Death in Kew Gardens

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mrs. Redfern too could have intercepted the letter and lured Mr. Li here to be a convenient scapegoat. She made no secret of her dislike for Sir Jacob.

  Whatever the reason, Mr. Li had turned up on the night of his appointment to find Sir Jacob out.

  There was always the unhappy possibility that Mr. Li had done the murder, despite my convictions. He’d been on the spot—what were the chances that he’d chosen the very night of the murder to bring me the box of tea? He might have done the murder beforehand and nipped around to be innocently standing in the shadows, waiting for me.

  I’d seen no blood on his clothes, no telltale signs of agitation on his face, but it had been dark, and at the time, I’d been unaware of Sir Jacob’s death.

  Had Mr. Li afterward sought out and killed Zhen? And why? Perhaps Zhen had followed Sir Jacob home that night, and had seen Mr. Li going into or coming out of the house.

  Where was Mr. Li now? Hiding? Or was he dead and we simply hadn’t found him? I closed my eyes on the thought, praying he was well.

  “Hey ho,” a rumbling voice said. “Mrs. Finnegan? You sleeping at the table again? Hold up—who’s this . . . ?”

  I opened my eyes to find a small, portly man with a large mustache peering into my face. Mrs. Finnegan flushed, her eyes starry, and creaked to her feet.

  “Cup of tea, dear?” She fetched a cup and saucer from the dresser as the man seated himself at the end of the table.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” The gentleman continued to study me, then he snapped his fingers. “I know where I’ve seen you. You work next door.”

  “This is Mrs. Holloway,” Mrs. Finnegan said as she poured out the tea. She measured in two lumps of sugar without asking and shoved the cup at him. “She’s Lady Cynthia’s cook.”

  “Ah, serving aristocracy.” He winked at me. “Moving up in the world, are you?”

  I did not enjoy being winked at by men I did not know, so I sat up straight and gave him a cool stare. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”

  “Don’t take on so, Mrs. Holloway,” Mrs. Finnegan said, smiling happily as she sat down again. “This is Mr. Pasfield, the master’s great friend.”

  I hadn’t met or seen Mr. Pasfield, the friend who’d traveled the Orient with Sir Jacob. Lady Harkness had scoffed at the notion that Mr. Pasfield was smitten with her, and glancing between Mr. Pasfield and Mrs. Finnegan, I understood her conviction.

  “Bit of a row upstairs, what?” Mr. Pasfield took a loud sip of tea. “Excellent as always, Mrs. Finnegan.”

  Mrs. Finnegan blushed like a girl. “Now, Mr. Pasfield, it’s only tea.”

  I sat back on my stool, taking a sip of overly strong and tepid tea, new ideas in my head.

  “I guess you’re surprised to see me downstairs, eh, Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Pasfield grinned at me over his cup. “Never was comfortable upstairs—neither was Jake, no matter that he slept on a pile of money and could put a lofty ‘Sir’ in front of his name. We was the same starting out, he and me. Hauled coal scuttles for those what would pay us, or we swept the streets. We got hired on at a warehouse full of Oriental goods, and you might say it piqued our interest. Seemed a man, any man, could ship himself off to China and return rich as a king. But it had to be done the right way, of course. Jake was a genius at it. Got us posts with merchants—sort of errand boys who’d do anything—and eventually we became clerks. Jake scared up books and started teaching himself and me Chinese, and when these men went on a trading expedition, they took us because we knew the language. Well . . . Jake knew it, and I faked it.” Mr. Pasfield chuckled. “I found it much easier to learn when I arrived in China and fell in with the natives. Jake, lucky fellow, met a lass willing to teach him all she knew.” He chortled and winked again.

  Mrs. Finnegan gave his hand a playful slap. “Now, don’t be naughty, Leonard. I imagine you were one with the ladies when you were a young fellow.”

  “Not really,” Mr. Pasfield said cheerfully. “Jake had them running after him, I can tell you, but I was always the hanger-on. Not many ladies noticed a short cove like myself—even when I was twenty-three.” He laughed some more, his eyes crinkling with good humor.

  I had the feeling he was downplaying his interactions with women for Mrs. Finnegan’s benefit, but I kept these thoughts to myself. I imagined the two young men, far from home, off to seek their fortunes and sow their share of wild oats.

