Murder Most Historical

by Jennifer Ashley

  I stirred in the flour along with a dash of water and a smidgen of salt, then scraped the dough onto my table and began to knead. Neither Daniel nor James admonished me to stop. I’d refuse anyway—the vigorous kneading helped my agitation. I dumped the ball of dough into a clean bowl, covered it with a plate, and set it aside to rise.

  As I wiped my floury hands, Daniel shoved a large helping of bacon and eggs at me. “Eat all that. Then we’ll talk.”

  “Talk.” I picked up the fork he’d laid beside the plate, suddenly hungry. James, likewise, was digging into the repast. “I think I never want to talk again. Perhaps I’ll retire to the country. Grow runner beans and pumpkins, and bake pies the rest of my life.”

  “I’d eat ’em,” James said. “She’s a bloody fine cook, Dad.”

  “Watch your language around a lady, lad.” Daniel scraped back a chair, sat down, and watched us both eat. He wasn’t partaking and didn’t say why, but I was beyond curiosity at this point.

  Once I was scraping my plate and finishing off my second cup of tea, Daniel said, “Kat, I want you to tell me about the meal you served to Sir Lionel. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”

  “Why?” I came alert, able to now that I had a bit more inside me.

  Daniel laid his hands on the table, giving me a kindly look, but I saw something watchful behind the compassion. “Just tell me.”

  It was the same gaze I often found myself giving him. Wanting to trust him, but knowing so little about him I was not certain I could.

  “There was nothing wrong with my meal,” I said firmly. “Was there?”

  James frowned across at his father. “What are you getting at, Dad? You’re upsetting her.”

  “Sir Lionel didn’t die from the knife thrust,” Daniel said, far too calm for the dire words he spoke. “That wound was inflicted post mortem. Sir Lionel had already been dead, though not for long, of arsenical poisoning. His guests, Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, also suffered from poisoning. Mr. Fuller died in the night. Mrs. Fuller, her doctor says, has a chance at recovery, but he can’t say for certain whether she will live.”

  Chapter Six

  I sat staring for a full minute, perhaps two, my mouth hanging open. James looked no less astonished than I did. James had helped me with that meal, not only cleaning the fish and fowl but laying out ingredients for me, learning to chop mushrooms, and stirring up dough.

  “No arsenic could have been in my supper,” I said, when my tongue worked again. “They must have come by the poison elsewhere.”

  Daniel shook his head. “The coroner who examined the body said that the poison had entered the stomach at the same time as your meal. I’m sorry, Kat. You must take me through every dish. Please.”

  “Well, it could not have been in my food, could it?” I said in rising worry. “You brought me most of the ingredients that night, and I taste everything. If arsenic had been slipped into the sauces in my kitchen, it would have killed me too. And all the staff. I always hold a portion back to serve with our supper.”

  “Tell me,” Daniel said gently.

  I heaved a sigh. I could barely remember my name let alone everything I’d made that fatal evening, but I closed my eyes in recall.

  “A cream of leek soup. Whitefish with a velouté—a thickened broth and wine sauce. A salad of greens with a lime dressing and tart apples, asparagus with boiled eggs, roasted squab stuffed with peppercorns with a red wine sauce. A fricassee of mushrooms. There wasn’t time for rolls with all this, so I made savory scones instead. For pudding, a thin chocolate soup to start, then custard tart with whatever berries I could find and a burnt sugar sauce. Copley chose the wine for me—perhaps he put poison in the wine, for whatever twisted reason he had. He’s a villain; I’ve always said so.”

  Daniel shook his head. “There was nothing in the glasses, or the bottles. The coroner worked all night, testing everything he could.”

  “How do you know all this? Was there an inquest?”

  Daniel shrugged. “He told me. He’s a friend of mine.”

  Daniel McAdam, friends with a coroner. Why was I not surprised? “But how did he find the wine glasses?” I asked. “And the wine? Sally scrubbed everything and put it away.”

  “Not the wine glasses. She’d left them. The wine was still open in the butler’s pantry. The police took all this away while you were ... detained.”

