Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mrs. Redfern entered the kitchen as Tess and I finished buttering the last of the crumpets to be sent up for breakfast. Tess licked butter from her fingers and reached for a towel.

  “Mrs. Holloway.”

  Mrs. Redfern’s quiet tone caught my attention. I paused from my wipe-down of the kitchen table and gazed at her inquiringly.

  “I do not like tittle-tattle, as you know, but I must tell you that some has begun about you.”

  As I stared at her, Tess burst out, “What sort of tittle-tattle? Mrs. Holloway never done nuffink. Who has been saying so?”

  I hushed her. “Please explain, Mrs. Redfern.”

  Mrs. Redfern flushed, uncomfortable. Her discomfort rose as Mr. Davis strolled in, newspaper in hand. He’d heard us, because he raised his brows at Mrs. Redfern and said, “Yes, I think you ought to explain.”

  “I am only passing on knowledge,” Mrs. Redfern returned with a sniff. “One of Mrs. Bywater’s neighbors came to her early this morning to relay that she’d seen you, Mrs. Holloway, in the arms of a man. On the stairwell outside the kitchen. A scoundrel, she claims, though she could hardly see what sort of man he was in the dark.”

  My stomach knotted in dismay. Mrs. Redfern gazed at me sternly while Mr. Davis fell silent, but before I could stammer an explanation, Tess interrupted.

  “What neighbor?” she demanded. “I bet it was old Mrs. Beadle, what moved into the house next door. She’s a busybody if I’ve ever seen one. She dismisses maids left and right, after she spies on them.”

  “Never you mind who it was, Tess,” Mrs. Redfern snapped. “And hold your tongue about your betters.”

  I guessed, from Mrs. Redfern’s evasive answer, that the visitor had been Mrs. Beadle. She and her husband had leased the house next door once the previous owners, the Harknesses, had gone.

  Mrs. Beadle hadn’t seen wrong—I’d clung to Daniel shamelessly, needing his strength.

  “Mrs. Bywater is not happy,” Mrs. Redfern went on. “She is prepared to come down here and question you about it after breakfast.”

  Meaning she’d wait until her husband had gone to the City and could not interfere. I swallowed, wondering how I would explain myself. Mrs. Bywater was ever waiting for an excuse to give me the sack.

  Mr. Davis stared hard at me. He’d in the past claimed that Daniel was “sweet on me” and opined that I could do better than a scruffy deliveryman. I expected Mr. Davis to tell Mrs. Redfern exactly who the man had been and make it clear he did not approve.

  Instead, he let out a snort. “Preposterous. Mrs. Holloway is not walking out with anyone.”

  I almost argued with him—he knew Daniel came to visit me often—but I held my tongue.

  “I told you, Mr. Davis, I know nothing of the matter,” Mrs. Redfern answered. “I came to warn Mrs. Holloway what is being said of her. She is free to defend herself.”

  “Meddling Mrs. Beadle saw nothing of the sort,” Mr. Davis went on. “Mrs. Holloway was very upset last night—there was a death at the Crystal Palace, where she went to hear improving lectures.” He waved the newspaper, indicating that a story about the death lay within its pages. “I was comforting her. The man Mrs. Beadle saw was me, and no, I have no amorous intentions for poor Mrs. Holloway, nor does she for me.”

  Tess listened with avid interest, and my mouth dropped open, but I could not speak.

  Mrs. Redfern regarded Mr. Davis with surprise. “Mrs. Holloway returned very late. I heard her come up to her room after one o’clock.”

  “I was up very late myself. Checking the wine cellar to make sure his lordship didn’t have another go at it.” Mr. Davis finished with a growl.

  Mrs. Redfern gazed at Mr. Davis for a moment in deep skepticism then she let out a breath, deciding to accept the explanation. “Thank you, Mr. Davis. Well, I shall go up and tell Mrs. Bywater there’s nothing in it. I am very happy the neighbor was mistaken.” She shot me another look, still uncertain, and strode from the room.

  “Mr. Davis,” I began, my voice quavering.

  Mr. Davis held up a forefinger, silencing me. With a glance at Tess, who bounced on her toes, a grin on her face, he stalked out, heading for the butler’s pantry.

