“Well, you may believe what you like.” Mrs. Watkins’s indignation made her cup tremble as she picked it up again. “John is not bright, Copley only saw a silver piece he could steal, and Mrs. Fuller is obviously lying. She must have poisoned the meal, perhaps in the wine. They poured that themselves.”
I sipped tea again and gave a little shrug. “It may be as you say.”
“I will tell you what I think.” Mrs. Watkins leaned forward, the cameo at her throat moving. “That delivery man, Daniel McAdam, as was always hanging about the house. He must have had something to do with it. There’s something not quite pukka about him.”
I nodded, saying nothing.
I had, in fact, considered Daniel as a suspect. He certainly was good at misleading. If he’d been watching Sir Lionel as he’d said, having Sir Lionel report to him, perhaps he’d begun to see the man as a danger.
Sir Lionel could report to these bad people that Daniel was requiring Sir Lionel to give him information. To shut Sir Lionel’s mouth, Daniel poisoned the caster and got it to the table somehow—perhaps through Copley. When I was arrested for his deed, he felt remorse and decided to help me.
I had not pursued this line of thought, because my emotions about Daniel were jumbled, and I refused to trust my own judgment where he was concerned, at least not for the moment.
The maid brought in a stack of clean plates and began to lay them on the long table on the other side room. Tea would be served to the other tenants soon, and I ought to go.
I rose, but instead of leaving, I walked to the table. The maid was setting at one end a silver cream pot, sugar bowl with lumps of sugar in it, and sugar caster for the finer sugar that would be sprinkled on tea cakes.
I took up the caster, turned it over, and examined the hallmark, finding it identical to the one on the caster we’d found at Sir Lionel’s.
The maid, ignoring me, moved to the other end of the table and laid out a twin of the cream pot and sugar bowl—two sets for a large number of diners.
I moved to her, lifting the second sugar bowl as though admiring it. “Do you have two of everything?”
“We do,” the maid said, continuing to lay out forks and spoons. “It’s not posh silver, but it’s nice looking, I think. Except for the second sugar caster. That’s gone missing.”
I turned around to Mrs. Watkins, the caster and sugar bowl in my hand. Her face had become a peculiar shade of green.
“So the caster didn’t come from Mrs. Fuller,” I said to Mrs. Watkins. “It came from here.”
A number of things happened at once. The maid looked up in surprise, her expression holding nothing but bewilderment. The door to the parlor opened and Mrs. Watkins’s sister rushed inside. Mrs. Watkins left the sofa and came at me in a run.
Certain Mrs. Watkins meant to attack me, I held up my hands protectively, the silver pieces still in them. Her sister, Mrs. Herbert, came after her.
At the last minute, Mrs. Watkins swung around, putting herself across me like a shield. “Leave her be,” she said swiftly. “Mrs. Holloway knows nothing. She’ll say nothing.”
I stared in surprise at Mrs. Herbert, the sister, and then realized that I’d seen her before—in a photo in Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury’s library. She was older now—that photo had been of a fresh-faced young woman. I recognized the straight nose and regular features, the happy eyes of that girl. Now cynicism and age lined her face.
“Who are you?” I blurted out.
“I was his affianced,” Mrs. Herbert snapped. “I broke the engagement when I realized what a parsimonious, evil little man he was. I married a better man. And then Sir Lionel ruined him. My Charles died in disgrace and penury, because of him.”
Thoughts rearranged themselves rapidly in my head. Mrs. Watkins swearing the sugar caster hadn’t been there, John swearing it had, and Copley plucking it from the table after supper and hiding it.
“You gave Copley the poisoned polish and told him he must use it, didn’t you?” I asked Mrs. Herbert. “Paying him a nice sum for his services? I have no idea if he knew what it was—he might have been more careful if he did. Then you told Copley to carry the caster to the table. I shouldn’t wonder if you promised him he could have it. If his greed made him ill or killed him, so much the better.”
Mrs. Watkins, whom I’d never seen less than dignified, shook with tears. “Oh, Letty. How could you?”
