Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  As he spoke, I remembered Erica becoming more and more ill, unable to move at the last. The doctor presumably had tried to get her to vomit but too late to save her.

  “It was awful,” I said quietly. “What is the plant?”

  “Oh, er . . .” Mr. Thanos read on. “It’s rhododendron.” He looked up. “Disturbing. Jove, those plants make up everyone’s garden hedge.”

  Yes, indeed, and many well-tended, dark-leafed specimens lined the large garden behind Lady Covington’s house.

  20

  Mr. Thanos continued reading aloud, but I scarcely heard him. That the plant was so ready to hand in Lady Covington’s garden cemented the fact that the poisoner was someone in her house. Every member of the family and all of the staff had access to the garden. Symes, of course, more than most.

  It was one thing to have a supply of the plant, I told myself, trying to quell my zeal, quite another to know how to harvest it and introduce it into Lady Covington’s food. One would have to grind up the stems or leaves or boil them down, and it would have to be done in secret.

  Mr. Thanos continued to read. “It says the honey that bees make of the flowers is poisonous. Beekeepers must be aware of what pollen their bees feed on.” He grimaced. “That will make me look at a pot of honey a bit more warily, to be certain.”

  “Indeed, it will me too. Thank you, Mr. Thanos. Will you mark that page and put the book where you can find it again?”

  Mr. Thanos blinked up at me. “Pardon? Oh, right. Is this helpful?”

  “It is immensely helpful.”

  I waited until Mr. Thanos found a folded paper to mark the place in the book—I hoped the paper did not contain some important breakthrough in a mathematical problem—and tucked the book into the bottom drawer of his desk, which was remarkably empty.

  “Now to the other point,” I said. “Lady Cynthia.”

  Mr. Thanos’s face became a dark shade of red. He unhooked his spectacles and held them nervously. “Yes? How is she?”

  “Quite well. Now, listen, please. I noted how ably she wrote out your equations for you when you were explaining formulas at your lecture at the Crystal Palace.”

  Mr. Thanos took on a faraway look. “Yes, she did it splendidly.”

  “She tells me she often helps you write things when you are distracted.”

  He nodded. “She has been a boon to me. I’d never have finished my paper for the mathematics society if she hadn’t aided me.”

  “Excellent. Why not, when you begin your lectures here at the Polytechnic, take her on as an assistant? She can write your equations on the board or hand you papers you need or find books for you . . .” I had no idea what Mr. Thanos did during his lectures or for his research, but he and Cynthia would.

  Mr. Thanos brightened a moment, then his excitement dimmed. “I’d be chuffed to, but Lady Cynthia is a woman.” He pointed this out as though I was not acquainted with the fact. “The Polytechnic is for young men.”

  “She will be keeping your equations neat, not enrolling,” I argued. “Besides, I hear of plenty of young ladies—wives as well as unmarried misses—who assist in scientific endeavors, here and in America.” Mr. Davis had been reading me bits about ladies who were helping astronomers study the nature of stars and planets. Some of the women had become quite learned and highly regarded.

  “That is true.” Mr. Thanos brightened again. “The ladies compute things, which takes much skill, more than most believe.” He fell silent, staring through the dusty window at the brick backs of houses in Cavendish Square.

  “I am certain you can convince Sir Arthur, once he has fully recovered, that Lady Cynthia would be of great help to you. He has met her and seen that she can write things out without making a mistake.”

  “She can.” The warmth in Mr. Thanos’s eyes was gratifying. “She makes fewer mistakes than I do. I get into a rush, my mind is on the next thing and the next, and my hand cannot keep up.”

  “There, you see? Speak to Sir Arthur. Be insistent if he objects. Dear Cynthia is a clever young woman, and she should be able to exercise that cleverness. If she can be useful, perhaps her parents and aunt will cease pushing her at unsuitable young men.”

  I had more in mind than simply finding Cynthia something to do, but I saw no need to worry Mr. Thanos about my ideas at the moment.