  I abandoned the kitchen and followed him. Mr. Davis tried to close the door on me, but I pushed into his sanctum.

  “Mr. Davis, why would you—?”

  Mr. Davis slid out of his tailed coat and turned from hanging it on a hook. “Because I do not wish you to lose your post, Mrs. Holloway. I doubt any cook Mrs. Bywater hired would be anywhere near as good as you, and my stomach would not thank me. Besides, aren’t we friends?”

  “I’d like to believe so.” I wet my dry lips. “And I do not wish you to think less of me. I—”

  He lifted his forefinger again. “No need to explain, Mrs. Holloway. We all make mistakes, and I know you are a respectable woman. But I am curious. Was it the vicar?”

  I blinked in amazement. “Mr. Fielding? Good heavens, no.”

  “Ah.” He deflated. “I had hoped. A vicar of a poor parish could do worse than taking a cook to wife. Not, again, that I wish you to leave. That means it was McAdam.” Mr. Davis looked displeased.

  “Mr. McAdam is a fine man,” I stated. “Not a scoundrel. He is more than what he seems.” Mr. Davis did not know the extent of that, nor could he ever find out.

  “Too many women have been taken in by a gentleman’s disarming manner.” Mr. Davis shook his head. “It usually ends in tears.”

  “I assure you, there is nothing untoward between Mr. McAdam and me.” I conveniently forgot the many times Daniel had kissed me. “He was, as you say, comforting me, because yes, I was upset about the death. Lady Covington’s stepdaughter. It was a terrible thing.” I faltered.

  Mr. Davis took up the newspaper, his glance sympathetic. “We shall say no more about it. I am happy to look after you, my friend, but please do not allow Mr. McAdam to comfort you again within sight of the neighbors.”

  “I will bear it in mind, Mr. Davis.”

  We exchanged a glance of understanding, and I left him.

  * * *

  * * *

  I returned to my intention of visiting Lady Covington. I would have to invent an excuse to placate Mrs. Bywater—I could not simply tell her I wished to pay my condolences, as cooks were intended to carry on with their duties even if the sun fell out of the sky.

  I opened my notebook after Tess and I had sent the breakfast dishes up in the dumbwaiter, and I looked over the ingredients list for the spiced custard. Cinnamon, cloves, star anise . . .

  “Oh dear,” I said in a loud voice. “I am out of bay leaves.”

  Tess glanced up from mixing the batter for my lemon cake. Those upstairs had liked it so much, Mrs. Bywater had sent down a request that I serve it again.

  “I can run to the market for you,” she offered.

  “No, indeed. You must finish the cake. I know where to procure some quickly.”

  So speaking, I stripped off my apron and cap, snatched up my coat and hat, and was out the door before Tess could answer.

  A warm breeze blew down the street, promising hotter weather to come. June could be quite pleasant in London, and I looked forward to it, but July and August turned stifling and smelly.

  The Bywaters stuck it out through the summer instead of retreating to the country, because of Mr. Bywater’s position in the City, but that was fine with me. If they shut up the house during the summer months, I’d have no wages, and if they took me to the country with them, I’d not be able to visit Grace. London born and bred, I could put up with the stench and heat, and Grace was worth any discomfort.

  I walked quickly along Mount Street and turned to Park Lane. Lady Covington had implied I could use anything I liked from her kitchen garden, and I pounced on that invitation today.

  I passed the house on Park Lane an
d turned the corner to Upper Brook Street and the gate to the garden. The gate was unlocked, and I slipped inside.

  I heard the sound of a rake on gravel and saw Symes behind a hedge, hunched over his work. The back of the house showed blank shades drawn over the windows, a sign of a bereavement.

  Did I see the edge of a shade twitch? I studied the window where I’d glimpsed movement, but saw nothing more.

  I did not wish to attract Symes’s attention, so I headed down the stairs to the kitchen. The smell of green and growing things faded behind me as the damp of the stairwell overcame it.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs was wrenched open, and Jepson, the dragon of a lady’s maid, glared out at me.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble? Miss Erica is dead, and it’s all your fault.”

  She raised a hand, preparing to strike me.

  12

  I seized Jepson’s wrist and pushed her back across the threshold just as Mrs. Gamble stepped from the kitchen into the small foyer.