  “When did Sir Jacob meet Lady Harkness?” I asked in curiosity. “If I can persuade you to gossip.”

  “Oh, I’m an old gossip, me. Not good for much more these days.”

  “Dear Leonard,” Mrs. Finnegan said. “Such a tease, you are.”

  “Millie and Jake, they knew each other always,” Mr. Pasfield answered. “She lived on the same backstreet where he grew up, and they became attached at a young age. Jake, Millie, and me—inseparable. Jake told her about his dreams to move up in the world, and Millie believed in him. I think they had an understanding even before we went off the first time—that he’d make his fortune and come back for her. She waited, bless the girl. Very loyal, is Millie.”

  “And they married,” I said. “Obviously.”

  “Made for each other.” Mr. Pasfield nodded. “Me and Jake, we came back from our first venture in a couple of years. Not with the money he has now, of course, but we didn’t do poorly. We’d moved up in the company—Jake faster than me. He had all the ambition, and pulled me along for the ride. He and Millie married—I was groomsman—and not a year later, we were off to China again, Millie with us this time, and old Jake grew even richer. He could turn a turd into gold—begging your pardon, ladies.”

  Mrs. Finnegan only nodded. I had the feeling she’d forgive him anything.

  “Not at all,” I said. “Lady Harkness said Sir Jacob had a gift for acquiring wealth. Mrs. Finnegan, the teapot is empty. Can I trouble you? Or perhaps I should . . .”

  I rose as though ready to move to the kitchen and leave the lovebirds alone, but Mrs. Finnegan forestalled me. “No trouble at all. Won’t be a tick.”

  I waited until I heard her voice raised in faulty tune in the next room before I addressed Mr. Pasfield.

  “I don’t doubt Sir Jacob’s devotion to his wife, but I recently learned that he had a son,” I said in a whisper. “A Chinese son.”

  Mr. Pasfield nodded without worry. “He did. It were before he married Millie. He was as devoted to Millie in marriage as she was to him. But before . . . Well, now, we were very young, excited, and full of the devil, if you understand what I mean. The world was laid before us, and we took it.” He shook his head in nostalgia.

  “Does Lady Harkness know?” I asked.

  Mr. Pasfield shook his head. “No, she don’t.”

  Mrs. Finnegan returned with the teapot and set it on its trivet. “Goodness, everything went quiet. Now, what were you two talking over?”

  “Jake’s by-blow,” Mr. Pasfield said. “Don’t look shocked, Mrs. Holloway. Finny knows all about it. As I say, I gossip too much.”

  Mrs. Finnegan resumed her seat and poured me more tea. “Leonard knows it’s safe to talk to me. Who will I blab to while I’m up to my elbows in dough? But we don’t tell Mrs. Redfern. She’d take umbrage, and also tell the mistress.”

  “I understand.” I borrowed Tess’s gesture of locking my lips and throwing away the key. Mrs. Finnegan and Mr. Pasfield looked pleased with me.

  “Not my business, so I keep out of it,” Mr. Pasfield said. “How did you learn of it, Mrs. Holloway?”

  I sipped my tea, which was bitter, as Mrs. Finnegan hadn’t changed out the leaves.

  “I am afraid he’s been killed,” I said, unhappy now that I’d broached the subject. “He was found in Kew Gardens.”

  Both looked dazed, Mr. Pasfield’s exuberance fading. “That was Zhen? Jove. The poor chap. I never liked the boy much, but—What is
the world coming to these days? Was he robbed? Or was it because he was Chinese? Horrible what people do.”

  “I saw the story in the newspapers,” Mrs. Finnegan chimed in. “But it only said he were a Chinaman. What was the lad doing in England?”

  “Looking for his pa, I wouldn’t wonder.” Mr. Pasfield seemed more nonplussed than grieved. “Jake was tenderhearted to Zhen, though the boy wasn’t always grateful. Jake gave him a job in his warehouse in China, even let him use Jake’s name, which would make it easier for him to travel to Britain if he wished. Jake never told anyone about the son but me, but he was good to him. Proud of the lad. He and Millie never had little ones of their own.”

