A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  The assistant headmistress hopped up onto the first step and attempted to block their way. “Lady Phoebe, I cannot allow that.”

  “I’m afraid that unless you pick me up and carry me out, there isn’t much you can do to stop me.”

  Miss Sedgewick seemed to weigh this option, and Eva couldn’t stay silent. “Don’t you dare,” she murmured.

  “I’ll call your grandmother,” the woman threatened.

  Lady Phoebe shrugged and stepped around her.

  “I’ll call the police. I’m sorry, my lady, I don’t wish to, but you are trespassing.”

  “I understand, Miss Sedgewick. But I’m afraid Chief Inspector Perkins won’t be roused from his chair for such a crime as this, and in all likelihood Constable Brannock will be interested in anything we should happen to find.”

  Lady Phoebe continued up the stairs. Eva couldn’t resist the tiniest of smirks as she passed Miss Sedgewick. The woman responded with a glare every bit as poisonous as the Madeira cake that killed Miss Finch.

  “My goodness, that was unpleasant,” Lady Phoebe said as they reached the landing. “Which room was it again?”

  Eva led the way along the corridor past the classrooms. “This one, my lady. I do hope it isn’t locked. We didn’t think to ask for the key—not that Miss Sedgewick would have handed it over.”

  “I’m not worried.” Lady Phoebe grinned. “I already know what magic you can work with a hairpin.”

  The door was not locked, but opened easily when Eva tried the knob. A gasp sounded, alerting them they were not alone in the room. A plump figure in pale blue leaned over the writing table, one hand inside a gaping drawer, the other curled around the edge of her starched apron as though she might draw it around her for protection.

  “Mrs. Honeychurch,” Lady Phoebe exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I . . . I . . . that is . . .” She snatched her hand from inside the drawer and straightened.

  “Eva, please close the door.” Lady Phoebe crossed to the writing table. “You’re searching for something.”

  “N-no, my lady.”

  “Of course you are. The only question is what.”

  Mrs. Honeychurch wrung her broad hands together and sent a silent plea to Eva. Eva went to stand beside Lady Phoebe. “Do you know something about Miss Finch you haven’t told us?”

  “No, nothing. There’s nothing. It’s just that . . . well, Miss Finch’s personal effects will need to be cleared out for the next headmistress, won’t they? And as no one seemed interested in doing so, I-I thought I’d just get started. You understand . . .”

  Lady Phoebe caught Eva’s eye and nodded, then angled her chin. Eva understood, for it was a signal they had used before. Just as Eva had taken over questioning Nurse Delacy’s parents, she would do so now, for the cook would feel more comfortable talking with a lady’s maid than with an earl’s granddaughter.

  She took Mrs. Honeychurch’s hand. “Let’s sit down and discuss this. We’re your friends, Mrs. Honeychurch, and we’re Miss Finch’s friends as well. All we want is to learn the truth about what happened to her, and if you know anything that could help her find justice, you mustn’t keep it to yourself.”

  She led the cook to the settee by the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Huntford, but I don’t know anything about Miss Finch’s death. I swear I don’t.”

  “No, perhaps not about her death, but her past.” Eva broke off with a gasp as a memory flashed. Only days ago, she had sat and consoled a despondent Mrs. Honeychurch over the loss of the headmistress. The very same headmistress who would sip chamomile tea and chat with her in the servants’ hall late at night. “Mrs. Honeychurch, I believe you do know something about Miss Finch you haven’t told us. Whatever it is, you must come clean. Has it anything to do with Elliot?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Honeychurch cried out as if Eva had stuck her with a pin.

  “You needn’t fear to confide in us, Mrs. Honeychurch. Is Elliot the reason you sneaked into this room this morning? Were you looking for something that links him to Miss Finch?”

  The woman shivered from head to toe as if caught in an arctic blast. “I swore I’d never tell. I gave my most solemn oath.”

  “To whom? Miss Finch?” Or her murderer? Eva, too, shivered at the thought.

  “I swore to Henrietta I’d take her secret to my grave.” The cook tented chapped hands against her chin. “She trusted me, you see. She hoped if anything ever happened to her, I might be able to convince the new headmistress to keep Elliot on. Or even . . . look after him myself, if it came to that. But—but no one must ever know . . .”