  “Whatever are you doing?” She directed her words to Jepson. “Good heavens, woman, what is the matter with you? Come in, Mrs. Holloway, and have some tea.” With a scowl at Jepson, Mrs. Gamble headed back into the kitchen.

  I released Jepson’s hand. We studied each other with narrowed eyes, then Jepson backed away stiffly.

  “Have your tea,” she snarled. “But you get no thanks from me.”

  She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs and into the garden, a bright white petticoat flashing beneath her dull black skirts.

  “Never mind her,” Mrs. Gamble said as I shut the door and entered the stuffy kitchen. “She’s blaming everyone and the moon for Mrs. Hume’s death.” Mrs. Gamble moved to a dresser where she shoveled tea leaves into a pot. “It’s me she’s blaming most,” she said mournfully. She sniffled and carried the teapot to the table, waving me to a stool while she fetched a steaming kettle from the stove. “After all, it’s me what prepared the food.” Another louder sniffle as she poured a stream of bubbling water into the teapot. “She says she’ll have the police on me, the dreadful old biddy.”

  “Anyone could have tampered with the basket once it left you,” I said soothingly. “From the footman who put it into the coach to the porter at the train and anyone who went near the baggage cart before the hamper was fetched.”

  Mrs. Gamble nodded, only a little relieved. “That is so. But it’s servants who are always blamed when things go wrong.”

  She was unfortunately correct. Cooks, maids, and footmen could so easily be sacked or even arrested for something not their fault, because we were convenient scapegoats.

  “I will find out,” I said. “I promised Lady Covington. Now, tell me what was in the hamper.”

  Mrs. Gamble returned the kettle to the stove and settled herself on a stool at the end of the table. The rest of the table’s surface was strewn with her accoutrements set out to make meals today—a rolling pin for pies, mortar and pestle plus bottles of oil for various herb sauces, a slicing knife for vegetables. “It is good of you, dear, though I’m not certain what you can do. I made that hamper special for Lady Covington. I didn’t know she’d not want it, or I wouldn’t have bothered, and Mrs. Hume would be alive.” She wiped away a tear that trickled down the side of her nose.

  “You couldn’t have known,” I said.

  “That’s not what the police will say.” Mrs. Gamble drew out a large handkerchief and mopped her face. “I made up a nice basket, full of things her ladyship enjoys. A couple of boiled eggs, a few slices of ham and soft cheese, strawberries—I found a good lot of them at the market—a few currant scones, some cream for them, and the lemon cake.”

  “What became of the hamper last night? Was it brought back home?”

  Mrs. Gamble nodded. “A porter from the train returned it this morning. Everything was gone—apparently, Erica tucked in when none of the others wanted much. Thanks heavens Sir Arthur only nibbled a little. He’s on the mend, her ladyship says.”

  “That is good to hear,” I said in relief. “A pity there’s nothing left in the hamper. The remaining food might have been tested.”

  “Aye, that’s true. But I know it were all right when it went into the hamper. I tasted the lemon cake myself.” Mrs. Gamble softened into a smile. “It is excellent cake, Mrs. Holloway. The family think me a genius. Thank you ever so much for sharing the recipe.”

  “You flatter me, Mrs. Gamble.” The tea had finished steeping, and I forestalled Mrs. Gamble by reaching for the pot and pouring out for her. The trickle of steaming tea into the cups was calming as always. “It is only a question of mixing up the right ingredients.”

  “And in what measure.” Mrs. Gamble took a noisy sip of tea. “That’s the true nature of cookery.”

  “An oven that bakes evenly also helps. The dearest desire of every cook.” I blew on the tea to cool it and drank. The tea was very weak—she’d likely reused the leaves until they did little more than color the water.

  “Well, we can only have what those upstairs decide to give us. I’ve been in places where I was expected to cook ten courses a night on a stove the size of this stool I’m sitting on. I ask you.”

  “Some mistresses have no idea what is required, do they?” I gazed about the large room and at the gleaming stove, the myriad of hanging pots ready for any recipe, and a shelf holding pudding molds, a coffee grinder, and various long spoons. “You are well fitted out here.”

  “Aye, the first Lady Covington understood she’d not have fine meals unless her kitchen had the latest in contraptions.”

