Death at the Crystal Palace Page 22

All as Mr. Davis had told me. “You have been thorough, Inspector,” I said admiringly.

  “As soon as I found out who this Mrs. Hume was, I made my inquiries. Never hurts. The railway might have nothing to do with anything, but I wanted background on the family. You will give me more.” He pointed a stubby finger at me.

  “I don’t know much more.” I didn’t mention Harriet’s paramour, because I wanted to learn further details about him first. If he was an innocent, lovelorn swain, I did not want Inspector McGregor to pounce on him.

  “But you will find out. Anything you discover about Lady Covington’s household, you will tell me. If you have to send me reports through McAdam, I’ll put up with it.”

  “Mr. McAdam is very busy,” I said hesitantly.

  “So it would seem. I am not to know what he is doing, though I can guess. Not my case. Not my area.” He sounded vastly irritated by this. “Send word through Constable Greene.”

  “Constable . . . ? Ah, Caleb.”

  “Yes, the one who’s attached himself to your assistant. She has him wrapped around her finger.”

  I regarded him primly. “A man could do worse than marrying a cook.”

  “I hope to all that’s holy he isn’t thinking of marrying anyone. He’s not a bad policeman, and could go far.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. You mean that when he has a detective inspector’s salary, then he might be able to marry?”

  “Touché, Mrs. Holloway. I’m interested in this case, because I know there’s more than meets the eye, or else you wouldn’t be involved.”

  “Possibly true, but did you not interview them about Erica’s death? Considering poison was found.”

  Inspector McGregor’s expression turned sour. “I tried to speak to the family, and the servants, but the whole lot of them froze me out. No one in that household, whether upstairs or down, will deign to talk to the police. I was scum on the bottom of their shoes—they would not even let me in past the downstairs back door.”

  “The staff is very protective of her ladyship.”

  “I imagine she pays them a fair amount. A rich woman can buy loyalty.”

  I thought of Jepson, the dragon who guarded—or at least seemed to guard—Lady Covington. She had been with Lady Covington a long time, from what I understood. There was more than riches keeping that household together, but whether it was love or hatred remained to be seen.

  “Very well, Inspector. I will save you the mortification of being treated as though you are dirt on the bottoms of their shoes and speak to Lady Covington’s family and staff. Would you like me to write to you, or would you prefer I give the constable a verbal report?”

  “A letter is fine.” Inspector McGregor slid to the edge of his chair. He wanted to rise and depart, but he was enough of a gentleman to not simply stand and stalk out before I was ready to say my farewells.

  I stood up, relieving him of his impatience. “Would you like to take home some lemon cake, Inspector? I have made several batches.”

  “You are very kind, but no.”

  I saw sudden hunger flicker in his eyes and his fingers twitch, but he was trying to be the correct policeman who did nothing untoward while he was on duty, including indulging in sweets offered by a helpful cook.

  The poor man needed a wife, I thought. One to make certain his collar was straight and he was well-fed enough to not be tortured by the thought of cakes.

  “I’ll wrap it up for you anyway,” I said. “You can have it with your supper.”

  Before he could protest, I strode back to the kitchen and lifted an already wrapped bit of cake I’d intended to send to Bobby and Miss Townsend. I could give them another.

  I thrust the packet at Inspector McGregor as he made his way through the kitchen to the back door. He could do nothing but take it and tuck it into his pocket, though he scowled as he did so.

  Inspector McGregor said a curt “Good day,” and opened the door, sending a cold gust into the kitchen. He slapped his hat firmly onto his head, slammed the door until it rattled, and trudged up the stairs into the wind.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next day, Sunday, I woke early and worked hard alongside Tess to make certain the Sunday dinner would be a fine feast.

  Mrs. Bywater, who walked down the road to attend services at Grosvenor Chapel most Sundays, allowed the staff to attend church with her if they wished. I decided to go with her today, as did Sara and Mrs. Redfern. The three of us followed at a discreet distance behind Mr. and Mrs. Bywater, and surprisingly, Lord and Lady Clifford.

