by Rhys Bowen
“From Yorkshire, sir.” I mumbled the words. “From Lady Sowerby’s estate.”
“Why did you leave your former situation?”
“Lady Sowerby was old and had decided to close up her own household and go to live with her son.”
“But London—that’s a long way from home for you, isn’t it? What made you come to London?”
“I saw the advertisement, sir. And who would not want a chance to cook for the royal household?”
That seemed to satisfy them.
“I think that’s all for now, Miss Barton,” the policeman said. “We won’t know more until we receive the results of the toxicology tests on Count Wilhelm.”
I had only taken a couple of steps before he added, “We will need your full particulars, young lady. Place of birth. Employment history. References.”
“Those are all at the palace, Chief Inspector,” I said. “I submitted full particulars when I applied for the job.”
“Precisely,” he said in a clipped voice. “They are not here for me to check on, are they? Write everything down for me.”
I decided the time might have come to stand up to them. “I don’t know why you think I would have deliberately put a poisoned mushroom into a pie,” I said angrily. “If you really believe I wanted to kill Her Majesty, that would be a really stupid way to attempt it, wouldn’t it? It was such a random thing to do. The chances of the queen actually getting that mushroom were small, and why would I want to harm any other member of the royal party?”
“We were not suggesting that there was any evil intention on your part,” Sir Arthur said hastily. “Please do not distress yourself, Miss Barton.”
“If I had wanted to harm the queen, I have had perfect opportunities,” I went on. “She took to her bed after the attempted assassination, and I carried up her meals on a tray. I sat alone with her while she ate them.”
“You will be good enough to write out a list of all the food served to the royal party on that day, Miss Barton,” the inspector said. “Was there any occasion to your knowledge when Count Wilhelm might have eaten something that other members of the royal party did not?”
“Not on that day,” I said. I forgot to add “sir.” I was so rattled by now. “But the first day after he was shot, he did remain in his room and meals were sent up to him. However, he had exactly the same food I had prepared for the royal dining room.” I hesitated, as something occurred to me. “Count Wilhelm had a habit of coming into the kitchen—”
“Coming into the kitchen?” Sir Arthur asked, horrified.
“Yes, sir. He had frequent complaints about meals, and he helped himself to anything he liked the look of.”
“That is most unseemly,” Dr Reid said. “Was this reported?”
“I understand that Mr Angelo, our master cook, did complain about it. To no avail.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I did hear something about it,” Sir Arthur said. “But I felt that the count had a perfect right to visit the chef and complain if the food was not to his liking.”
“So did the count come into the kitchen on the day in question? The day he took ill?”
“Yes, he did. He was upset that there was no red meat with his luncheon. And he had not liked the fish stew from the night before.”
“Did he sample anything in the kitchen on that occasion?”
I frowned, thinking. “No. In fact he still seemed rather weak from his gunshot wound. He seemed unsteady on his feet.” I paused, then added, “Oh, I did give him a cup of the beef broth I had made for the other invalids. He seemed to like it.”
“That must have annoyed you, Miss Barton,” the chief inspector said. “Having this man wandering into your kitchen at will.”
“I found it very annoying, sir.”
He gave a satisfied little nod. I stared at him incredulously.
“But if you think I poisoned his food to stop him from visiting the kitchen, I’m afraid I find that ridiculous.”
“Nobody is suggesting that you deliberately poisoned the count,” Dr Reid said hastily, but I could see that was exactly what Chief Inspector Raleigh wanted to suggest.
“Did anyone else visit your kitchen?” he asked.
“Only Dr Reid, when he came to inform me on the condition of the patients.”
“We shall need to speak to the servant who carried up the count’s tray,” the inspector said, addressing the other two gentlemen.
“But that was the day before Miss Barton purchased the mushrooms,” Sir Arthur said, looking confused now. “On the day in question, we are told that the count ate his meals with the rest of the party.”
“But he did visit the kitchen.” The inspector was not going to let this go. “Can we think whether anyone might have had a grudge against the count? Is it possible that someone from his part of Germany is working at this hotel? Someone who might see this as an opportunity to get rid of an unpopular ruler?”
“If that were the case, then this whole sad business can have nothing to do with Miss Barton. I don’t think we need to detain her any longer.”
“Maybe not,” the inspector agreed, “but we shall need all those particulars, Miss Barton. Just in case.”
“Very good, sir,” I replied stiffly.
As I went to leave, the inspector added, “You understand that we want to keep this matter strictly between ourselves. Consider yourself lucky that it has not been turned over to the French police. I can assure you that their methods of interrogation would not be as gentle as mine.”
“There is nothing to interrogate, sir,” I said. “If the mushroom I cooked into the pie was indeed poisonous, then it was a tragic accident, for which I am genuinely sorry.” I gave a little nod before I left the room. I had not mentioned that Princess Sophie would be the one who was now rejoicing that the count was dead.
