“Perhaps.” I had no wish for her to go blundering in with some mad scheme in her enthusiasm. “Now, pay attention, and I will teach you a new pudding.”
I had procured the meat of a coconut from a vendor not long ago. It had been a bit dear, but I’d kept it wrapped in paper and now shredded it into a jug of cream.
Now to combine the spice mixture. “Star anise, a bay leaf, cinnamon, vanilla, and a scraping of nutmeg,” I said, dropping each into a pot. “Mixed with a little cocoa powder and water. Grated chocolate would be best, but I could not find any that did not cost the earth. We warm this on the stove for a time, and then add it to our custard.”
Tess was fascinated by the coconut. She prodded the shredded, wet mass with her spoon. “I saw a coconut tree once at Kew Gardens. Big, tall palm, it was, with nuts as big as me head.”
“A wonder of the world,” I agreed. “We are lucky to be able to have such foods from all parts of the planet.”
“Sun never sets on the British Empire, they say,” Tess said, then she let out a laugh. “And it never shows its face in London.”
I finished the spice infusion, simmered it a time on the stove, then let it cool. Meanwhile I had Tess combine the coconut mixture with cream I’d boiled and sweetened a few days before. I strained the infusion into the creams and added a beaten egg, then the whole thing went into a pudding basin and into the oven.
“We have to watch it carefully so it doesn’t scorch,” I warned.
Tess, busy licking the spoon and bowl, couldn’t be bothered to answer.
The custard did turn out, and I sent it up for supper in individual cups nestled in a bowl of ice to keep them cool. For the rest of the meal, I did salmon, a soup of thinly sliced vegetables, filets of beef with asparagus, a salad, and a whole chicken. As usual, the plates came back empty.
Sometime later, as the kitchen calmed and after Tess had gone up to bed, I drew a much-needed breath and set a kettle on for tea.
I truly did not wish Cynthia to return to Lady Covington’s and endanger herself, but on the other hand, she was my eyes and ears inside the house. I did not trust the servants there—Symes might be sweet on me, but if he was loyal to whoever was poisoning Lady Covington, he’d hardly give the person up to me. He might even be pretending interest in me to steer me wrong.
A step brought me out of my contemplation. The figure of a man emerged from the cavernous darkness of the hall, a chance beam of light gleaming on his thinning hair, sharp face, and lines of narrow sideburns.
“Your lordship?” I curtsied, but kept near my table, aware of how alone I was. The kitchen echoed my words.
“Mrs. Holloway.” Lord Clifford entered, his shoulders slightly stooped under his tailor-made coat. “I came to tell you how much I enjoyed your pudding—the custard with the unusual spices. Most excellent.”
I curtsied again. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t be stiff-necked, my girl.” Lord Clifford came closer without unease, a man used to making his way into anyplace he liked. “I often descend to praise a good cook. And give her a token of my appreciation.” He dipped his hand into his frock coat and emerged with a coin.
A gold sovereign. Quite a lot of money for a tip. A cook could expect to be given a penny for her trouble, or perhaps a shilling if the person decided to be generous.
An entire pound was unheard of. If I tried to spend that, I might be taken for a thief or a counterfeiter.
“You are very kind, your lordship, but I cannot accept so much.”
“Absolute rot.” Lord Clifford opened his hazel eyes wide. “Of course you should have this. You earned it.”
I could discern where Cynthia obtained her casual charm. Lord Clifford obviously thought nothing of wandering downstairs and chucking high-value coins at a cook.
When I said nothing, Lord Clifford tossed the coin onto the table. It rolled across the flour I’d spread out to knead the piecrust for tomorrow’s breakfast tart. The coin teetered, spun, and clattered to rest on the flour-dusted board.
“Thank you, your lordship,” I said, as he seemed to be waiting for me to acknowledge the gift.
“And perhaps you won’t say a word to your supercilious butler about a bottle or two finding their way to my chamber.” Lord Clifford winked at me and touched the side of his nose.
So that was his game. Butter up the cook so she’ll let him abscond with Lord Rankin’s best vintage.
