Lord Clifford’s mouth dropped open. “Jove. How did you know?”
I shook my head, my dismay complete. “You might be the one who’s been had, your lordship. I do hope the necklace doesn’t make its way into his pocket.”
“What does she mean?” Lord Clifford asked Cynthia. To me he said, “The necklace the duke has is worthless, my dear. I have a dozen of the things.”
“You were trying to sell the Duke of Daventry false diamonds?” I asked in alarm. “He’ll have the law on you.”
Cynthia was shaking her head. “It’s not so simple, Mrs. H.”
Lord Clifford looked rueful. “What I showed him was the real thing, a family heirloom, as I told him. Then after he pocketed the necklace, I took it back, substituting one of paste. I certainly wasn’t going to leave my wife’s favorite necklace with him in truth.”
I recalled how Lord Clifford had clapped the duke forcefully on the shoulder, which now I realized had been to distract him while he’d done what my old pals had called a “dip.”
Cynthia heaved a sigh. “Let me explain, Mrs. H. You see, my father finds a man—or woman, he’s not particular—who wants money, lots of it. Papa trots up to him, usually at a large do, like the Duke of Daventry’s garden party today, and says either that his wife is worried about losing her necklace, or that he’s bought it for her as a surprise and worries about losing it himself. Would the duke hold on to it for him? Perhaps somewhere secure in his very secure home?”
I nodded as she seemed to want a response, but I wasn’t certain how this would make Lord Clifford or the duke any money.
“Exit Papa. Enter the friend—Papa’s friend, that is. He or she will purport to be a total stranger to Papa. He—in this case, Mr. Fielding—notices the necklace in the duke’s pocket or perhaps says he saw Papa handing it to him. Mr. Fielding asks to see it. He’s a trustworthy cleric, so the duke finds no harm in it. Mr. Fielding examines it, exclaims that it’s a masterpiece, and very costly. Would the duke sell it to him? Or perhaps to a wealthy friend or relative of Mr. Fielding’s, as vicars can be notoriously poor. Duke says, Sorry, old chap, it’s not mine. Holding on to it for a friend. Mr. Fielding says his relative or rich friend would pay several thousand guineas for it. He then hands the duke his card, saying if the duke changes his mind or convinces the owner to sell, then write or wire. Mr. Fielding toddles away. Then Papa turns up again. He’s sorrowful, with some story about debts, and if only he could sell the necklace, he could cover them. Would the duke be interested?”
“Oh,” I said. “I am beginning to understand.”
Lord Clifford broke in. “Yes, it’s all up to the duke, don’t you see? If he’s an honest man, he’ll offer me the several thousand guineas Mr. Fielding did, knowing that’s what the necklace is worth. But if he’s a scoundrel, which I suspect the duke is, he’ll say he feels sorry for me and will offer me a fraction of that, perhaps a few hundred quid. He can easily part with that much. Then when I’m gone, he writes to Mr. Fielding, says he now owns the necklace, and he’ll sell, thinking to himself he’ll reap several thousand guineas without having done a day’s work.” Lord Clifford shook his head, disparaging of the duke’s chicanery.
“Then Mr. Fielding never answers,” I said slowly. “The duke is out a few hundred pounds and is the proud owner of a paste necklace.”
“She’s got it,” Lord Clifford said approvingly to Cynthia. “A clever young lady, as I suspected.”
Cynthia scowled at him. “And if Daventry decides to seek you out and demand to know what the devil you meant by it?”
“Why should he?” Lord Clifford opened his hazel eyes wide. “I’ve done nothing wrong. He’s the greedy toad who tried to cheat me out of several thousand guineas. If he discovers the necklace he has now is fake and upbraids me about it, I can claim I had no idea. A very good copy is worth a bit anyway, so he’d have paid a fair price. Mr. Fielding has done nothing wrong either. He never promised to buy the thing, only asked the duke to write him.”
I could see the cleverness of Lord Clifford’s plan, but only if their victim did not put together that he and Mr. Fielding knew each other. Knew each other well by now. I ought to have known two rogues would get on together.
