by Rhys Bowen
“Here,” he said. “Try some of these noodles. I made them myself. You need to eat and keep up your strength.”
The thoughtfulness brought tears to my eyes. “I can’t seem to swallow anything,” I said. “It’s just like waiting for the stroke of doom to fall.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll come through this. You are strong, and you have done nothing wrong. The truth will come out, I assure you. Myself, I do not believe that it had anything to do with a mushroom. I would swear by all the saints that the stall-keeper is an honourable man who knows his trade. I am sure they will find that the count died of another complaint. Maybe he caught the same disease that has felled your colleagues.”
“Maybe,” I said. I couldn’t tell him that every minute we had to wait meant it was all the more likely that information would come back from England stating that Helen Barton was dead and I was an imposter. Then nobody would believe me. The situation felt hopeless, until I reminded myself that I did have allies: Lady Mary was on my side. Giles Waverly, too, I hoped. But what could they do if a policeman from Scotland Yard got it into his head that I was guilty of murder?
A whole long day went by in which I received no form of communication. The doctor did not report back on the effects of oleander, and Lady Mary had not yet managed to arrange a tea party for the Waverlys. The hours dragged on. The weather changed. A storm came in, bringing blustery rain and making escape to the gardens impossible. I sat alone in my room and wondered if I should write to my sister, telling her the whole truth of what had happened to me. Would she care? And even if she cared, what could she do about my current predicament? A butcher’s family is not likely to have influence in royal circles, and Louisa might even be on her way to Australia by now.
Then an idea came to me: Had the count’s room been cleaned since he was found dead? Was it left intact for the police to go over? If so, might he have removed a fragment of oleander leaf from his mouth and thrown it to the floor in disgust? I decided to risk taking a look for myself. I went up to visit Jimmy, who was now sitting up in bed, looking pale, but with eyes that lit up as he saw me. The window was wide open, but even so the cloying odour of sickness lingered, and I swallowed back my revulsion.
“Well, if it takes nearly dying of stomach poisoning to make a pretty girl visit my room, I’m all for it,” he said.
“I’m so glad you are feeling better,” I said. “The doctor was really worried about all of you.”
“Me too. I thought I’d had my chips,” he said. “Never felt worse in my life. I think that’s put me off ice cream forever.”
“Maybe stick to reputable ice cream parlours in future,” I said. “I shall be so glad when you can all come back to work.”
“I know. I’ve felt so badly for you. You must have been run off your feet.”
“It hasn’t been too terrible. Chef Lepin had his men take over the bulk of the cooking, and I just prepared the meals for the royal party. With dire consequences, as I’m sure you must have heard.”
“No. We’ve heard nothing shut away up here. The doctor was so worried it might be catching. He had one hotel footman bring our meals, and that was a bloke who had survived typhoid.”
“Well.” I took a deep breath. “Your favourite count has died, and I’ve been accused of poisoning him.”
He gave me an incredulous look, then burst out laughing. “Lucky I was shut away up here, or I’d have been a suspect myself.”
“It’s not funny, Jimmy. There is a policeman out from London who is determined to find that I poisoned the count deliberately.”
“How are you supposed to have done it?”
“With a bad mushroom, they think. But I’m not so sure. So I thought I’d take a look at the count’s room. I thought you’d know which room it is.”
“Oh, so you only came up to see me because you wanted the count’s room number, eh?”
“We were not allowed anywhere near you until today,” I said. “I’ve been asking about you all the time.”
“Fair enough,” he said, “but a fellow can hope, can’t he? And you’re right. The count did give me his room number. He wanted me to bring up a night cap. Of course, I didn’t obey that one. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“He was quite persistent, wasn’t he?”
He nodded. “A pain in the you-know-what. I can’t say I’m sorry he’s kicked the bucket. So anything I can do to help you clear your name, just let me know. It’s room twenty-four—two floors above the queen’s.”
I thanked him and hurried back down the stairs. It was mid-morning. I suspected the royal party would be in one of the sitting rooms. They would not have gone out in such weather. I walked slowly along the corridor leading to the count’s room, listening for any sign that a room might be occupied. I’d better have a good excuse, I thought. I was sent to find Sir Arthur as the London policeman wanted him. Yes, that would do.
I came to number twenty-four, tapped on the door, waited, and then turned the doorknob. The door was not locked, which I thought was lax on their behalf. It swung open, and I stepped into a darkened room. The heavy velvet curtains had been drawn across high windows, and the room smelled, as Jimmy’s had done, of sickness. The count had vomited in here. I tiptoed across the room and pulled back one of the curtains. Suddenly it occurred to me that the count might still be lying in his bed. I spun around, heart racing, then gave a sigh of relief when I saw that the bed was empty and had been made up. But that also made me think that the room had been cleaned. Of course, if the count had vomited over his sheets, they would have been changed right away.
I went around the bed but could find no trace of a fragment of leaf. Disappointed, I was about to leave when my gaze fell upon an elaborate box of chocolates on the bedside table. I opened the lid. One chocolate had been taken. The rest of the box was untouched.
