Death at the Crystal Palace Read online

  “Meaning someone else has the chance to tamper with whatever she eats for breakfast or during meals with the family,” I mused. “She takes sick mostly after supper or early in the morning, you said. But everyone in the house would eat the supper, wouldn’t they?”

  “I know a little about the process of digestion from listening to coroners and visiting morgues. A person can eat something at noon and not be affected by it until late that night or the next morning. It seems that the stomach empties its contents by then, and some poison—or bad food—does not make itself known until it enters the intestines.”

  While thinking of such things made me wince, the information was useful. “Meaning she could ingest the substance at luncheon, and only when the cook does not prepare her a special meal.” I tapped the table with my fingertips. “I fear then that Lady Covington’s misgivings are well-founded. If Mrs. Gamble is simply a careless cook and uses ingredients gone off, then the food she prepares specially would also make Lady Covington ill.”

  “Exactly. Someone is poisoning the poor lady’s lunch.”

  “Who is in the house at the time?” I asked, fully believing that Daniel would know.

  “Mostly the family, but Lord Covington sometimes brings friends home to dine without notice. Mrs. Gamble complained of it.”

  Always frustrating for a cook to not know exactly how many to expect for supper. One needs to measure ingredients precisely and not have too much left over, or worse, not prepare enough. The cook always takes the blame for a disastrous meal, no matter how chaotic the household.

  I sighed. “I am not happy with this. Lady Covington sought me out, and I cannot turn away from her.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Daniel covered my restless hand with his. “It is not in your nature.”

  The warmth of him stilled me. We’d grown closer in the last month or so, he visiting almost every night for a chat that too often led to kisses. I knew Daniel was waiting for a sign from me that I’d like him to court me more vigorously, but I had yet to give it.

  I allowed myself to twine my fingers through his, rewarded by a flare of heat in his eyes.

  “They are not in a hurry, whoever it is,” I observed, turning back to our distasteful topic. “If the poison simply makes Lady Covington ill.”

  “Slow poison can kill over time,” Daniel said. “Arsenic, for instance, can cause nothing more than a bad stomachache until the last fatal dose. A person can even take a tiny amount of arsenic every day and build up an immunity to it, though it’s dangerous. One miscalculation and . . .” He shrugged.

  “Whatever poison it is aside, I would like to know why someone would wish to kill Lady Covington. For her money presumably.”

  “You will have to ascertain that for yourself. I couldn’t stay long enough to discover the motives of the entire family. The new Baron Covington inherited the estate and his father’s post on the board of his railway company, but Lady Covington has plenty of funds for herself, from trusts and so forth, and investments, I gather. She also has influence over the railway company’s board, if not an official position on it. A hardheaded lady.”

  “I like hardheaded ladies,” I said.

  Daniel’s lips twitched. “I wonder why that is? I tend to admire them myself.”

  My face heated, and I withdrew my hand. Daniel’s flattery always embarrassed me. “Go on with you.”

  Was he contrite? No, indeed. Daniel sent me his flippant grin and returned to his tea and cake.

  As he ate, I told him of Lord and Lady Clifford’s arrival and what I’d overheard upstairs. Daniel listened attentively, and I was pleased to see his concern.

  “It might be worthwhile to look into Lord Clifford’s affairs,” he said thoughtfully. “He is a crafty fellow—Lady Cynthia isn’t wrong about that.”

  I did not ask Daniel how he knew about Lord Clifford. Daniel knew many things about many people.

  “Discover why he is truly in London, you mean?” I refilled his cup. “How would we go about doing that?”

  “I have some ideas. You are right to be suspicious of his motives. Though he might only wish his daughter to come home, where he can look after her, why wait until now to fetch her?”

  “Precisely. Very well then. I will visit Lady Covington and determine whether one of her family or friends is poisoning her, and you will discover things about Lord Clifford. We can reconvene and pool our knowledge.”

  Daniel’s mouth turned down glumly. “I might not be able to call on you as often for a time.”

  I should not be bothered—Daniel was not required to come here—but a pang touched my heart.

  “Are you off to foreign parts again?” I asked lightly. I lifted the teapot to refill my cup, but the pot was empty, and I set it down rather abruptly.

  “No more foreign than Berkeley Square.” Daniel cut off the sentence abruptly, disguising his unease by sipping the last of his tea.

  “Is this one of your tasks you can tell me nothing about?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Daniel set down his cup. “I will not be able to make any deliveries for a time. I need to be careful about being seen as anything but an insipid gentleman of leisure.”

  Daniel routinely became other people, and the fact that he’d disguise himself as a well-to-do young man did not amaze me.

  “I suppose this is an assignment from your bespectacled gentleman?”

  A few months ago, I’d observed Daniel speaking to a tall, rail-thin man with short gray hair and spectacles. Behind those spectacles lay eyes colder than Arctic ice. Daniel had told me later that he worked for this gentleman, though not by choice.

  “It is,” Daniel answered quietly.

  “Does this gentleman have a name?”

  Daniel’s gaze flicked to his empty teacup. “It’s best you know as little about him as possible.”