  The prison came back to me with a rush. I pinched my fingers to my nose, willing it away. When I opened my eyes, I found Daniel looking at me with such sympathy mixed with self-chastisement that it made me a bit dizzy.

  I drew a breath, continuing the argument to stop the wild thoughts in my head. “The poison could not have been in the food,” I said. “I told you, I taste everything before I allow it to go up, and every person downstairs had a helping of what every person upstairs ate. And we’re all hale—well, I am, and James here appears to be.”

  “We’re looking for the other staff,” Daniel said. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  I fixed him with a stern look. “If the coroner believes the cook poisoned the entire dinner party then why am I not still in Newgate?”

  “Because of James,” Daniel said, unworried. “If you had poured a box of arsenic into any of your dishes, James would have seen. You could, I suppose, have built yourself an immunity to arsenic so it wouldn’t hurt you, but I know James did not. And he’s not sick at all.”

  No, James was very healthy indeed, and listening with interest. He asked the question that was next in my mouth. “Why do you want to know all about the food, then, Dad? If you already know she didn’t do it?”

  Daniel opened his hands on the table. “To decide which dish might best conceal it, and how it was served. The wine and peppercorn sauce, the mushrooms, and the burned sugar on the pudding interest me most. They could have disguised the taste.”

  I only watched him, bewildered. “But who would have introduced this poison? I place the dishes in the lift myself. Are you saying you believe someone very small was hiding in the dumbwaiter with a vial of poison? Or something as nonsensical? Or do you believe Mrs. Watkins did it, or John, as they served the meal? Sally went nowhere near the food at all—she was busy washing up all my pots and pans.”

  “I can rule out none of them,” Daniel said.

  I blew out my breath. “I cannot imagine why on earth Mrs. Watkins, John, or Sally would do such a thing. None of them are mad, I don’t think.”

  “They are not here either,” Daniel pointed out. “Once you were taken away, John disappeared, as did your scullery maid, as well as your butler and several choice bottles of wine.”

  “Of course,” I said in exasperation. “Copley took the wine to sell, no doubt—he refuses to drink the stuff himself. I imagine the others didn’t return because they thought they had no place here anymore. Sally was terrified and fled before I was even arrested.”

  “Perhaps,” was all Daniel would say. “Would it be too much for you, Kat, to cook the same meal, as you did that night? So I can see exactly how it was prepared?”

  At the moment, I never wanted to cook anything again. But I heaved a sigh, climbed to my feet, and went through the larder to see what foodstuffs I’d need.

  I had everything but the mushrooms, berries, fresh fish, and birds. James was dispatched to procure those. The leftover greens were a bit wilted, but edible, apples drying, but again, usable.

  I set everything out as I remembered. A bit difficult because I never cooked to an exact recipe—I knew what went into each dish from experience, then I threw in a bit of this or that I had on hand or left out things I did not, so each meal was unique. A long time ago, when I’d first been a cook’s assistant, I’d doggedly learned every step of a recipe and followed it religiously, until a famous chef I met told me to trust my own instincts. After that, my skills rose quickly.

  I tried to remember what I’d done as I worked. I set Daniel to helping me chop leeks and greens, core the apples, stir the roux for the velouté,
and cream the butter for the scones.

  Daniel proved to be quite skilled at cookery, though it was clear he’d never handled a chef’s knife before. I had to show him, with my hand over his, how to chop the leeks. His skin was warm, his breath on my cheek, warmer.

  I might have stayed in the circle of his arm for a while longer had not James come banging back in. I nearly cut myself scrambling away from Daniel, who moved the knife safely aside, his eyes alight with amusement.

  I set Daniel to washing and chopping the mushrooms, and James competently cleaned the fish in the scullery.

  We created the meal again, which took the rest of the day, and then partook of it, enjoying the lightness of leek soup, the savory fish, the tenderness of the game birds with peppercorns, the sweet and tart tastes in the salad. The scones came out light and crumbly, the custard creamy with the bright bite of berries to finish.

