Death at the Crystal Palace Read online

  The front door of the surgery was unlocked, and we entered a large and pleasantly furnished room with an open doorway leading to what looked like a consulting room. A staircase led upward on the left wall, and voices floated down from above.

  Lady Covington hastened up the stairs, followed by Cynthia and then me. Harriet remained below, mumbling that she was useless in a sickroom.

  The first person we saw in the narrow corridor at the top of the stairs was Jonathan. His face was chalk white, his eyes red rimmed. “Mama, it is bad.”

  Lady Covington drew a breath. She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as though trying to comfort him. Then she straightened her back and walked to the door at the end of the hall.

  “Your sister is downstairs,” I said to Jonathan.

  “Is she?” Jonathan scowled at me. “Bloody Harriet. Damn the lot of them. Oh, sorry, Cyn. I need a drink.”

  He pushed past Cynthia and clumped down the stairs. I heard the front door bang, sending a draft up the stairwell.

  Cynthia peered after him. “Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said.”

  I did not have time to wonder about Jonathan, because Mr. Fielding emerged from the room at the end of the corridor. He had a prayer book in his hand, his expression uncharacteristically sober.

  “She’ll not last,” he said. “The poor little thing. Who would do this? It’s monstrous.”

  “A tragic accident,” I said. “Inflicted on her by a cruel person.”

  Cynthia folded her arms, her pale hair glistening like spun flax. “I know that look, Mrs. Holloway. Whoever did this will not be safe.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” I agreed softly.

  Cynthia gave me a decided nod. “Or I.”

  The doctor opened the door. “Vicar. Quickly.” He gazed past him at me. “Are you the cook? She’s asking for you.”

  I swallowed. Like Harriet, I did not relish sickrooms, but I did not want one of Erica’s last wishes to go unfulfilled. I gathered my skirts and followed Mr. Fielding into the room.

  I knew at once that Mr. Fielding’s assessment of Erica’s condition was correct. Her breathing was swift and shallow, her face a bloodless gray. Lady Covington held her hand, a look of vast pity on her face. Mr. Fielding moved to Lady Covington’s side, opening his book and clearing his throat.

  I went to the other side of the bed and took Erica’s ice-cold hand in mine. “Mrs. Hume?” I said softly. “You asked for me.”

  “Cook?”

  “Yes, dear.” Unlike when Jonathan or Lord Clifford had addressed me by my title, I was not in the least offended by Erica’s pathetic gasp. “I’m here.”

  “You promise?”

  I recalled her plea for me to look after Henry, whoever he was. I doubted she’d be able to tell me more about him now.

  “Of course. I promise.”

  Mr. Fielding was already speaking, reading words of comfort. “Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world, in the name of God the Father Almighty . . .”

  Erica let out a breath. “Thank you. I won’t tell. It’s not your fault . . .” Another breath. “I love you, Mama.”

  It was the last thing she said. The exhale became a rattle, and she lay very still.

  Mr. Fielding continued to read. I’d never observed him in his full role as vicar, but now he intoned the blessing in a deep and soothing voice. Whether he believed the phrases he spoke or not, he showed nothing but calm sincerity. Lady Covington bowed her head and whispered along with him.

  The doctor closed Erica’s eyes, and there was nothing more to do.

  * * *

  * * *

  Lady Covington remained in Sydenham for the night at a nearby hotel, which had been built to house the tourists who came to visit the Crystal Palace. The doctor kept Sir Arthur at his surgery, which was also the doctor’s home, to keep an eye on him. Sir Arthur had recovered somewhat, but was still pale and sickly.

  Cynthia and I would be journeying to London—Lady Covington had sent us away, saying she’d not be poisoned by the hotel’s food. Cynthia had argued, but Lady Covington had been firm.

  Jonathan and Harriet remained with their mother, but George declared without inflection that he’d return to London alone and begin preparing for Erica’s funeral.

  “He’s a chilly cove,” Mr. Fielding said to me as Cynthia and I rode with him in the hired coach Jonathan had commandeered. No one balked at a respectable vicar volunteering to accompany a young lady and her domestic to the train. “Covington’s behaving as though his sister’s sudden death is simply another business matter.”

