“Good morning, Mrs. Holloway. I was about to send for you.”
Cynthia led me forward, but Jepson stood firmly between us and her ladyship.
Lady Covington sighed. “Jepson is trying to convince me to leave London. I am to go anywhere, she insists; the Continent perhaps. She believes I will be the next victim.”
“A jolly good idea.” Cynthia made a decided nod. “Find someplace with sunshine and put all this behind you.”
I had to agree, but I didn’t trust Jepson. If Lady Covington holed up somewhere in Southern France alone with Jepson, would she survive the retreat?
“She wishes me to go without Harriet and Jonathan.” Lady Covington’s lips tightened. “A thing I cannot do. They need me.”
“If they put a dollop of poison into your breakfast tea, it won’t matter, will it?” Jepson demanded.
“I will not flee, and I will not hide. The solution is to find out who is doing this and stop them. Do you not agree, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I do,” I had to say. “May I speak openly, your ladyship?”
Lady Covington waved a thin hand at me. Though she resumed her chair, she remained upright on it, her back ramrod straight. “You may leave us, Jepson.”
“Not likely.” Jepson firmed her jaw and faced me. “If she stays, I do. I don’t trust this cook.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lady Covington said wearily. “What did you wish to say, Mrs. Holloway?”
I began as delicately as I could. “That as long as your children are fully dependent on you, and his lordship fears to make a decision without you, you might be in danger. If your family felt more freedom to decide their own fate—”
Lady Covington cut me off with a snort. “If you are ever gifted with children, Mrs. Holloway, and you too, Cynthia, you will understand. I wish my children’s lives to be comfortable and prosperous, believe me. But if I loosen the reins on Harriet, she will throw herself at a poor nobody who will take her to live in wretched rooms in some run-down house. How do you believe she will fare? Within a year, she will be back here, her marriage in ruins, and no more prospects for a better one. I love Jonathan dearly—he is a good boy—but I am not a fool. He gives money away, helping his friends mostly, but his generosity will be his downfall.”
Jepson stared at her in disbelief. “Helping his friends? I beg your pardon, my lady, for speaking out of turn, but he gambles that money away. In the clubs and at the racing meets.”
“Gossip.” Lady Covington’s voice turned hard. “I thought you of all people would know better than to listen to it, Jepson. His friends are softheaded with money and get themselves into trouble, time and again. Jonathan is too kind to them.”
I recalled the cook’s assessment of Jonathan and rather agreed with Jepson. I loved Grace dearly, but I hoped I would not be so blinded if she suddenly turned into a reckless young woman who got herself into gambling scrapes.
“As for George.” Lady Covington looked exasperated. “Giving him his head would be the worst thing I could do. He has no idea how to run a business. Thank heavens there are a few others on the board with sense. Even Mr. Amos, the secretary Harriet is potty about, is far wiser than George.”
“Perhaps Mr. Amos should be given more to do,” I suggested gently. “If he is an intelligent young man, if he had more say in the company . . . I have no idea how railways are run, but he might go far if you let him.”
“Excellent idea,” Cynthia agreed. “If you’re not careful, Harriet will elope with this fellow. Nothing makes a gentleman more enticing than a parent telling her he’s unsuitable.” She spoke with the great confidence of one who’d never, ever fall for an unsuitable gentleman.
Lady Covington closed her eyes. “You have a point, my dear. I will consider it. However, the board, including George, would have to go along with a promotion.”
“You could talk them ’round,” Cynthia said with confidence. “Save you a good deal of bother.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Covington opened her eyes and skewered me with her gaze. “What else will you bluntly tell me, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I’m afraid I must ask about something that might be painful.” I drew on my courage as Jepson scowled at me. “The train accident in Heyford.”
Lady Covington’s face was brittle. “The one that killed Mr. Morris.”
I nodded. “Did anyone who was hurt in that accident, or who lost a loved one in it . . . Did they blame your husband?”