  When we ended the meal, Daniel pushed back his plate, clattered his fork to it, and let out a sigh. “You are an artist, Kat.”

  “It’s only a bit of cookery,” I said modestly, but I was pleased.

  James wiped his mouth with the napkin I’d given him. “’Tis bloody hard work. All that, and you eat it in ten minutes.”

  “You eat it in ten minutes,” Daniel said with fatherly fondness. He took a sip of the wine I’d brought out of the butler’s pantry for the peppercorn sauce.

  Daniel seemed to know about wine—he didn’t quaff it but savored it, pronouncing the vintage excellent. He was a paradox, was Daniel, though I had long since discarded the belief that he was a simple delivery man.

  “You do well in the kitchen,” I told James. “You learn quickly and have a feel for the food. Perhaps you could study a bit and become a chef.”

  “A chef?” James snorted. “Cooking for pampered gentlemen who complain when their dinner hasn’t been boiled long enough? No, thank you.”

  “Well.” Daniel leaned back in his chair. “There was nothing wrong with that meal. Plenty of opportunities for you to slip in the poison, and you too, James—and me—but if everyone in the kitchen ate of the dishes, and you and James are well, I cannot see how the poison came from the meal as you cooked it.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “You might have taken my word for it before we did all that work.” Not that I’d eaten so well in a long time. I suspected part of Daniel’s motive had been to partake in an expertly cooked elegant meal, which I doubted came along for him very often. I’d rather liked cooking with Daniel—and James, of course.

  Daniel and James obligingly helped me clean up. I expected them, as men often did, to abandon me once the enjoyment was over, but James scrubbed plates and Daniel dried them with good cheer.

  I told them to leave me after that. I had nowhere to go and would make do with my bed here tonight, but tomorrow, I’d look for other digs and a new place.

  James departed, his pockets full of leftover scones. Daniel lingered on the doorstep. “Are you certain you’ll be all right, Kat?”

  “Not entirely.” The kitchen was echoing without Daniel and James in it, the rooms above me, too silent. However, the street was busy and noisy, and the neighbors and their servants were near to hand. “I don’t have much choice do I? But I am made of strong stuff, do not worry.”

  “Hmm.” Daniel glanced at the ceiling, as though he could see the entire house above us. “Lock this door behind me then. I’ve already bolted the front door but keep the door at the top of the back stairs locked. And don’t go out until morning.”

  His caution unnerved me. I felt the weight of the house above us, empty and waiting. I drew a breath and repeated that I’d be all right, and at last, Daniel departed.

  I locked the kitchen door then scurried up the back stairs to the door at the top, its green baize tight and unblemished, as though nothing untoward had occurred beyond it. I opened the door and peered out into the cold darkness of the house.

  I was too sensible to believe in spirits, but the shadows seemed to press at me. Sir Lionel had died here, alone and unpitied.

  I quickly closed that door, locked it, and descended again to the kitchen, where I rechecked the back door and made certain none of the high windows were open. The kitchen was stuffy with the windows closed, but I’d put up with it.

  I retired to bed, but I could not sleep for a good long time, as tired as I was. I kept picturing the rooms upstairs, dark, deserted, silent.

  At last I did drift off, only to be woken by a loud thump. Then came a creak of floorboard above me. Someone was in the house.

  I had a moment of panic, wanting to put the bedcovers over my head and pretend it hadn’t happened. But I hardened my resolve and sat up.

  Burglars must have broken in—empty houses were good targets, especially those belonging to rich men. Sir Lionel’s heir would no doubt arrive to take possession soon, but until then, a house full of silver, wine, and other valuables was a sitting duck waiting to be plucked.

  I wasn’t having it. I sprang quietly out of bed, pulled on a blouse and skirt over my nightclothes and found my good, stout boots. I’d run for the constable who patrolled the street—never mind he’d had a hand in my arrest—and bring him in to the take the thieves.

  As I left my tiny bedchamber and made my way through the short hall to the kitchen, I heard the burglar start down the back stairs.