  “Some people hide behind a cool mask,” Cynthia said charitably, “when they lose a loved one.”

  “You did not see him in the room when I was finishing the last prayers. Oh well, nothing to be done, says he. Perhaps it’s for the best. Bloody cold fish. A man who doesn’t value another’s life is a dangerous one.”

  “He said it was probably for the best?” Cynthia’s brows rose. “Ah, I see. She was unmarried, a widow, yes, but her husband hadn’t amounted to much. Better she’s out of the way than continues living, a burden to her family for the next decades.”

  “Exactly.” Mr. Fielding removed a flask from his pocket and drank deeply.

  “Who is Henry?” I broke in.

  Both Mr. Fielding and Cynthia stared at me blankly.

  “Henry?” Cynthia repeated.

  “Mrs. Hume asked me to look after someone called Henry,” I explained. “Had she mentioned anyone by that name, Lady Cynthia?”

  Cynthia pondered a moment. “No, I’m sure she didn’t. I’ve not heard the name Henry mentioned in the house.”

  “Could be anyone then,” Mr. Fielding said. “Her secret lover? Her budgerigar?”

  “She has no pets,” Cynthia said. “No one in the family does. Lord Covington—the deceased one—couldn’t abide them. Didn’t like animals unless they were useful, mostly as meat. There was a lively discussion about it the other evening.”

  “Lover then,” Mr. Fielding concluded. “Widowed Mrs. Hume had hidden depths.”

  I could not picture the rather brittle Erica slipping off to meet a lover. Harriet, yes, and in fact I’d caught her with a man who might be such.

  “One doesn’t ask another to look after a lover, though, does one?” I mused. “She’d bid me to tell him of her fate, or make certain he was well, but not look after him.”

  “True,” Mr. Fielding said. “But she didn’t supply a surname, didn’t call him ‘Mr. Whomever.’ Perhaps she did keep a dog in secret, poor mutt.”

  I and Cynthia would have to find out.

  The lower railway station at the Crystal Palace was quiet, most of the guests already gone. I was happy to see Mr. Thanos, however, waiting for us.

  His kind face fell as we told him of Erica’s death. “The poor woman.” Mr. Thanos shook his head, sadness in his dark eyes. “You must stop this person, Mrs. Holloway.”

  “The police should,” Mr. Fielding said grimly. “Not that I have much use for the constabulary, but your pet inspector can unravel this case of poisoning now that it is obvious what happened.”

  “Difficult to prove,” I told him, discouraged. “Unless the coroner finds it is definitely poison, and not simply bad food, they might rule it an accident. Many poisons mimic the symptoms of food gone off, and unless a coroner looks for a poison specifically, they won’t find it.”

  Ever since poor Mr. Thanos had been laid low by a dose of poison, I’d read up on such things and how they were detected, in case the information would be useful in the future.

  Mr. Fielding let out a harsh laugh. “Do remind me to avoid your cooking, Mrs. Holloway.”

  “I would never spoil my own meals, Mr. Fielding,” I said, appalled.

  He laughed again, but the sound was anything but mirthful.
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br />   We rode to London in silence, the four of us sharing a first-class compartment. Miss Townsend and Bobby had gone back before us, Mr. Thanos told us, and I found that I missed their company.

  It was very late by the time we arrived at Victoria Station. Mr. Fielding and Mr. Thanos saw us home in a hired hackney, Mr. Thanos holding Cynthia’s hand a bit longer than necessary when he shook it to say good-bye.

  Mr. Fielding’s roguish look returned as he waved Mr. Thanos back into the hackney, and I hoped he would not tease Mr. Thanos too much.

  Cynthia entered the house through the front door one of the footmen held open for her, and I turned for the back stairs.

  When I was halfway down, a voice whispered in the blackness, “Kat.”

  He was there. I did not know how he’d come to be there or how he’d known I would need him, but I did not question.

