“How so?”
Mrs. Honeychurch’s gaze darted once more to the door before returning to Eva. “Well, she was a modest sort, never one to boast, but I knew how hard she worked, and how much she wanted for our girls here. A generous soul, she was.” To Eva’s consternation, the cook’s features crumpled and she burst into tears. “Our dear Miss Finch, and in the end it really is my fault—all my fault!”
She collapsed against Eva’s shoulder, her tears seeping through Eva’s dress until the fabric clung and there were sure to be salty stains left on the broadcloth.
These, of course, were not the first tears to fall belowstairs. Earlier, the two kitchen maids had been thoroughly interrogated by Inspector Perkins, until one of them had broken down into sobs. The chief inspector had declared both girls simpletons—which Eva knew was not the case—but had drafted them into helping scour the pantries and cupboards for all possible sources of poison. They were presently placing their finds on the center worktable in the kitchen. Eva planned to interview them again—but much more gently than had the inspector. But first she had to calm an overwrought Mrs. Honeychurch.
“There, now, it will be all right,” she murmured while patting the woman’s hand. Yet, an uneasy sensation persisted. Mrs. Honeychurch was not being entirely aboveboard, and Eva needed to find out why. “You won’t be blamed. Even if somehow a cleaning solution or some other substance made its way into—”
A wail drowned out the reassurance. “Don’t you understand, Miss Huntford? This is my kitchen. I am responsible for everything that goes on here. It doesn’t matter whose hand accidentally grabbed the wrong box, mistaking rat poison for flour, or Borax for sugar.”
“I don’t think anything like that happened, Mrs. Honeychurch, truly I don’t.” Yet Eva did, in fact, believe that very thing. Whether it occurred accidentally or intentionally remained to be discovered. Another idea occurred to her. Could Mrs. Honeychurch already know what killed Miss Finch, but was afraid to say?
“Poor Miss Finch,” the woman went on while dabbing at her eyes with her apron. “She put up a rugged front at times, she did, but that was to impress her authority on the girls. When they weren’t about, Miss Finch was a lovely, caring soul. Lately, she hadn’t been sleeping well—not well at all. She’d often come down late at night for a spot of chamomile tea or warm milk, and we’d sit up a while, j-just . . . chatting.” The last word splintered on a sob.
Lady Phoebe stepped into the servants’ hall and smiled gently down at Mrs. Honeychurch. “I’m sorry this is so distressing for you. You mustn’t think you’re to blame.”
Eva had tried signaling with a frown and a little shake of her head, but Phoebe had failed to receive the message. The cook’s tears came harder and faster. She broke away from Eva’s comforting arms and ran from the room.
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to upset her more than she already was.”
Eva sighed. “You didn’t, my lady. She was already terribly upset.” She studied her mistress a moment, noting Phoebe’s high color and her slight effort to catch her breath, as if she had run down from the ground floor. “What is it? Have you learned something new?”
Phoebe took the seat vacated by Mrs. Honeychurch. “As a matter of fact, yes. Grams just told me Miss Finch was not liked or approved of by everyone connected with the school. Some parents and members of the governing board wanted her replaced. Including Grams herself.” She told Eva what she had learned.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, my lady. Miles Brannock insisted there isn’t yet any reason to believe a poisoning would have been anything but accidental.”
“I saw the way you looked at Constable Brannock when he made that assertion. No use denying it, Eva. You aren’t convinced either.”
Eva sighed. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Honeychurch was acting rather strangely just now, and it couldn’t be chalked up merely to grief. She seemed . . . anxious. I almost got the feeling she was hiding something. It even occurred to me she might know how Miss Finch died. I don’t like to think it and I hope I’m wrong. Oh, but still,” she hastily added, “I’m not saying I believe Mrs. Honeychurch did anything intentionally, but she might know more than she’s admitting.”
“Interesting, but think, Eva. Many of the desserts shared similar ingredients. Logic tells us if a foreign substance ended up in, say, the sugar, others would have been affected. But no, everyone else was perfectly fine. There have been no reports of illnesses of any sort. And I believe we can all agree that it was the Madeira cake that did Miss Finch in. Didn’t Zara Worthington bake it?”