“I have no remorse,” Mrs. Herbert said, her head high. “Sir Lionel held a minor government post, and he filled enough ears with lies to have my Charles investigated for treason. The case dragged on and on until Charles sickened and died. He was proved innocent in the end, but too late for him. Sir Lionel killed my husband, as good as stabbing him through the heart.”
“Is that why you stuck my carving knife into him?” I asked. “To make a point?”
Mrs. Herbert looked momentarily puzzled. “I never went into the house. Or near it.”
Of course she hadn’t. That way, nothing would connect her to the crime. The damning sugar caster would be taken away by Copley, cleaned and sold. No one would know it came from Mrs. Herbert’s house.
But Copley had bungled it, lost his nerve, possibly when John had come to clear the table, and stuffed the caster into the rubber tree’s pot to be retrieved later. He’d been caught going back into the house to find it and the other pieces he’d stashed, while the poison was working inside him to make him sick.
I could picture Copley creeping up to Sir Lionel’s library, where the man sat, dead already, to stick my carving knife into his back to both ensure the man was dead and throw blame upon me. The scullery maid had heard him moving about and came to fetch me, so Copley had to flee back upstairs and pretend to be just waking up, no time to pick up the caster.
And then the house had been full of police, rambling all over it for the next day or so, and Copley had made himself scarce to wait until the house was empty again. He couldn’t have known that I’d be released from prison and Daniel would be watching to catch him.
“How could you?” Mrs. Watkins repeated. “A second man died, and his wife was taken ill.”
“Copley is ill as well,” I put in.
Mrs. Watkins went on, ignoring me. “Any of us in that house could have touched that piece or used the polish, Letty. John, the scullery maid, Mrs. Holloway, even me.”
Mrs. Herbert scowled. “Would serve you right for working for that monster, taking his money.”
“I did it for you.” Mrs. Watkins began to sob. “I was trying to discover how to ruin him. For you!”
Mrs. Herbert paused at that, then her expression hardened. “I am not sorry that Sir Lionel is dead. My Charles has been avenged.”
With that, she came at me in a rage. Mrs. Watkins caught her sister before she could reach me. I was about to spring forward and give Mrs. Herbert a good thump, when the woman’s heel caught on the carpet, and she collapsed to the sofa.
The strength went out of her, her face growing pale, her pupils narrowing to pinpricks. Her breath came in gasps, full-blown hysteria on its way.
Mrs. Watkins sank down beside her sister, crying as well, the two of them becoming a wailing mess. The maid looked on in shock.
I put down the silver pieces, opened my bag, removed my smelling salts, and went to the two ladies, waving the little bottle under their noses.
Mrs. Watkins sat up abruptly, but Mrs. Herbert remained slumped against the sofa’s back, breathing hard. I could see the innocent beauty she’d been before she’d been trapped by Sir Lionel. Sir Lionel had been an odious man, and I couldn’t help believe he’d been justly punished.
On the other hand, there was nothing to say Mrs. Herbert wouldn’t simply become a crazed poisoner. She’d not worried a bit about the rest of us being sickened as well, from the Fullers—people she’d never met—to her own sister. In addition, I’d almost been tried for the crime, my fate, certain hanging.
I took from my bag the vial of laudanum I’d brought for the purpos
e of subduing Mrs. Watkins—because I’d thought it she who’d poisoned Sir Lionel and the Fullers. While Mrs. Herbert lay gasping like a fish, I held her nose and poured the laudanum into her mouth, forcing her to swallow.
Mrs. Watkins was still crying, but she made no move to stop me. Perhaps she too worried that her sister had gone a bit mad.
After that, I strode out of the room and out of the house, in search of a constable. I nearly ran into James, who was hovering near the railings that separated the house from the street.
“Gracious, what are you doing here?” I asked him.
“Following you,” James said. “Dad told me to. You all right?”
“No. Fetch a constable, will you? I’ve found the poisoner of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury.”
I had the satisfaction of seeing young James gape at me before his face cleared, and he beamed.
