Murder Most Historical: A Collection of Short Mysteries

by Ashley Gardner

“Has he gone mad?” I screeched. “I haven’t a scrap of chocolate in the house, no hope of fresh fish or game birds today.” I flung the paper to the table. “That is the last straw, Mrs. Watkins. Either we come to an understanding or I give my notice. I ought to simply give it now and leave, let him and his guests do with salt pork and potatoes.”

  Copley, lounging in his chair near the fire, cackled. “Mrs. H. can’t do it. All I hear is what a grand cook she is, how everyone wants her, how she’s wasted in this ’ouse. She’s asked to cook a few bits of fish, and she ’as hysterics. If you’re so sought after, my girl, why ain’t ye cooking for dukes, or for one of the royals?”

  I dragged in a breath, trying to ignore Copley. “I agree that if I can pull this meal together it would make my reputation. But . . . oh—”

  “Would it?” Mrs. Watkins picked up the list again, which she’d written in her careful hand at Sir Lionel’s dictation. “I confess, I’ve never heard of velouté or eaten chocolate soup.”

  “Well, you shall eat it tonight. You, Mr. Copley, can cease laughing at me and help. I shall need a good bottle of sweet white wine and a robust red for the beef sauce and the chocolate. A claret for the table. Asparagus—I ask you. Any I can find will be woody and tasteless. But perhaps . . .” I trailed off, my inventive mind taking over.

  “Ye can’t be wanting three bottles,” Copley said, sitting up. “The master comes over snarling if I open more than one a day.”

  “If he wants this food and wants it done well, he’ll not quibble.”

  Copley scowled, unhappy, but he stomped away to fetch what I needed. I always thought it a mercy Copley found wine sour and without a good kick or Sir Lionel’s wine collection, a fine one built up by his uncle, would be long gone.

  “How many at table?” I asked Mrs. Watkins.

  “Three,” she said, folding her hands. Her long string of keys hung from her belt like a jailer’s. “The master and two guests, a Mr. and Mrs. Fuller.”

  “At least he didn’t invite twenty,” I said. “Small blessings, I suppose.” I scanned the kitchen, and sure enough, found Daniel’s lad and the scullery maid outside together on the steps.

  “You,” I called to the youth from the back door—I really ought to learn his name. “If you find Mr. McAdam for me in half an hour, this time I’ll give you a shilling.”

  The boy grinned, saluted me, and off he went.

  Chapter Three

  Daniel came in twenty minutes. I explained my predicament, and again, he showed no qualms about searching the city for all I needed.

  “How can you?” I asked, handing him the list I’d written out. “I could find all this, if I had a day or two.”

  Daniel shrugged. His dark hair was spotted with rain, which had begun to fall hard. Perhaps we’d have a flood, and Sir Lionel’s guests wouldn’t be able to come.

  “My deliveries take me all over London,” Daniel said. “I know who has what, who can get what.”

  He spoke easily, as though producing expensive foodstuffs out of the air was nothing. “What on earth do you deliver?” I asked.

  Another shrug. “This and that.” Daniel winked, actually tweaked my nose, and then disappeared up the stairs, whistling.

  “That man is trouble,” Mrs. Watkins said darkly, folding her arms as she watched him go.

  “Daniel? I mean, Mr. McAdam?” I quickly turned to start scrubbing down my work table. “He’s a kind soul, is all.”

  “Hmph.” Mrs. Watkins made a motion of dusting off her hands. “I say trouble. Well, I must get on making sure the house is to rights. Sally!” she shouted at the scullery maid. “Get in here and wash up those dishes, girl, or I’ll take a strap to you.”

  ***

  Daniel returned more quickly than I’d thought he could. I was in the butler’s pantry, arguing with Copley about the wine, when Daniel arrived, dumped several boxes next to my work table, and disappeared again.

  Copley did know a surprising amount about wine, which explained why he kept his post as butler, plus he could put on a toffy accent for the guests when he chose. I finally came away with a decent German Riesling and a deep red Côtes du Rhône, with his promise to decant the best of the claret.

  By the time I emerged, Daniel had come and gone. I was disappointed not to speak to him, but I was soon too busy to think more about it.

