Scandal Above Stairs

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Nothing wrong with the mushrooms,” Mr. Thanos said in a wheezing voice. “Very tasty.”

  “Taste is no assurance,” I said. “I have heard that death caps are quite delicious. What happened?”

  Lady Cynthia answered before Mr. Thanos could draw another labored breath. “Nothing,” she said. “One moment, everyone was right as rain, the next, they were dropping. We’d finished supper hours before, and were playing ridiculous parlor games—at least some of us were. I was trying to have an intelligent conversation with Mr. Thanos and a professor, and several of the younger people were sneaking out to the garden for a bit of spooning.”

  Elgin nodded. “I was discussing Maxwell’s ideas on electromagnetism with a fellow—we were arguing about the necessitation of the luminiferous aether. I think there is a good chance Maxwell is wrong about it, though he has advanced the understanding of light and waves in a monumental fashion . . .”

  “Never mind about all that,” Cynthia said impatiently. “Tell her how you became sick.”

  “Oh yes. Well, I began to have the most awful cramps in my stomach. I downed a glass of brandy, hoping to mitigate them, but they only grew worse. I was trying to explain that if the aether existed, surely we could see or feel it in some way, at least by some scientific means, and the other fellow said that was nonsense—a wave needs some medium to travel through, doesn’t it? Even if we can’t perceive it . . .”

  “Elgin,” Cynthia said, and Mr. Thanos coughed then flushed.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said breathlessly.

  He seemed not to note that Cynthia had called him by his Christian name, something no lady would do with a gentleman before they were engaged or at least had the understanding of one. Cynthia did not seem to note it either, so I said nothing.

  I confess I was pleased to hear Mr. Thanos go off on his tangents, chasing whatever thought interested him. If Mr. Thanos had been terribly ill, he would have lain in a stupor, not grown animated at arguments about the aether.

  “What happened then, Mr. Thanos?” I asked as gently as I could.

  “I became very dizzy from the pain and had to sit down. At the same time, I heard a shout, and a gentleman was trying to hold up Lady Godfrey. And then that Mr. Harmon—an unctuous gentleman, I must say—fell to the ground. He had the most awful convulsions and started to vomit right there on the carpet. Ladies were screaming, Sir Evan shouting for his servants, his language unfortunate. And then Mr. Harmon expired. I was terrified I would too. But Lady Cynthia had me by the elbow and ordered a couple of footmen to get me to a bed. The butler rushed out for a doctor. And here I am.”

  Mr. Thanos trailed off, his voice weak. His hands moved restlessly on the quilt, the loose nightshirt someone had put on him too large for him.

  “We will get you better,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.

  I doubted very much anything had been wrong with the mushrooms, though I knew that if there had been, mushroom poisoning was no joke. A person could be perfectly fine after eating poisonous mushrooms, even seem to recover, only to fall dead in a few days’ time. A cook had to be very careful when choosing them.

  But I knew in my bones the mushrooms had been all right. In that case, I needed to discover exactly what had poisoned Mr. Thanos so we could get him better.

  A commotion rose in the gallery, and the imperious voice of the housekeeper came to us: “What do you think you’re about? You leave this house at once before I have a constable take you to jail. No, you may not go in there . . .”

  The door to Elgin’s bedchamber swung abruptly open, and Daniel strode inside, his expression thunderous. The housekeeper rushed in after him but halted when she saw Lady Cynthia. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” she said, flushed and flustered. “I do not know how this person got past the police . . .”

  Elgin again tried to sit up. “No cause for alarm, dear lady. McAdam is a friend. How are you, old chap?”

  The housekeeper’s outrage did not fade. She glanced at Lady Cynthia for confirmation, who sent her a reassuring nod. The woman regarded us disapprovingly but departed.

  I could not blame the housekeeper for being outraged—the poor woman must be at her wits’ end with all this mess. If the food was blamed, the housekeeper might be held liable as well as the cook, as it was her job to see that the correct produce was purchased.

  “How am I?” Daniel asked Elgin in his robust voice as Elgin reached for and wrung Daniel’s hand. “How are you? What the devil happened?”

