Tess shook her head. “My, my, the things that go on in the posh world.”
“It’s a dangerous world,” I warned. “You must be very careful. You can do well here, if you obey their rules, or at least appear to.”
Tess broke into a grin. “Become a sort of swindler too, ya mean? It’s all a game, ain’t it?”
“A serious game,” I said. “One you play for keeps. Remember that. This world can ruin you in a trice, so mind your manners.”
Tess blew out her breath. “Cor blimey, I’m learning something new every day. Oi—ain’t that her ladyship in trousers?”
Lady Cynthia lounged by the railings at the corner of Grosvenor Square. She’d learned the stance of a man, and with her hat pulled down and a scarf hiding her bun of hair, she looked very much like a young man-about-town who had nothing to do but accost a cook on her way to market.
As we passed, she turned and fell into step with us. “Tell me about it now, Mrs. H.,” she commanded. “What has happened?”
In the relative calm of the street as we walked along, I related the tale of Mr. Davis reading about Daniel, and me rushing headlong to Scotland Yard to find out whether the dead man was he. I told her about Chief Inspector Moss and Inspector McGregor, and finished with our worry about Daniel, and how Mr. Thanos and James had hurried off to look for him.
“Jove,” Cynthia said as I finished. “I do hope McAdam’s all right. He was working in a pawnbrokers, you say?”
“Yes.” I was uncertain how much Daniel wanted revealed of his activities there, but Cynthia was well aware of Daniel’s strange ventures. “He was doing something for the police, I believe. Looking for stolen wares.”
“Ah, I see. And maybe this chap came in to murder Mr. McAdam for pretending to be on their side.”
“I wish I knew. Finding Daniel is key to the puzzle, I am certain.”
Cynthia’s booted feet skipped on the pavement. “Is that where you’re going now? To look for him?”
Tess gave me an eager look, but I shook my head. “No, we are truly out to shop for foodstuffs. I am a cook, not a police detective.”
“Ha. Scotland Yard would be lucky to have you, Mrs. H.” Cynthia grinned. “Tell you what, you fix my staid old uncle his boiled mutton and I’ll have a look ’round for poor Mr. McAdam. Have you any idea where I should start?”
“Goodness, I don’t know much more than you. He frequents insalubrious places, I am afraid.” I thought a moment. “A pub on the Edgware Road called the Dog and Bell. Probably every pub and boardinghouse in between here and there. I really have no idea.”
I heard my voice rise as I said the last, my worry coming through. Cynthia put a kind hand on my arm. “Steady, Mrs. H. You say Mr. Thanos is already looking for him? He’ll know where to search, won’t he?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “And James.” I took a handkerchief from my pocket and dabbed my eyes.
“I’ll fetch my rig and drive about to likely places,” Cynthia said. “Old Rankin forbade me touching the phaeton, but he isn’t here, and Uncle Neville doesn’t care what I do. He believes me positively tame compared to the rest of our family.” She laughed, but the laugh was hollow.
“Even so, there is a dangerous person running about London bashing men to death,” I reminded her.
Cynthia gave me a nod, but I could see she was not as alarmed as she ought to be. “Another reason I rushed down into the hinterlands of the kitchen was that I wanted to tell you about Clemmie. I pulled her aside last night at the theatre and explained to her what you concluded, that her husband has been selling the paintings. Needless to say, she is furious. The worm has turned, I think. She is about to pounce on him with the news”—Cynthia pulled out a heavy pocket watch and opened it—“right about now. Good thing too—maybe old Godfrey will stop treating her like dirt. No wonder she had to find herself a Casanova.”
“We can hope they will mend their fences,” I said, but I was not optimistic. Once a husband and wife lose respect for each other, in my experience, the marriage is doomed.
Cynthia snorted a laugh. “I hope he buys her something pretty or sends her to Paris or some such place and leaves the poor girl alone. Well, I’m off to scour the metropolis.” Cynthia gave us a cheerful salute, ready to dash home for her phaeton.
“By the bye,” I said before she could depart, “Mr. Thanos sends his regards.”
