“Have they determined the time of death yet?” Daniel broke in. “As Mrs. Holloway pointed out to me, that may be the deciding factor.”
“Not really. Sheppard helped Sir Jacob dress for bed at nine, just after they returned from Kew. Sir Jacob believed in early to bed, early to rise—all that nonsense. It was Sir Jacob’s habit to be put into his nightshirt and dressing gown, and then putter about his room, reading and whatnot, before he retired, usually at half past nine, or at ten if he felt particularly vigorous. Up again at six. Hell of a life.”
“No one saw him after nine o’clock?” I asked. “He did not ring for the valet to fetch him tea or help him into bed?”
“Sheppard says not. The man’s terrified though, so he might have lied about that. But Lady Harkness swears she heard no one go upstairs to her husband after Sheppard left him.”
“I can always ask in the kitchen,” I said. Mrs. Redfern no doubt would know every step every servant in the house took at every minute, though I was not certain she’d tell me. Mrs. Finnegan might, but her memory was less reliable.
Cynthia touched her fingers in turn as she summed up. “So, we have Lady Harkness, her friend Mrs. Knowles, Sir Jacob, and Sheppard all upstairs at nine. Mr. Chancellor I suppose somewhere nearby. Sheppard goes down soon after nine—or so he says. Mrs. Knowles did not depart until after twelve.”
“Is there a Mr. Knowles?” I asked. “I mean, she did not feel the need to rush home to a husband?”
“None that I’ve met,” Cynthia said. “He might be the meek sort, always in the background, or perhaps spends all his time at his clubs, paying no attention to what his wife gets up to. As I said, none of us know much about her. Lady Harkness has another sycophant friend, Mrs. Tatlock, but as far as I can find out, she was not there that night.”
“Any other acquaintances?” I asked. “Or, I should say, anyone else who quarreled with Sir Jacob?”
“He has a friend called Mr. Pasfield,” Cynthia answered. “Who, by the way, arrived moments before I departed just now, the man in such a state. Horrible thing to happen, says he, all aflutter. Poor Lady Harkness. He must go to her.”
“Ah,” Daniel said, brows rising. “The loyal friend come to look after the widow?”
“He’s not a dashing Lothario, if that is what you are thinking,” Cynthia said, mirth in her eyes. “He’s middle aged, rotund, and conceited. What one calls an Old China Hand—a man who’s lived and worked in China and purports to be an expert on it and the Chinese. Businessmen consult them about how best to approach the natives, and so forth. Sir Jacob was one too—they knew each other in Shanghai, or Hong Kong, or wherever they were. Sir Jacob was made a knight for grubbing about in the Orient and amassing a fortune, but Mr. Pasfield seems to be stolidly working class. They were great friends, the two of them.”
I thought of Mr. Li and wondered how “expert” he’d consider these gentlemen.
And I hoped, I truly hoped, that Inspector McGregor would leave Mr. Li alone. They would not, I feared, if they found him. I would simply have to prove someone else had done the deed. It was the least I could do for the kindly gentleman with loneliness in his eyes.
I drew a breath to ask Lady Cynthia more about this Mr. Pasfield when Mr. Davis threw open the door.
He stopped short when he saw Lady Cynthia and made a quick and correct bow, but he looked a bit wild about the eyes.
“Begging your pardon, my lady,” he said breathlessly. “But I need Mrs. Holloway to come with me at once. Our new housekeeper has arrived.”
4
I rose in surprise. Mrs. Bywater had been conducting interviews for the past week, and according to Lady Cynthia, disliking all candidates she met, largely because their agency requested salaries higher than Mrs. Bywater wished to pay.
She’d said not one word about actually hiring a woman, and Cynthia looked as astonished as I.
Daniel faded out of sight as we went out. He had the knack of disappearing into the mist—sometimes quite literally—but I wasn’t finished speaking with him yet. I’d hoped Lady Cynthia would keep him pinned down, but Cynthia was fast beside me as we hurried down the passage after Mr. Davis.
The woman in question waited with Mrs. Bywater in the servants’ hall. The rest of the staff stood woodenly at attention—that is, except for Tess. While she stood as straight as the other servants, she sent the woman with Mrs. Bywater a belligerent glare.