“Tomorrow, you will go back and fetch that necklace.” Cynthia shook a finger at her father. “You will thank the duke for keeping it safe and you will say nothing about needing to sell it. Bring the damned thing home.”
“Such language in front of the staff, Cynthia—”
“No.” I cut into the argument. Father and daughter turned to stare at me. “No, I believe your lordship could do some good with this. Do return to the duke, and do try to sell the necklace to him. Let him contact Mr. Fielding and have Mr. Fielding actually purchase the necklace. If the police are right, and the duke is trying to fund anarchists, he will be happy for a quick way to make several thousand guineas. The police can watch what happens to those funds, and perhaps catch him in the act.”
19
My, my.” Lord Clifford looked me up and down in admiration. “I was right about your cook, Cynthia. An uncommonly clever young lady. And she can turn her hand to a decent pudding.”
“You are trusting in my father a great deal, Mrs. H.,” Cynthia said in warning. “I think I should just tell Mummy and let her have a word with him.”
“Now, Cynthia, darling, do not be so hasty.” Lord Clifford tried a laugh. “Mrs. Holloway is correct—I can do some good here. Help out jolly old England. Your mum never needs to know how I go about it.”
“Because you promised and promised her you’d never do this again.” Cynthia glowered. “You promised me as well.”
“Dash it all, we truly are hard-pressed, Cyn. I am not exaggerating when I say the house and lands are an appalling expense. I do not tell your mother all this, because I don’t want to upset her.”
“But you are willing to go along with her scheme of marrying me off to a wealthy simpleton?” Cynthia demanded. “One with enough money to help you, but not enough brains to understand you are gouging him.”
“As to that . . .” Lord Clifford laid gentle hands on Cynthia’s shoulders. “You do not need to worry about marrying right away. Plenty of time, my dear. You are a beautiful young lady. Any chap would leap at the chance to take you to wife.”
“Only because they believe an earl’s daughter will bring them wealth and position. More fool they.” Cynthia’s tone softened. “I think we can come to some sort of arrangement, don’t you, Papa?”
“Indeed. Indeed.” Lord Clifford released Cynthia and rubbed his hands. “Of course. Be entertaining to use my powers to do some good, what?”
“Not on your own.” Cynthia became stern again. “Mrs. H., I think we need to let him be guided by Mr. McAdam.”
“I agree,” I said. “He will instruct you, but you must do exactly what he says.”
Lord Clifford blinked. “Who the devil is Mr. McAdam?”
“The fatuous idiot, Mr. Lancaster,” I said.
I admit I drew great satisfaction from the astonishment on Lord Clifford’s face.
* * *
* * *
Daniel must have remained in Surrey, because he did not visit that night. I chafed, needing to tell him about Lord Clifford and how I thought his ruse could assist Daniel’s mission. I wanted to put my hands on Mr. Fielding as well, to shake him soundly.
But whatever went on in the world, I had to cook breakfast for the household the next morning. Tess and I poached eggs, fried ham, and toasted bread, and I made up a hollandaise sauce for the eggs. I was so distracted by my thoughts that the sauce almost turned—reverting to eggs and butter. Tess relieved me of it and beat in a squeeze of lemon juice and cold water, as I had taught her, and all was well.
Once the staff had finished their breakfast of the hash I made from the extra ham and leftover potatoes and had gone about their duties,
the kitchen quieted. I sent Charlie, when he could be spared, to find James, who had likely spent the night in his father’s rooms in Southampton Street, judging from the direction he’d run when he left the hansom. I gave Charlie a note and strict instructions to deliver it into James’s hands.
While he was gone and Elsie was up to her elbows in suds in the scullery, Tess approached me.
“Caleb dropped by on his beat this morning,” she said in a loud whisper. “He says the police know what the poison is.”
I ceased kneading bread dough and stared at her, flour drifting from my hands. “Do they? Inspector McGregor must have chivvied the Sydenham coroner.”
“Suppose.” Tess leaned closer, smelling of the fresh herbs she’d been chopping. “Inspector McGregor didn’t say nothing about it, but Caleb had a butcher’s at the report when no one was looking.”