  I slid into a back pew with Mrs. Redfern and Sara. As always, I found the white-columned interior of the chapel with its galleries and arched ceiling soothing. Grosvenor Chapel had no stained glass, and while I thought stained glass pretty, I liked how the clear windows flooded the chapel with light. God was in nature, after all, and letting in the sunshine—what there was of it on a London spring day—admitted His presence.

  The vicar, a slim man with a calm, almost liquid voice, conducted the service. I could doze off listening to him, but I remained awake to study him with interest. This was Daniel’s friend who allowed him to enter the sacristy in the middle of the night and entertain guests there. Daniel had said he’d done the man a favor, and I was curious to know what.

  I switched my gaze to Cynthia’s parents, who sat in the front of the chapel. From this angle, I could see Lord Clifford, who’d returned from Surrey late last night, on the end of the pew, gazing in a bored manner at the gold-leafed cross hanging over the altar.

  Lady Clifford, next to him, had her head bent as though in prayer, her lips moving. It struck me as I observed her that she was an aging woman. Though she dressed smartly, much more so than Mrs. Bywater, her slim frame drooped, and her shoulders possessed a thinness that spoke of waning strength. Sunlight touched her hair, which was fair like Cynthia’s, but in this chapel, it appeared more white than flaxen.

  I recalled Lady Clifford collapsing against Cynthia when she’d come down to my kitchen, sobbing when she’d thought of her children. She’d lost a son under horrible circumstances, and a daughter under not much better ones.

  Cynthia easily grew exasperated with her parents, but I saw her hurt that they regarded her as a nuisance to be foisted off on a husband while they grieved her much-lauded brother and sister.

  My mother had rarely had two coins to rub together, and she’d spent all day and many nights charring to keep food on our table. But I’d never had any doubt that she loved me deeply, and I’d loved her in return.

  She’d made sure I learned my letters, and when I was fourteen, she’d found me a position as a cook’s assistant, hoping I could begin a profession in service. A cook in a proper household could make a living and have a decent roof over her head far easier than a woman who scrubbed floors piecemeal.

  When my mother had died, having worked herself into an early grave, I’d felt nothing but pain for a long time. I’d become an under-cook in a large house in Grosvenor Square shortly before her death, moving up in the world, my mother proudly told her old cronies in Bow Lane. It was in this vulnerable state that I’d met my husband.

  The service ended with one of my favorite hymns—

  Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty

  God in three persons, blessed Trinity

  I sang loudly, still thinking of my mother, and ducked outside after the music ended, without waiting for the final blessing. I wanted to make certain the dinner Tess and I had begun would be finished for the family when they arrived home.

  I found Lord Clifford at the end of the chapel’s porch, lounging against the last column, he having slipped away during the last hymn. He lifted his hat and fell into step with me as I walked toward Mount Street.

  “It happened as you said, Mrs. Holloway,” he told me in a low voice. “The duke has paid me two hundred guineas
for the necklace. I’d only asked a hundred, but he was moved to assist me.” Lord Clifford chortled his triumph before he caught my look and amended his expression. “Anyway, I toddled back to London, telling him I wanted to rejoin my wife—which is true. I don’t much like being away from her long. Reverend Fielding has taken over. He is going to give the duke four thousand for that bloody—er, dashed—paste necklace.” Lord Clifford trailed off admiringly. “Lancaster—or, no, he’s McAdam, isn’t he? He came up with the cash for Mr. Fielding to pay over. A dashed clever chap is McAdam. I truly believed him a vacuous fop whose head was only good for holding his hat.”

  “Thank you for your help, your lordship,” I said with relief. “You might be exposing a very treacherous man.”

  “Well, I don’t approve of thugs stabbing gentlemen in broad daylight. It could have been me.” Lord Clifford glanced about as though fearing an anarchist would charge through the sunlit May morning and plunge a knife into him there and then.

  “Perhaps you ought to take her ladyship home to the country,” I ventured. “It will be a bit safer than London. And she seems sad.”