“Of course they did.” Lady Covington remained rigid, but her lip trembled once. “There was an inquiry and a judge who went over the case. Wheels on one car were faulty, which was found to be the responsibility of the wheel manufacturer. But the railway line was also held responsible, for not having enough inspections that would have discovered the problem. My husband was excoriated in the newspapers, even after he’d lost his life.”
“Newspapermen are a cruel lot,” Jepson broke in. “They even hounded her ladyship. Was angry at her for not claiming her husband was an incompetent idiot. No mention of the plenty of others who ran the railway.” She cast her glare at the painting of the haughty, late Lord Covington, whose bearded countenance gazed down at us imperiously.
“The newspapers were angry with me for standing up for my husband,” Lady Covington explained. “I told them pointedly that Mr. Morris had been a good man, and the mistakes of others were not his fault. Those hurt in the accident were compensated, as well as pensions made for those who lost members of their family. I received a pension as well, for Mr. Morris’s death, and the newspapers stabbed me for that too. I gave the money to a widow and orphan fund, and even that did not relieve me of denigration. I had to sue several of the newspapers.”
“Forgive me if this is even more painful,” I said. “But could either of your children resent you for what happened to their father? Or for you giving away the money that they thought should come to them for losing him?”
Lady Covington drew a breath for an angry retort, then she stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that when I donated the pension, I admit. But yes, they were very angry at me.”
“And your stepchildren. Were they resentful when you married their father?”
“That is natural. They doted on their mother, though she was rather heavy-handed. They also hadn’t liked Mr. Morris, this is true. He could be a difficult man, though I never found him so. Lord Covington and I were happy together. Once George and Erica saw this, they came around.”
Or perhaps they’d hidden their feelings, knowing it did no good to object. Both sets of children had had domineering parents, but now all those parents were dead—except Lady Covington.
“I will cease my questions, your ladyship,” I said. “I am truly sorry for stirring painful memories. However . . . may I have leave to look through Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber?” I was still mystified by who Henry was, and perhaps I could find some clue to his identity. I hesitated to mention the name to Lady Covington, though as I’d been openly asking the staff about him, she might already have heard.
I was trying to think of a plausible reason to give her for my request when Lady Covington heaved a long sigh and waved her hand. “Of course you may have leave. Jepson, please bring me some tea and tell Cook to add seedcake. I am hungry. Lady Cynthia, please remain and take tea with me. I feel the need to speak to someone with a good head on her shoulders.”
I had hoped Cynthia could help me in Erica’s bedchamber, but I was in no position to argue. I curtsied and followed Jepson out the door.
As soon as Jepson and I were alone in the hall, she seized my arm and dragged me to the staircase. I jerked from her painful grip as we reached its foot.
Jepson did not try to grab me again but shoved her face to mine. “What call do you have bringing up her ladyship’s husband? Making her suffer it all over again? Who are you to question her about it?”
I already felt terri
ble about having to prod Lady Covington’s memories, but I maintained my temper by reminding myself that Jepson might be a crazed poisoner.
“Her ladyship has asked me to discover who is trying to harm her,” I said firmly. “That is all. To do so, I must find out who would be willing to kill her and why. Naturally, a few skeletons in the closet must be rattled.”
“Just so you don’t end up one of those skeletons.” Jepson bared teeth that were stained from a lifetime of drinking tea. “Nor does her ladyship.”
“This is what I am trying to prevent,” I said with exaggerated patience. “Which is Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber?” I scanned the stairs, wondering where in this vast house it lay.
“Find it yourself.” Jepson turned on her heel and strode to the door to the back stairs, yanked it open, marched through, and slammed it shut.
The sound carried through the house, then silence reigned once more in the hall, the dust motes settling into their regular patterns.