  “Know what, Mrs. Honeychurch?” Eva demanded. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  Mrs. Honeychurch shook her head repeatedly. “It’s too dangerous. I c-cannot say.”

  Slowly, Lady Phoebe came around the settee to sit in one of the armchairs opposite. She made barely a sound, and once sitting, she didn’t move again, but kept her gaze pinned on Mrs. Honeychurch, who seemed not to notice her at all. Eva patted the woman’s hand until she regained a modicum of control and calmed herself.

  “Miss Finch is gone now,” Eva said gently, “and there is no one to act on Elliot’s behalf—no one except you, Mrs. Honeychurch. Besides, Miss Finch’s death releases you from your oath.”

  “Except that it doesn’t,” the woman replied, shaking her head again. “Henrietta said I must never talk about Elliot’s past. Oh, poor Elliot, suffering in that horrid jail cell. . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Honeychurch, exactly.” Eva placed her hand on Mrs. Honeychurch’s, hoping the physical contact would help inspire her trust. “Understanding his past might aid us in helping him now.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “Please, Mrs. Honeychurch. Elliot’s future is in your hands.”

  “Lord help me.” The cook nodded as if answering her own private question. Then she lifted her apron to wipe her eyes. “Miss Finch told me that if the wrong person discovered the truth, she and Elliot would be in grave danger. Then she told me I’d be in danger as well if I ever told anyone.” She swallowed and dabbed at her eyes again. “And you see, the secret is out. It must be, or Miss Finch would still be alive. Someone, whoever it is, knows, and he’ll be back. For Elliot. And for me, Miss Huntford.”

  “But I assure you, Mrs. Honeychurch, Lady Phoebe and I pose no danger to you. Don’t you see, if the secret is already out, the best way to protect yourself and Elliot is to let other people know.”

  She allowed Mrs. Honeychurch all the time she needed to consider those words. At least a full minute passed, perhaps two. Then Mrs. Honeychurch slowly nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. But please, Miss Huntford, you’ll hold this in the strictest confidence?”

  “As far as I am able. No one need ever know my information came from you.”

  The woman released a shuddering breath. “All right, then. Elliot was Miss Finch’s nephew. Her sister’s child. There is no other family left.”

  Eva glanced over at Phoebe, who compressed her lips and showed little sign of surprise. The cook’s tears brimmed again, and while Eva certainly understood her emotional state, she needed the woman to focus. “What did Miss Finch tell you about Elliot’s past? How did he come to be in danger?”

  “I don’t know. She was vague. She said the less I knew the better.”

  Not the answer Eva hoped for, but her mind raced nonetheless. There seemed little doubt left that Elliot was the child who set fire to St. James Church. But what happened to him afterward? Pastor Davis said he and his mother simply disappeared. Where did they go? How did Elliot come to be working at the school under his aunt’s supervision? “Perhaps you can tell me this, Mrs. Honeychurch. When did Miss Finch first begin caring for Elliot?”

  “When his mother died.”

  Eva already thought as much. “And do you know how, and when, his mother died?”

  Another shake of the cook’s head brought a wave of disappointment edged in frustratio
n. “Henrietta didn’t tell me either of those things, and it wasn’t my place to pry, was it?”

  “No, I expect not.”

  “But I did have a sense that Elliot hadn’t been in Henrietta’s care long. I can’t say why, exactly. It was just a feeling I got. And another thing. I don’t think the sisters got along most of their lives. Henrietta talked about her sister rather sadlike, as if she had more than a few regrets. But before she died, she told Henrietta whatever it is that could endanger all of them.”

  “I see.” Eva mulled this over and concluded this secret would lead them straight to Miss Finch’s murderer. “Is there anything else?”

  The cook crumpled the corner of her apron between her hands. “Not that I can think of just now. Is there . . . well . . . any reason Miss Sedgewick must learn about my being here in Miss Finch’s room?”

  Miss Sedgewick, who had secrets of her own. Eva conjured a reassuring smile. “I don’t believe she ever needs to know. I take it you were searching for any information that links Elliot to Miss Finch, and that you found nothing of interest?”