CHAPTER 31
I don’t know how I stumbled back to my bedroom. Once there I stood at the open window, taking in big gulps of fresh air. I had always despised women who fainted, but at this moment my head was ringing, and I felt I could easily pass out. It was clear to me that the inspector from London was anxious to wrap up the case quickly. He would be looking into my background, and as soon as he contacted Sowerby Hall, he would learn that Helen Barton had died. So I was an imposter, up to no good, someone who had joined the palace with an ulterior motive. I could see how easily a case against me could be built. Disgruntled gentlewoman, father cheated out of inheritance, sacked from job, raising his daughter with a chip on her shoulder against all aristocrats.
But if I told the truth now, maybe went to Dr Reid or to Sir Arthur, who seemed to have taken kindly to me, I wouldn’t fare any better. At the very least, I would be dismissed from service immediately. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I couldn’t think of anyone who might speak on my behalf. Mr Angelo would say I was a good worker, but so what? I desperately needed advice, a female companion. I realized I had been so horribly alone since my mother died and I was sent to the Tilleys’ house. There I had shunned closeness to other servants, thinking myself to be above them. When I moved to the palace, I had enjoyed chatting with Mrs Simms but again had not allowed myself to open up to her, since I had to carry the burden of my enormous secret. And my little sister, Louisa—I was fond enough of her, but we were so different, and I was the older one, the responsible one. I had never once told her how I felt. Now I sank back on to my bed, longing for my mother, longing for a woman’s arms around me, telling me that everything was going to be all right. For the first time in my life, I was truly frightened.
As I lay there, a thought came to me. Lady Mary Crozier had seemed to be a kind and sensible woman. If I went to her and told her the truth, perhaps she could advise me on what course to take. I couldn’t ask her to speak on my behalf, since she didn’t know me, but at least I could have the advice of a woman, and I could tell my story to someone who would listen with sympathy.
I washed my face, tidied my hair, put on my ne
w dress, then looked at the time. Still only ten o’clock. Was it done to call upon an aristocrat this early? I thought not, but at least I could probably guarantee that she’d still be at home. I had to risk it. The day was mockingly fine. Birds chirped in the big pine trees. Dappled sunlight played across the path. The sweet smell of spring flowers wafted on a gentle breeze. It was a day for a picnic, for a stroll in the gardens, for a ride in Giles’s carriage. I paused, considering. Was he a person I could go to? But I had deceived him, hadn’t I? He might find that a cook who had acted as if she was a legitimate member of the royal household might make him a laughing stock if the truth came out. I took a deep breath and walked resolutely towards Lady Mary’s villa.
The maid who answered the front door looked startled to see a caller on the doorstep this early in the day.
“The marquise is not ready for visitors,” she said in her prim French voice. “If you leave your calling card on the tray, I will present it to her at the appropriate time.”
“It is a very urgent matter, mademoiselle,” I said. “I would not usually disturb my lady so early, but it is very important that I speak with her. Could you please tell her that Miss Barton begs for a few minutes of her time?”
“I will tell her,” she said, implying that she wasn’t hopeful for a good outcome. “Remain here.”
I waited in the marble foyer, examining the statues and potted palms. Everything was so perfect, so elegant, and people like Lady Mary took it for granted. Eventually I heard voices coming from the rear of the villa, then a voice from the balcony at the top of the stairs said, “I don’t know what this is about, and my maid was still completing my toilette, but curiosity got the better of me.” She came down the stairs, still in a peach silk robe trimmed with feathers. Her feet tapped in silk slippers across the marble floor.
“You’d better come into the music room. My husband is in the morning room reading the newspapers, I expect. And bring us coffee, Yvette.”
“Of course, marquise.” The maid hurried off in one direction. I followed Lady Mary into a sitting room dominated by a grand piano. The carpet was dark blue with a lighter blue silk wallpaper, and the view was on to the fish pond and the gardens beyond.
“Take a seat.” Her voice had no warmth in it, and the friendly smile of our last encounter was missing. “Now,” she said, “what have you to say for yourself, miss?”
It was such an aggressive outburst that I was taken aback. Had she already heard about the poisoning of Count Wilhelm, and was she blaming me?
“Well?” she went on. “I only agreed to meet you because I am dying to know who you really are and why you thought it was acceptable to deceive me that you were a member of Her Majesty’s household.”
Again I wasn’t quite sure what she was getting at. “I am here as part of Her Majesty’s retinue,” I said.
“I don’t think so. I was chatting with Lady Lytton and mentioned you and what a success you were at our party. She said there was nobody called Helen amongst Her Majesty’s household.” She looked up as the maid came in with a tray of coffee. There was silence as the coffee was poured into two cups and hot milk was added. “So was it a joke for you? And who are you in reality?”
“I assure you it was no joke,” I said. “You approached me, remember, Lady Mary. You didn’t ask for any details, only that you wanted my red hair as part of your tableau. What you never gave me time to tell you was that I did come from the palace with the queen, but I am not a lady-in-waiting. I am her cook.”
Her eyes opened wide, and without warning she burst out laughing. “Her cook?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so. I only agreed to take part in your tableau because I didn’t want to let you down.”
