Death in Kew Gardens

by Jennifer Ashley

“If I am wise now, it was because I was quite naïve when I was young,” I said, my throat tight. “I thought myself married by a vicar, and everything aboveboard. But it turns out he’d already been married, and his wife was still living.”

  “He’d left her? Believed that to be the end of it?”

  “No. He kept her all along. She did not know of me, and I did not know of her. Until his death.” I cleared my throat. “There you have it.”

  “Good Lord.”

  Cynthia looked me over. She could go on about us being monkeys on the same branch, but her assessment was one of an aristocratic lady.

  “I quite understand why you kept silent about it,” she said. “Priggish women like my aunt would condemn you. When a man does something horrible to a woman, the woman is blamed for letting him—so common opinion goes. My aunt agrees with this. However, I am not one of those priggish ladies, if you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I did notice. But it is a difficult subject to broach.”

  “I don’t doubt.” Cynthia gave me another allover look then rose in a rustle of taffeta. “What about this other woman? The one he married previously. Did he leave her starving in a gutter?”

  “Indeed, no. He had a pension, if a tiny one, and her family looked after her.” I’d discovered everything I could about my husband’s other wife—the one he’d married legally—when I’d found myself alone and penniless.

  “Did you approach her?”

  I shook my head. I’d wanted to, longing to demand she give me what he’d stolen from me with his promises, but I could never bring myself to do it. I do not know whether cowardice or prudence stayed my hand, but I never acted.

  “I decided to go into service and earn my keep,” I said. “I was lucky—I’d been trained by an excellent cook.” Partly luck. My mother, before she’d died, had made certain I had received the training, which I’d nearly thrown away when I’d run off to be married.

  Cynthia watched me in sympathy. “It is too bad the blasted man is out of my reach. I’d teach him a thing or two.”

  “He was quite large and strong.” I allowed myself to be amused picturing Lady Cynthia craning her head back to shake her finger at my tall husband.

  “Doesn’t matter. I’d have others give him a thrashing for me. Does McAdam know?”

  “Yes. Everything.”

  “Good. And he has obviously not condemned you. Why did you believe I would?”

  “Daniel is not the most traditionally minded man,” I reminded her.

  “And I am not the most traditionally minded woman. I go out of my way to convey this. Am I not convincing?”

  I had to smile. “No, indeed, you convey it quite well.”

  “Excellent. Then you will trust me to keep my mouth closed and not think the less of you because some damned fool tried to ruin your life. I told Bobby to keep quiet as well. She was surprised that anyone would make a fuss about it, bless her. She quite admires you.”

  I had not thought highly of Bobby when I’d first met her, and I flushed, ashamed of that assessment. “I am flattered.”

  “Now, if you kicked over your traces and lived openly with young Grace and perhaps McAdam at the same time, Bobby would fall down and worship you. I had to remind her of the practical side of life—one must have cash to survive. She hasn’t got any of her own, and because she grew up in luxury, she doesn’t realize where it comes from. Bobby is a wonderful woman, but she can be obtuse.”

  Bobby had once asked Cynthia to run away and live with her, but she’d wanted the sort of intimacy Cynthia had not. I was pleased they’d obviously managed to remain friends.

  “I will forgive you,” Lady Cynthia continued. “For not telling me, I mean. In time. I am easily hurt.” She sent me a smile to imply she was teasing, but I saw the injured look in her eyes. “You need have no fear that my aunt will not give you your days out—I told her she ought to go down on her knees and thank God every day you decided to stay and cook for her. After my father squandered all his money, we had to put up with the most incompetent cooks imaginable, and I’ve learned to appreciate a nice meal. Auntie, the silly cow, has no idea what talent you possess.”

  “I thank you for speaking for me. I don’t much want to leave, in truth.”

  “Yes, well, we’ll say no more about it.” Cynthia bunched a fold of skirt in her fist. “I put on this dashed uncomfortable frock for a reason—I intend to go next door and find out what’s what.”