  So Lady Harkness had said. I sat in silence, not certain how to respond. Mr. Pasfield was open enough about his friend’s indiscretion but did not appear moved by Zhen’s death apart from surprise.

  Mr. Pasfield’s tale of the three as friends together in the old days explained some of Lady Harkness’s grief. If she and Sir Jacob had been sweethearts from babyhood, their marriage inevitable, her loss would indeed be deep.

  Mr. Pasfield appeared happy enough to return to his roots, courting a cook below stairs. I wasn’t certain if his blithe acceptance that his friend Jake had been better than he at acquiring riches was the truth, but Mr. Pasfield looked contented enough at this moment. He took up his tea, giving Mrs. Finnegan a fond look as he sipped.

  I wished them well. I also very much wanted to speak to Daniel.

  * * *

  • • •

  I departed and encountered Lady Cynthia on the street.

  “I put both the old biddies into a hansom and sent them off home,” she said. “They room together in Pimlico—isn’t that interesting? Then I went back up to see how Lady Harkness was faring. She’ll recover, I think, but she’ll be weak for a time, poor woman.”

  “I suspect Mrs. Knowles really did dose the tonic,” I said. “Or Mrs. Tatlock did and tried to throw suspicion on Mrs. Knowles. I’m not certain they were trying to kill her.”

  “No,” Cynthia agreed. “I wager they got the wind up when I encouraged dear Millie to sell everything and go back to Liverpool. If she’s ill, she can’t travel, can she?”

  I shivered and pulled my shawl close. “It’s good of you to look after Lady Harkness.”

  Cynthia shrugged. “She’s not as bad as I pegged her. Fish out of water. She has my sympathy on that score.”

  “We need to pool our knowledge,” I said. “I started looking into the matter to help Mr. Li, but this killer must be stopped. I want to ensure that Mr. Li is well and then tell what we know to Inspector McGregor.”

  “McGregor?” Cynthia’s brows arched. “Good Lord, you are worried.”

  “Will you send word to Mr. Thanos?” I asked. “The four of us need to gather. And Tess. She keeps hinting she has things to report.”

  “Of course I will.” Cynthia pressed her hand to her heart. “Gracious, an unmarried lady writing to a gentleman. Oh, the scandal.”

  She laughed, throwing her head back in the misting rain as she made for the front door of our house.

  * * *

  • • •

  I hurried down the stairs to the back door, wanting warmth and my familiar place, to be met by Mr. Davis waiting in the center of the kitchen.

  “There you are. Come with me.”

  Mr. Davis knew I disliked him giving me orders, so I concluded he was much upset. I followed him without question down the narrow passage to the housekeeper’s parlor. Mr. Davis took out his keys and unlocked and opened the door.

  Lying in a heap on the floor was Mrs. Daley. I started forward in alarm when I saw that beside her lay the master’s decanter of brandy, the remains of its contents a pungent golden stain on the carpet.

  18

  “Good . . . heavens.” The words jerked from my mouth. “Is she all right?”

  “Shall we haul her up and see?”

  Mr. Davis headed purposefully for Mrs. Daley, and I quickly joined him, worried what he would do in his temper.

  Mr. Davis grasped her under one arm, and I took the other. We lifted her to the Belter chair, which was the largest and softest. Mrs. Daley didn’t wake during this procedure—her head lolled, and she let out a snore.

  “Mrs. Daley.” Mr. Davis patted her cheek, rather more firmly than necessary. “Wake up, now.” His next pat was almost a slap.

  I seized his arm. “I’ll wake her. You get the brandy off the floor.”

  Mr. Davis scowled at me, but he bent to fetch the decanter. “She’s been at this and several of the wine bottles. I drew a line on each of them, and sure enough, the levels have been inching downward. She doesn’t take much from any one, but has a go at them all.”

  I moved to the washbasin, which had a finger’s width of water in the bottom, wet my handkerchief, and used this to swab Mrs. Daley’s flushed cheeks. After a moment, she groggily opened her eyes.

  “Mrs. Holloway?” she asked in puzzlement, her words slurred. Then she saw Mr. Davis with the decanter and sucked in a breath. “Mr. Davis! Whatever are you doing with that?”

  “Hadn’t you better get up to bed, Mrs. Daley?” I suggested in my no-nonsense voice. “I’ll help you.”