“He ought not to have done that,” I said in worry. I wanted very much to know what was in the report, but I did not wish Caleb to get into trouble.
“He’s very careful, and besides, he could always say he’s interested and wants to help. The poison was . . .” Tess’s brow puckered. “Something with a long, fancy name. Caleb didn’t know what it was either. He copied it out for me.” Tess drew a scrap of paper from her pocket and handed it to me. “I don’t even want to try to pronounce it.”
I studied the long scientific words, carefully written in block capitals: carbohydrate andromedotoxin. “Means nothing to me,” I said, studying the paper. “I will have to look it up.”
“Can you? Where would ya look up things like that?”
“In a medical textbook. Or I could ask a chemist. Or consult with a brilliant man who knows almost everything.”
Tess relaxed. “You mean Mr. Thanos, don’t you? Give him me best. Is that helpful?” She pointed at the paper.
“I believe it will be, once I know what it means.”
“Good.” Tess grinned and skipped back to her herbs. “I hope you find whoever’s doing this. How’s a cook to keep her post if people drop dead in the dining room?”
She had a good point.
Once we had luncheon prepared enough that I could leave Tess to it, I took up my basket and headed for the greengrocers. I walked a circuitous route that put me on Regent Street in front of the house where Mr. Thanos now had rooms.
For all my pains, Mr. Thanos was not in. His landlady told me he’d gone to the Polytechnic.
That building was closer to the markets than Mr. Thanos’s abode, so I’d come out of my way for nothing. I held my basket closer and trudged up Regent Street toward Cavendish Square.
I gazed for a long time at the many-columned structure that was the Polytechnic and wondered how on earth I’d find Mr. Thanos inside it. This was a place of learning, and not even open yet—they’d commence in September. For now, lecturers were preparing their curriculum and the building was being repaired.
I decided to do what I’d do in any house, and walked around to the back and down a short flight of stairs to the servants’ entrance.
“Can you tell me how to find Mr. Elgin Thanos?” I asked a passing maid, who carried a broom and duster. “I have an important delivery for him.” I patted my covered basket.
The woman was stout and red-faced, her hair damp under a limp white cap. Not much air moved in this corridor, and it was warm.
Her surly expression at my interruption softened at the mention of Mr. Thanos’s name. “Ah, he’s a one. Such a kind young man. He’s in his rooms, dear. Want me to take it to him?” She reached out a work-reddened hand.
I carefully backed a step. “No, indeed. It is very sensitive, and I was told to deliver it in person.” I changed my stilted tones to the ones I was born with. “Do help me out, love. I’ll be in a world of trouble if this thing don’t reach Mr. Thanos unbroken.”
The woman nodded sympathetically. “Aye, they’re particular about their machines, ain’t they? Up you go. He’s on the second floor, back corner on the right as you’re looking from the street. His digs ain’t large, but he don’t seem to mind. Not like some of the others.”
“I imagine there’s much fighting over the big rooms in this new place,” I said, to be conversational.
“Aye, you’re right, there. Men of learning can be like children.” The maid shook her head.
“Well, thank you, love,” I said, deciding our chat had wound to its close. “I’d best be getting on.”
The maid nodded to me cordially, and I hurried away. The back stairs were wide and steep, and I was puffing by the time I’d reached the second floor. I followed the maid’s instructions through the empty halls to the rear of the building where an open door spilled sunlight into the corridor.
I peeked into this chamber and saw Mr. Thanos hunched over a desk, face in his hand, as he read papers spread before him.
The desk took up most of the tiny room, and the rest of the space was crammed with bookcases. Books of every size and shape filled the shelves, some lying across rows of others. Papers hung out of boxes stacked on the same shelves, and the desk was awash with paper and more books, some opened over others.
Mr. Thanos abruptly seized a pen and made a swift note, muttering under his breath. “No, it does not follow that sequence. Where did you learn mathematics, Elgin, old fellow? Blast it, I shall have to rewrite half of this bloody—”
I cleared my throat.