“Papa?” Cynthia’s voice rang down the passageway, and Lord Clifford winced, like a boy caught out of school. “What are you doing down here? Nicking more wine, are you?”
Lord Clifford flushed as Cynthia strode into the kitchen and halted beside him. Her suit was a mirror of her father’s.
“I was simply rewarding Mrs. Holloway for a meal well cooked,” he protested. “You are far too distrustful, my dear.”
“I know you well, is all.” Cynthia tucked her arm through Lord Clifford’s. “Mummy is searching for you.”
Lord Clifford glanced heavenward. “She wants to drag me to some dreary play in a musty theatre. Why aren’t you going with her, daughter? It’s the Season, isn’t it? The time when young ladies swathe themselves in jewels and try to catch a man’s eye. You’ll never marry at this rate, and you know you must.”
Cynthia kept her tone even. “I am exhausted and shocked from the events last evening.”
“Oh, right. The young lady dropping dead in the middle of the Crystal Palace. Was all over the newspapers. Poor thing.” To Lord Clifford’s credit, he did sound sad.
“It was awful. Yet Mrs. Holloway came home and made spectacular meals all day for us. You ought to give her a thousand guineas, Papa, not one small sovereign.”
Cynthia was being ridiculous, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“I would if I could, my love.” Lord Clifford squeezed Cynthia’s arm fondly. “Where have you been disappearing to, eh? Your aunt and uncle are dull as ditchwater, and your mother leaves me to them, pretending to need to rest all the blasted time. You ought to rescue me.”
“I’ve been staying with Lady Covington, remember?” Cynthia said. “Mummy did tell you.”
“I didn’t realize they would absorb you and leave you no time for your poor pater. Covington.” Lord Clifford’s brow furrowed. “That name calls something to mind, besides the poor woman who died. Hmm. Railways—that is it.”
“The late Lord Covington owned a railway,” Cynthia said. “The family still owns it, and the new Lord Covington sits with his stepmum on the board of directors. Dear old George has no idea what to do with this railway, according to Lady Covington.”
“No, that wasn’t it.” Lord Clifford tapped his lip in thought. “Ah, I have it. A jolly big crash some six or seven or so years back. Train was mangled, about seventy or so people killed. Tragic. Faulty wheel or some such thing. It was Covington’s railway, I’m certain.”
“Lady Covington’s first husband died in that railway accident,” I said, startled into joining the conversation.
“Did he now?” Cynthia asked. “Explains why none of the family wants to mention it. How safe are a man’s trains when one kills him?”
“Quite,” Lord Clifford agreed.
I had to wonder, in light of this discussion, whether Harriet or Jonathan blamed their mother for their father’s death. Perhaps they were taking their revenge on her. Why they’d suppose Lady Covington would have anything to do with the railway accident, I did not know, but emotions are not always logical. Or perhaps their mother and father had quarreled and he’d rushed off to be away from her, taking the fateful train.
“I shall be sure to find out more about that,” Cynthia said with a nod at me. “Now, Papa, let us leave Mrs. Holloway to it. She cannot concoct her wonderful meals with us in the way. Take Mummy to the theatre and enjoy it.”
“Ghastly.” Lord Clifford shuddered. “I
t is some horrible melodrama.”
“Use the time to ingratiate yourself to the London ton. That should entertain you.”
“True.” Lord Clifford pursed his lips. “It might help with—” He broke off, darting a guilty glance at his daughter.
Cynthia’s mouth tightened. “Do rein in your tendency to dupe others, Papa. Simply make friends with them.”
Lord Clifford sent her a lofty look. “I told you, Cynthia—those days are well behind me. I was a rogue in my youth, yes, but now I am a staid old man.”
“Hardly.” Cynthia rolled her eyes. “Good night, Mrs. H. I’ll take him away.”
So saying, she tugged her father from the kitchen. He went out with every sign of reluctance, his thin voice floating back to me as he continued his complaints about being dragged to the theatre.