  As I halted on the steps, unable to move, Daniel came to me and enfolded me into his arms.

  11

  I hadn’t realized how much I’d longed for Daniel’s comfort until he stood against me in the darkness, his body a bulwark between me and the world.

  He stroked my back, his breath warm on my cheek, and I clung to him while emotions chased one another in chaotic abandon.

  “I’m so sorry, Kat.”

  “It was not your fault.” My words were muffled by his shoulder. He smelled of warm wool, soap, and hint of the scent he’d worn earlier tonight.

  “I mean for having to keep away from you. For behaving like a lout tonight and pretending you did not exist.”

  “You were acting the part. I understand.” Daniel hadn’t released me, and I saw no reason to break his hold.

  “This gentleman I’m pretending to be disgusts me. He’s a self-centered prig only interested in his own prestige. But it helps me get close to people.”

  “Like the duke.”

  I felt Daniel start. “How do you know who he is?”

  “My dear Daniel, why do you ask these questions?”

  His soft laughter vibrated beneath my ear. “I ought to know better. But please, keep this information to yourself.”

  “Do you think I would not? But what am I to do?” I held him more tightly. “That poor young woman died, Daniel, and I could not stop it.”

  “I know, love. But there was nothing you could have done.”

  “No?” My head popped up. “I could have stayed at Lady Covington’s house and browbeaten the lot of them until I found out who was trying to poison her. Instead, fearing for my position if I stayed too long, I fled home and sent Lady Cynthia to worm her way into Lady Covington’s family’s confidence. Cynthia could have been the one to eat the poisoned food. Lady Covington might very soon be next—and what about any other unfortunate who eats or drinks something meant for her?”

  Daniel clasped my hands between us. “Dearest Kat, what do you expect to do? You must earn your living, and Cynthia is no fool—she knows how to take care of herself.”

  “Even so, I had no business sending her. I doubted myself as soon as I asked her, but there was no stopping her then.”

  “Take heart, love. Now that this terrible thing has happened, the police will be involved. No coroner will let the sudden death of a healthy young woman go unquestioned. There will be an inquest. If it is ruled a deliberate poisoning, Scotland Yard may well be called in, and Inspector McGregor will be interested. You need not worry about this any longer—in fact, I wish you would leave it alone.” Daniel shuddered. “If someone came to me to tell me gently that you had been poisoned . . .” His grip tightened. “I’m not certain what I would do.”

  I stilled, hearing the catch in his voice, feeling the answering squeeze in my heart.

  “If the police become involved, they will simply blame the cook,” I said with conviction. “She prepared the hamper of comestibles the family ate on the train. I know that anyone in the house could have drizzled a substance onto the scones or the cake. But the police will say the cook did it accidentally, reaching for the wrong bottle. At best, she’ll lose her job, and at worst, they’ll arrest her.”

  “I can have a word with McGregor. He’s not one to fix blame until he knows exactly what happened.”

  “Only if Inspector McGregor is assigned the case. A cook adding the wrong ingredient to a dish won’t gain much priority at Scotland Yard, I’ll wager.”

  “Possibly not, but my point is that you have no need to look into this further.” Daniel studied my face and heaved a resigned sigh. “Not that you will listen to me. This is dangerous.”

  “Oh, is it? What about chumming up to a duke who might be funding assassins?” I whispered the last, and Daniel’s eyes widened.

  “You frighten me, Kat. You truly do.” He lifted my hand to his lips, kissing my palm through the glove. “Promise me you will be careful. Send word to me through my dratted brother, whom you have recruited, it seems.”

  “Mr. Fielding has been very helpful.”

  “Errol never does anything that won’t benefit him. Please remember this.”

  “I have taken his measure, believe me.”

  I wished I could stand here on the stairwell for as long as I liked, speaking to Daniel and having him kiss my hand. But people walked by on Mount Street, carriages creaked not far from us, and it was late. I’d have to rise in the morning and prepare breakfast for the household. Working-class women did not have the luxury of lying abed, even after an evening of tragedy.