Eva thought back to Zara pushing her way to the front of the line and boasting to Miss Sedgewick about how splendid her cake turned out. “Yes, but surely you can’t be accusing the Earl of Benton’s daughter of intentionally murdering the headmistress. Besides, we don’t know what kind of poison it was. Some are more slow-acting than others. Arsenic, for instance, would have taken days or weeks to kill Miss Finch. It could have been in her morning coffee, or even in her face powder, or anything she used on a regular basis—whether intentionally or not—and had nothing to do with the Madeira cake.”
Phoebe tilted her head and considered. “I’ve read about arsenic being used as a murder weapon, with the victim gradually weakening as if from an illness. History is full of such cases.”
“And Miss Finch was looking rather peaky even before the luncheon began,” Eva pointed out.
With the stubbornness Eva knew all too well, Lady Phoebe shook her head. “The headmistress might have sometimes struggled for breath and tended toward a florid complexion, but I found her to be full of energy and enthusiasm. A slow poisoning would have robbed her of that vigor. As far as I can tell, she carried on with the same vitality from the day she started at Haverleigh right up until the moment she choked at the table.”
“I’ll admit, my lady, that does seem to be the case. But we mustn’t be hasty and jump to conclusions.”
“I propose we offer our services to the police in helping search the kitchen and pantries for suspicious ingredients.” Phoebe rose from her chair.
Eva came to her feet as well and smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her dress. “Do you think the chief inspector will allow it?”
“I see no reason why he shouldn’t. We’ll help make shorter work of the search.”
As Phoebe guessed, Inspector Perkins raised no objection to them helping out in the kitchen. In fact, he preferred Phoebe’s and Eva’s assistance over that of the kitchen maids, whom he still considered dull-witted, not to mention possibly responsible for Miss Finch’s death. And Mrs. Honeychurch was of no use to anyone at present. Eva and Lady Phoebe therefore spent the next hour helping the kitchen maids pore over the luncheon recipes and gather the ingredients used in each dish.
They made notations about where each ingredient was stored, and what else was stored nearby. They collected all the cleaning solutions and—this made Eva shudder—the rodent and insect poisons, and set them on a counter separate from the rest.
Finally, Eva regarded sacks of flour and sugar, jars of molasses, honey, and jams, cooking oils, dried and fresh fruit, and both powdered and fresh herbs and spices. “What precisely was used in the Madeira cake?” she mused aloud.
“It’s a simple recipe.” Phoebe began pointing. “Flour, powdered sugar, butter, eggs, baking powder, and vanilla extract.”
“Miss Finch liked almonds as well as nutmeg in hers, don’t forget,” Eva said. “And the glaze contained brown sugar, cinnamon, a tiny bit of cream, and more nutmeg.”
“So how do we determine whether any of these ingredients are tainted?”
“You do not, my lady.” Miles Brannock entered the pantry and stepped between them. “The inspector and I will take it from here. Thank you for separating out the ingredients that need to be analyzed.”
His tone carried clear dismissal, and Eva thought he was right to do so. “You’re welcome, Constable. My lady, perhaps we should leave now and let the off
icers complete the job.”
Her young lady showed no signs of budging. “How will the analysis be conducted?”
“Samples will be sent to a police laboratory in Gloucester,” the constable replied with a faint note of impatience.
“And will we be apprised of the results?”
Miles Brannock shifted his gaze to Eva, his fleeting expression begging the question, Is she always this inquisitive? Eva smiled and nodded, and Constable Brannock regarded Lady Phoebe. “If I agree to keep you informed, will you leave the finer points of the investigation to the authorities?”
“You engaged our services, after all, Constable. You do still wish us to speak with the students and staff, don’t you?” she asked rather than answer his question.
He inclined his head. “If you would be so kind.”