The lady looked respectable enough, with iron gray hair in a soft bun and a black gown unembellished except for glittering buttons that marched up her bodice to her chin. Her high collar framed a face that was neither plump nor thin, pretty nor plain. An unassuming woman, with the bearing of the quintessential housekeeper.
She glanced at me without much interest in her faded brown eyes, but she schooled her expression as she took in Lady Cynthia in her riding breeches and coat.
“This is Mrs. Daley,” Mrs. Bywater said in a bright voice. “Mrs. Daley, my niece, Lady Cynthia Shires, and Mrs. Holloway, our cook.”
Mrs. Daley made a formal bow to Lady Cynthia and gave me a nod. “Your ladyship. Mrs. Holloway.”
Although Daley was an Irish name, her accent spoke of the north—of the Yorkshire Dales or Lancashire; I was not familiar enough with the north of England to place it.
“I shall leave you to it,” Mrs. Bywater said. She disliked to come below stairs, and was always uncomfortable in the servants’ hall. “Mrs. Holloway and Mr. Davis will show you your duties. Cynthia, dear, will you join me upstairs?”
Cynthia clearly wished to stay below and assess this new member of the household, but she acquiesced. “Pleasant to meet you, Mrs. Daley. You’ll find this an easy place, if dull as ditchwater.”
She strode for the back stairs and ascended, boots thumping. Mrs. Bywater gave Mrs. Daley an apologetic look and turned to follow Cynthia.
“Well now,” Mrs. Daley said as soon as the door at the top of the stairs shut. “Her ladyship’s an odd duck, ain’t she?”
“Lady Cynthia is a kind young woman,” Mr. Davis, who had criticized Cynthia any number of times, said huffily. “Please do not call her odd.”
Mrs. Daley raised her brows. “I never said she weren’t kind, Mr. Davis. I don’t know the girl, do I? What the upper classes get up to has nowt to do with me. Now, Mrs. Holloway, be so good as to fetch me a cup of tea.”
I would have to put a stop to that right away. “Tea will be brought by one of the maids, or Tess. She is my assistant.” I indicated Tess, whose face had grown ever more sour. “The housekeeper’s parlor is this way.”
“Mr. Davis may show me,” Mrs. Daley said. “You stay with your kitchen, Cook. That is your domain—the housekeeper’s parlor is mine and Butler’s.”
I could already see I’d need to have words with Mrs. Daley. “Mrs. Holloway,” I said to her retreating back.
She turned. “I beg your pardon?”
“I am called Mrs. Holloway,” I said in a firm voice. “Not Cook. Not below stairs, anyway.”
Her brows went up again. “Well, pardon me, I’m sure. Mr. Davis—I assume you wish to be called Mr. Davis and not Your Lordship?—will you escort me to my parlor?”
She held out her hand as though expecting Mr. Davis to lend her his arm. Mr. Davis only stared at her with an irritated expression and led the way down the hall.
I waited until they were shut into the housekeeper’s parlor before I strode from the servants’ hall to the kitchen. Tess dashed in behind me, skirts swirling.
“Well, ain’t she a one? I ain’t doing a thing she says. Hoity-toity, nose in the air—”
“You will follow Mrs. Daley’s orders as you would mine, Tess,” I interrupted her. “Housekeeper, butler, and cook are in charge below stairs, and you must remember that.”
Tess gave me a sullen scowl. “I work for you, Mrs. Holloway. No other. If Mr. Davis and Mrs. H
oity-Toity say I must do a thing, then I’ll do it, but I’ll ask you first.”
“Very well,” I said, if only to keep the peace. “But you be on your best behavior around Mrs. Daley, no matter what. I do not want her telling Mrs. Bywater to dismiss you because of impertinence. I need your help.”
I kept my tone stern, but the truth was, I’d miss Tess desperately if Mrs. Bywater turned her out. I was growing fond of the impetuous young woman.
Daniel materialized out of the shadows near the scullery. I was used to him appearing and disappearing by now, so I only jumped a little.
“You’ll smooth her over, Mrs. H.,” he said with his carefree confidence. “As for me, I think I’ll pay a visit to the botanical gardens at Kew. Brush up on my gardening skills.”