  “Good night,” I said softly. “I must beg you to take care. The men who struck in Dublin were brutal.”

  “I know.” Daniel caressed my cheek. “Hence my mission. You are a good woman, Kat Holloway. Sleep well.”

  I knew I would not, but I appreciated the sentiment. I kissed his cheek, withdrew from his grasp, and moved around him in the darkness down the stairs to the kitchen door.

  * * *

  * * *

  I slept poorly, as I’d suspected I would. I could not banish the image of Erica’s gray face, nor her weak whisper, Henry. Please look after him for me . . .

  “I will,” I said quietly to the darkness. “As soon as I find out who on earth Henry is.”

  I rose and washed my face in chilly water, pouring the waste into my slop pail, which I carried with me to the kitchen.

  I’d have to discover exactly which foods both Sir Arthur and Erica had consumed, I thought as I trudged down the many flights. Plus what sort of poison it was and how a person would obtain it, let alone add it to the food.

  Neither Jonathan nor George had been sick at all, but Jonathan had been very upset that Erica had taken ill. Remorse because he’d not meant the poison for her? Or more tender feelings, as I’d speculated last night? Harriet had eaten only a few nibbles of strawberries, she’d said, but if she’d known which food was tainted, she could have simply avoided it.

  I tried to think it through clinically, but the knot of worry in my stomach tightened whenever I realized how easily Cynthia could have been poisoned. If she’d decided to take the train with Lady Covington’s family instead of joining me, she might have enthusiastically partaken of the offerings in the hamper.

  Downstairs, Tess, oblivious to the happenings of the night, was her usual cheery self as she kneaded dough for bread. “Did you enjoy the Crystal Palace again, Mrs. H.? Could you understand a thing Mr. Thanos said?”

  She was the only one in the kitchen at the moment—Charlie had lit the fire in the stove but was nowhere in sight, and Elsie hadn’t come down yet. I quietly told Tess what had happened.

  Tess’s face lost color as she listened. “Oh, Mrs. H. How very awful. What are you going to do?”

  “What I have to.” I tied on my apron and approached my table to beat up a batter for crumpets. “Find out who used the poison and stop them.”

  “Good for you.” Tess continued her kneading, flour scattering
across the table. “What can I do to help?”

  I hardly wanted Tess to be in the position, like Cynthia, to be hurt by this poisoner, but I knew she wanted to see things put right. “You could ask Caleb to keep you informed about what he knows about Mrs. Hume’s death. There is sure to be an autopsy and an inquest. I know he is only a beat constable, but he can find out things, can’t he?”

  “Oh, Caleb’s a good one for gossip.” Tess finished with the dough, plopped it into a bowl, and covered it with a towel. “I don’t mean he spreads tales or that sort of thing. But he tells me.”

  Her confidence in him was touching if naive. “I would not want him to get into any trouble, so he is not to go nosing about.”

  “I will explain. Caleb’s good if someone tells him exactly what to do.”

  I hid a smile, the first one that had crossed my lips since Erica’s death.

  We continued to cook breakfast—boiled eggs and toasted crumpets, plenty of bacon, and leftover meat pies. I poured off cream into a jug that I set in a cold part of the larder to save for an idea for custards based on the flavors of the Lesser Antilles. I’d come across a vendor from Antigua as I wandered the markets a few months ago and tasted a custard flavored with cinnamon, anise, and coconut. I’d long wished to replicate it, and after many notes and a few failures, I thought I’d cracked the formula.

  When I was upset, I let myself grow obsessed with cooking and creating recipes. Some part of me found it soothing to focus on exact measurements and techniques, and trying to discern ingredients in a dish I’d never made before solely by tasting it. Chopping, kneading, stirring, basting—all cleared my mind and allowed me to unravel other problems.

  I would have to find an excuse to go to Park Lane so I could quiz the cook, Mrs. Gamble, about exactly what had been in the food hamper and through whose hands it had passed before it left the house. I had a tiny idea about where the poison had come from in the first place, but I couldn’t be certain until I returned to Lady Covington’s house.