  “That she does, the poor old girl.” Lord Clifford lost his cheerfulness. “It’s a hard thing, losing a child, Mrs. Holloway.”

  I thought of Grace, and knew he spoke the truth. If anything happened to Grace, I would want to die myself.

  I could hardly blurt out to Lord Clifford that I had a daughter, so I said, “I can imagine, your lordship.”

  “A damned hard thing.” This time he did not stammer over his expletive. “My wife feels it keenly. It’s one reason she’s fussing about Cynthia—wants to see her settled, with children of her own. Seems to think she’ll be protected that way. Didn’t help Em, though, did it? But my wife is beyond logic on the subject.”

  “I believe Lady Cynthia understands. I have grown to know your daughter well, and I’m very fond of her. She is no fool. When she is ready, she will settle herself. I think you will be agreeably surprised.”

  Lord Clifford nodded, his eyes softening. “She’s a good gel, is Cyn, in spite of her eccentricities—which she inherited from me, don’t you know.” He laughed weakly. “I am happy she has such a friend in you.” Lord Clifford paused, and I ceased walking.

  He watched a chestnut horse pulling a black buggy past us, the horse’s hooves clopping, the pungent odor of manure in its wake.

  “I am grateful to you for looking after her,” Lord Clifford finished.

  “Not at all, your lordship.”

  “Please, continue to do so. Cynthia needs friends. My sister-in-law . . .” He trailed off and shook his head. “Well, you know her.”

  “Mrs. Bywater means well.” I believed she truly did, in spite of our disagreements.

  “Does she?” Lord Clifford scrunched up his face. “Don’t know what old Neville sees in her, but I’ll behave and be civil to her. Good day for now, Mrs. Holloway. I will await the ladies—ah, here they come.”

  I gave him a polite curtsy and continued along South Audley Street, pleased with the conversation.

  * * *

  * * *

  After I sent up the midday meal, I took my basket and walked to Park Lane.

  Cynthia had returned to Lady Covington’s yesterday. I used the excuse of obtaining more greens from Lady Covington’s garden to visit there, stopping on the way at the house in Upper Brook Street to leave a lemon cake with Miss Townsend’s butler for the two ladies.

  I entered the garden through the gate at the end of Upper Brook Street to see Harriet Morris taking cuttings from the rhododendron bushes that lined the wall.

  22

  Whatever are you doing, Miss Morris?” I demanded.

  Harriet jumped and whirled to me, dropping deep pink blossoms onto the ground.

  “You!” she said dramatically. “What are you doing creeping about, terrifying me?”

  The gate had squeaked loudly when I’d swung it open, so I’d hardly been creeping.

  “Why are you cutting rhododendrons?” I asked.

  Harriet stooped to retrieve the blossoms, which she thrust into her basket, crushing them as she did so. “To create a pretty arrangement for the table. Lady Cynthia’s here. We should make some effort in this morose old place.”

  I debated telling Harriet that poison from that plant had killed her stepsister, but she had a fairly sharp set of pruning scissors in her hand, and I decided to keep my silence on the matter.

  “Why do you stay, then?” I asked. “If it is so morose?”

  Harriet glared at me, her lace-trimmed bodice rising with her sharp breath. “Where would I go? What would I live on? I am stuck here . . . forever.”

  “Does your young man not have money? Or a house to take you to?”

  Harriet’s flush matched the blooms in her basket. “I suppose you expect me to screech, What young man? But you saw him. Very well. I love him.” She eyed me defiantly. “But he isn’t suitable, is he? Not for the daughter of a railway magnate and stepsister of a baron. He’s George’s secretary.” Her voice weakened, ending on a hopeless note.

  “He works for the railway?”

  Harriet threw wide her hand with the scissors. “How else do you suppose I met him? I’m scarcely allowed out of the house. If George discovers it, he’ll sack Darren—Mr. Amos—and I’ll never see him again.” Tears beaded her lashes.

  “What does your mother say?” I asked gently.

  “She doesn’t mind his character, and he’s a gentleman, but he’s poor. A besetting sin, in the eyes of this family.”

