by Rhys Bowen
“And you turned him down? My dear, I am impressed. You certainly have integrity.”
“I couldn’t . . . you know . . . with a man I don’t love.”
“Quite right.”
“So you really think that I should go to see the Waverlys and tell them my whole story?”
“I do.”
“And if they don’t believe me or don’t want to accept me?”
“What have you lost at this point? It seems to me that you’ll have to tell the truth to someone in the queen’s party.”
“And be dismissed. Then what? I’ll have no reference and nowhere to go.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. “Silly girl. You shall come to stay with me. I’ll introduce you as a young cousin home from the colonies, and we’ll find you a suitable husband in no time at all.”
I looked up at her. “You are very kind, but I’m sure your husband would not approve of me.”
“My husband adores me and would not question anyone I invited to stay. Perhaps he can find a suitably handsome French aristocrat for you. They are much more fun than the English in many ways, even if they have ridiculously strict social etiquette.” She paused, thinking, then added, “But I still think Giles Waverly would be a good match for you. He’s a rather flimsy lad and needs a sensible girl like you to keep him on the straight and narrow.”
“You really think I should go to see him?”
“I really do. Or better yet, I’ll invite him and his father over for tea. You can join us.”
“You really are a fairy godmother,” I said.
She gave me a sweet smile. “The moment I saw you sitting in the gardens, I knew we should be great friends. That’s how it is with me. I see a person, and either I adore them instantly or take a dislike to them.”
I started to stand up. “I should go back to the hotel in case they want to question me some more. Do you think I should tell someone the truth immediately?”
“I’d wait and see which way the wind blows,” she said. “They haven’t actually proven that a mushroom killed the count, have they?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, there you are then. It seems to me that nobody is asking the right question.”
“And that is?”
She gave me a knowing look. “Who might have wanted to kill the count.”
“I believe the police are looking into that aspect,” I said. “The inspector from London surmised that someone from the count’s state in Germany might have gained employment at the hotel for that very reason.”
“Well, there you are, then,” Lady Mary said. “They’ll find someone else with a motive, and you’ll be in the clear.”
“I do hope so,” I said.
“So run along now. I have to finish dressing for a luncheon appointment in Cannes,” she said, “but I’ll send word as to when the Waverlys might be coming to tea.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I said.
“Nonsense, you did me a good turn the other night, and I’m repaying the debt. And we women have to stick together, especially when dealing with thick-headed and narrow-minded men.”
She gave me a little hug, then rang the bell for the maid to escort me to the door. I walked back in a daze, hardly daring to feel more hopeful. Was it possible that I could marry Giles? And the other question: Did I want to marry Giles? Of course I did. He was a sweet boy, gentle, amusing. And he was a viscount who would inherit an earldom someday. I’d be set up for life, safe, secure. Isn’t that what every woman wants?
CHAPTER 32
As I walked through the gardens, I found my thoughts had turned to the interesting question that Lady Mary had raised: the count had been the intended victim, not the queen. If I could find out who wanted him dead, I’d be able to prove my innocence without having to reveal my name. I supposed it was possible, as had been suggested, that a person from the count’s home state had come here with the intention of killing him. In that case, I could understand shooting him. That is the usual anarchist’s method, isn’t it? But putting a poisonous mushroom in a pie in the hopes that the count would choose the right slice? That was downright stupid. Anyway, the policeman from London would already be checking into that, as he probably would into my own background.
I paused, shivering even though the sun was warm on my shoulders. I had to think and get to work quickly, before a reply could be received from Yorkshire stating that Helen Barton was dead. Very well: Who wanted the count removed? Princess Sophie was the obvious suspect. She had made it very clear that she did not want to marry him. But a princess could hardly have tampered with the food, certainly not put a poisonous mushroom into my pie. And she had never come into the kitchen. I thought about the attempted assassination of the queen. Were the two in any way linked? It seemed unlikely, except that they happened so close together, and the gun was found in the bushes at the palace. So the shooter had been nearby at some point. Why hide the gun here? Why not take it with him and throw it into the ocean?
Then I remembered the other strange happening: a woman’s voice screaming that something had been taken from her. I had assumed that it was the queen’s daughter Princess Helena, the one who took drugs, and that someone had removed or hidden the drug she depended upon. But what could that have to do with the count’s death? Was it possible that the thing the princess was searching for was her revolver? Might she fear that someone had taken it to try to kill her mother? And that she might now be implicated? I knew that she felt her mother disapproved of her habit and was trying to break her of it, but might she be unstable enough to have tried to kill her mother? Taken a pot shot at her when there was chaos and darkness and a swirling crowd? It seemed unlikely. And she had certainly also never been anywhere near the kitchen.
But what if the count had not been the intended victim? I remembered other conversations I had overheard: those gentlemen discussing how to remove the despised munshi. It had been suggested that Dr Reid might be able to poison him. The doctor had laughed it off, but he was the only one who came into the kitchen. Had he somehow tainted food designed for the Indian? He knew we made vegetable dishes that would be acceptable to the Indian’s religion—spicy dishes not meant for the royal family. What if one of those had been poisoned? The greedy count couldn’t resist helping himself to anything that took his fancy. For the first time, this seemed like a viable line of reasoning.