  “That’s right, Miss Huntford. I didn’t want any such information falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Most of the room has already been searched, but Lady Phoebe and I will take another good look to be certain. Thank you, Mrs. Honeychurch, you’ve been a great help.”

  After the woman left, Lady Phoebe moved to the settee and sat beside Eva. “What do you make of all that?”

  “I’m not quite sure, my lady. I wonder how a mother and son managed to disappear for years without anyone finding out where they were. Had Miss Finch known of their whereabouts all that time, or did her sister contact her more recently?”

  “Which raises the question of whether the sister knew she was dying—perhaps of some ailment—as opposed to passing away suddenly.” Lady Phoebe folded her hands in her lap and stared down at them. “Eva, you don’t suppose Elliot might have had a hand in his mother’s death, do you?”

  “My lady, what a dreadful notion. But I’ll admit it’s a question that must be considered.”

  “It could have been another accident, like the fire.” Lady Phoebe hesitated before adding in a murmur, “If indeed the fire was an accident.”

  An icy shiver traveled Eva’s length. “One thing can’t be denied. Death seems to follow Elliot like a shadow.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Constable Brannock’s disappointment was palpable when Phoebe met him in the village later that morning. She couldn’t help an inner smile, however, when she considered the reason for the policeman’s letdown. He had hoped Eva would come as well. Unfortunately, Phoebe hadn’t dared keep Eva away from home longer than necessary and had brought her directly back to Foxwood Hall following their visit to the school.

  Eva’s parting words had haunted her all the way back into town. Miss Finch’s involvement in Elliot’s life had to be what led to her murder. She hadn’t wanted to think it—hadn’t liked acknowledging that an innocent woman died because of the sins of another. But whose sins? Both she and Eva believed Elliot knew, that he could solve this mystery today if only they could entice him to speak.

  She and the constable walked along High Street together, passing shops and absently nodding their greetings to pedestrians. “Thank you for meeting with me, Constable.”

  “You said it has to do with Elliot.”

  “Yes, and Miss Finch, too. That is, Miss Finch’s death.”

  The constable came to an abrupt halt outside the smithy’s shop. From behind the building came the incessant clanking of a hammer on an anvil, a din that grated on Phoebe’s nerves. “I think you had better explain, my lady.”

  They resumed walking while she related what she and Eva had learned from Mrs. Honeychurch. She included Eva’s last supposition about Miss Finch. By the time she finished, Constable Brannock’s brow had drawn taut.

  “None of this bodes particularly well for Elliot, you understand. From what you say, his past is a violent one that led to Miss Finch’s death.” Phoebe started to protest, but he cut her off. “That is how a jury will see it, my lady.”

  “If Elliot is in any way responsible for the terrible things that happened in either the past or the present, I don’t believe he did them with any intended malice. You know how he is, Constable. He’s like a child. I don’t believe he has a violent or unkind bone in his body.”

  “He upset Miss Sedgewick and sent her running to escape him not long ago.”

  Phoebe harrumphed. “That was more than likely Miss Sedgewick being difficult. All Elliot wished to do was hand her a flower. But that’s precisely my point. He didn’t mean to upset her. He simply doesn’t understand the repercussions of his actions. I believe the same is true of his attack on Mr. Amstead.”

  “You believe Elliot tried to help the vicar by striking him with a garden tool?” The constable clasped his hands behind his back. His strides lengthened, and Phoebe quickened her pace to keep up. Was he about to dismiss her and her theories? She wouldn’t let him.

  “I believe the flame the vicar used to light his pipe brought back the terror of the fire he experienced as a child, and sent him into a panic.”

  “The fire he might have started as a child—if indeed Elliot is that same child.”

  “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Yes, my lady, there can. Without Miss Finch to corroborate the facts, we are left guessing. And the police are never happy when forced to guess. Besides, whatever happened in Elliot’s past doesn’t change what he did in the present. He attacked the vicar and has been arrested for assault.”

  “What will happen to him if he’s convicted?”

  “He’ll either spend time in jail, or . . .”