This struck me as strange. The count had shown himself to be a greedy person. If someone had given him a box of chocolates, would he not have eaten several at once? I picked it up and took it with me. One never knew when it might be useful, not to eat but as evidence. I took it up to my room without being seen.
CHAPTER 34
I was just coming down the stairs again when I encountered Dr Reid.
“Miss Barton,” he said. “We were looking for you. Please come to Sir Arthur’s sitting room. We need to talk.”
I followed him and found Sir Arthur and the London policeman already sitting there. The room was heavy with pipe smoke and my eyes stung. This in itself was unusual. The queen did not approve of smoking, and even her relatives went outside to smoke at the palace.
Sir Arthur, a man of perfect manners, rose to his feet as I entered. The police inspector did not.
“Good of you to come, Miss Barton,” Sir Arthur said. “Please do take a seat.”
I sat. I detected that the tone had changed, their manner to me had shifted slightly.
“Miss Barton,” Inspector Raleigh said, “what made you suspect that the count might have died from eating poisonous oleander leaves?”
“He came into the kitchen to complain about several things, including not being served any red meat for his luncheon,” I said. “One of the things he complained about was that I had left bits of bay leaf in the bouillabaisse.”
“The what?” he asked sharply.
“It’s a local fish stew,” I said. “Very tasty.”
“And did you cook it with bay leaves?”
“Yes, but in the customary muslin bag. I removed it before I served the dish.”
“So you immediately jumped to the conclusion that these were not bay leaves but oleander?”
“No, sir. I only began to see the connection when I encountered Princess Sophie in the gardens. She had been talking to me in a most hostile manner—saying that she wanted the stall-keeper, the chef and myself all prosecuted for killing her betrothed. Then suddenly she looked past me, and her expression changed. I saw fear in her eyes, and she ran off. I couldn’t thi
nk what she might have seen that produced this reaction. There was nobody in sight. And we were on a lawn edged with oleander bushes. That’s when I remembered we had been on a picnic and Princess Beatrice had made a point of stressing to her children how poisonous oleanders were.” I paused, waiting for a reaction.
“Princess Sophie—which one is she?” the inspector asked.
“She is a German princess, a young cousin of the queen,” Sir Arthur said. “She was engaged to marry the count.”
“So what is this young woman trying to suggest here—that a princess killed her intended?” The inspector looked at Dr Reid for confirmation.
“Yes, sir. That is what I am suggesting.”
“And what would make her do that?”
“I came across her on the day of the picnic. She was crying. I tried to comfort her, and she told me that she did not want to marry the count. She called him a monster. I tried to intervene with the queen, but the queen was adamant that the wedding was politically important and would take place.”
The inspector had put down his pipe and was now leaning forward, glaring at me. “You’re a cook, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And yet you console princesses and chat with the queen? That seems rather improbable to me.”
“I suggest you ask Her Majesty for confirmation if you don’t believe me,” I said.
“But why? Why would people of their rank want to confide in the likes of you?”
“One can see that Miss Barton is a young lady of good breeding,” Sir Arthur said.
“Coming from a cottage on a Yorkshire moor? Going into service at the age of twelve? How does that equate with good breeding?” the policeman asked.
Oh goodness, I thought. They had already checked into my supposed background that was on file at the palace. There was nothing for it but to bluff it out for now. “My father was an educated man,” I said. “Unfortunately, I was orphaned at a young age and had no choice but to go into service.” I decided to change the subject. “But what I want to know, Dr Reid, is whether the count did die from oleander poisoning?”
“It seems highly possible,” he said. “It causes confusion, dizziness, nausea and finally the heart to fail, which was how the count died.”
“So he was already suffering when he came into my kitchen,” I said. “He stumbled. He couldn’t focus properly, and his speech was a little slurred. I wondered if he had been drinking.”
“You prepared this fish stew,” the inspector said, “and then what? Was there an occasion on which someone could have added these leaves to it?”
“Not while it was in the kitchen.” I was feeling more hopeful now, and my voice showed it. “A footman came in. I served a portion and put it on a tray. The footman carried it up to the count.”
“This footman has been questioned,” Sir Arthur said. “He says he was about to take it in to the count when Princess Sophie arrived. She told him she wanted a few minutes with her intended and he should leave it on the table outside the room.”
“So she had plenty of opportunity to put the oleander into the dish and give it time to infiltrate the broth,” I said.
They nodded.
“If it indeed turns out to be the princess,” Sir Arthur said slowly, “and at this point all suspicion does seem to be pointing towards her, I have no idea how we could ever prove it, or what protocol would be. Should Her Majesty be told? Should the distressing news be kept from her?”
“And what of Princess Sophie?” the inspector asked. “Are you planning to let her walk away scot-free?”
“It needs careful consideration,” Sir Arthur said. “We have to consider the ramifications of an international incident. Her father is a powerful man in his own right. He has allies across Europe. The Holy Roman emperor, the kaiser . . .”
“As you say,” Dr Reid agreed, “we can never prove it. I don’t think we’d get the young lady to confess.”