“I knew you could do it!” he shouted, then was away in a flash, running to find the nearest constable.
Chapter Eleven
I was never certain what happened to Mrs. Herbert. She was arrested, likely shut in to the same kind of cell I had been, her trial scheduled.
I walked away from Mrs. Watkins, her house, Sir Lionel’s, and all the rest of it. I visited my daughter again, holding her close until I could breathe once more.
I knew, though, that I’d never be free of it in my heart. I’d lived in a house where a man had been poisoned and died, and I’d condemned a woman to death for it. She’d go to the crowded cell in Newgate where I had waited in fear, only she would not be set free.
I’d met Daniel, half fallen in love with him and had been sorely deceived by him. After Grace’s father deserted me, I’d vowed I’d never let a man trick me again, and yet the first fine pair of eyes I saw, I was off. I badly needed to curb these tendencies.
My agency did at last find me a post a few weeks later, in a large house in Richmond. The lady of the house had heard of my cooking from my previous employer, Mrs. Pauling, and was happy to have me.
Richmond was a bit far from my daughter for my taste, but the pay was good, I had an ample number of days out, and it was only a short train ride to the heart of London. Perhaps I could bring Grace out to Richmond to visit me, and we could walk along the river and see the sights. She’d like that.
The house was a good place, with the kitchen run efficiently—even more so once I’d taken command.
One cold winter day, as I went over a list of what I needed to prepare supper, a gentleman walked, unannounced, into the kitchen.
This house had a large servants’ hall across the passage from the big kitchen, its own laundry rooms, housekeeper’s parlor, a butler’s pantry far larger than the closet-sized one at Sir Lionel’s, and a fairly cozy bedroom down the corridor for me. The corridor and rooms were always teeming with the servants needed to tend a large household.
The gentleman could only have entered the servants’ area by coming down the stairs that led to the main house, or in through the scullery door from outside. Either way, he’d have been noticed and politely questioned by the three strapping footman, the butler—who was a proper butler and not a wastrel like Copley—and the housekeeper, long before he reached the kitchen.
However, no one seemed to have stopped him, and the entire staff, when I looked around, was startlingly absent.
The gentleman was Daniel. He was dressed in what I would say were middle-class clothes—not so posh as the ones I’d seen him wear in Oxford Street, but not so scruffy as his work trousers and boots. His hair was tamed but not pomaded, a bit rumpled, but combed flat. He set a hat and pair of leather gloves on my kitchen table and rested one hip on the tabletop as though perfectly at home.
“It is good to see you, Kat.”
I waited a few heartbeats until I was certain my voice would not crack. “Good day, Mr. McAdam. How is James?”
“He is well. Working.” A wry look entered his eyes. “That is, when he’s not off doing what he bloody well pleases.”
“Ah.” I knew Daniel wanted me to smile, so I did not. “What brings you to Richmond?”
“Hope.” Daniel’s gaze fixed on me. “I want us to be friends again, Kat. Like before.”
“Oh, do you now?” I laid down the list of foodstuffs and clicked the pencil next to it. “Well, I’m certain you would feel much better if I agreed. If I forgive you, you will be much relieved.”
Daniel lost his forced, polite look. “Damn it, Kat.”
He came to me and pulled me around to face him, holding my arms with his hard hands. I felt the solid lip of the table behind me as I looked up into his angry face. Daniel’s eyes had a dangerous glint in them. I had no idea what he was about to do, but I lifted my chin.
“Threatening me will not help your cause,” I said crisply. “Remember, I’m a dab hand with a knife.”
Rage turned to frustrated amusement. Daniel cupped my face with a firm hand, leaned down, and kissed my mouth. “I could fall in love with you, Kat Holloway,” he said, his voice low.
My heart fluttered like a dove’s wings. However, I refused to let him know that I could fall stupidly in love with him in return.
“The lady in Oxford Street might be a bit put out,” I said. “Mr. McAdam dallying with a cook? Not the done thing.”
Daniel made an impatient noise. “The lady in Oxford Street is—was—an assignment. Like Sir Lionel. Both of those are finished.”