  Phoebe didn’t like the gloomy note as his voice trailed off. “Or what? Please don’t spare me.”

  “Or considering his limitations, he might be committed to an asylum.”

  It was Phoebe’s turn to grind to a halt, forcing several passersby to lurch sideways to keep from bumping into her. “That would be dreadful. Constable, please, we cannot let that happen. Perhaps I can persuade my grandfather to find a place for him at Foxwood Hall, where he’ll be supervised and cared for.”

  “My lady, I’m afraid you’re getting ahead of yourself. Before your grandfather can be persuaded of anything, Mr. Amstead must first be persuaded to drop the charges against Elliot.”

  After leaving the constable, Phoebe’s next stop brought her to the Calcot Hotel, a Georgian-style guesthouse on the outskirts of the village. Set on a ridge, the hotel enjoyed expansive views of rolling fields and distant hills. She had one more errand to perform today, one inspired by Constable Brannock’s words. But she decided against setting out alone. This errand called for reinforcements, someone who commanded the respect and admiration of other men.

  “Shall we take the Runabout?” Owen Seabright shoved his arms into his trench coat sleeves as they exited a lobby decorated in deep greens and dark woodwork. He blinked in the glare of the midmorning sunlight.

  “We’ll go in my Vauxhall,” Phoebe said, leading the way. She grinned at him over her shoulder. “I’ll drive.”

  “As you will, my lady.” His baritone chuckle smacked of intimacy.

  Phoebe pretended she hadn’t noticed. “Thank you for agreeing to come. You might do more to persuade the vicar than I can.”

  “Based on what you told me on the telephone, I’m not completely convinced the vicar should be persuaded.” He opened her door for her before circling the bonnet and letting himself in the passenger side. “Especially if you intend on bringing Elliot to Foxwood Hall.” He stretched out his legs as much as the space in front of him allowed. “I’d like some kind of assurance you won’t be putting yourself and others in danger.”

  She wanted to say something clever in reply, something flippant to nip such notions in the bud and silence the mistrust directed at poor Elliot. But Owen’s concern for her—and for her family—left her disconcerted and ridiculou
sly tongue-tied. She instead concentrated—mightily—on easing the Vauxhall onto the main road.

  They entered the village of Kenswick shortly before noon. Unlike Little Barlow, Kenswick’s main road wiggled over hilly terrain, with clusters rather than long rows of attached shops and homes. And unlike Chadham, where they had met with Pastor Davis, Kenswick displayed signs of steady, if modest, prosperity in its tidy gardens, freshly painted trim, and decorative shop signs.

  The Anglican church presided from a picturesque hollow at the edge of a wood, with a circular garden in front presenting an array of colorful, but still tightly furled buds. A graveyard stretched off to one side, with the rectory and garden in back. As Owen handed Phoebe out of the Vauxhall, she spied the lacy edges of an orchard just coming into bloom.

  “Charming setting,” Owen observed.

  “Indeed, it’s lovely. Mr. Amstead must enjoy living here. I do hope he’s available to speak with us.”

  “He’s expecting us, isn’t he?”

  She started walking. “Don’t worry, I telephoned ahead. I left word with his sexton.”

  Their knock nevertheless went unanswered.

  “That’s odd,” Phoebe said. “Shall we walk around back?”

  They found the vicar in his walled garden. His coat off and his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, he leaned over a clay pot. He appeared to be working the soil loose around the roots of a sapling. On either side of the garden, twisting branches supported canopies of dusky rose and paler pink blossoms. A delicate fragrance scented the forest-cooled air. Phoebe breathed in refreshing draughts.

  Then she called out, “Hello, Vicar.”

  Mr. Amstead flinched and looked up, his hands stilling in the soil. “Lady Phoebe?” He grinned broadly. “Goodness, to what do I owe the pleasure? And Major Seabright, I believe?”

  They entered the garden through a wooden gate. “You’re looking much recovered, Mr. Amstead,” Phoebe said, noting a lack of bandage where Elliot had struck the vicar on the head.

  “Much improved, thank you. Forgive me for not shaking your hands.” Mr. Amstead held up his soil-caked hands.