His tone was indifferent, but I understood the glint in his eye. He was off to look up Sir Jacob’s botanist friend, Mr. Chancellor, as well as to try to discover whom Sir Jacob had gone to meet last night.
“Do not disappear for days on end, please, Mr. McAdam,” I said. “I will want to hear every detail of your Kew adventure.”
Daniel pressed his hand to his heart. “You wound me, Kat. Have I been disappearing of late?”
He had not, it was true. Since our adventure this spring, which had left James and Mr. Thanos hurt and me frightened out of my wits, Daniel had remained in London. He’d looked in on me nearly every day, if only briefly, but he’d made certain I knew all was well.
He had not yet found the frightening Mr. Pilcher—a more thorough villain I’d never seen—who’d revealed he worked for a man Daniel believed had long ago murdered his father. Daniel wasn’t certain the man who’d raised him had been his true father, but he’d always viewed him so and had taken his death hard.
I’d learned much of Daniel’s history, and how it had shaped him, the day he’d revealed this information to me, but still he remained elusive. For instance, I had no idea why the police sometimes asked for his help in catching criminals, when Daniel had made clear to me he’d been turned away by the police when he’d tried to join up. It was most puzzling.
“No, you have not been disappearing—much,” I conceded. “You are looking after James, as you should be. Do tell me all about the gardens, Mr. McAdam, when you return.”
Daniel gave me a warm look then waved to Tess, slapped his cap on his head, and departed the kitchen through the scullery, calling a cheery farewell to the scullery maid in passing. Elsie watched him go in admiration. When she caught my eye, she flushed and returned to her sink, but I did not admonish her. Daniel was a whirlwind.
* * *
• • •
I sometimes accompanied Mrs. Bywater to church on Sundays, but this morning had begun so muddled that I remained home to catch up with my cooking. I’d prepare the meals for the rest of the day, and make sure enough was set on for tomorrow, which was my half day out.
I saw almost nothing of Mrs. Daley, though Tess returned from delivering the woman’s cup of tea with a scowl on her face and rage in her eyes. Tess opened her mouth, no doubt to begin a tirade about Mrs. Daley, but I shook my head. She settled for clamping her lips together and banging things about to make her feelings known.
I worked to prepare the Sunday roast, including a puffy Yorkshire pudding, which Mr. Bywater liked, stirred up from flour, milk, and eggs, flavored with drippings from the beef.
I showed Tess how to cut green beans to pretty lengths and boil them, and then to sauté them in butter with a smattering of onions and the juice of a lemon. The green beans had to be served right away, so the trick was finishing them just as the roast and pudding were ready to be sent up. Indeed, timing a meal correctly was an art in itself.
Cooking occupied my hands, freeing my mind to think. I worried greatly about Mr. Li. If the police managed to trace him, would they arrest him for murder?
In any event, I hoped Mr. Li was safe and would not be found. I also hoped he truly had nothing to do with Sir Jacob’s murder. In spite of my protests to the contrary, I knew the fact that I liked the quiet Mr. Li did not mean he wasn’t a villain.
But I was not so bad a judge of character as all that. I made myself remember that I’d watched Mr. Li walk down Mount Street toward Berkeley Square and disappear. He’d not returned, at least not when I’d been standing in the street.
Besides, why, if Mr. Li had planned to creep into the house next door and kill Sir Jacob, would he have drawn attention to himself by seeking me out and giving me a gift?
It was far more likely that this botanist had glimpsed Mr. Li outside and immediately decided a Chinaman had committed the crime—if Mr. Chancellor hadn’t committed it himself. So much easier to shift the blame to an outsider.
Mrs. Daley did not emerge from the housekeeper’s parlor even after I sent up the roast and made the staff a meal they’d consume once those upstairs were taking their Sunday rest. I had no intention of serving Mrs. Daley in her parlor as though she were the lady of the house, and I didn’t have the heart to make Tess do it. Instead, I would tell Mrs. Daley she was welcome to fix herself a plate of something in the servants’ hall if she wished.
I bustled to the housekeeper’s parlor to inform her thus. I opened the door to find Mrs. Daley seated at the small table, an empty teacup and half-drunk glass of cordial at her elbow. She had my cookery books spread out before her.