  I shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “I am merely curious.”

  “Your curiosity leads you into much danger, Kat. I have to wonder—and worry—what you would do with this knowledge.”

  “Nothing at all. But if you vanish without a trace, I’d like to know whom to ask where to begin looking for you.”

  Daniel sent me an uneasy look. “Best leave it alone, my love. He is not a man who would take kindly to your blunt questions.”

  I was excessively pleased by the fact that Daniel had referred to me as my love, but he might be trying to disarm or distract me, and I refused to let him.

  “You know that if you do not tell me, I will attempt to discover his name another way. I could ask Inspector McGregor, for instance.”

  Daniel’s dismay was almost comical. “Do not bring McGregor into this. He already despises me, because he knows how foul my master can be.”

  His vehemence puzzled me. “That isn’t your fault, surely.”

  “My fault because I consent to work for him. I have no choice, but most people don’t know that.” Daniel heaved a sigh. “Very well, but the name goes no further than you. And I only tell you this so you do not harm yourself blundering about trying to discover it.”

  “I never blunder about,” I said, indignant.

  “Forgive me. I should say you ask decided questions and won’t be put off.” Daniel leaned close, his whisper quiet in the dark kitchen. “His name is Alden Monaghan.”

  The name meant absolutely nothing to me. “Never heard of him.”

  “Good.” Daniel gave me a nod of relief. “If you had, it would mean you’d come to his attention, and that is not wise.”

  “Gracious, if this man is so awful, why is he working for the police?”

  Daniel lifted his hands. “That is all I can say about him. He is not to be trifled with, and I’d prefer he know nothing about you or my connection to you.”

  His alarm unsettled me. In some countries, the police could arrest a person and hide him away
because he knew too much about the wrong things. I believed it happened in this country as well, though it was not spoken of. If Mr. Monaghan, whoever he was, decided he did not like me knowing about him, he might arrange for me to be arrested, or at the very least require me to move far out of his reach. I had Grace to think of—what would become of her if her mother was accused of hindering the police, or worse?

  “I will say nothing to anyone,” I promised. “I understand.”

  Daniel looked relieved. I believe he knew exactly why I’d curb my curiosity.

  He pushed aside his teacup and stood, and I rose beside him.

  “I will miss you,” Daniel said softly.

  I would miss him too. I could not ask when he’d be able to return—I was certain he didn’t know or would refuse to tell me even if he did.

  “God keep you,” I said.

  Daniel touched my cheek and leaned to kiss my lips.

  The kiss went on rather longer than it should have, and I was in his arms, resting against his chest by the time it finished. Daniel brushed moisture from my lip.

  “God keep you, Kat.”

  And then he was gone.

  * * *

  * * *

  I spent the breakfast preparations wondering how I would slip away to visit Lady Covington, but after the meal, the excuse was made for me.

  While I sorted through the vegetables Tess had brought from the market, Mrs. Bywater strode into the kitchen, a paper in her hand and an excited light in her eyes.

  “Well, Mrs. Holloway, it seems your talents are requested in high places. A letter arrived this morning from Lady Covington, who wishes you to personally deliver a recipe Cynthia raved about to her. I do not remember your lemon cake, so it must be something you prepared for Lord Rankin.”

  Mrs. Bywater’s thin face puckered as she pondered, but I could see the delight in receiving a letter from an aristocratic lady outweighed her confusion about when Cynthia would have eaten my cake. I’d finished up the recipe last night—the third cake had been as airy as I’d predicted—but I had not yet served it upstairs.

  “I see,” I said carefully. I longed to know what Lady Covington had written, but Mrs. Bywater clutched the letter, not about to hand it to me.

  “You should go quickly,” Mrs. Bywater said. “Tess can take over your duties until you return.”

  Tess, whose head had popped up from where she chopped the spring onions for meat pies, stared, mouth a round o. No one else lingered in the kitchen at the moment, the staff busy in various parts of the house. The room was quiet but for the stock bubbling away on the stove.

  “Do hurry,” Mrs. Bywater said as I stood uncertainly. “Her ladyship should not have to wait for you. The address is 94 Park Lane, near Upper Brook Street. If you walk swiftly, you will be there in no time.”

  I glanced at my apron, which was spattered with grease. “Perhaps I should change into a better frock.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Bywater’s impatience was mixed with elation. A lofty woman personally requesting a recipe from her cook would elevate Mrs. Bywater’s status in her circle. “You won’t be taking tea with her ladyship—you’ll speak to her cook. Your work dress will be fine. Go on with you now.”

  She flapped the paper at me then rushed away.

  I untied my apron. “It seems I will be visiting Lady Covington’s home in Park Lane.”

  “Ooh.” Tess assumed a false highborn accent. “Ain’t we a toff?” She burst into laughter. “Good on you, Mrs. H. Perhaps this lady will offer you a position. If she does, you’ll take me with you, won’t you?” Her laughter trailed off. Tess ever feared I’d leave my post, subjecting her to the mercy of a new and unknown cook.

  “She will not offer me a position,” I said as I unpinned and hung up my starched cap. “Mrs. Bywater is right. I will deliver the recipe and that will be that.”