  Harriet’s predicament explained some of her petulance, and she stirred my sympathy. “Perhaps, as your mother has much influence with the railway board, she can suggest a position for Mr. Amos with a higher income. If you explain to her what is in your heart, she might understand.”

  A flicker of hope lit Harriet’s eyes, but she remained skeptical. “George will never understand. He’s a stiff-necked, pompous prig.”

  “Her ladyship might be able to help with that. It would not hurt for you to speak to her. Now, you’ve ruined that basket of flowers—leave them here and cut a few of those early roses instead. Cynthia likes them.”

  Harriet glanced at the crushed blossoms, made a noise of annoyance, and dumped the flowers to the ground. Without saying good-bye, she stalked toward the rosebushes, scissors in hand.

  “Good day, Mrs. Holloway.” Symes halted on the path behind me, resting his rake on the ground and giving me a toothy smile. “Was she impertinent to you?” He nodded toward Harriet as she approached the rosebushes like a hunter stalking a snared animal. “She has a temper, that one does.”

  “She has much on her mind.” I scooted the fallen flowers under the rhododendrons with my foot, where they could become compost. “Tell me, Mr. Symes, does the family cut these bushes often? For the flowers, I mean.”

  Symes considered then shrugged. “Not that I know. Never seen sign of cutting, except for what I prune.”

  “You’d notice?”

  “ ’Course I would. I notice everything what goes on in this garden.” He leaned closer to me, using the rake for balance. “Can I offer you some nice pole beans, Mrs. Holloway? Just out, sweet as can be.”

  I backed up a step. “That would be lovely, thank you. Perhaps you can gather them while I have a word with Mrs. Gamble.”

  “Aye, that I’ll do.” Symes touched his hat, gave me another large smile, and walked toward the hothouse, whistling.

  I entered the house through the back stairs, but I bypassed the kitchen to climb to the main floor. The servants’ staircase was dark and enclosed, the walls not well finished. Hatches for maintaining the bellpull system and other things were set haphazardly here and there.

  As I emerged into the front hall, I stopped a passing maid, who faced me with her duster as though she’d battle me with it.

&nbs
p; “Will you tell Lady Cynthia that Mrs. Holloway is here, please? I’ll wait.”

  “You should be in the kitchen, missus,” the maid said coldly. “But I’ll go up.”

  She turned away and ascended the stairs. I saw what Inspector McGregor meant about being treated as though he were dung on their shoes.

  Cynthia skimmed down the stairs a few moments later, her smile canceling the irritation of Harriet and the sourness of the maid. “Glad to see you, Mrs. H. There are storms a-brewing.”

  “What sort of storms?” I asked in hushed tones.

  Cynthia drew me aside. She wore a light gray frock, slim fitting and simple—I saw Miss Townsend’s influence in the design. “Good old George is threatening to turn everyone out. Says it’s his house now, and Lady Covington and her brood must go. He blames them for his sister’s death. Not that he gave much thought to her when she was alive, Jonathan tells me.”

  “Can he do that?” I glanced at the high-ceilinged, hushed, and empty hall. The house exuded all the luxury money could buy, and yet, so much coldness lived here.

  “He can, since this house is part of the entail. But whether Lady Covington will stand for it is another matter. Dear George could have his solicitor force them out, but then he’d have to deal with public opinion. Lady Covington is much loved. If George casts a mother and children into the street—even with the children grown—the newspapers will vilify him.” She finished with relish, her blue eyes dancing.

  Thinking of Lady Covington’s formidable character, I doubted George would prevail. “Will you ask if Lady Covington will see me?”

  “I’m certain she’ll be delighted. Come with me.” Cynthia hooked her arm through mine and strode with me toward the closed double doors of the drawing room.

  She opened one door to usher me inside, interrupting a furious and low-voiced conversation between Lady Covington and Jepson, her lady’s maid. Jepson jerked around and glared daggers at me.

  Lady Covington rose. Her mourning black made her face wan, the gray in her hair more prominent. She was a woman grown haggard by worry and guilt.