  “Well.” Elgin cleared his throat. “I was discussing Maxwell’s theories of electromagnetism, and how his equations might be simplified . . .”

  “Good Lord,” Cynthia muttered.

  “Fascinating,” Daniel said, keeping hold of Elgin’s hand. “If anyone can shed light on that, it’s you. But I’m more interested in your inner workings, lad.”

  “Oh yes. Well, as I was telling the ladies . . .”

  As Elgin launched into the story again, I pulled Cynthia aside. “I’m off to the kitchens to make sense of this. Please do not let any of the policemen arrest Mrs. Martin—I’m sure she is not to blame. How is Lady Godfrey?”

  “About the same as Mr. Thanos,” Cynthia said. “Taken ill, given a purge by the doctor, and weak as a kitten.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” I advised in a low voice. “Poisoning is no light matter. I will stake my reputation that there was nothing wrong with the food. That means, don’t you see, that the poison was administered above stairs. Perhaps when the food was served at table, or slipped into the wine, or some such thing.”

  “Good Lord.” Cynthia’s eyes went wide. “That means any of us could have dropped dead.”

  “Exactly. Eat or drink nothing, and make sure no one gives Lady Godfrey anything that I have not looked at. It might have been Lady Godfrey who was the intended victim.”

  Cynthia’s astonishment turned quickly to anger. “You mean Evan, that little toad, might have tried to kill her? I see. If she falls ill and dies, she can cause no scandal for him—the world will have more sympathy for him too. The ass.”

  “Yes—look after her.”

  Rage sparkled in Cynthia’s eyes. “Right.” She rushed past me, her silk skirts rustling as she headed down the gallery. “You there,” she called out to a maid. “Are you taking that to Lady Godfrey? Stop, I say.”

  Elgin was speaking rapidly and earnestly to Daniel at the bed, and Daniel nodded at him—I hoped some of Elgin’s words were about the incident. I knew I left him in safe hands, so I hurried after Lady Cynthia.

  Cynthia had halted a startled maid before she could enter Lady Godfrey’s chamber with a tray holding water and brandy. I sniffed both the brandy and the water, and tasted a little of each on the tip of my finger. When I nodded that all was well, Lady Cynthia took the tray herself and carried it into her friend’s bedchamber. Leaving her to it, I hastened to the back stairs and thence to the kitchen.

  I found Mrs. Martin in hysterics, as I knew I would. She sat on a kitchen chair, her face buried in her apron, her wails filling the room. The rest of the staff who were present had drawn away from her and the man facing her, none other than Detective Inspector McGregor from Scotland Yard.

  McGregor’s yellow mustache quivered and his hazel eyes sparkled in triumph. “Mistakes are made, Mrs. Martin,” he said in a hard voice, “and you must answer for them.”

  “I never.” Those were the only coherent words from behind Mrs. Martin’s apron. “Never.”

  I strode forward, noting as I did so that Tess, dressed with my shawl over her rumpled gown, stood with the house’s servants near the door leading outside. I wondered why she’d followed me, but questioning her would have to wait.

  “Stop this at once,” I shouted at McGregor, the only way to be heard over Mrs. Martin. “She did nothing. The meal was not to blame.”

  Detective McGrego
r jerked his attention to me, and the look of pure fury he shot me made me take a step back. This was a dangerous man, I realized, and ruthless, ready to let nothing stop him.

  “How do you know that, Mrs. Holloway?” he demanded.

  “Because I was here.” Might as well stick my head into the lion’s mouth. “I made most of the meal in question, and there was no harm in it. You should be looking for the culprit above stairs, not below.”

  21

  I thought Inspector McGregor would arrest me on the spot. His eyes blazed, and his mouth tightened.

  Then I watched a new expression come over him. Determination did not leave him, but I saw him decide to be careful, to not be led by his anger. I had to commend him for that as much as it meant he now chose to direct his intensity toward me.

  “Sit there, Mrs. Holloway.” He pointed a blunt finger at a ladder-backed chair. “Tell me exactly how you can be so certain the food at last night’s supper did not kill one man and send two other people to their beds.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tess approach. She looked worried but more angry than afraid.