Cynthia’s blush broke through. “Does he? Well . . . that was kind of him.”
She looked away, studying the trees inside the fence around Grosvenor Square’s park. I thought she’d say more, but she only turned around and strode back down the street toward home, her shoulders level and her hands bunched into fists.
Tess gave me a shrewd look. “Is she sweet on him, then? The Greek bloke?”
“Mr. Thanos is not Greek,” I corrected her. “That is, not anymore. His grandfather was, but he married an Englishwoman. Mr. Thanos is as English as you or I.”
“He ain’t,” Tess said with conviction. “Never seen a man with hair that black. Eyes neither. He’s handsome enough, I suppose. If he takes her ladyship walking, will she wear her trousers? Toffs are passing strange, ain’t they?”
“Keep a civil tongue,” I said, moving briskly along to North Audley Street. “You are not to say one word about Lady Cynthia or Mr. Thanos, or anyone else above stairs, for that matter.”
Tess made a show of turning a key over her lips. “I don’t tell tales. Half me friends would be in the dock if I did, wouldn’t they? Ye learn young not to peach, where I come from.”
Not exactly what I’d meant—not telling the police the identity of a thief or housebreaker and practicing discretion were two different things. I had much to teach her.
“Quite,” I said, and led her onward.
At the greengrocers in a lane off Oxford Street, Tess gaped at the sight of all the food. Piles of shining cucumbers were jumbled next to heads of cabbage, and asparagus lay in ordered lines. I checked the asparagus for tightness of the bud and also for insects before I signaled to the greengrocer which I wanted.
“A cucumber should be heavy for its size and dark green,” I explained to Tess. “Cabbage tight without too many blackened leaves. Do pay attention, please—you will be required to purchase these things on your own before long.”
Tess was staring in rapture at bunches of light green, veiny berries. “Can we have gooseberries?” she asked in excitement. “I love gooseberries. I’ve only ever had them once.”
I needed to do a tart, so I conceded. “Pick some out. Make sure they’re firm but not hard. Not squashed and not too dirty. Come along. We still have to go to the fishmongers.”
The greengrocer totted up our purchases, which included spring onions and new potatoes, and wrote them in the book that contained Lord Rankin’s account. Lord Rankin might remain in Surrey, and Mrs. Bywater ran the household in his absence, but the foodstuffs were paid for by Lord Rankin. A good thing too, as Mrs. Bywater was a bit of a pinchpenny. We’d never eat so well if she were in charge of the larder.
I dug into my reticule. “And here are some ha’pennies for the gooseberries Tess has already eaten,” I said, handing the coins to the greengrocer. “I am still training her. She will do no such thing hereafter.”
The greengrocer, who was of amiable disposition, took the ha’pennies and dropped them into his pocket. “Never mind, Mrs. Holloway. She looks hungry. But I’ll watch her sharp whenever she comes back without you.” He tapped the side of his nose.
“So you should.” I herded Tess out. She was speechless, but only because her cheeks were full of gooseberries.
We were almost to the fishmongers before she could mumble, “Sorry, Mrs. H.”
“Good heavens, Tess, I always save food back for the staff. You never have to worry about having a meal when you work for me.”
Tess shifted the full ba
sket to her other arm so she could rub my shoulder. “You’re too good to me. Aw, look, you’re going to make me cry again.”
“Well, do not,” I said. “We are on a public road. But no matter. Your eyes will water much at the fishmongers. It can be rather smelly.”
“Better than the morgue,” Tess said cheerfully. “Any day, I imagine.”
* * *
* * *
It is almost impossible to find good fish if you are not at the stall very soon after the catch comes off the boat. However, I was able to spy a decent piece of salmon, kept cold in sawdust, and took it home.
“I had planned on sole,” I told Tess as we walked back. A few beggars near the post office held their hands out hopefully, and I gave the poor creatures a farthing each. “But you have to keep an open mind about what you will cook. You might find something that is much nicer than what you planned, and you change accordingly.”
Tess nodded, as though trying very hard to remember all I was imparting.