I prized my books, which I collected, treasured, and carefully transported to each house in which I worked. Books were dear, so I purchased them secondhand and kept them as well as I could.
Not only did Mrs. Daley have my books wide open, in danger of breaking the spines, but my personal notebook as well, my notes and scraps of paper spilling out. She had a pen in her hand and an open inkwell next to the cordial. As I entered, she circled something in one of my cookbooks, spattering ink across its page.
“Mrs. Daley,” I said in a near shriek. “Whatever are you doing?”
Mrs. Daley did not glance up. “Going through the mistress’s receipts. She’s got a funny way, don’t she? By what’s in this book, she’s having you make them all wrong.” She tapped my notebook with the pen, and a blotch of ink fell across my careful handwriting. “I used to be a cook, you know.”
No, I hadn’t known. “The books are mine, Mrs. Daley,” I said stiffly. “Not the mistress’s. I record in my notebook what I like or dislike about a recipe and modify it accordingly.”
“Do you, now?” Mrs. Daley gave me an assessing look, but at least she laid down the pen. “I can see you like to get above yourself, Mrs. Holloway. Why shouldn’t you be called Cook? I proudly bore the title. And though I learned my letters, I kept it to myself and didn’t parade books about the downstairs. You should let the mistress tell you what to cook and how. That way, if she’s disappointed, it’s her own fault.”
Only if you are a bad cook, I wanted to retort, but dignity made me keep my silence. Mrs. Daley must have been the sort who resentfully slammed meals to the table and blamed everyone but herself if the family did not find it palatable.
The cook who’d trained me had been talented, better than any chef I’d known. She’d taught me that food wasn’t simply sustenance, but should be a feast for all senses—sight, scent, and the feel of a morsel in the mouth, and those before one even thought about taste. Even the sound of a crisp pastry breaking should be satisfying.
I prided myself on my meals, each dish wrought with care. If this meant I was above myself, then so be it.
“Please do not mark my books, Mrs. Daley,” I said coolly.
“Then you’d best not leave them in here.” Mrs. Daley capped the inkwell and tossed the pen aside, splattering yet more ink. “This is the housekeeper’s parlor, I believe. Cook has her kitchen.”
I wasn’t foolish enough to store my precious books where they could be ruined by flame, smoke, and grease. I’d always kept them in the housekeeper’s parlor, w
here all was clean and neat, and copied out receipts to use in my kitchen. No housekeeper I’d worked with had objected.
The previous housekeeper here, Mrs. Bowen, whatever her faults, had at least not thought she was queen of the downstairs. This room had been a sanctuary for all the senior staff.
I pictured Mrs. Daley throwing my books on the fire if I did not take them away, so I stalked forward, collected them and the notebook from the table, and strode out of the room, my expression stiff. Mr. Davis stood in the doorway of his butler’s pantry across the hall, his brows drawn in a grim line.
“Bloody woman,” he whispered.
I gave him a nod and walked on, my arms full of books, and made for the back stairs.
When I reached the second floor and turned for the third, I realized I should have asked Mr. Davis, or Tess, or a footman, for help in carrying my load. Anger and pride had made me march off, and now I was flagging.
My room was at the top of the house, the fifth story above the ground floor. I climbed the last narrow flight of stairs, puffing hard and glad no one was near to observe me.
I had to set down the books to open the door, and then I carried them in, a few at a time, to stack on my bureau. I had no bookshelf up here—perhaps I’d ask Daniel to look out for a discarded one or find one secondhand for me, which I’d give him the money to purchase.
I’d lived in this bedchamber seven or so months now, and while my home under the eaves was plain and functional, I’d managed to soften it a bit. I’d spread a quilt my mother had made across the bed and found a few cushions to make the straight-backed chair, a relic from earlier years, inviting.
The top drawer of my bureau held treasures from my days out with my daughter—a feather she’d presented to me from a day in the park, paper flowers we’d bought at a stationers, tokens made from old ha’pennies, threaded on a cord to wear for luck. My underthings were tucked into the drawers below, and my Sunday best dress and my second-best one hung on pegs behind the door.
Death in Kew Gardens Page 4