  “Because I am a very conscientious cook,” I answered McGregor. “And have quite a lot of experience. I know how to tell a bad bit of fish from good, when cream is beginning to turn, and when vegetables are past saving. And I would certainly never send a pan full of poisonous mushrooms to a table. If I did it out of carelessness, I would lose my post and never gain another. If I did it on purpose—well, suspicion falls first on the cook, doesn’t it? That would hardly be discreet of me.”

  McGregor studied me as he had when he’d interrogated me in the Mount Street house—as though surprised I could form a cogent argument. He would no doubt be stunned that I knew the word cogent.

  “The fact of the matter, Mrs. Holloway,” he said in a hard voice, “is that the guests ate, and the guests took sick.”

  “And I am telling you, Inspector McGregor, that they did not take sick from the food. It was thoroughly cooked, or as in the case of the parsley salad, thoroughly washed. I picked over those mushrooms myself.”

  “I saw her.” Tess chose that moment to step next to me, her head high. “I watched her do it. She threw out a few. I asked her why. She said they were too shriveled to be pretty in the dish.”

  “Oh yes?” McGregor fixed a fierce gaze on Tess. “And what did she do with these discarded few?”

  “She didn’t do nothing with ’em,” Tess said stoutly. “I did.”

  The inspector’s scrutiny sharpened. “And what did you do, my girl?”

  “Et ’em, didn’t I?” Tess looked him in the eye. “And there’s nofink wrong with me, is there? In fact, I helped myself to a spoonful of everything that went up.” She flashed me a guilty glance. “I know it weren’t right, Mrs. H., but I was powerful hungry, and I guessed we wouldn’t be going home for hours.”

  “Tess,” I said in quiet admonishment, but relief crept through me. I’d seen her sneaking a few mouthfuls here and there, but I’d not realized she’d eaten of every dish.

  She had McGregor’s full attention now. “Did you?” he snarled. “Would you be prepared to swear to that in court?”

  Tess jumped and her face lost color, but she stuck out her chin. “Don’t never want to see the inside of a courtroom, that’s a fact. But yeah, I’d swear to it. A Bible oath. Weren’t just me doing the tasting. Mrs. Holloway had a nip of things, and so did Mrs. Martin. And I saw plenty of the staff nabbing bits. Stands to reason—all that food around and us having to wait for our supper. ’Course we’re going to take some.”

  I broke firmly through her babbling. “She makes a good point. All cooks and assistants taste dishes to make sure they turned out well. If we put salt in the crumble instead of sugar, we would want to know before it goes to table. Has anyone from below stairs taken sick?” I made a show of scanning the staff who stood inside the kitchen. “They all look right as rain to me.”

  McGregor growled. The sound rumbled up through his throat, beginning under his lopsided waistcoat. Small wonder he had no woman in his life if he made those appalling noises.

  “No one told me the food had been eaten below stairs.”

  Anger and frustration poured from him. Mrs. Martin lifted her tearstained face and sniffled. “They didn’t ask, sir.”

  McGregor ignored her. It occurred to me that he was not referring to the staff when he said no one, but to his colleagues. He’d been sent down to interview the servants without any preparation, it seemed, which I agreed was hardly fair.

  My speculation was confirmed when a much younger man in a plain suit scuttled into the room and bent to McGregor. I’m certain he meant to keep his voice down, but we all heard his words.

  “You’re wanted upstairs, sir. And he ain’t happy.”

  McGregor’s cheeks went an interesting shade of pink, but his reply was steady. “All right, Detective Constable. Stay here and take statements, will you?”

  The constable gulped, unhappy. “Yes, sir.”

  McGregor, without a word to the rest of us, rose from his seat and trundled out. I whispered to Tess, “Stay here. Tell me what happens,” and went quickly up the stairs after Inspector McGregor.