  Mr. Thanos squared his shoulders. “Right. I will persuade Sir Arthur. You can depend on it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Thanos.” I breathed an inward sigh of relief. Task accomplished. “Please enjoy the lemon cake.”

  “I will, I will. Thank you, Mrs. Holloway. You are kindness itself.”

  “You exaggerate, Mr. Thanos, but I will take the compliment. Thank you very much for your help, sir, and good day. I will tell Lady Cynthia you give her your regards.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I visited the markets in Oxford Street, filling my now empty basket with greens. I remembered Lady Covington’s offer to take what I wanted from her kitchen garden, but I would not have time to visit it today. I would return there soon, however, and look closely at the rhododendron shrubbery. Would I find traces of cuttings? Or would I be able to tell a surreptitious cutting from the usual trimming the gardener did?

  Thus musing, I returned home and began preparations for supper. I saw no sign of Lord Clifford as I went to ask Mr. Davis for a bold red wine to add to my braised beef. He brought out a rich burgundy and uncorked it for me.

  “His lordship should have all the bottles he needs in his chamber,” Mr. Davis said dryly. “One entire shelf is gone.” He gestured to the dark interior of the wine cellar.

  “Then he won’t be back for more right away,” I said, trying to soothe him. “Perhaps he’ll retire to the country again soon.”

  Mr. Davis sighed. “Lady Cynthia is an honest and good-hearted girl. Such a pity about her relations.”

  “I agree.” I paused, thinking through all that I’d learned about Lady Covington and her family as well as Mr. Thanos’s revelations. “Do you recall, Mr. Davis, an account of a train accident about some years ago? It would have been in all the newspapers, presumably. I’m not certain exactly when. Or even where.”

  “You mean the one in Oxfordshire?” Mr. Davis closed the wine cellar’s door and locked it with a key on a chain attached to his waistcoat. “About seven years, as I recall, if it’s the same accident. There are so many, unfortunately. But you are speaking about Lord Covington’s railway.”

  “Indeed, I am,” I said in surprise.

  “I heard Lord Clifford discussing it in the dining room,” Mr. Davis explained. “He brought it up, as Lady Cynthia has been staying at the Covington house. Not the sort of conversation I’d think agreeable over the fish course, but Mr. Bywater seemed interested. I had a friend who had meant to travel on that very train from Oxford to London and decided at the last minute to go the following day. Made his hair white when he read the accounts, he said.”

  “Lady Covington’s first husband perished in that crash. Do you remember if Baron Covington was blamed?”

  Mr. Davis scratched his head then absently straightened his hairpiece. “It was a bad one, as I recall. Killed, oh, seventy-five people, and maimed others for life. Apparently, a set of wheels failed on one car. The brakeman tried to stop the train, but the brakes weren’t connected from car to car, and the back carriages uncoupled. Those were all right—they glided to a stop, but the front five or six carriages kept going while the bad wheels pulled them off the track. Twisted the carriages right around before the engineer noticed and could halt. By then it was wreckage, with people trapped.” He shivered. “Horrible. Lord Covington’s company was sued by many and almost was shut down, but apparently, they talked their way into staying in business. Promises to make improvements, payments for the funerals of those who didn’t survive, pensions for the injured.”

 
“Terrible,” I said feelingly. Trains were practical and had their uses, but they were unpredictable machines.

  “Covington’s railway line did truncate,” Mr. Davis went on. “They lost the western region, I believe, and now their trains run mostly in the south and southeast.”

  Such as the trains I’d taken to Sydenham to visit the Crystal Palace. I shivered. “I imagine few wanted to travel on their line after that.”

  “Not necessarily. Most of us don’t know who owns the trains we board, or care, as long as they take us in the right direction. And people forget, or reason that trains are safer now. Which is true. Improvements were made to connect brakes across cars because of that wreck.”