“I think I’ll go and talk with Zara Worthington now, while the day is still fresh in her memory. Eva, I’ll leave the staff to you. See if you can find out how well Miss Finch was liked among her employees.”
“That is not what I asked you to do, my lady,” the constable called to her as she made her way through the main kitchen. “I merely need their accounts of events leading up to the headmistress’s death.”
After tossing a smile over her shoulder, Lady Phoebe continued into the corridor and up the steps to the main floor. The kitchen maids, meanwhile, busied themselves with preparing dinner for the students who remained. Fresh supplies of meat, produce, and baked goods had arrived from the village and surrounding farms, as nothing previously found in the larders could be trusted. Inspector Perkins departed for parts unknown. Eva suddenly felt very much alone with Miles Brannock, who regarded her with a grin that left her decidedly uncomfortable.
“We haven’t talked in a good long while, Miss Huntford.”
“No, Constable. My duties keep me well occupied, as do yours, I am sure.”
“You’ve ignored my invitations to join me for dinner several times now.”
“I most certainly have not ignored you, Constable. I sent my regrets each time. As I said, my duties to the three Renshaw sisters keep me busy.” She began needlessly straightening rows of containers on the work counter before her.
“Two Renshaw sisters,” the policeman said. “Lady Amelia is here at school from Monday to Friday.”
Insolent man. Eva gave a toss of her head, Lady Julia–style. She didn’t appreciate being interrogated about her personal life. “Her sisters’ needs are many.”
“Even the most diligent lady’s maid must be given some time off.”
She stopped minutely adjusting the positions of boxes and jars and looked up to find him studying her. There was little about him of which she approved. He spoke out of turn, treated his betters with barely concealed disdain, and insisted on scrutinizing her in the most ungentlemanly way. She didn’t doubt he possessed a wildness at his core for all his being an officer of the law. And yet . . .
Quite against her better judgment, she found him compelling. She had a position to maintain, young ladies to tend to. Though they might consider themselves all grown up, ladies Julia, Phoebe, and Amelia needed her, and she had neither the time nor the inclination to divide her attentions between them and a man—any man. Someday perhaps. Not now.
She angled her chin at him. “I visit my parents in my time off. They’re aging, and my sister Alice lives too far to make the trip more than once or twice a year. And my brother . . .” She ducked her head and averted her gaze. Why had she brought up Danny? Danny, who perished in the war, whose death might have been avoided but for the egregious error—no, criminal negligence—of a commanding officer.
She didn’t wish to discuss that with Miles Brannock, an Irishman who showed no sign of having served in the war that took so many British lives.
Please, don’t let him ask . . .
But Miles Brannock did not ask about Danny, or anything else. He merely smiled in his cheeky, disconcerting way and said, “One of these days, Eva Huntford, you’ll run out of excuses.”
She decided to ignore the comment. “Tell me what you really believe killed Miss Finch. The truth.”
Once again she became caught in his probing gaze. His lips tilted to one side before relaxing and parting. “Agree to have dinner with me, and I’ll tell you.”
“You are infuriating, Constable. Not to mention relentless.”
“That I am, Miss Huntford.”
“All right, then. If you insist, we’ll have dinner . . . sometime soon. Now what is it you believe?”
A sentiment sparked in his eyes, quickly doused when he blinked. Before he spoke, he glanced through the doorway at the kitchen maids and drew Eva off to one side, out of their hearing. “All right, this is what I think. Cyanide.”
Eva gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Nothing is certain until the coroner makes his report, but the blue tint of her skin and beneath her fingernails are telling signs. And an odor of almonds seeped from the victim’s open mouth when I viewed her in the morgue.”
Eva recoiled. “How ghastly.”
“It’s part of my job. But tell me, did you notice such an odor when you ran to the headmistress to help?”
She thought back on the confusing, frantic scene. “I’m not sure . . . The desserts had been served, many of them warm and giving off their fragrance along with the tea. Almonds . . . it’s possible, I suppose.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter, because if cyanide is to blame, the coroner will find it.”
“But how would anyone have gotten a hold of such a thing? Arsenic I can understand. It’s in rat poison.”