Back in the kitchen, Elsie cleaned the fish, and I cut it into several hefty slices. I made a sauce with butter, wine, shallots, parsley, and capers and poached the salmon in this for a time, while I boiled the thin noodles called vermicelli. I showed Tess how to slice a cucumber paper-thin, and then we dressed it with some tasty oil, vinegar, and ground pepper and salt.
I had not been able to find any decent veal cutlets, so I made do with leftover pork ones instead. I pounded these thin, covered them with breadcrumbs, and fried them in butter, which rendered them as tender and tasty as any veal.
All this went with the gooseberry tart I was able to throw together quickly. Tess washed the fruit while I made a quick crust, and I had the pie baking while the salmon and pork cooked.
A fine repast, if I said so myself once we’d finished and sent it up.
On a normal day, I would have been pleased, and tucked into the portions I’d kept back for the staff, but I was too worried about Daniel to eat much. The relief that he had not been the man in the morgue had only left a gnawing concern about his welfare. James and Elgin, and now Lady Cynthia, were out searching—Lady Cynthia had not returned for the meal—but did they have a chance of finding him? And would he be alive or dead? Daniel might have fled town, boarding a train for who knew where, perhaps back to Scotland, where he’d said he’d disappeared to earlier this spring. We might not see him for months.
Cold shivers went through me, and I could not enjoy a bite of my fine meal.
The rest of the day was taken up with cooking and showing Tess what I expected from an assistant. I needed my ingredients ready for me so I could make each dish quickly, and if I called for extra salt or sugar or some such, she should be on hand to give it to me immediately. Playing a game of dice with Charlie, the kitchen boy, in the corner and explaining to him how to cheat was not one of her duties, as I had to coldly tell them both.
Tess’s spirits could not be abated. She only grinned at my scolding and promised to do better, giving Charlie a wink when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I admired her energy and her verve for life and was glad Daniel had saved her from hanging, however he’d done it. When I found him—and I made myself believe I would—I’d make him tell me the tale.
I finally found a moment to gain Mrs. Bywater’s permission to take Tess on, though we were so busy I had to send a message up through Mr. Davis. Mrs. Bywater, Mr. Davis reported, said that if Mr. Davis and I vouched for the girl, she’d add her as part of the staff.
Mr. Davis looked doubtful, but I glared at him until he sighed. “Very well, Mrs. Holloway,” he said in his lofty butler tone. “But keep her away from the silver and the wine. I know a little tea leaf when I see one.”
I hoped Mr. Davis was wrong, but I knew better than to trust without knowledge. “I will keep an eye on her,” I promised. Mr. Davis only shook his head but said no more about it.
We muddled through supper and finished for the night, Tess mixing up the dough for the morning’s bread while I observed. She did well, except for over-flouring, but a bit of water compensated, and the dough came together.
I put it in its place to rise, and Tess and I climbed the stairs to the attic story. Lady Cynthia, if she’d returned, had not sent for me or tried to come to the kitchen. Lady Cynthia often kept very late hours, so I concluded I’d not see her until the next day.
In the morning, I cooked the Bywaters their plain English breakfast, and fried up potatoes, bacon, peppers, and onions for the staff and served them along with leftover boiled eggs.
After breakfast, I put on my best hat and told Tess I was off to chapel, it being Sunday. A handful of the staff went, or at least we had since Cynthia’s aunt and uncle had come to live here. I hadn’t been much of a churchgoer before then. But Mrs. Bywater had said we were welcome to accompany her to Grosvenor Chapel, a small, pleasant edifice in South Audley Street, built in the last century.
Accordingly, this morning, I walked out with Sara and Elsie and one of the footmen, following Mrs. Bywater at a discreet distance like ducklings after their mother.
Tess had refused to come. “Me, in a church?” she’d gasped. “Not bloody likely. Wouldn’t be let in, would I?”
“All are welcome in church, Tess,” I said as I drove a pin through my hat to my thick coil of hair. “We are all the same under the eyes of the Lord.”