  Mrs. Daley pushed away my hands. “I’m fine. I fell asleep is all.” She gained strength as she spoke. “Why are you in my parlor?”

  “I heard you fall off the chair.” Mr. Davis waved the decanter. “Found this on the floor next to you. You’re a drunk, Mrs. Daley.”

  “I am not drunk.” The slur had faded but not disappeared. “I fell asleep is all.” Mrs. Daley’s eyes narrowed. “It was that Tess. The bloody girl came in here and left the decanter next to me. I’ll stake money on it.”

  “Tess doesn’t have a key to this room,” I said.

  “She doesn’t need one, does she? She picked the lock. She’s a thief, and you know it. Bad blood.”

  “Utter tripe,” Mr. Davis said in a hard voice. “There wasn’t time for her to sneak in here after I heard you fall off the chair. You’ve been pinching the wine and brandy, and I’m going to the master about it.”

  Mrs. Daley rose to her feet. Though she reeked of drink, she was remarkably steady.

  “You do that, Mr. Davis. Then I will tell him all about Tess, and about you, and about you.” Her finger went from Mr. Davis to end up pointing at me.

  “What about me?” Mr. Davis squared his shoulders. “Or Mrs. Holloway? We have nothing to be ashamed of. We’re not drunken thieves.”

  “No? But you, Davis, are less than a man—yes, I’ve heard all about you. And Mrs. Holloway has a daughter she keeps hidden. No wonder she needs so many days out.”

  My mouth went dry. The damp handkerchief fell from my nerveless fingers, leaving a wet patch on my gown on its way to the carpet.

  “That old chestnut?” Mr. Davis scoffed. “An idiotic young man who misunderstood me. And Mrs. Holloway hasn’t got . . .”

  He trailed off as I stood woodenly, my face so hot I must be red as glowing coal.

  “Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Davis stared at me in puzzlement. “You were married?”

  “A long time ago,” I said faintly.

  “The mistress don’t know anything about it.” Mrs. Daley’s eyes were slits. “And she never has to, if you take my meaning.”

  I stood motionless, anger and fear battling inside me until I was nearly ill. Mr. Davis gaped a moment before he snapped his mouth shut.

  “What does it matter?” he asked Mrs. Daley. “A widow working to keep a daughter is a damn sight better than a woman who has no idea how to run a household, but plenty of ideas on how to steal from it.”

  “A widow?” Mrs. Daley said with a sneer. “Is that what you think? No better than she ought to be, that’s what’s said in the streets where Mrs. Holloway is from.”

  I relaxed, but onl
y a fraction. While I had my detractors, no one from my old haunts knew my marriage had been a sham. I hadn’t known until my husband had died and I’d seen his will—which was public record. Had Mrs. Daley gone to Somerset House, where records were stockpiled, to investigate me?

  But no. Holloway was my maiden name, which I’d used again after my husband’s death. Mrs. Daley knew me by no other. I’d moved after my marriage to south London, where my husband had come from, living there while he’d gone to sea—I was willing to wager none in the streets where I grew up remembered his name either.

  I faced her with more confidence. “Are you telling me you went to the middle of London and asked all about me, Mrs. Daley? Why don’t you use that zeal to keep house instead?”

  “I like to know about people,” Mrs. Daley said. “Keeps them from spreading rumors about me.” She looked down her nose as she spoke, every inch the haughty housekeeper.

  Unfortunately for her, I now knew she was a fraud. Mrs. Bywater’s friend had foisted the woman on us, probably happy to have the blackmailing cook who drank her way through the master’s wine cellar out of her house. Mrs. Bywater must be much indebted to this friend.

  “Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Davis looked back and forth between us, bewildered.

  “She knows nothing,” I said quickly. “My husband drowned. He never saw his daughter, who now boards with my friends. They look after her while I work.”

  My firm words belied my fears. If Mrs. Daley circulated stories that I was a hussy with a by-blow daughter, whether she had proof or not, Mrs. Bywater might turn me out, and even those who wanted my excellent cooking would think twice before hiring me. As I’d reflected when Cynthia had discovered I had Grace, all mistresses were sticklers for propriety among their servants, especially the female ones.