  “I meant to ask if you would,” I said. “I am most curious about Lady Harkness’s friends.” I briefly repeated what Mrs. Redfern had told me.

  “Never liked that Knowles woman,” Cynthia said when I’d finished. “Though I could swear she was harmless. Those who have nothing in life often cling to a friend of wealth or position to at least make people notice them, even if they’re derided for it.”

  I nodded. “Mrs. Redfern said such a thing about Mrs. Tatlock. Both she and Mrs. Knowles may be completely innocent of anything but being lonely, you know.”

  Cynthia huffed a laugh. “You’re a brick, Mrs. H. And as I’ve observed before, too sympathetic for your own good. I will ooze my way into the house and find out all I can.”

  “Thank you, your ladyship,” I said sincerely.

  “Don’t be so damned formal. I won’t embarrass you by telling you to call me Cynthia, but leave off with the my lady and your ladyship, at least out of my aunt’s hearing. I’m trying very hard not to be a lady. And if you have any more startling revelations about your past—if your grandfather was Lord High Admiral or something—do tell me, won’t you?”

  * * *

  • • •

  I returned to the kitchen but set to pacing, the encounter having unnerved me. Tess watched me as she chopped parsnips for a soup.

  “You all right, Mrs. H.? What did her ladyship want a chat about?”

  “Never you mind,” I said abruptly. “It was a private conversation.”

  Tess lifted her hands, paring knife in one, parsnip in the other. “Don’t bite me head off. I were only asking.”

  I deflated. “Forgive me—I am out of sorts. Shall we get on with things?”

  Tess gave me a curious glance but returned to her parsnips.

  I forced myself to plunge into the tasks of cookery. I had set plans in motion—Cynthia and Tess would ask questions next door, Daniel had his eye on Mr. Chancellor at Kew, and he would look for Mr. Li. I had nothing to do but wait.

  I joined Tess with the mundane chore of chopping vegetables. I’d add these to the broth from beef I’d boiled yesterday to make a tasty stew. I’d hoped the task would soothe me, but it only let my mind churn with questions.

  If one wanted to put one’s hands on a Chinese gentleman in London, where would one look? Chinatown in Limehouse was the most likely place, as many came from China to work in the docks there and in nearby Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs. Those were the docklands, where huge ships pulled in from all over the world—the Orient, India, the Near East, the Americas, the Antipodes. The sun never set on the British Empire, so the saying went.

  From the four corners of the earth, vast wealth poured into London via the freighters. Human beings came too—why would they not? In many countries, they hadn’t a morsel to eat or a place to sleep. In London, most found hard labor and hovels in which to dwell, but perhaps they’d believed it would be better than what they’d left behind.

  I’d never ventured as far east as Limehouse, but when I went to the markets in Covent Garden, I sometimes saw Chinese men selling food, displaying wares, or shopping. These men either wore dark robes and had their hair in long braids, like Mr. Li, or they’d adopted Western clothing and dressed no different from Daniel.

  Mr. Li did not seem to fit with these men and women who were clearly working class. I wondered if he’d hidden himself in the crowds in Chinatown or lived somewhere entire
ly different.

  Or perhaps he’d already stepped on board a merchantman and was rapidly steaming back across the seas to his native land.

  Curiosity did not let me remain in my dim kitchen for long. I’d put things in motion, yes, but I liked to be in motion too.

  “Gather your basket, Tess,” I said. “We’re going to the market. Covent Garden today. I need rather a lot.”

  10

  Mrs. Daley emerged from her hideaway before Tess and I could depart. She observed us with coats, hats, and baskets, and narrowed her eyes.

  “Note down your purchases with care,” she said. “I want a full accounting when you return.”

  Tess muttered under her breath, but I nudged her sharply and gave Mrs. Daley a nod. “Naturally. Come along, Tess.”

  We emerged into a wind that charged down the street, whipping our skirts and coats. Tess and I linked arms and trotted into it, heading to Piccadilly and an omnibus.