  Daniel had brought me everything I needed, even fresh fish. They were perfectly fine, firm, slick, with no fishy smell to clog up the kitchen.

  Now to prepare all these dishes in no time at all, including a white sauce that needed to simmer, and make feather-light rolls to go with everything.

  If I’d been in a larger household, with several assistants, I could do this meal in a trice. As it was, I was soon in despair. The fish had to be cleaned, the fowls plucked and readied, the vegetables scrubbed and chopped. The velouté had to be constantly stirred so the delicate thickened stock didn’t burn, the tart shells formed, chilled, and baked. I gave vent to my feelings, which only sent everyone else running away, leaving me on my own.

  Almost. As I was up to my arms in fish entrails, the urchin came tripping into the kitchen without so much as a by-your-leave.

  “I don’t have any more errands for you,” I said to him in irritation.

  The lad, not cowed, didn’t leave. “Mr. McAdam sent me. He says whatever you need help with, I was to do, even if it were cooking.”

  I stared at him in surprise. He was a sturdy young man, about fifteen, I’d say, with strong-looking hands. He was also filthy.

  “John!” I bellowed. The footman popped his head around the corner from the servants’ hall, where he was frantically polishing silver. I pointed my bloody fillet knife at the urchin. “Get him cleaned up and lend him some clothes. You can’t come near this kitchen, lad, until all that dirt is off you. No one wants fleas in their dinner. Make sure he scrubs his hair, John. With soap.”

  John nodded solemnly, the urchin sent me a grin, and both youths were off.

  When the urchin returned, he was urchin no longer. Now that his hair was clean, I saw it gleam dark red. His face was freckled, a fact I hadn’t been able to detect under the grime, and his eyes were clear and brown. He had even teeth and good breath, and he’d trimmed his nails and scrubbed under them. John had lent him some trousers, shirt, and coat, all of which were a bit tight, but he’d do.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him.

  The lad shrugged, an imitation of Daniel’s. “You can call me James.”

  Which meant that might or might not be his name, but I had no time to quibble. “Very well, James, I need you to prepare this fowl for me. Here’s how you do it . . .”

  James proved quite competent. I could tell he’d never done any cookery before, but he was a quick learner, and worked steadily, without idle chatter or asking useless questions. Between the two of us, I prepared a meal a duchess would swoon over.

  Perhaps I would seek out a duchess, one who stayed in town much of the time, and show her what fine dishes I could contrive.

  But the main reason I did not seek out a society hostess was because working in smaller houses for bachelors like Sir Lionel meant I had much time to myself. Not today, obviously, but most of the time. A cook working for a duchess who had dinner parties every day would be laboring from dawn to midnight, never mind how many underlings she had. I had reason to want to come and go as often as I could, and so I stayed in houses like this one.

  The finished meal did me proud. I thanked James profusely, asked him to sup with the rest of us, and happily gave him a few more shillings. The dishes went up to the dining room via the lift in the corner, and Mrs. Watkins saw that all was served.

  Why not Copley? Because he’d fled the house while I had been ordering everyone about in the kitchen, got roaring drunk, and collapsed when he finally came back in. John and James carried him off to bed, which left Mrs. Watkins and John to see to the dining room. Mrs. Watkins was angry at this turn of events, but I knew she’d
manage.

  Every plate came back scraped clean. My pride puffed up. They’d loved it.

  I was, as far as I was concerned that night, the greatest cook in the land.

  ***

  It was late before I crawled off, exhausted, to seek my bed. My bedroom was a cubby-hole of a chamber, but I liked it because it lay right behind the kitchen fireplace, which kept it warm and dry.

  I was deep in the slumber of the just when the scullery maid, Sally, shook me awake into darkness. “Oh, Mrs. Holloway,” she said breathlessly. “There’s someone above stairs.”

  I screwed my eyes shut against the flickering flame of her candle. “Of course there’s someone above stairs. Likely his royal highness stumbling to bed after drinking himself into a stupor.”