  “What was she like?” I asked. Perhaps the person wishing Lady Covington dead resented her for replacing the paragon of the first Lady Covington.

  “A hard woman, by all accounts,” Mrs. Gamble said. “I didn’t work here when she were alive, as I told you, but I’ve heard much from the other staff and the family. She was the one behind Lord Covington’s success, everyone says. He inherited his position on the board, but when his first wife got her claws into him, he suddenly expanded the railway line and made money hand over fist.”

  “What railway line is it, do you know? Does it go to Sydenham?”

  “Heaven knows.” Mrs. Gamble shrugged. “They go all over, I think. I’m not one for riding trains.”

  “I don’t like them much either, truth to tell. The present Lady Covington met Lord Covington through the railway, did she not?” I asked, remembering Cynthia’s letter of information. “Her first husband, Mr. Morris, was on the board as well?”

  “Yes, indeed. A bit of a scandal when it first came out.” Mrs. Gamble rested her elbows on the table and warmed to the gossip. “Mr. Morris had died suddenly in an accident. The first Lady Covington was already gone by then—she took sick—a year before that. Mr. Morris was in a train crash.”

  I jumped. “Oh dear.” I recalled Cynthia stating that the family did not like to talk about what happened to Lady Covington’s first husband. “That is tragic, especially as he worked for the railway.”

  “Funny the way things happen, ain’t it? Rich as anything, Mr. Morris was, and her ladyship copped the whole lot. Miss Harriet and Mr. Jonathan inherited a small amount, but her ladyship has the lion’s share. Holds the purse strings tight, she does. Anyway, Mr. Morris wasn’t in his grave a year, Lady Covington still in widow’s weeds, when it’s announced she’s marrying Lord Covington.”

  Mrs. Gamble leaned closer, her large bosom nearly in her teacup. “If you want my opinion, it weren’t a love match, but a business one. Lord Covington needed Mr. Morris’s money put back into the railway business, and the new Lady Covington wanted to influence the railway board’s decisions, just like the first Lady Covington did.” She gave another shrug. “But who knows? They might have been potty about each other. Anyway, Lady Covington and her brood moves in here, and a few years lat
er, Lord Covington pegs it—his heart gave out from overwork, his doctors said. Now young Mr. George is Lord Covington, but it’s his stepmum who runs this household. Maybe if the young master marries, the new wife will put the dowager in her place, but I doubt it. Lady Covington knows her own mind. Besides, Mr. George shows no sign of wanting to marry.” She shook her head, despairing of Mr. George.

  “Not everybody rushes into marriage,” I said, thinking of Cynthia’s struggles.

  “He’s hardly rushing anything. He’s nearing forty. It might be the making of him. Mr. George is letting the railway line lose money, which displeases Lady Covington no end.”

  I remembered Miss Townsend telling me that George had asked her to marry him. Miss Townsend’s family was quite well off, I knew from Cynthia. Had George been hoping to bring still more money into the family business? In addition to marrying a strong-minded young lady who might take him out from under his stepmother’s thumb? I did not blame Miss Townsend for turning him down. I wondered if he’d admitted his defeat to anyone in the family. Had he asked other young ladies with the same result?

  “What about Sir Arthur?” Cynthia had said George considered him a parasite. “I am glad you say he is faring better.”

  “Aye, he’s resting upstairs, but he et fine this morning. His breakfast plate came back clean.”

  “He lives here?”

  Mrs. Gamble shook her head. “Not any longer. He’s recently taken rooms in Cavendish Square, near his new school. Excited as a boy about that, he is. But he’s here most nights, his feet under the supper table. Doesn’t have anyone to cook for him. Between you and me and the doorpost, he’s trying to keep in Lady Covington’s good graces. She is funding much of his precious school.”

  “So I gather.” Perhaps that was why George considered his step-uncle a parasite. If Sir Arthur persuaded his sister to pour all her money into the Polytechnic, would there be any left for her children and stepchildren?

  Sir Arthur, I mused, could have little cause to murder Lady Covington—unless she’d made a will bequeathing him a vast sum for the Polytechnic. I would have to inquire. Plus he’d have taken a great risk if he’d purposely ingested the poison himself to throw off suspicion. Poisons were tricky. Some could remain in a body long afterward and do damage years later.