I eyed the gold sovereign that lay forgotten in a puff of flour. I could call to Lord Clifford and insist he take it back, but how foolish would I be to chuck away so much money?
I lifted the coin, dusted it off, and dropped it into my pocket.
“Have they gone?”
I stifled a shriek. “James. Good heavens, lad.” I pressed my hand to my chest as James materialized out of the shadows of the scullery. “How long have you been there?”
“Since just before his lordship arrived.” James crushed his cap in his lanky hands and did not appear one bit ashamed. “Thought I’d better keep quiet while the quality were about.” He sent me a rueful look. “Wish gentlemen would toss me gold sovereigns. Most I get are farthings, and that’s to make me go away.”
“Don’t be so silly.” I took a breath, trying to calm myself. “How are you faring, James?”
“I’m well, thank you. Don’t you want to hear why me da sent me to you?”
“The thought had crossed my mind.” I stifled my eagerness by gathering up the flour where the coin had lain and tossing it into the dustbin—coins, as dear as they are, can be dirty things.
“He wants to see you, Mrs. H. At Grosvenor Chapel, where you usually meet. Now, if you’re able.”
14
I’d already had a very long day, but I assured James I would meet Daniel in the designated place. James said he’d wait for me, and not long later, he and I walked arm in arm along Mount Street to South Audley Street, then south to the tasteful building that was Grosvenor Chapel.
The chapel’s columned front and octagonal steeple were faint in the darkness, the brick facade fading into the night. James and I turned left into the lane that ran alongside the chapel, our walk ending at a large iron gate between two white pillars.
The gate was unlocked. Beyond was the churchyard, a very pleasant place to stroll on a sunny summer morning but a bit unnerving at eleven o’clock on a dark night.
Daniel solidified from the shadows of a tall tree. He wore his deliveryman’s clothes—wool coat patched at the elbows, breeches and thick socks, heavy boots, a cloth tied around his neck in lieu of a cravat.
Daniel seized my hands and, in the cover of darkness, dared kiss my lips. The houses of Mount Street rose behind us, and I hoped that Mrs. Bywater—or more likely, our busybody neighbor—did not peer from an upper window.
Daniel’s breath fogged, the air chilly. “The chapel is open for us. Shall we adjourn somewhere more comfortable?”
“Your vicar friend is quite accommodating,” I said as the three of us moved to the side door of the chapel. We’d met in the sacristy before, on another dark night, when I’d first met Mr. Fielding.
I half expected to find Mr. Fielding waiting for us, but the sacristy was empty except for a candle flickering in a holder on a shelf. Robes peeked from a closet with a half-open door, and stacks of prayer books reposed on a table.
“I did the man a favor once,” Daniel said. “We became friends.”
Great friends, I reflected, for him to give Daniel the run of the chapel in the middle of the night. The favor must have been a large one.
James showed no sign of leaving. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his frown not reassuring.
“What has happened?” I asked Daniel. I was not one who liked others to dance gently around a subject. I preferred to get it over with in one blow.
“Nothing.” Daniel took my hands again as we stood in the center of the underlit room. “Nothing disastrous anyway. I have come from Inspector McGregor.”
“Excellent. Is he investigating? Does he believe Erica was murdered? What killed her?”
Daniel stifled a laugh. “Bombard me with one question at a time, please. McGregor was not investigating, because it is not his case. The Sydenham police did the postmortem, and they have not called for any assistance from Scotland Yard. I gave McGregor all the details so he can insist on looking into it if he sees fit after he reads the reports.”
“I see.” I stemmed my impatience with effort. “What did the postmortem find?”
“The conclusions have not yet been written up.” Daniel released me. “On the other hand, I have acquaintances in the coroners’ offices, and I was able to discover the preliminary results. Mrs. Hume did die from ingesting a noxious substance, that is clear. What that substance is, they do not yet know. They’ve ruled out the most obvious poisons—arsenic, strychnine, prussic acid.”
“Then it is something much more obscure. I feared it might be.”
