A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  Lizzie, on the other hand, was belligerent, which took me greatly by surprise. I had always made a point of treating my servants with respect, and I recalled that when she first came to my house she had been rather nervous; I had done my best to calm her nerves. To find her now so rude was quite a shock.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” she said, looking me straight in the face. “I’ve heard all about what’s happened in the house, but you can’t possibly think I’ve anything to do with it.”

  “Why is that, Lizzie?”

  “Because I know you can’t prove I’ve done anything.” Her smile was gratingly confident.

  “Careful, are you?”

  “I don’t need to be. I haven’t done anything.”

  “I should very much like to believe you. It’s most unsettling to have a spy in one’s midst. A letter was taken from the hall some days ago. Mrs. Ockley tells me that you were cleaning the floor there as well as the stairs at the time it disappeared. Did you see someone take it?”

  “I wasn’t paying any attention. I was busy with my work.”

  “Surely another member of the staff would have spoken to you as he passed?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “I also know that the day the letters were taken from the library, you were dusting in there. Again, you saw nothing?”

  “I can’t say that I really recall the day.”

  “Nothing stands out? The house was burgled. Davis questioned the staff immediately. You have no memory of this?”

  “I remember it, I guess, but for me it was an ordinary sort of day. I didn’t know I should have been looking out for a thief.”

  “When you were dusting, did you notice the letters on my desk?”

  “Of course I did, but how could I know that two of them were missing? I didn’t know how many there were to start.”

  “A keen observation, Lizzie. But unfortunately, Davis made a point of not telling anyone how many had been taken. How could you know it was two if you were not the culprit?” She sucked in her cheeks and stood very still. I sat there, saying nothing for some time. Then, taking a cue from Colin, I continued in the calmest possible voice. “If you did it, Lizzie, it would be best to tell me. I’m more interested in discovering who put you up to it than I am in punishing you.”

  She did not reply.

  “I can, of course, call the police, but I’d much rather keep the matter private. This household has suffered enough scandal in these past months. Surely you would prefer that we settle this between ourselves?”

  “So that you can turn me out of the house with no character?”

  “You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Lizzie.”

  “I think I am.”

  It took a great effort to remain calm; I would have to ask Colin how he managed to do it so well. “As you wish, then.” I pulled the bell, and Davis entered the room. “I’m afraid we’re going to need Inspector Manning.”

  “Very well, madam.” He turned, very slowly, started for the door, and then looked back. “Have you ever visited a jail, Lizzie? Terrible place. You can’t imagine what it’s like. Not when you’re used to a snug room in one of the best houses in London.” Her gaze was still fixed on me, and Davis, standing behind her, actually winked at me. I nearly fell out of my chair. “Lady Ashton is generosity itself. I can’t imagine she’d want any of her girls to wind up in such a situation. Rats. Lots of rats. Filth everywhere. The smell’s unbearable. You’d probably wind up falling ill before long and would welcome an early death.”

  “Enough!” Lizzie cried. “I admit that I took your letters.”

  “Why did you do it?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think I was hurting anyone.”

  “Did you also pass information about myself and the Duke of Bainbridge?”

  Now that she knew she was caught, all her confidence evaporated. She seemed nervous and began talking very quickly. “Not precisely, milady. I just confirmed that he was here a lot, and alone with you. And that he sent the flowers with the note.”

  “You read the note?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “How did you know that Mrs. Francis had come to call on me the day that you offered to bring us tea?”

  “I don’t remember, milady. Honest, I don’t.”

  “How did you pass along your information?”

  “I left notes tacked to a tree in Berkeley Square, milady.”

  “I don’t believe you, Lizzie. Can you read?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you read the note from the Duke of Bainbridge?”

  “Yes.” She swallowed hard.

  “How did he sign it?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I…I think he signed it “Bainbridge.” Or maybe “Jeremy”?”

  “What exactly did your employer ask you to do?”

  “At first I was to keep an eye out for signs that you were having an affair with Mr. Berry, but I never saw any, so then he told me it was the duke I should watch for.”

  “So when you saw the note, you assumed it was from the duke?” She nodded.

  “You can’t read, can you?” She did not look at me. “The trouble is, Lizzie, the note wasn’t from him. It wasn’t even signed.”

  “Oh.”

  “There’s no shame in not being able to read. It’s not your fault that you weren’t given the opportunity to learn. Why did you steal the letters?”

  “I thought they were from the duke, too, but started to worry that the person paying me would begin to figure out that I couldn’t read them and stop paying me.”

  “Who is that person?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lizzie, do not lie to me now.”

  “I’m not lying. I don’t know who it is.”

  “You obviously don’t leave notes in the square. How do you communicate with this person? How did he contact you in the first place?”

  Now the girl turned deadly pale. “I had trouble at my last position and was let go without a character.”

  “What had you done?” I tried to picture Colin. Calm Colin, able to persuade anyone to admit to anything.

  “I…I flirted with my master’s son.”