  We rode on this conveyance and descended in the Strand at Waterloo Bridge, linking arms again to walk to Covent Garden. The wind, which had not died, poured up the narrow streets from the river, pushing us toward the wider space of the crowded market.

  Tess had learned much in the past months, and already knew how to tell wilted vegetables from fresh, and two-day-old fish from that caught this morning. She also knew how to drive a hard bargain. I had not taught her this skill; it was natural talent.

  As we bartered with the vendors, I kept a sharp eye out—I knew it was unlikely I’d stumble across Mr. Li himself, but I might meet someone who knew him, or who knew the best place to begin looking for him.

  Most of the vendors were Londoners, jealous of the spaces they occupied. They’d not let in foreigners without a fight. Indeed, most Indian, Chinese, and African immigrants had their own markets elsewhere. However, a few managed to squeeze in around the edges, and I found several enterprising souls with carts surrounded by black-robed men buying their dinners.

  I neared one cart, hearing clucking chickens from cages beneath. I could tell from the odor that the soup being dished out contained the unfortunate creatures’ fellows, but the chickens below seemed oblivious to the fact.

  As I craned to peer into the pot, I saw that what the Chinese vendor industriously ladled into bowls was not soup, but noodles dripping with sauce. The gentlemen purchasing backed away to sit against the nearest wall, slurping up these noodles with chopsticks. I’d never seen anyone eat with chopsticks before, and I admit I stared a long while before I realized I was being rude.

  “You going to try that, Mrs. H.?” Tess asked me in trepidation.

  “Yes, why not?”

  When I reached the front of the line, the vendor began to absently ladle out the noodles. Then he realized who stood before him, and stared at me, openmouthed, ladle frozen.

  Like Mr. Li, this man had a long braid trailing from under his cap and wore a beard, but there the resemblance ceased. His beard was a mere wisp or two hanging from his chin, and his robes were a severe black cotton fastened with worn, cloth-covered buttons. The vendor didn’t have many teeth, which I could observe because his jaw continued to sag.

  “May I have some of that?” I asked him politely.

  “I don’t think he speaks English, Mrs. H.,” Tess whispered to me.

  “That doesn’t matter. Food is food. A language of its own, as it were. Please?” I pointed to his ladle, still frozen in the act of dipping into the vat of noodles.

  The vendor snapped his mouth shut, snatched up a plain porcelain bowl from a pile, and plunked a good-sized serving of noodles into it. I handed my basket to Tess and accepted the bowl in my gloved hands, the heat of it warming through the fabric.

  “How much?” I asked. A placard hung on the front of the cart, marked with what I assumed were the prices, but they were in Chinese. I pulled out a few coins and held them out. The vendor grabbed one penny from the lot and whisked it out of sight.

  I dropped the remaining coins into my pocket and was about to turn away, when the vendor waved a ha’penny at me. My change.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Oh, I suppose I need some of the chopsticks.”

  The gentlemen who’d been eating had their own, I noted, as I watched one tuck his into a little lacquer box. How convenient, I thought, to carry your utensils with you.

  I had gathered a crowd. The men who’d purchased the noodles and other passersby paused to stare at the strange Englishwoman and her assistant who had decided to taste Chinese noodles.

  One of the younger men said something to the vendor, who plucked a pair of wooden chopsticks from his cart and held them out to me with a bow.

  I took them, bowing back, and then studied the chopsticks, mystified. The gentlemen had made using them look easy, but I fumbled the chopsticks between my fingers, nearly dropping one to the pavement.

  “Like this, missus.” The younger man, who couldn’t have been much out of his teens, held his hand out for me to observe. He’d wedged one of his chopsticks between his thumb and palm, steadying it with his ring finger. The second stick was held above this, between his first two fingers, which let him pivot it on his thumb.

  I copied the movements until I thought I could hold the chopsticks correctly, then I scooped up some of the noodles. I dropped more than I held, but I managed to shove a few into my mouth.

  A savory, hot flavor flowed over my tongue, and my lips began to tingle and my eyes water. The sauce contained chicken broth, as I’d suspected, but much else, including a bite of spice that heated me to my belly. The slippery noodles went down easily, but the heavenly taste lingered.