  I wondered, though, about the victims, or those who’d lost loved ones. Did they forget? Harriet and Jonathan had lost their father, though why they’d blame their mother or try to murder her for it, I did not know.

  “Thank you, Mr. Davis. You have been very helpful.”

  Mr. Davis tapped his temple with his forefinger. “You’d be surprised what’s up here, Mrs. Holloway, after a lifetime of experience and reading my newspapers.”

  We parted, me with wine ready to use with my beef. I braised it and added potatoes and carrots, a hearty meal, such as Mr. Bywater liked. In deference to Lady Clifford’s preference for lighter eating, I made a salad and clear soup to be served alongside it.

  While I shoveled the night’s loaf of bread into the oven, James turned up.

  “I’m famished.” He gazed in longing at a pan of beef Tess stirred with a long spoon and the strawberry tart waiting on the dresser. “Went all the way to Surrey and back to deliver your note.”

  “Sit down there.” I pointed to the end of the table. “Tess, cut off a bit of the ham left over from luncheon and a spoonful of hash. The lad needs feeding.”

  Tess grinned and disappeared to carry out my orders.

  “Your father understands what I wrote him?” I asked.

  James nodded. “Seems to. Was right angry at Uncle Errol. Heard the two of them having a bit of a barney.”

  A barney was a loud quarrel. “I hope the Duke of Daventry didn’t hear them.”

  “Nah, they were out in the park a long way from the house, by themselves. Standing still, like any two gentlemen enjoying nature, but hammering away at each other. With words, I mean.”

  “As long as Mr. Fielding agrees to help.”

  “I think he will. He was long faced when they came back to me, and said he knew you were behind everything. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I said I reckoned that was true.”

  “Good.” I gave a decided nod. “I hope Mr. Fielding plays his part and all goes well.” The duke was a dangerous man, I was coming to understand, but Daniel and Mr. Fielding were too. The one not prepared to deal with real danger was Cynthia’s father.

  Tess brought the ham and hash and set it in front of James. James lost all interest in machinations between me and his father and tucked in.

  Lost in thought, I finished preparing the beef and the rest of the meal.

  After the upstairs had eaten their supper, Mr. Davis returned to the kitchen and told me what had been discussed at table—Lord Clifford declared he’d return to Surrey in the morning for the Duke of Daventry’s house party that continued through the weekend. Lady Clifford had decided that she preferred the theatre and other outings to walking in the country, and would remain in London.

  Lady Cynthia had expressed her wish to return to Lady Covington’s to help her through her difficulties, and would leave in the morning. There was no talk at all, Mr. Davis said gleefully, of Lady Cynthia and marriage.

  Good, I thought with satisfaction. Lord Clifford was holding up his end of the bargain.

  In the morning, Tess took her day out. I sent her off with extra crullers to give to Caleb, to express my thanks for his help.

  I learned, however, that Caleb hadn’t been as discreet as he could have been. When Tess returned late that afternoon, Caleb entered with her, and behind him came Inspector McGregor.

  21

  Few things unnerved me more than a policeman in my kitchen. When my husband had died at sea, a policeman had come to the house where I’d worked as an assistant cook. The police sergeant had found one of my letters to my husband and realized I’d borne his daughter. The sergeant had not visited me to break the news gently, but to demand to know if I had any of my husband’s possessions, which by rights belonged to his wife.

  Since I’d believed I was his wife, the report had been a double blow.

  When I beheld Caleb in his smart uniform, brass buttons up to his chin, I had a moment of light-headedness. Ten years dropped away, and I was the frightened young woman wondering how on earth I would raise my child with no husband and no widow’s portion.

  I drew a deep breath and willed my heart to beat normally again. Caleb was a good soul, not the sneering sergeant who’d insisted on searching for my husband’s belongings in the rooms I’d let at a boardinghouse.

  Inspector McGregor, in his usual rumpled suit, removed a faded hat and eyed me in annoyance over his thick mustache.

  “Mrs. Holloway, if you will lend me a few moments.”