She looked confused. “But you are a girl of good family. One can tell breeding. Your speech. Your behaviour. You can’t be a cook.”
“I am,” I said. “You are right that I am from a good family, but we suffered a series of reversals of fate, ending with my parents both dead and my being responsible for a little sister with no means of support. I had to go into service, which I can assure you was highly painful and embarrassing for me. Then I discovered an aptitude for cooking—one might even say a passion for it.”
“How extraordinary,” she said. “What an extraordinary story. And so your cooking skills came to the notice of the royal household?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “They do not know my true story. I have shared it with nobody so far. That is why I’ve come to you. I have to tell someone the truth, and you seemed to be a wise and kind woman.”
“My dear, do go on. I am all ears.” She leaned forward in her seat.
So I told her the whole story, from Mrs Tilley refusing me a reference to Helen Barton being killed, my reading the letter and taking the terrible risk of applying in her place. “It was my one chance, you see,” I said. “I didn’t see the harm in it at the time. Helen was dead. They would need another cook to take her place, and I knew I was good enough.”
“So why the need to tell the truth now?” she asked. “If you are accepted and respected in the royal kitchen, what harm is there that you work under an assumed name?”
“Because of what has just happened,” I said, and told her about the count dying of mushroom poisoning. “So I don’t know what to do,” I finished. “I would not have troubled you, but I am desperate, and I have no friends here to turn to.”
“Let me understand this,” she said, staring past me out of the window. “You bought mushrooms from a stall. One of those mushrooms was apparently of a poisonous variety, and this German count died as a result.”
I nodded.
“A tragic mistake, I agree,” she said, “but I don’t see how you can be blamed. You bought the mushrooms from a stall that specializes in them. Exactly the place one would go to if one wanted mushrooms. I am sure my own servants would shop there. You bore no malice or evil intent.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “A police inspector has come out from London, and he is trying to build a case that the mushroom was intended for the queen and that I am somehow part of an anarchist plot.”
“How utterly ridiculous,” she said. “If that was your intent, what were the chances that the queen would actually eat the poisoned mushroom, and not another member of her household?”
“That is precisely what I said. I told them that the queen stayed in her bedchamber on the day after she was shot at, and I carried up her food. I would have had every chance to poison her then.”
“Except you didn’t already have the mushrooms,” she pointed out.
“That’s true.”
“But what on earth would make them think you might be connected to an anarchist plot?”
“They have asked me to supply all of my particulars—my birth, my previous employment, my references . . . Don’t you see, once they find that the real Helen Barton is dead, they will know I’m an imposter. And they will fabricate a reason that I used subterfuge to infiltrate the royal kitchen.”
Lady Mary continued to stare out of the window. “Yes, I can see that is a knotty problem for you.”
“Even if I go to Sir Arthur or Dr Reid and tell them the whole truth, it would mean instant dismissal, I’m sure. And that London inspector is itching to make a case against me. I can see him saying that I planned this whole thing—he’d point out that I was raised by a disgruntled aristocrat who wanted vengeance.”
“So what is your real name?” Lady Mary asked.
“Isabella Waverly,” I said.
“Waverly? Related to the current earl? And young Viscount Faversham?”
“Their cousin.”
“Do they know that?”
“Absolutely not,” I said.
“Young Faversham was rather smitten with you, I seem to remember.”
“Yes. And I’ve seen him a couple of times. We went for a carriage ride together. I felt bad about deceiving him and kept trying to tell him that I couldn’t meet him again.”
“He’ll be most disappointed when he finds out—”
“That I’m a mere cook? I know.”
“No, my dear. That you are his cousin, and therefore off limits.” She laughed.
“I’m only a second cousin,” I pointed out. “My father and the earl were first cousins. My father’s branch of the family had no money and no inheritance. My father was born in India and then sent back into the army there.”
“That’s the way it goes with our sort of family, isn’t it? The heir gets everything. The spares are sent into the army or the law or the church. Not fair, one might say. But my dear, why didn’t you appeal to the earl for help when your parents died?”
“My father had gone to the family for help once and been turned down. He let us know that no assistance could be hoped for in that quarter.”
“But Isabella”—she reached out and put her hand over mine—“this might be a blessing in disguise for you. Giles is already fond of you. If you went to them now and told them of your predicament, you would have powerful allies. I’m sure you’d be welcomed into the bosom of the family, and the London policeman would know that you have a good pedigree and no reason to want to harm any member of the royal family.”
“Do you really think so?” I asked cautiously.
“Darling, look at you. You have the sweetest face. Who could turn you down? I wouldn’t be surprised if Giles didn’t propose to you on the spot.”
Oh gosh. I felt my cheeks burning. “But the fact that I have been a servant—surely that would bring disgrace and embarrassment to the family?”
“Much has been overlooked for a pretty face before now,” she said. “Your character Nell Gwynne lived a very comfortable life after King Charlie discovered her.”
“But he didn’t marry her,” I pointed out. “I have already had an offer to be someone’s mistress.”
“Really? Do tell.” She gave an excited little shrug.
“The Prince of Wales actually.”