“One more thing you should know,” I said. “I think she tried to kill him previously.”
“Really? When was that?” The inspector was now sitting up straight, leaning towards me.
“I believe she was the one who fired the shot. Not at the queen, but at Count Wilhelm. Not being a very good shot, she only struck his shoulder.”
“How on earth did you come up with that idea?” the inspector asked.
“The princess did not attend the parade. She claimed she had a headache and stayed behind. And remember, Sir Arthur, I found the gun in the bushes and gave it to you. If it had been an anarchist, an outsider, he would have had plenty of chances to dispose of the gun somewhere far away—throw it into the sea. I believe she had to get back here in a hurry, giving her no chance to get rid of the gun.”
“Goodness me.” Sir Arthur looked quite disturbed now. Not so the inspector.
“You know what I find interesting,” he said slowly, “is this young woman’s role in the business. She cooks the pie but claims she knows nothing about mushrooms. She discovers the oleander connection but claims she didn’t put the leaves in there herself. And now she tells us that she found the gun and deduces that Princess Sophie fired it because it was in the bushes beside the hotel. All a little too pat, don’t you think?”
“What exactly are you hinting at, Chief Inspector?” Sir Arthur asked.
“That for some reason she is very keen to implicate Princess Sophie.”
“And her motive would be?”
“To save herself, of course.” He looked rather pleased with himself.
I had had enough now. “Chief Inspector,” I said. “I don’t know why you have this idea in your head that I am somehow against the royal family. It was the greatest honour of my life to come and work for the queen. And if I really had committed these crimes, would I have told you about the oleander? Would I have brought the gun I had hidden to Sir Arthur?”
“She’s got a point there,” Dr Reid said. I could tell he was on my side.
“Maybe,” the inspector said. “Maybe not. It’s just that something’s not quite right. I’ve dealt with enough investigations and enough criminals during my long career that I’ve developed a nose. I know when something is not what it should be. And there is something about you, Miss Barton, that troubles me. I aim to find out what it is.”
“I think you are being unnecessarily harsh, Chief Inspector,” Sir Arthur said. “This young lady could not have been more helpful, nor more intuitive. Although I’m afraid you were brought out from London for nothing and we shall have to let the matter rest; at least it seems to me that we have hit upon the truth—thanks to Miss Barton’s keen observations.”
“If you say so, Sir Arthur.” The policeman looked at him defiantly. He knew he was outranked. An ordinary policeman has to defer to a knight of the realm. His gaze moved on to me. “I’m going to find out the truth, don’t you worry,” it said.
Once outside, it took me a moment to compose myself. The inspector was going to find out the truth about me. That would actually not be too hard. But what happened after that? If he sought out Ronnie Barton, might Ronnie not enjoy telling him that I had pushed his sister under the omnibus, in order to gain her position? I could tell the policeman was anxious to find me guilty of something, and murder would be very satisfying for him.
I knew I had to somehow prove my innocence in the matter of Count Wilhelm, even though it seemed that Sir Arthur and Dr Reid were perfectly willing to accept my theory about Princess Sophie. If only I could make her confess. I thought about the box of chocolates with one missing. And Princess Helena screaming that something had been taken from her. I frowned. I had thought it might be a gun that had been taken, but it was more likely something to do with her addiction to drugs. I held my breath. Was it possible?
I lingered in the hallway until Sir Arthur and Dr Reid finally emerged from the room, then I followed Dr Reid until he turned towards his own suite, then ran up behind him. “Excuse me, Doctor. May I have a word in private?” I asked.
He stopped and looked back at me. “Why, of course, Miss Barton. This whole affair must have been most distressing for you.”
I nodded. “Most distressing, Doctor. But I think I might have found a way to finally get at the truth, beyond a doubt.”
He was frowning. “Go on.”
“Were there any drugs found in the count’s system?”
He was looking suspicious now. “There were. Opioids. Probably that new drug heroin—supposedly much cleaner and safer than the original opium. The German company Bayer has put it on the market this year as being beneficial to coughs.”
“So the count had some of this in his system?”
“He did. That did not surprise me, nor raise alarms. I have found that the aristocratic classes are all too fond of such substances. Sometimes to the point of addiction.”
“Princess Helena,” I said. “I know about her.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“She asked me to go into the town for her and buy a list of things at the chemist. I recognized the names on the paper she gave me.”
“Well, I never.” He shook his head. “And you think that the count was also addicted to drugs?”
“No,” I said. “I think they might have been given to him. Tell me, Doctor. If someone had administered heroin to him, at the same time as he was being fed oleander, and right after he had lost blood from a gunshot wound, would the combination of all three have speeded up his demise?”
“Most definitely,” Dr Reid said. “Certainly contributed to the slowing of the heart and breathing. But what are you suggesting now?”
“If you’re agreeable, I think we might be able to prove something.”
I drew close to him and whispered. He looked surprised, then nodded. “Very well. We’ve nothing to lose in this case. I’m willing to give it a try.”
CHAPTER 35