  “No, ma’am. It ain’t Sir Lionel.” Sally regarded me in terror. “The guests left hours ago, and the master dragged ’imself off to bed already. It ain’t John or Copley neither. I ’eard ’em snoring when I passed their rooms. And Mrs. Watkins went off to visit her sister.”

  I levered myself to a sitting position. I did not ask why Sally hadn’t woken the men instead of trotting all the way downstairs to me. Copley and John would be useless and we both knew it.

  “Get the poker then, girl. If it’s burglars, we’ll set about them.”

  Sally’s eyes grew even more round. I threw back the covers and swung my feet to the floor, pressing them into my slippers. Sally scuttled into the kitchen and wrested the poker from its place with so much clanking I was sure the thieves would hear and run away directly.

  I didn’t bother with my knives. They were suited to hacking chickens, chopping onions, and frightening overly amorous masters. For fending off marauders, a poker or a stout stick works much better. To use a knife, you must get close, and those you’re fighting might have something just as nasty to hand.

  I took the poker from Sally, bade her bring her candle, gathered my dressing gown about me, and led the way up into the darkened house.

  Sir Lionel’s house, on the north side of Portman Square, was typical of those in London at the time. We climbed the back stairs to the ground floor, emerging into a hall that ran the length of the house. A staircase with polished banisters and carved newel posts rose along one side of the hall, leading to the floors above us. Rooms opened from the opposite wall of this staircase—reception room and formal dining room on the ground floor, drawing rooms on the next floor, private chambers, including the library, above that.

  I went into the dining room after checking that the front door was still bolted. The walls in there were dark wood panels hung with paintings I suspected were not very good. No expensive artwork for Sir Lionel.

  The room was empty. The dining table had been cleared, a cloth cover draped over it to keep it clean between meals. The chairs were straight, the curtains drawn. Nothing to be seen.

  The reception room was likewise empty, nothing disturbed, no open windows anywhere.

  I was beginning to believe Sally had dreamed it all, but one never knew. A thief could have forced open a back window and be merrily burgling the house above us.

  I led Sally on up the stairs. We checked the front and rear drawing rooms and found nothing amiss.

  I’d check one more floor and then retire to bed. If Sir Lionel wasn’t stirring, then Sally had heard John or Copley moving about for whatever their reasons.

  On the next floor, I saw that the door to Sir Lionel’s library stood ajar. It was dark inside the room, no glow of a fire, lamp, or candle.

  While I did not truly believe thieves would grope around in absolute darkness for valuables in Sir Lionel’s library, the open door made me uneasy. I heard no sound within, not a rustle or thump of books as burglars searched for hidden caches of jewels.

  I noiselessly pushed the door open and went inside.

  Whatever fire had burned that day in the grate had smoldered to ashes. Sally kept bumping into the back of me, because she held the candle and stared into the flame until she was night-blind. But I could see a bit by the streetlight that glittered through the front windows, the curtains wide open.

  What I saw was Sir Lionel. He was slumped forward over his desk, his head turned to the side, his mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly. My carving knife was buried to the hilt in his back.

  Sally screeched and dropped the candle. I snatched the candle from the floor before a spark could catch the rug on fire, and raised the light high.

  My entire body went numb, no feeling anywhere. “May God have mercy,” I croaked, my throat tight and dry. “What a waste of a carver. And them so dear.”

  Chapter Four

  I woke John in his attic chamber—Copley heard Sally’s scream and came down on his own. I sent John for the constable but ordered Copley to stay with the body while I went downstairs and dressed myself.

  By time I returned to the library, the constable, a lad I’d seen walking his beat on the square, had arrived with an older sergeant. They’d lit up the room with every lamp and candle they could find and stoked the fire high. I imagined Sir Lionel’s ghost cringing at the expense.

  The sergeant, a squat, fat man with one string of hair across his bald pate and a wide, thick-lipped mouth, turned to me.

  “It’s your knife, eh?”

  Copley looked innocently at the ceiling, but I knew he must have been filling the constable’s ears with tales of my adventures with Sir Lionel.

  “Of course it is mine,” I snapped. “It came from the kitchens.”

  “’E made a grab for ye tonight, did ’e?” the sergeant asked. “And so you stuck your knife into ’im?”