I let out a slow breath. Jepson was a strange one, and I’d met many servants with peculiarities. One moment I was certain she was the poisoner; the next, she’d be guarding Lady Covington like a lion. If Erica had been the true target and Jepson the killer, then her behavior would make more sense, I reminded myself, and went up the stairs.
The wide staircase led to a hall as enormous as the one below it. A large gaslight chandelier, dark now, hung from a dome of stained glass far above.
The carpeted hall led to the north and south ends of the house, and the east and west walls held windows. One bowed out in the nook I’d seen over the doorway from the street, with a view over Park Lane and Hyde Park. I remembered spying a person in this window when I’d first approached the house, and I wondered anew who it had been. Not Lady Covington, who’d been in the garden. Erica, perhaps? The thought made me sad. Or Harriet, wondering who stared up at the house?
The long hall held doors, all polished walnut, all closed. Nothing distinguished any from another.
As I debated which door to approach first, one flew open, and a maid emerged with an armful of folded sheets. I saw behind her an airy bedroom in which another maid fluffed blankets over the bed while a young boy scrubbed blacking onto andirons at the fireplace.
The maid with the sheets kicked the door shut, hiding the flurry of activity.
I approached her and asked the way to Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber, explaining that her mistress had said I could look it over. The maid, after a sullen stare, led me down the hall to the south wing of the house.
She set the sheets on a table, took a key from her apron pocket, and opened a door to reveal a room similar to the one she’d left—light-colored paneling, a carved bedstead, a fireplace instead of a stove, and a large window overlooking the garden.
I thanked the maid. She said nothing at all, and once I’d entered, she closed the door hard behind me. I half thought she’d lock it, shutting me in, but I heard no click of a key, just the thump of her feet as she stalked away.
I took a calming breath and scanned the room.
The bed had been stripped, the bare tick mattress exposed. The wardrobe I opened held Erica’s gowns and a coat that had been wrapped in paper, put away for summer. Another cupboard held her boots. Her clothes and shoes were elegantly made of expensive fabrics, the shoes of soft leather, but all were in muted colors, the trim either plain piping or nonexistent.
I’d worked for matrons and widows who, within the boundaries of what was appropriate, decorated themselves without worry. They might be expected to wear dark blues, grays, and maroons, but they fitted out their gowns with laces, ribbons, feathers, and beading that flaunted their wealth or taste.
Erica had been like a subdued wren, trying to efface herself to the point of absurdity. Her marriage had been unhappy—perhaps she preferred people not to notice her and remind her of it.
I closed the wardrobe and moved to the small desk, a delicate thing on slender legs that could be moved from place to place. It sat against the wall with no seat before it, and I imagined Erica had had it carried to the cushioned chair near the fireplace when she’d wanted to use it.
The desk was locked, but a small key on a ribbon dangled from a nail on the desk’s side. I inserted the key into the lock then lowered the desk’s lid, which formed the writing surface.
“Mrs. Cook, is it?” a male voice said behind me. “Does Mama know you’re here rummaging through poor old Erica’s things? Perhaps I ought to take you downstairs and let her shake some respect into you.”
I swung around to behold the handsome Jonathan, a half smile on his face as he thoroughly blocked any escape through the door.
23
I remained where I was at the desk, stemming my uneasiness. “Lady Covington gave me leave to be here, yes.”
“What are you looking for? A stray bit of cash to line your pocket? A trinket to sell?”
Jonathan advanced, menace in every line of him in spite of the smile. His dark hair was neat enough to gain approving looks from mothers but tousled enough to charm their daughters.
“Of course not,” I told him in indignation. “I am trying to discover who murdered Mrs. Hume. I believe it was murder, not an accident.”
“Oh?” Jonathan came closer. He was tall, and I imagined strong. “Do the police hire cooks now? I mean, to do policing, not cooking.” He laughed but the laughter did not reach his eyes.
“I am acquainted with Detective Inspector McGregor,” I said, standing my ground.