  “Just flirted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you quite certain?” Surely I couldn’t wind up with two maids in delicate situations in the course of a single evening.

  “Oh, yes, Lady Ashton. His father turned me out of the house the moment he saw his son talking to me.”

  “What house was this?”

  “Please don’t make me say.”

  “You must tell me, Lizzie. I will have to confirm your story.”

  “It was Lord Grantham, milady.”

  Lord Grantham, the man whose Limoges box Sebastian had stolen. “So you were expelled from the house?”

  “Yes. My mother’s in service in Richmond, and got the housekeeper to let me stay with her while I looked for another position, but, as you can imagine, without a character, I couldn’t find anything.”

  “Richmond? Whose house?” My heart was pounding. Was this all to be so easily solved?

  “Mrs. Sophie Hargreaves, milady. A very kind mistress.”

  Not so easily solved. Sophie was married to Colin’s brother, William. “So what happened?”

  “I had just about given up and was ready to take a job in a button factory, when a man approached me and said he could help. He’s in service, too, you see, and had spotted me on my rounds looking for work. Said he could get me a character if I would agree to help out his master and that I’d get extra money for doing it. I didn’t see any harm in it. Sounded like a bit of fun.”

  “A bit of fun that could have destroyed me. And, Lizzie, had you succeeded in doing so, I would no longer be in a position to be able to help you.”

  “I’m sorry, milady.”

  “Who wrote the false character?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely you know what house it was from? Otherwi
se how could you have known what to say when Mrs. Ockley interviewed you?”

  “I just meant that I didn’t know who had actually written it. It was supposed to be a Mrs. David Francis. She lives in Richmond, too.”

  This was certainly bad news, but I retained my composure. “And this man you spoke to? Who is he?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me his name. Too risky, you know. If we was to get caught.”

  “How did you communicate with him?”

  “We’d meet on my day off in the park.”

  “Are you to meet with him this week?”

  “I saw him a few days ago, and he said they didn’t need me anymore.”

  “Did you give him the Bible that was in my carriage?”

  “I did, milady.”

  “But you could not have thought that had something to do with the Duke of Bainbridge?”

  “No, but after I brought the letters, the next week he said that if I came across anything out of the ordinary, it would be a good idea to bring it to him. When I heard the carriage had been run off the road, I knew that wasn’t ordinary, so when Baines gave me your things, I looked through them.”

  “You went through my reticule?”

  “Yes, milady.” She no longer was meeting my eyes. “I thought it was odd you was carrying a Bible instead of that funny Greek book, so I figured I’d give it to him.”

  “Did you also take a letter that was to be delivered to Mr. Hargreaves?”

  “I did.”

  “And you told Baines that I’d removed it from the mail tray?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Is there anything else about this you think I should know?”

  “I don’t think so.” She squirmed in front of me, and I knew she wished I’d let her sit.

  “As you might imagine, I’m having a rather difficult time trusting you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m a bit confused as to why you are so repentant now, after having been so contentious when I first began to question you.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it, milady, I know. He told me that if I ever got caught, I should deny everything as strongly as possible. Said that if I stood my ground, there was no way you could ever prove that I’d done anything wrong.”

  “Lizzie, when a person has done something wrong, it can always be proved somehow.”

  “Yes, milady.” She was beginning to look rather ill. I turned my attention to Davis, who was still standing at the door.

  “Take her to Mrs. Ockley and tell her not to let the girl out of her sight until I have this all settled.” As soon as they had left, I weighed my options. I could send letters to Sophie Hargreaves and Lord Grantham, but it would be best to speak to Beatrice in person. I wanted to see her reaction to Lizzie’s story.

  29

  BEATRICE WAS NOT AT HOME WHEN I CALLED. SHE HAD GONE TO visit Jane Stilleman in prison. I spoke to Mrs. Fenwick, who emphatically denied that she’d ever so much as heard Lizzie’s name. The girl had never worked in the house. This was not unexpected, of course. The real issue was whether Beatrice had written the false character, but that was not a question for the housekeeper. As I was preparing to leave, I noticed Thomkins in the garden and decided to speak with him.

  “I understand Mrs. Francis is visiting Jane today. Have you gone to see her, too?”

  “No, madam.” He continued trimming the rosebushes.

  “I’m afraid that it’s becoming more and more likely that she’ll be found guilty of murder.”

  No reply.

  “Mr. Thomkins, this is most serious. Jane, the woman you supposedly love, could very well be hanged. Have you nothing to say?”

  “What could there be to say? I don’t know who did it.”

  “Have you tried to offer her any comfort?”

  “What could I do? Tell her I’m sorry for her?”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate it. You could at least send a letter.”

  “I’m not much good with writing.”

  “Can you think of anyone else in the household who would have wanted to see Mr. Francis dead? Has anything out of the ordinary happened in the past few months? Any unusual visitors, any—”

  “Do you think I haven’t gone over this a thousand times in my head? The police have questioned me from morning to night over and over. It all looked bad for me, too, you know, the nicotine having come from my shed.”