Except there was another one. Ronnie Barton had tried to bribe me into tampering with the queen’s food, on behalf of the Prince of Wales. I didn’t think for a moment that the prince would actively work to bring about his mother’s demise, but Ronnie Barton had few scruples. I could quite see him sprinkling some poisonous substance into a dish designed for Her Majesty, and not having too much of a conscience if the dish accidentally poisoned someone else first. The only thing against that argument was that to my knowledge Ronnie Barton had not come into the kitchen at any time—certainly not recently.
The problem was that these two suppositions actually put me in more danger, not less. If Dr Reid had tried to poison the munshi, he certainly wasn’t going to confess to it and would have every reason to make me seem to be the guilty one. Servants were always expendable. He could not risk his plot and his fellow conspirators being revealed. The fact that one of them was Lord Salisbury would bring down the government. Perhaps Dr Reid and I could have a small private conversation in which I told him what I had overheard and that I didn’t want my background checked into. We would agree to call the whole matter an unfortunate accident and let it drop. We would buy each other’s silence.
I shifted uneasily as a strong wind suddenly sprang up, sending blossoms flying. I had been raised to do the right thing. The use of a false name still hung heavy on my conscience, but this thought was one giant step beyond. It was hiding a crime. I didn’t think I’d go to hell for using someone else’s name. God would surely understand my desperation at that moment, but deliberately looking the other way when someone had been killed? I could
never stomach that, however advantageous it would be for me.
I broke off my reverie as I heard footsteps coming towards me. I was in no mood for conversation and looked around to see if I could make another escape into the shrubbery. But I was in a part of the grounds that was all open lawns. The footsteps were moving fast towards me. Princess Sophie came into view, walking at a great clip. She was dressed all in black, with a black lace veil draped over her head, which made her fair hair and complexion look almost ghostlike. Her face showed great distress. She was looking down and hadn’t seen me. I stepped off the path, and she was about to pass when she became aware of my presence. She looked up and gasped.
“I’m sorry if I startled you, Your Highness,” I said, even though I had done nothing except move out of her way.
“You?” She almost spat out the word. “You’re the one, aren’t you? The one who poisoned my betrothed?”
“If the mushroom was indeed poisonous, I am afraid I was the one who baked the pie, Your Highness. But it has not yet been ascertained whether that was what killed the count.”
“What else could it be?” she demanded, glaring at me. “Of course it was a mushroom, and they are saying you were stupid enough to buy food from a stall in the market. From a common street vendor.”
“I am really sorry,” I said. “I bought food from a man who was presented to me as a reputable vendor by the hotel chef, who buys all his own mushrooms from that stall. I am no expert on mushrooms. There are varieties here I have never seen before. I trusted his judgement.”
“I have told Her Majesty’s secretary that I want this stall owner prosecuted and driven out of business,” she said. “He should never be allowed to make this terrible mistake again. And this chef—who is he? He must also suffer for his mistake.”
“Highness, I can see that you are upset,” I said. “I can quite understand. You’ve had a terrible shock. In fact, two shocks in such a short time. To see your betrothed shot and then to learn he has died is more than any woman should bear.” I did not add that this was not the sentiment she had presented to me the last time we met. But women are strange creatures, aren’t we? We only realize what we treasure when it is taken from us.
“At least I was fortunate not to witness the shooting,” she said. “I did not attend the procession. I had a headache that day, and I thought the noise of the bands and the crowd would be too much for me, so I stayed behind.”
“Probably very wise. It was noisy and the crowd was rambunctious. But it was interesting for someone who has never witnessed such a show before.”
“We have Fasching—Carnival in Germany,” she said. “And many parades. For me it was not worth sitting on a hard bench without even a cushion, right where one can be ogled and pressed upon by the common people.”
Then she seemed to realize she was talking to a common person. “I must return to the other ladies. I will be missed. We are supposed to be sitting in silence, in mourning, but it was too sad and depressing to be in there, so I escaped for a few moments.”
“I’m sure nobody begrudged you some fresh air,” I said.
“It is not fitting to be seen out in public,” she said. “We must bear our grief and suffering locked away from the world.”
Before she could leave, I reached out to her. “Your Highness, in your grief, I beg of you not to seek vengeance against the stall-keeper or the chef.”
“But they must pay for their deeds, as must you,” she said. “I shall ask my cousin to have you dismissed. It is not right that you ever cook for my family again.”
“I am sure the French police will be checking into the stall-keeper and where he harvests mushrooms,” I said. “But as to the chef and myself, we had no way of knowing that one of the mushrooms was of a poisonous variety. It was an honest mistake.”
“Nevertheless . . . ,” she said, glaring at me.
“Have you never made a mistake in your life?” I asked softly. “And were you punished unjustly for it?”
“No,” she said defiantly. “Never.” She was looking past me, and suddenly I saw her expression change. I saw hesitancy on her face and a look of fear in her eyes. Then she turned back to face me. “I must go. I am sorry that you must suffer for this mistake. But someone must pay.”