“Who is he, when he’s at home? Oh, wait, he’s that ungainly, bad-tempered copper who came to question Mama, isn’t he? Old Jepson showed him the door. She hates the police, does Jepson. I imagine her as a member of some secret criminal society—in odd moments when I have nothing to do.”
He unnerved me, and I was very aware of being alone with him. If I shouted, would the other servants hear me? Would they come to help me or decide I would only receive what I deserved?
“Do you not wish to discover who killed your sister?” I asked, trying to hide my nervousness.
“Stepsister. I never liked her. Fair—because she never liked me.” Jonathan ran a hand through his hair, rumpling it further. “Though I hated to see the poor thing go like that. But yes, I’d like to find out who this mad poisoner is before I feel funny after eating my veal stew. I’ve been taking all my meals at my club since Erica died. It’s not one that lets in affected sticks like my stepbrother, so I’m safe from him.”
“Do you believe Lord Covington is doing this?”
Jonathan, who didn’t seem to be able to keep his hands still, clutched the lapels of his frock coat. “I wouldn’t put it past George. If he rids the world of Mama and then the rest of us, he inherits the lot. Then he can rush off to the South of France with his lover.”
“His lover?” I thought of the stiff, slightly balding George—good old George, as Lady Cynthia referred to him—and tried to imagine him whispering sweet words into a lady’s ear. I could not.
Jonathan moved abruptly to the door. I wondered why he was leaving so suddenly—and was relieved that he was—when he shut it and returned to me.
“Prying ears,” he said quietly. “Servants in this house snoop atrociously, but I know secrets they don’t. My dear, George’s lover is not a lady.”
I blinked, then I understood. “Ah.”
“Ah, indeed.” Jonathan’s laugh was breathy. “You’d never think such a pompous prick would attract anyone of either sex, but apparently, he’s been carrying on with this chap for ages. If George is happy, fine with me, but of course, no one can know.”
“He could be arrested,” I said in alarm. Such a thing was illegal, a hanging offense.
“True, but fortunately for George, it must be proved beyond all doubt, which means witnesses to the act. I can’t imagine that would be pleasant, seeing George in such a position.” Jonathan shuddered.
“I meant no one must know because even if George wasn’t arrested, he’d be dismissed from his precious railway board and break Mama’s heart. She loves the railway. I think she married Covington when Papa died so she could stay close to it, no other reason. Not that she’s fond of trains and steam engines and that sort of thing, like an enthusiast. She simply likes the money and the power. That’s why I believe George is trying to kill her. She won’t let him run the business without her guidance—wise of her, because George is an idiot—but the man has his pride.”
What Jonathan said made much sense. However, proving George had put ground pieces of rhododendron into the food Erica had eaten would not be simple.
“Poor Erica.” Jonathan glanced about the room, true pity in his voice. “She didn’t leave much, did she? Never really alive, the hapless girl.”
“If you know secrets,” I said on impulse, “can you tell me who Henry is?”
Jonathan started then sent me a broad smile. “Of course I can. I know all the messy little scandals of this family. I followed Erica one day, you see. She made mysterious outings, and I am naturally curious.”
He stepped past me to the desk, amused when I scuttled out of his way. He pulled out a small drawer inside the desk and set it aside. It contained letters, I saw, folded carefully.
Jonathan put his hand into the niche the drawer had left. “Now where . . . ? Aha.” He poked at something, and another drawer, which had been fitted seamlessly into the polished wood, popped from the side of the desk.
Jonathan removed it and plopped himself down on the padded bench at the foot of the bed. He patted the cushion beside him. “Come and sit. I won’t bite.”
I had many reservations about putting myself near Jonathan, but I was too curious to refuse. I sat on the bench, leaving at least a foot of space between us.
The drawer contained photographs and folded bits of paper. Jonathan removed one photograph that had faded, the grays and blacks lighter than those of a freshly developed picture.
Death at the Crystal Palace Page 23