  I had no time at all for him, but Tess sent me a look of apology as she reached for her apron.

  “I’ll take over, Mrs. H. The inspector promised he’d not keep you long.”

  “Very well.” I wiped my floury hands and, without removing my apron, beckoned the inspector to follow me down the hall to the housekeeper’s parlor.

  Mrs. Redfern spent little time in this parlor, as she insisted on being upstairs to direct the maids in their work. Very conscientious, was Mrs. Redfern, never shirking her duties to sip tea with her feet up.

  The parlor was empty. Inspector McGregor had been in this room before, but these days it was painfully neat, Mrs. Redfern having organized the previous chaos. My few cookbooks were lined up on one shelf in the corner, untouched by all but me.

  “Will you sit, Inspector?” I waved him to the soft wing chair that was a recent acquisition.

  He waited like a gentleman until I perched on the edge of the Belter chair before he took his seat.

  “Mrs. Holloway, you are corrupting my constables,” he rumbled.

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector.” I faced him without flinching, resting my hands on my knees, and forced myself to meet his keen stare. “I am naturally curious to find out what truly happened to Erica Hume.”

  “Yes, McAdam informed me you were there when she died.” Inspector McGregor scowled as though I’d planted myself at Erica’s side to make things difficult for him. “And that you believe she was killed by mistake, the poison meant for Lady Covington.”

  “Precisely,” I said crisply. “Lady Covington is still in danger, and as far as I can see, the police are doing little about it.”

  “Because the police believe the death is accidental.” McGregor’s mustache bobbed with his words. “Poisonous leaves from the garden got into the food, and Mrs. Hume consumed enough to kill her.”

  “Which is nonsense . . .”

  Inspector McGregor held up a hand. “I said the police in general are convinced, not me. I would have been, if McAdam hadn’t told me of your interest. You are a confounded busybody, Mrs. Holloway, but I have learned you are usually right about things.”

  I was pleased he thought so, but I did not feel clever allowing Erica to die. “Not always.”

  “Often enough. That is why I’ve come. Instead of throwing yourself in front of a crazed poisoner, tell me everything you’ve discovered, and I’ll make an arrest before you are killed.”

  “Very amusing.” I knew he was correct that I had been reckless in the past, but then, I’d more than once had to lay hands on a killer when the police were nowhere in sight. Not alone, of course—Daniel had obligingly assisted. “Unfortunately, I hav
e been able to find out very little in this case. I have toyed with the idea that Mrs. Hume was the intended victim all along, but I confess I have given up the notion.”

  “Lady Covington is the more likely target,” Inspector McGregor said with a decided nod. “She has wealth that can buy Park Lane ten times over. In fact, her first husband, Morris, owned several unentailed properties across England, and Lady Covington inherited the lot, held in trust for her son until she dies. She’d live well on the rents even if the late Mr. Morris hadn’t also left her a huge sum in the bank. The new Baron Covington doesn’t have half as much. When the present Lady Covington married Lord Covington, all assumed she’d pour her money into his railway, but she did not. The cash and property were tied up in trust so her new husband did not automatically take over. Morris knew what he was doing.”

  “Mr. Morris died tragically in a train accident,” I said. “He’d certainly prepared well for his wife’s living.”

  “Yes, the Heyford crash of January 1875.” Inspector McGregor settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Morris was in one of the first-class carriages, traveling from Coventry southeast to London. He’d made a business trip, as part of his position on the railway board. He was partly blamed for the wreck, but exonerated, as he would never have taken that train himself if he hadn’t believed it perfectly safe, and also because he wasn’t alive to make amends.”

  “I had wondered if someone resented Lady Covington enough over that to kill her.”

  Inspector McGregor shrugged. “Lady Covington always avowed her husband had done no wrong. Many lawsuits were leveled at the railway company, but it paid out, and all was finished. They had to cease operation on that branch of the line, but within a few years began to make back the money they’d lost concentrating on travel to the southeast.”