  The upper rooms were filled with people. Ladies in finery, gentlemen in black suits, all restless, all annoyed. A few had sat down to a game of cards, as though determined to enjoy themselves if they were forced to stay. The others paced, sat and complained to one another, or clustered around a tall man with graying hair and mustache who had clearly just arrived.

  I recognized Chief Inspector Moss. He was trying to soothe the feathers of the aristocrats, who were very angry that they’d been detained. When he saw McGregor, Moss scowled and made his way to him, beckoning McGregor to follow him into an anteroom, where they could speak out of earshot of the ladies and gentlemen. Neither noticed me lingering to listen.

  “These people aren’t rabble in the streets,” Chief Inspector Moss said sharply. “Let them go home, and we’ll send you and your sergeant around to take their statements tomorrow. They had nothing to do with their friends’ illnesses.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but we don’t know that,” McGregor answered. “Those in the kitchen say it couldn’t be the meal. Which means we need to look at the wine, or any way the dishes or glasses could be tampered with after they were sent up. That means the butler, the footmen who served, or the guests. Any of them could have a vial of poison on them, sweet as you please, and you’re about to let the culprit walk away and throw it down his cistern.”

  Moss’s scowl deepened. “You have a lot to learn, McGregor, about how you treat the upper classes. They’re likely best mates with the commissioners; their fathers are probably firmly ensconced in the Home Office. You are jeopardizing your job—and mine. Let them go. If one’s a poisoner, he’ll give himself away eventually, and we’ll have him. But penning them all up and interrogating them isn’t done. You have to be wise about it, handle them with kid gloves.”

  Moss turned away, a dismissal, and put on an air of conciliation as he made his way back to the parlor.

  McGregor’s expression turned to one of pure hatred as he watched Moss go. Rage so dark I feared McGregor would find a weapon and have at him.

  I scurried into another room as McGregor stormed from the anteroom, not wanting him to direct all that anger toward me. He strode past the doorway through which I’d ducked, the breeze of his passage touching me, but he didn’t notice me. He growled at the constables in his path, barking orders to find the coats and wraps of the guests and search them.

  I hardly thought they’d find anything—any guest who’d brought in poison wouldn’t have had the opportunity to stow the now-empty bottle in his greatcoat, which would have been taken away by maids for safekeeping below stairs. If I’d smuggled in poison, I’d have left the bottle or vial or box somewhere it wouldn’t be noticed, like
on the rubbish heap, or I’d have already dropped it down Sir Evan’s cistern.

  I avoided constables and guests by heading up the back stairs. I went not to Mr. Thanos’s room but to Clemmie’s boudoir and bedchamber, where I’d spoken to her on my visit to the house last week.

  The room was empty of all but Lady Cynthia, who sat in a chair beside Clemmie’s bed. Clemmie appeared much as Mr. Thanos did, her face waxen and a bit yellow, her breathing shallow, her hand pressing her stomach whenever a cramp took her.

  Cynthia bathed Clemmie’s cheeks and forehead with a damp cloth, pity in her eyes.

  “How is she?” I asked softly as I approached the bed.

  “Not well, poor thing.” Cynthia’s tone was absent its usual cynicism. “If Evan did this, I’ll kill him.”

  “I don’t think she was meant to take ill,” I said. “Or Mr. Thanos. They were innocent bystanders, I believe.”

  “Humph, well, her husband isn’t in here holding her hand, is he? No, he’s down trying to keep the crowd from lynching the policemen. His reputation and hospitality are more important than his wife.”

  To be fair, he and his wife had recently become estranged, Clemmie finding refuge in a lover.

  Where was this lover? I wondered. Or did he even know his beloved was ill? I did not at all approve of husbands and wives who betrayed their marriage vows, but I was wise enough to know that the heart does what the heart does. I would have to find out who this gentleman was and send him word. Perhaps he truly loved Clemmie and would help her get away from her monster of a husband. It would ruin her, but I did not believe in imprisoning a wife with a husband who made her miserable.

  “Poor little thing.” Cynthia dabbed Clemmie’s forehead. “I should have run Evan down with my rig when he first proposed to her. Saved her a lot of bother.”

  “Hurting people is not always the best answer,” I pointed out.