  “Your shed?”

  “I use it for the roses. Kills aphids.”

  Why had Beatrice not told me this? “So how did you manage to avoid arrest?”

  “I was at my sister’s the week before the murder. Jane brought the lotion to Mr. Francis while I was gone.”

  “But you could have put the nicotine in it any time before then.”

  “I suppose so, but I didn’t.” He paused. “Look, why would I want Mr. Francis dead? Or Stilleman for that matter? You pointed out yourself that I could have married Jane, and I didn’t.”

  “Here’s what I don’t understand: If Jane wanted to kill her husband, why would she have killed Mr. Francis first?” I asked. “Are we to believe that she only intended to kill Mr. Francis? He was, after all, the one threatening her position. She had no way of knowing that Mrs. Francis would let Stilleman take the shaving lotion and any other toiletries he wanted.”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “But if Jane knew the lotion was poisoned, wouldn’t she have stopped him from using it?”

  He stopped trimming the roses and turned to face me. “Not if she wanted him dead.”

  “If she wanted to be free of her marriage, she could have achieved that by simply killing Stilleman. It would have looked much less suspicious had there been only one death.”

  “Maybe she never thought of that. Maybe Mr. Francis had already told her he was letting her go and she panicked.”

  “You sound as if you think she’s guilty,” I said.

  “Maybe I do.”

  “You think her capable of murdering two men?”

  “All I know is that she helped me with the roses more than once. She knew all about the nicotine. Now, I didn’t tell the police that, but can you see that I’m not sure what to think?”

  I could indeed. Regardless, it seemed to me unlikely that these crimes were simply the result of a servant being caught in an illicit affair. Not when there were so many other things swirling around. Was I to believe that the connection between Mr. Francis and Charles Berry was, in the end, meaningless? Surely the fear of losing the throne to which he aspired was as strong a motive for murder as any Jane Stilleman could have had. Both she and Berry stood to lose everything; in this, at least, the servant and the gentleman were equals. Yet I wanted the more complicated explanation to be the correct one.

  I needed to think but found that doing so served only to confuse me. Better that I should detach myself, focus on something else, and let all this simmer in the back of my mind. Back in London, I sought out Mr. Wainwright in the British Library. It took very little effort to find him; he was at his desk in the Reading Room, in danger of being buried by the badly stacked piles of books that surrounded him.

  “Lady Ashton!”

  “Please do not get up,” I said. “I’m afraid something will fall on you if you make a sudden movement.” He did not heed my warning and, as he stood, knocked over at least a dozen books.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, bending over to retrieve them from the floor. I would have liked to help him, but a corset, even one laced loosely, makes bending over nearly impossible.

  “There’s no need to apologize to me. It’s the books that deserve your concern.” He finished stacking them, though in no less precarious a way than they’d been before. “I’ve been pondering for some weeks now the dauphin’s escape from France during the revolution and have come to the conclusion that he must have gone to England.”

  “A popular theory,” Mr. Wainwright said. “Certainly supported by legend. There are numerous stories of English
families who helped Frenchmen flee the terror.”

  “Do any of them claim to have assisted the dauphin?”

  “None that can prove it, but I’ve always thought that anyone who had aided the boy would have kept quiet. He would have been in a great deal of danger, even in England, had the revolutionaries known what became of him.”

  “But what about later? The monarchy was restored after Napoleon’s defeat.”

  “Quite right. But Louis XVIII would never have been king if the dauphin had been around to inherit the throne. Would it have been safe for Louis Charles to reveal himself? If the dauphin survived, he did so anonymously. He had no band of supporters, no army, no court.”

  “I wonder if, after having witnessed at such a young age the brutality of the revolution, he would even want to be king,” I said.

  Mr. Wainwright shrugged. “I don’t know. Royalty think differently than we do.”

  “But if he were brought up as an ordinary boy, surely he would think more like us? Do you know the names of any of the English families that aided the aristocrats?”

  “William Wickham helped thousands of people escape, but he was based in Switzerland on orders of the Foreign Office. All secret, of course. The Viscount Torrington in Sevenoaks housed refugees, and a number of exiled clergy stayed at the King’s House in Winchester.”

  “Sevenoaks? In Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wainwright. You’ve been most helpful.” I rushed home, not to my library, but to the sitting room that Philip’s mother had used when she was mistress of the house. I pulled open every drawer in the room and searched the contents but did not find that which I needed. Davis entered the room as I was in the midst of this tempest, and stood, looking more amused than he ought, waiting for me to speak.

  “What is it, Davis?”

  “May I help you, madam?”

  “Burke’s Peerage, Davis. I need Burke’s Peerage.”

  “I don’t believe that the viscount owned it.”

  “I figured as much. But surely his mother—”

  “She took all her things to the dowager house in Derbyshire, madam. But if I may? Our own Mrs. Ockley has a copy.”

  “Really?”

  “She was quite devoted to the viscount, and when his engagement was announced, she took it upon herself to evaluate your ancestry.”