cold water, and made the same way we would now: cutting or rubbing the butter into the flour, adding the small amount of sugar and salt and then the water until a ball of dough forms, before it is rolled out for the pie pan). We’re less likely to reach for a recipe for jugged hare these days (though the ingredients are simple, aside from the hare: beef gravy, butter, onion, lemon, cloves, and black and cayenne peppers), but Mrs. Beeton’s recipes for omelets, macaroni and cheese, and vanilla custard are ones we could walk into our kitchen and make today (though she advises boiling the macaroni for one and a half hours).

  I look forward to continuing Kat’s adventures both in sleuthing and cookery, with the next book already in the works. I hope you enjoy this new series!

  Best wishes,

  Jennifer Ashley