“Well, I ain’t the same. Born in the gutter, weren’t I? And I weren’t no angel, believe me. I can’t be going into a posh church.”
The child hadn’t an idea of what Christian charity was all about, but I did see her point. The pomp and extravagance of some church interiors and the superiority of the clergy in their finery could be off-putting, though I’d found Grosvenor Chapel to have a subdued elegance.
“The meek shall inherit the Earth, Tess,” I tried.
Tess returned to cutting butter into flour to begin a pie dough. “Well, I ain’t meek,” she said decidedly. “And anyway, what would I do with the Earth?”
I couldn’t argue with her. I left her under the charge of Mr. Davis, who said he had far too much to do to run off to a Sunday service. Considering he was in his shirtsleeves in the servants’ hall perusing a newspaper as he said this, I did not give his statement much credit, but I left him to it.
I fell behind the others as we walked, the two young maids and Paul the footman setting a rapid pace. The streets were not as crowded this morning, but plenty of traffic milled about, coaches heading for the chapel and other places, people walking or riding, out to enjoy the sunshine after the rain.
As they had in Oxford Street yesterday, a few beggars lingered around the side of the chapel, I suppose hoping people emerging after the service would feel charitable.
Beggars were always a nag on my conscience. On the one hand, I was moved to pity and a need to help those less fortunate than myself. On the other hand, many of these sorry specimens take the money they are given and squander it on gin instead of good nourishment and a safe place to sleep. They grow drunk, are arrested, and then are turned out to the street again once they sleep it off, where they go right back to begging for money. Workhouses are too full to accept all the impoverished in London, though I wouldn’t wish a workhouse on anyone.
I chose the path of appeasing my conscience and hung back to open my reticule and give each of the beggars a coin.
“Now, you use that for food,” I admonished a man who was so foul smelling I had to breathe through my mouth to drop the coin into his hand. “Some good grub, understand?”
The wretch mumbled something, closed his hand over the coin, and bowed his head.
I turned to the man next to him, who mercifully didn’t have a cloud of odor wafting from him, and placed a farthing in his outstretched palm. “You too,” I told him. “If you use it for gin, your lot will never improve.”
The man nodded, his shaggy hair dirty, the
cap that covered it full of so many holes it could scarcely have done him any good.
He darted a glance up at me as I began to turn away. The man’s face was filthy and covered with sores, pitiable. But his eyes . . . I saw for the fleeting moment they connected with mine that his eyes were a dark shade of blue, the whites around them clear and not bloodshot like those of his fellows.
The moment our gazes met, he was up and away. With a speed his hunkered body belied, the beggar dashed down the shadowy passage beside the chapel, leaving me staring in his wake.
“Oh, no,” I said, snapping my reticule shut. “You’ll not get away from me that easily.”
I gathered my skirts and charged after him.
9
I scurried down the lane that flanked the long side of the chapel, passing its plain windows in a brown brick facade. The heels of my best shoes skidded beneath me, and my hat loosened, threatening to slide from my head.
Wind followed me down the passage, which ended at a gate that led to a green beyond, the trees there thick with spring foliage. The strengthening breeze blew away the stench that had surrounded the beggars, and stirred the coal smoke and clouds overhead.
The gate was closed when I reached it, but I saw no one, not the beggar, not any living soul. The man had vanished.
I tried the gate, finding it unlocked. The hinges creaked, a sound I hadn’t heard, but the wind in the trees hissed like an ocean wave, covering all other noise. I hadn’t heard the gate clang closed either, but this must have been the way the man escaped.
I stepped to the green on the other side of the gate, adjusting my hat and looking every which way. The path, which was uneven and petered out soon after the gate, looked to at one time have led to the churchyard behind the shut-down workhouse that faced Mount Street. Trees closed in around me, untrimmed, the churchyard no longer used. The bulk of the workhouse could be seen in the distance, at the end of a row of houses that had sprung up around it. Backing onto it was another church, which, if I had my bearings correct, was a Catholic one that faced a quiet lane. All was still.
Scandal Above Stairs Page 9