She turned away and broke into a run across the lawn. I watched her cross the forecourt and disappear into the queen’s private entrance to the hotel.
I thought about that sudden change of expression on her face. Sudden realization and fear. Had she remembered a time when she had made a mistake? Or had she seen someone in the garden who had alarmed her? She had, after all, been staring past me. I turned to look in that direction, but it was nothing but an open stretch of lawn, ringed by bushes, and there was nobody in sight. I couldn’t think why anyone might be following her or have alarmed her, but just in case I headed across the lawn to those bushes and peered around them. Nobody. The grounds were deserted except for myself. The bushes were just coming out into bloom—pretty open flowers, pinks and whites. I went to pick a flower, then drew my hand back at the last moment. I recognized them for what they were: oleander. And I heard Princess Beatrice’s voice saying to her children, “Those pink ones are oleander and very poisonous.”
CHAPTER 33
I stood there like a statue, staring down at the flowers as they stirred in the breeze. So pretty and yet so deadly. And the leaves of the oleander, smooth and slim, not unlike those of the bay tree—I had put bay leaves into my fish stew. I remembered the count complaining that bay leaves had been left in his bouillabaisse, when I was sure that I had removed them all. Actually, now that I came to think of it, I would swear that there were no stray bay leaves in the soup. I had cooked the herbs in the usual muslin bag, so they were easy to remove. What if someone had sprinkled oleander leaves on to the portion of food I had sent up to the count’s room? I had to find Dr Reid immediately.
I crossed the lawn as speedily as Princess Sophie had done. Princess Sophie, who had been so sweet and gentle before and now demanded punishment for everyone connected to the count’s death. She had been there at the picnic; she had heard when Princess Beatrice had warned her children about the oleander.
Chilling thoughts were racing through my brain. Princess Sophie had claimed a headache and not attended the parade. So how did she know that the benches were hard and the royal stand was right at the front, with the crowd pressing in on all sides? Perhaps one of the ladies had described the scene for her. Or perhaps she had seen it herself from across the street, as she waited to fire the revolver and kill her betrothed. What better time and place when everyone was in disguise, wearing masks, jolly from too much wine? She could have fired the gun, watched the count fall, whipped off a mask and suddenly been a frightened girl asking what had happened. Which was why the gun had ended up in the bushes here at the hotel. She had to get back before the royal party, so she did not have time to hide the gun anywhere else.
All of this was pure supposition, of course. But oleander leaves? Well, at least they could be proven to be the source of the count’s demise. I went in search of Dr Reid and found him coming down the stairs from visiting the four cooks.
“How are my colleagues today?” I asked.
“Finally we see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he said. “The young lad is almost ready to be up and about. The older men are still weak, but at least they are keeping down nourishment now, which is a good sign. I rather feared for their lives at one stage, I can tell you.”
“That is good news,” I said.
“Was there something you wanted, Miss Barton?”
“Yes. I wanted to ask you what you knew about oleander poisoning.”
He looked puzzled. “Oleander? Not much. I know it’s supposed to be toxic.”
“But would you know what the symptoms would be?”
“I can’t say I would. Why the interest?”
“Because I believe that the count was not killed by a poisonous mushroom at all, but by
oleander leaves, put into the bouillabaisse I sent up to his room when he was recovering from the gunshot wound. I need to know whether the poison would take more than one day to kill a person. You see, the count came into the kitchen, as he sometimes did, to complain about the food that had been sent up to his room. One of his complaints was that I had not removed the bay leaves from his bouillabaisse. Well, Doctor, I remember clearly that the bay leaves were in a muslin bag, and I know I removed it. And in the garden just now, I noticed how oleander leaves can resemble bay, especially if they are broken up.”
He gave me an incredulous stare. “And who could possibly do such a thing?”
“I have my suspicions, but I won’t say more until you can examine the body and find out if I am correct.”
“Very well,” he said. “I am sure that the inspector from Scotland Yard would say you were clutching at straws to try and clear your own name, but I think you seem to be a trustworthy and sensible young woman, and I can see no reason why you would want to harm any member of the royal family. So I’ll do what you say. I shall need to visit a French colleague, as I’m sure my own medical textbooks do not deal with oleanders. I think it’s too cold in England for them to grow.”
So off he went, and all I could do was wait. I was not cooking. I stayed clear of the kitchen just in case any further suspicions fell upon me. And I found myself wondering about Jean-Paul. He was the one who had selected the mushrooms. He could also have had every opportunity to put oleander leaves into my bouillabaisse. And he had been at the Carnival, where, he confessed, he had been drinking. I knew nothing about him other than that he was a talented chef and his kiss had been incredible. But what if he was an anti-royalist? What if he had taken the job at the hotel with the intention of doing away with the royal family? I shook my head. I didn’t want to believe that. I also didn’t want to believe that I was so attracted to him—that he was the first man who had ever made me feel alive.
I took my meals in the staff dining room with the other employees, but they avoided contact with me, as if they didn’t want my current disgrace to rub off on them. Jean-Paul tried to offer a kind word. He saw that I was toying with a bowl of consommé and brought a plate over to me.