  I stared in astonishment. “Of course not. I’ve been in bed asleep these past hours. Why would I have come to the library in the middle of the night, in any case? My bedchamber is next to the kitchen, and I have no need to be above stairs at all.”

  The sergeant did not look impressed. “’E made a grab for you afore this, didn’t ’e? And you stuck your knife to ’is throat?”

  I switched my glare to Copley. He wouldn’t meet my eye, but a smile hovered around his thin mouth. I said tartly, “That was weeks ago, and it was only to frighten him. I certainly would not have plunged my knife into a side of beef like Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury. It would ruin the knife. Carvers are expensive.”

  The constable’s eyes glittered a way I didn’t like. “But it was your knife. It would be ’andy.”

  “Absolute nonsense. Why would I carry my kitchen knife upstairs to the master’s rooms?”

  “Because ’e sent for you, and you were frightened. You brought your knife to make you feel safe-like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d feared to answer his summons, I’d have stayed securely in my kitchen, or asked John to come with me. He’s quite a strong lad.”

  The sergeant pointed a broad finger at me. “You ’ad a go at ’im before, Mr. Copley says. This time, you went too far, and did ’im.”

  My mouth went dry, but I kept up my bravado. “I did not kill him, you ignorant lout. Why should I?”

  “Who did then? With your sticker?”

  I clenched my hands. “Anyone could have taken the knife from the kitchen.”

  “Mr. Copley says you keep ’em put away special. No one else would know where.”

  “Copley does,” I pointed out.

  Copley sneered at me. “Bitch. She stabbed ’im. She must ’ave.”

  I put my closed fists on my hips. “Who says so? Did you see me, Mr. Copley?”

  “Yes.”

  My mouth popped open. He was a liar, but Copley’s look was so certain that the sergeant believed him.

  “I ’eard a noise and came down,” Copley said. “And there was you, a-bending over the master’s body, holding the knife.”

  Bloody man. “Of course I looked him over when I found him here,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “He was already dead. And you saw nothing at all, Mr. Copley. You only came charging in because Sally was screaming, after we found him
.”

  Copley scowled. “I saw ye, I tell ye.”

  “You saw me discovering the knife, not plunging it in,” I countered, but my blood was cold. “Ask Sally.” But when I looked about for the scullery maid, I did not see her or hear her anywhere.

  The sergeant was obviously on Copley’s side, the young constable and John confused. All men against one woman.

  “No more o’ this,” the sergeant said severely. “You’ll promenade down to the magistrate with me, missus, and he can hear your story.”

  My body went colder still. If I could not convince the magistrate of my innocence, I would be thrown to the wolves—or at least, to an Old Bailey trial and a jury. A long bench of men would gaze at me disapprovingly and pronounce that cooks should not stick their carving knives into their masters. And that would be the end of me.

  At twenty-nine summers, I found life sweet, and I had more to live for than just myself.

  I wanted to bolt. To run, run, run, snatch up my daughter from where I’d hidden her and flee. To the countryside—no, not far enough. The Continent, or farther, to Asia, perhaps, where I could cook for some colonial nabob who wouldn’t care too much what I ran from as long as I could give him his familiar English fare.

  I closed my eyes, and I prayed. I hadn’t gone to church in about half a dozen years, but praying and church are two different things. I begged God to have mercy on me, and I opened my eyes again.

  “Very well, then,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “But no cuffs, if you please. I am a respectable woman.”

  I lifted my chin and marched before them out of the room, down the stairs, and straight out of the house.

  ***

  The magistrate who examined me at Bow Street was a jovial man whose rotund body betrayed that he liked his meals and missed few. I had to stand up before him while those also awaiting examination filled the room behind me—I was a nobody, and warranted no special treatment.

  Most of the people at the house had been arrested in the night for theft, drunkenness, fighting, being loud and disorderly, and for prostitution. A few well-dressed solicitors wandered the crowd, looking for clients to take to barristers, but they didn’t bother approaching me. I had a bit of money put by, but I doubted I’d be able to afford an eloquent, wigged barrister to argue in my defense.