  Damn and blast. The entire expanse of the kitchen lay between me and the back door. I knew why they’d come down here—the master’s collection of wine and much of the silver lay in the butler’s pantry beyond the kitchen.

  I’d have to risk it. Taking a deep breath, I scurried across the flagstone floor toward the scullery and the back door.

  A dark figure leapt down the last part of the stairs and grabbed me before I could reach for the door latch—the door was already unlocked, I saw belatedly. I let out a scream. A hand clamped over my mouth and dragged me back into the kitchen. I fought like mad, kicking and flailing with my fists.

  “For God’s sake, Kat, stop!”

  Daniel’s voice was a hiss in my ear, and a second later, I realized it was he who held me. I broke away. “What the devil are you doing, frightening me out of my wits?” I asked in a fierce whisper.

  “Shh.” He put a finger to my lips.

  I understood. Though it had been Daniel creeping down to the kitchen, someone was still upstairs, robbing the place.

  “It’s Copley,” Daniel said into my ear.

  I started in indignation. “That rat. We should run for the constable. Catch him at it.”

  “The police are already waiting outside. When he runs out with the goods, they’ll nab him. He won’t have any excuse or chance to hide.”

  I went quiet as the floorboards creaked again. I might have known. “What if he comes down here?” I asked.

  “Then I’ll lay him out and deliver him to the Peelers.”

  I liked the idea, but I had to wonder. “Why are you hand in glove with the police?”

  Daniel’s vague shrug was maddening, but I fell silent. We traced Copley’s path across the ground floor above us until he disappeared into the rear of the house.

  “The garden door,” Daniel said in a low voice, no more whispering. “That’s how he came in. He’ll find plenty of the Old Bill waiting for him as he goes out.”

  The nearness of Daniel was warming. “How did you know he was here at all?”

  “I was watching the house, saw him pass a few times. Then he nipped around the corner to the mews behind it. I told the constable to bring some stout fellows, and I followed Copley inside.”

  “You were watching the house?” I was befuddled from being jerked from a sound sleep and having Daniel so close to me.

  Daniel gave me a nod. “I wanted to make sure all was well. I worry about you, Kat.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, the touched my chin with his forefinger, leaned down, and brushed a kiss across my lips.

  I was too astonished to do anything but let him. Da
niel straightened, gave me a wry smile, and moved around me to let himself out the kitchen door.

  A blast of cold air poured over me, but my body was warm where he’d held me. I touched my fingertips to my lips, still feeling the pressure of his soft kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  Daniel returned in the morning, knocking on the kitchen door, which I’d re-locked.

  He’d brought James with him again, to help me with the morning chores necessary to any house, no matter I was its only resident. James whipped around, carrying in coal and helping stir up the fire, while I mixed up dough for flat muffins and fried the last of the bacon.

  I kept glancing sideways at Daniel as we ate at the table, though he did not seem to notice. He said nothing about the adventure of the night before—not to mention the kiss—as if none of it were of any moment.

  I was no stranger to the relations between men and women—I had a daughter, after all—but what I’d had with my husband had been sometimes painful and always far from affectionate. The gentle heat of Daniel’s mouth had opened possibilities to me, thoughts I’d never explored. I’d had no idea a man could be so tender.

  Daniel seemed to have forgotten all about the kiss, however. That stung, but I made myself feel better by pretending he was being discreet in front of his son.

  After breakfast, I mentioned I needed to tidy myself and return to the agency to find another post, but Daniel forestalled me. “First we are visiting Mrs. Fuller.”

  I blinked as I set the plates on the draining board. “The woman who shared the fatal meal? She has recovered?”

  “She has, and was lucky to. The coroner tells me there was a large quantity of poison in the two men, enough to kill a person several times over. Mrs. Fuller is rather stout, so perhaps the arsenic did not penetrate her system as thoroughly. Her doctors purged her well.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. “Do you think Copley somehow added the poison to the meal? To clear Sir Lionel out of the way so he might help himself to the goods?” I contemplated this a moment, rinsing plates under the taps. “Perhaps he only pretended to be too drunk to serve that night, so the food wouldn’t be connected with him.”