Mr. Thanos jerked his head up, sunlight from the small window catching on the thick lenses of his spectacles. Another man might have snarled at the interruption, from a servant no less, but Mr. Thanos, after a startled look, leapt to his feet, a wide smile spreading across his face.
“Mrs. Holloway, what a wonderful surprise. I say, you’ve come in time to save my sanity.” Mr. Thanos tossed down the pen, splattering ink across his pages, then tore off his glasses and sent them after the pen. The spectacles landed solidly in a splash of ink.
“I’ve brought you a delivery.” I set the basket on the least-cluttered corner of the desk and lifted out a wrapped parcel. “Lemon cake, a large hunk of it. I made more today and decided you likely weren’t feeding yourself.”
“That’s what Cyn—Lady Cynthia says. So does my landlady.”
“Well, you’ll be able to nourish yourself with this.”
“You are too kind.” Mr. Thanos lifted the parcel and took a sniff, closing his eyes. “I will be quite ready to tuck into that. Thank you for thinking of me, Mrs. Holloway.”
“I do confess it was not only kindness that brought me.” I left the basket and drew Tess’s paper out of my pocket. “I came to see you about several things. One is, do you know what sort of chemical this is?”
Mr. Thanos took the paper and peered at it, then groped behind him for his spectacles. He brought them to his face, pursed his lips when he saw the ink on them, and thrust his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief, losing hold of the paper in the process.
I retrieved the scrap from the floor and held it until Mr. Thanos had cleaned the glasses, returned the handkerchief, and looped the spectacles around his ears.
“Now.” He stared at the words on the paper. “Hmm.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“Can’t say that I do.” Mr. Thanos held the paper up to the light, as though that would give him the answer. “But let us see, shall we?”
He turned to his bookshelves and stepped onto a small ladder, eagerly scanning the books’ spines. “I inherited this lot from the last chap who had this office, before the old Polytechnic shut down. Chap went to South America to study the stars. Just imagine . . .” Mr. Thanos drew a breath, letting his mind wander to the joy of staring at the heavens from the southern latitudes. “Ah well. Plenty to do here. His library has a bit of everything in it. I swore I saw some excellent tomes on botany.”
“Botany?” I moved closer to the bookcase and scr
utinized the titles, all of which were very long and printed in minuscule type.
Mr. Thanos shook the paper. “This is a chemical found in plants. I’m certain I should know it, but botany is not my field, and neither is chemistry. Mathematics is very consuming. Ah, here we are.”
He extracted a tome and flipped it open, quickly becoming absorbed in a page.
“Does it tell you what the poison is?” I asked after a few minutes had ticked past.
“Hmm?” Mr. Thanos’s head popped up. “Oh, no, I beg your pardon. This is an essay on the history of pi. Pi, the number.” He chuckled. “Not your excellent pastries.”
“I see,” I said, a trifle impatiently.
“I will save it for later.” Mr. Thanos tossed the book to the desk, where it landed across the pages he had been working on. “These shelves are a treasure trove of knowledge.” He seized another book and thrust it in front of me. The Taxonomy of the Flora of Britain, Native and Introduced, the title on the front said. There were more words, but Mr. Thanos whipped the book away and leapt from the ladder.
He laid this book more carefully on the desk and opened it to an index in the back. I thought he’d consult the scrap of paper again, but Mr. Thanos ran his finger along a column, paused at one line, and then flipped pages. He stopped at one and slapped it.
“There. You see?”
An entry for andromedotoxin started in the middle of the page and filled one column with very small print. I skimmed the words but understood perhaps one in three.
“Could you explain, please, Mr. Thanos? Botany is not my field either, apart from what growing things I can put into sauces.”
“Of course.” Mr. Thanos paused and gave a breathy laugh. “Very good, Mrs. Holloway. Now, this toxin is pretty nasty—apparently in minuscule amounts it causes nausea and loose bowels. In greater amounts, the victim will have convulsions then slowly lose function of the body and become paralyzed, while the heart rate drops dramatically. They will slip into unconsciousness and die if the poison is not removed from their system within six hours.” Mr. Thanos shuddered. “How awful.”
Death at the Crystal Palace Page 20