Daniel nodded. “The coroner wished to call it accidental food poisoning, as Sir Arthur had also been ill. Tainted food not well cooked, the hamper passed from hand to hand, left to sit in foul air. Death by misfortune.”
“You say he wished to. Did he not do so?”
“McGregor wired the Sydenham coroner and told him to search more diligently. To look for more exotic poisons. It might take some time, but rest assured, the true cause of Mrs. Hume’s death will be uncovered.”
“You mean you bent Inspector McGregor to your will.” I sent Daniel a warm look. “He’d never have bothered otherwise.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead. “Bent him to my will is going a bit far. But yes, I persuaded him. You should be flattered that he resisted until I said you thought there was something untoward going on in Baron Covington’s household.”
I gazed at him in surprise. “That convinced him? Inspector McGregor dislikes me entirely.”
“No, he does not. McGregor realizes that when you get a whiff of something, so to speak, then it is a true problem. He grumbles and growls, because he knows he will have to work harder on an obscure crime. You’ve been proved right too many times.”
“I must always catch him in a bad temper, then.” I was not certain whether to be gratified or alarmed by the inspector’s faith in me. “I suppose he does know how to smile?”
“If so, I’ve never caught him at it.”
“Well, perhaps one day.” I rubbed my gloved hands. Summer was still a month away, and the unheated room was cool. “Now then, Daniel, you did not expect me to meet you in secret, in the dark, simply to tell me that no one knows what killed Erica Hume. Or to tell me you have convinced Inspector McGregor to help. What else has happened?”
“How well you know me.” Daniel began his crooked smile, the one that had made my knees weak the first time I’d met him. “I do have a favor to ask.”
“I might have known.”
By the way James scowled, folding his arms tightly, I assumed he did not approve of this favor. Strange, because James usually stood by his father in all things.
“It is delicate.” Daniel rubbed his forehead once more, a sign he was uncomfortable. “You know I am watching a prominent man.”
“The Duke of Daventry.”
“I suppose Errol told you his exact identity,” Daniel said. “My brother has been turning up wherever I go, playing the harmless and somewhat dim-witted vicar.”
“Mr. Fielding agrees with me that I should be more informed.�
� I had asked Mr. Fielding to find out what Lord Clifford was up to, but so far he’d told me nothing of that.
Daniel cleared his throat. “Well, I will have to tell you all, if I am to ask you to help me.”
“You ought to, yes.”
“Please cease the reproving stare, Kat. I hate being less than honest with you, and your looks can skewer me to the bone.”
“Serves ya right,” James put in.
Daniel did not admonish his son, which told me more than anything else that Daniel was worried.
“Daventry is a family man,” he began. “Very keen on it, is a devoted husband and has grown children he is very fond of. He is believed to be funding anarchists—as Errol no doubt told you—but his enemies might be touting this idea to ruin him. My guv’nor sent me in because I can be careful about these distinctions.”
“Commendable.” I made an approving nod. Daniel was always fair.
“On Thursday, the Duchess of Daventry is hosting a lavish garden party at their estate in Surrey. They also have a house in Berkeley Square, which is where I am living at the moment—as far as the duke is concerned, I am the young cousin of an old school friend who is now in Canada and out of touch. The weather is fine enough that the duchess wants a garden party at the Surrey estate for several hundred guests. The duke and duchess give generously to several charities and are celebrating the success of those endeavors. They extended the invitation to me, but the duchess is keen that I bring a young lady. She believes I ought to be married by now, with a wife to look after me.”
“It is the fashion this month,” I said, even as my misgivings grew. “Mrs. Bywater and Cynthia’s mother have renewed their wish that she be wed as soon as possible. Did you wish me to ask Cynthia to accompany you? Pretend she is your fiancée or the like?”
“No, no. Lady Cynthia is known to the duke and duchess, and probably to many of the guests who will be there. Her presence would raise far too many questions and cause a scandal.” Daniel avoided my gaze. “I am asking you to do it.”
My dismay, which had begun when he began his explanation, now struck me sharply.
Death at the Crystal Palace Page 15