  “This is lovely,” I exclaimed. “What is in it? Ginger, I believe. And garlic? What is that hot spice? Curry?” I’d eaten Indian curry before, but this flavor was not quite the same.

  The young man translated for me, and the vendor said a few words in response.

  “You are correct, missus,” the young man explained. “Ginger and garlic and star anise. Also some peppers and a fish essence. He won’t tell me exactly what is in it though. It is an old dish, he says, passed down through his family.”

  “I understand.” I spoke loudly, as though that would help the vendor comprehend my words. A foolish thing, but we do this thoughtlessly. “I will not demand your recipe.”

  The young man translated. The vendor rewarded me with a smile, which crinkled his eyes. I nodded in response then backed away to finish my noodles.

  I remained the object of much interest, which meant I had to finish every morsel of noodles and then return the bowl and chopsticks to the vendor. It was not a hardship for me to eat them—I hadn’t enjoyed a dish so much in a long while.

  I thanked the vendor again, but the young man stopped me before I could go. “He has a gift for you.”

  I decided not to insult the vendor as I had Mr. Li by immediately refusing. The vendor thrust a small round cake covered with icing sugar into my hands, speaking as he did so.

  “A specialty of his wife,” the young man told me. “She sells them on her cart. Very good, he says.”

  “Tell him that he has been most kind.”

  The young man translated, we exchanged a few more bows, and I at last turned away.

  I must have attracted every Chinese person in Covent Garden. The curious crowd dispersed as I went, many of them laughing, their merriment clear. I didn’t mind. If my foolishness brought a smile to someone today, well and good.

  “Ye never cease to amaze me, Mrs. H.,” Tess said as I took my basket from her. “Fancy eating foreign food like that. Hope it don’t make you sick.”

  “Nonsense. The dish was plenty nourishing and quite good. I will try to replicate it.”

  “I’d like to see you try to serve Chinese noodles to the master,” Tess said with a laugh. “I wager he wouldn’t even know what they were.”

  Mr. Bywater liked
traditional English dishes and little else. I made plenty of French recipes, but Mr. Davis knew to serve them as “chicken with port sauce” or “beef and Burgundy.” I could not even use the term ragout, which was only a simple mixture of chopped meat and vegetables.

  “I might save it up as a treat for myself,” I said. “Or perhaps for Daniel and James.”

  “You could cook it for Mr. McAdam at his house,” Tess suggested with eagerness.

  The thought of cooking a meal for Daniel in his kitchen, as though I belonged there, made my breath catch.

  I stifled the thought before it took hold. I tucked the cake into my pocket to enjoy later and started for Southampton Street, my other destination for the day.

  A man stepped in front of me. He was a fishmonger I never used, and now was joined by a man who must be his brother. Both were beefy, and neither looked friendly.

  “You leave them be, missus,” the fishmonger growled. “They have no business here.”

  “Who? You mean the Chinamen?” I glanced at the noodle vendor, who looked to be closing up for the day.

  “They steal our custom,” the fishmonger went on, while his brother stood silently, arms folded. “Can’t even speak English. Should go back where they belong.”

  “I believe where they belong is full of war and starvation,” I answered. “Their homes were wrecked, and they had nowhere to go.” I had heard that some parts of China were torn by disease and internal wars, though I had no idea if the vendor or his customers came from those parts. However, I was trying to stir any sympathy that might lurk deep inside these two, though I surmised it would be a hopeless case.

  “Not my lookout,” the fishmonger said. “You stay away from them, missus. Don’t want them touching our women too.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. They aren’t stealing your custom—the vendor is selling to Chinese men like himself. I had a very nice conversation with him. He was far more polite than you.”

  The fishmonger’s lip curled. He was quite large, but I’d learned much about bullies in my youth, and more still when I was married to one. If you wavered before a bully, it only made him worse. A firm word and a pinning gaze was much more helpful.