“Are they?” My heart beat thickly, and I could barely think. The kiss had been a rather fine one, Daniel stood close, and my coherence was running away. “You should be on to the next thing then.”
“I am. Unfortunately. But I had to ...” Daniel trailed off, his fingers on my face softening. “I wanted to make sure you were well, Kat.”
“I am,” I said, surprised my voice was so steady. “As you can see. This is a fine kitchen.”
“It is.” Daniel drew a breath, lowered his hand, and deliberately stepped away from me. “What is it you prepare tonight, Mrs. Holloway?”
I had to consult my list, because my menu had just gone clean out of my head. “Beef bourguignon. Sorrel soup, fish in white wine, and lemon tart to finish.”
“Ah, Kat, you make my mouth water.” Daniel kissed his fingers to me, slanting me his wicked look. “If I happen to be passing in my delivery wagon after supper, might I beg a scrap or two to sustain me?”
He wanted to transform back to the Daniel I knew best, did he? “What about this?” I asked, waving my hand at his suit. “This … banker’s clerk, or whatever you are? Where will he be?”
“Gone after this evening, I’m afraid.”
“I see. Will I ever, perchance, meet the real Daniel McAdam?”
Daniel lost his smile. “Perhaps one day. Yes, definitely one day, I’ll bare my soul to you, Kat. I promise.”
My voice went quiet. “Will I like what I see when you do?”
“I don’t know.” The words rang true. “But I believe I am willing to risk it.”
I had no idea what to say to that, or what I ought to do. Forgive him? Turn my back on him forever? Do neither, and go on with him as though nothing had happened?
One thing was certain—there was far more to Daniel than met the eye. I was curious enough, blast it, to want to learn everything I could about the man.
“In that case,” I said, taking up my pencil again. “If you are not too late, I might save back a bit of lemon tart for you.”
Daniel’s smile returned. “I would enjoy that very much.”
We shared a look. Daniel took up his hat and gloves, giving me a bow.
“You have more skills than cooking,” he said. “Perhaps you will help me on another hunt someday.”
I shivered. “Indeed no. Once was enough for me.”
“Was it?” Daniel carefully pulled on his gloves. “We’ll see. Good afternoon, Mrs. Holloway. I look forward to speaking with you again.”
And I, you, I wanted to say, but held my tongue. “Good afternoon, Mr. McAdam.”<
br />
He shot me a grin, came back to me, kissed me on the lips, and strode out, whistling.
End
A Matter of Honor
by Ashley Gardner
A Regency mystery with a touch of the supernatural
London, 1820
“You are a drunken lout,” my brother, Sir Frederick Archer, shouted at me in his fog-gloomed sitting room in Berkeley Square the Michaelmas after the drohner had disappeared. “Gin-soaked and pox-brained. What luck that Bonaparte has been defeated at last—I wager the King’s army would not take you now.”
“I do not have the pox,” I said with dignity. Alas, my words slurred, because I was, as accused, gin-soaked.
Margery, his wife, cringed in a chair by the window, pretending interest in her needlework. She had the complexion of a tallow candle, her hair a golden color those with very fair hair in youth sometimes acquired.
I, Robert Archer, the younger brother, had paid a call on her, my dear sister-in-law, to ask if she could spare a few shillings until my next pay packet. But my brother had come upon us before I was able to make my request and had taken the opportunity to lecture.
When he paused for breath, I said, “You are angry, and blame me for losing the drohner. I did not steal the bloody thing.” But I’d had it in my care when it had vanished three months ago, and that thought haunted me every moment of every day. The drohner was shared between family members, passing from house to house. It had been in mine when it went missing.
“You displayed it,” Frederick snapped. “In your front room to your drunken friends—dear God. You broke a sacred family trust.”
“It is not unique.” I made the excuse I’d been making since the thing had gone. “My friends had seen one before—every gentleman’s family has one. None are secret, for all they’re locked away like the crown jewels.” The speech taxed my sodden brain, and I dropped to the nearest chair, my legs too shaky to hold me.
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