“Some rat poisons also contain cyanide, as do insecticides and some cleaning agents. I don’t know for sure, but I intend to find out.”
Her suspicions concerning Mrs. Honeychurch rose up again. Had a box of rat poison somehow become part of the ingredients of Miss Finch’s Madeira cake? What about Zara Worthington? Could the mistake have been hers? Even if it had been, Mrs. Honeychurch would ultimately be responsible, as the woman herself had said.
Then again, Mrs. Honeychurch hadn’t been the only member of the staff to act strangely today. The nurse’s hesitation in coming to Miss Finch’s aid had been most unprofessional. Most unnurselike.
“The wheels in your mind are spinning, Miss Huntford, I can tell. Care to share?” The constable smiled—not his habitually impudent, often mocking smile, but a genuine one that brought warmth to his cool blue eyes and chiseled features.
“I’d like to speak with the nurse, if that’s all right with you. I have a couple of questions that should be asked while the day is still fresh in her mind.”
He placed a hand over her wrist to keep her from leaving. “Why the nurse? Was she down here during the preparations? Or involved in any other way?”
“No, not in the preparations. But it took Nurse Delacy rather long to arrive on the scene. I’d sent Lady Phoebe’s sister to find her. The infirmary is on the ground floor, not far from the dining hall, yet it seemed to take forever. I could be wrong—nothing is completely clear about those moments, they were such a shock, but . . .”
“Yes? Do go on.”
“Lady Julia left the room, and it was only then that the nurse arrived in the dining hall, accompanied by both sisters.”
“As if it took the two of them to rouse her?”
“Yes, possibly. But perhaps she wasn’t in the infirmary at the time, and Amelia had to search for her.”
He sucked in his cheeks and considered. “Let’s find out what delayed her. It might be nothing, or it could be important.” Eva started to turn away again, but he hadn’t taken his hand off her wrist. She questioned him with a lift of her eyebrow. “Perhaps we might discuss what you learn over dinner?”
It was her turn to smile. “Not tonight, Constable. My ladies suffered a shock today and will need me at home tonight.”
“Then when?”
Her smile widened. Did she inject a trace of impudence in it? A touch of mockery? Perhap
s, but she had to admit it felt good to turn the tables on him. “Soon, Constable Brannock. Very soon.”
* * *
An unnatural stillness claimed the sixth form hallway of the dormitory. The doors all stood closed, and although Phoebe could hear occasional murmurs from within, she detected no hint of the high spirits she remembered sharing with her classmates when they were left to their own devices. Of course, those moments had typically been few and far between, as her schooldays had adhered to a strict schedule of lessons, study time, and athletics.
She didn’t wonder at the subdued atmosphere, after what the girls had witnessed earlier today. She did wonder, however, how much they had been told. Precious little, most likely, and certainly nothing about suspected poison. And as for the younger girls, most of their rooms were tucked away on the third floor, in what had once been the servants’ quarters. As far as Phoebe knew, they had been told of Miss Finch’s passing with little elaboration, and to keep them occupied, their lessons would continue, were even now commencing in the classrooms on the first and second floors of the wing that had been added to the original house. Thankfully, that wing kept them well away from the dining hall, and it was unlikely they had heard the disturbance at all. She only hoped the older girls kept the details to themselves.
How long would they all remain at Haverleigh? If the headmistress had been intentionally poisoned, there would be a mass exodus just as soon as parents could arrange to collect their daughters.
She came to a corner bedroom, the one she knew to be the largest of the rooms allocated to any student. She knocked, and upon hearing a “come in,” opened the door and stepped inside. Zara Worthington stood before a full-length mirror and seemed to be admiring her chestnut curls. At least that was the impression she gave, leaning in close to the glass and fingering a ringlet beside her left cheek. That cheek dimpled as Zara glanced at Phoebe through the mirror. That the girl hadn’t bothered to pull away and pretend not to be primping struck Phoebe as particularly shallow, considering the circumstances.
A Pinch of Poison Page 4