  “Then why’d she ask for you special?” Tess said in suspicion. “Charlie could nip ’round and take her ladyship’s cook a piece of paper.”

  “Perhaps the cook can’t read, and I will have to explain.” I removed my coat from its hook, slid it on, and tucked my recipe into the pocket. “Not many cooks know their letters. A great advantage if they do, which is why I have you practice reading.”

  “I know, I know.” Tess returned to the green onions. “Don’t let all those nobs turn your head, Mrs. H.”

  “Of course not. I will be back as quickly as I’m able.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m only doing meat pies. Off you go.”

  It spoke of how far Tess had come since she’d first stamped in here, terrified and sullen, that she didn’t mind putting together the luncheon herself. Now she made bread, pies, and other dishes without coaching.

  I climbed the stairs to emerge into a fine rain that was cool but not bothersome and made my way along Mount Street toward Hyde Park, rounding the corner at the massive Grosvenor House and into Park Lane.

  The two blocks to Upper Brook Street passed quickly—not many people were out and about at midmorning in the rain. A nanny herded two small children across the road to Hyde Park, admonishing them to keep their coats well buttoned and their hats on. I smiled, remembering Grace at their age—she’d wanted to dash about without hat and coat too.

  Number 94 was a five-storied brick house with many windows and a good number of chimneys, which boasted that the inhabitants could afford to have a fire in most of the rooms. A half-round portico with Greek-style columns shaded the front door. The room above the portico sported a huge bow window jutting out over the porch. I thought I saw a woman’s figure there, but lace curtains and the rain confounded my gaze.

  The likes of me did not approach the front door of such houses and knock. I rounded the corner, searching for the stairs that would lead down from the street and into the kitchen, but found instead a gate that led to a walk behind the house.

  The gate was unlocked, and I strolled through it into a green and pleasant land. The noisy road, smoke, and fumes faded as I wandered under trees just leafing for spring. A cherry tree flowered in pink splendor in the middle of the green, like a lady in a gauzy wrap, and rhododendrons, trimmed against the walls, were just putting out brilliant scarlet blooms. Flower beds full of daffodils, irises, and other bulbs lent vibrant color to the green.

  The walk skirted the house, which was a typical mansion of Park Lane, far larger than the homes in Mount Street. In one corner of the garden I found neat beds of vegetables, stakes indicating that the thin shoots would become radishes and carrots. Beyond that, a greenhouse stood against the garden wall.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  A young man approached the kitchen garden as I stood admiring the mounded rows. He was obviously the gardener, in mud-spattered breeches and thick boots, a wool coat against the rain, a flat hat, and a spade over his shoulder. He had chestnut hair, thick like Daniel’s, brown eyes, and a lean face tanned by wind and sun.

  “I am Mrs. Holloway,” I informed him. Best to let him know right away that I was no idle stranger. “I am cook to Mrs. Bywater on Mount Street. Her ladyship asked that I bring her a recipe.”

  The young gardener pushed his hat askew and scratched his forehead. “That so?” he asked good-naturedly. “She told me you was coming here for advice on starting a kitchen garden. Which is it, missus?”

  4

  Before I could answer the gardener’s question, Lady Covington herself strode down the path. Dressed in a long coat and hat with veil, she tapped the stones with a tall walking stick held in an elegant gloved hand.

  She paused without surprise and studied the gardener with an imperious gaze. “Symes, have you given Mrs. Holloway the fresh herbs Lady Cynthia asked for? Be quick about it, man.”

  “Of course, your ladyship. They’ll be ready for you in the kitchen, missus.”

  I curtsied to Lady Covington, a bit unnerved by he
r arbitrary change of story, and prepared to move to the outside stairway I’d spied at the rear of the house, which I presumed led to the servants’ area.

  “Mrs. Holloway, I believe you should come inside with me. I do not want any interruption in the kitchen. I’ll send someone for the herbs. This way.”

  Lady Covington gestured to me with stiff fingers then strode on, stick tapping, toward a door with an oval glass window. I glanced at Symes, who raised his brows, shook his head, and walked away.

  I said nothing as I caught up to Lady Covington. The door opened for her, held by a footman who’d no doubt sprung to assist as soon as he’d seen his mistress approach. He stared in perplexity at me in my cook’s frock.

  “This is Mrs. Holloway,” Lady Covington said, as though I were any other guest. “We will require tea in the sitting room.”

  The footman bowed, strove to keep his face blank, and hurried away.

  A maid dressed in black with a stark white apron and cap came forward to take her mistress’s coat, hat, gloves, and walking stick. Lady Covington, once free of these burdens, moved briskly across the wide but dim front hall, me following, our footfalls deadened by the thick carpet.

  The house was immense, the sitting room in similar proportions. Tall windows lined one wall, but what should have been a fine view of the garden was obscured by panels of opaque lace. Heavy blue velvet draperies, tied back, additionally swathed the windows. A small coal fire glowed in the walnut-paneled fireplace that took up one wall, but the blaze could scarcely warm all this space. The ceiling rose at least twelve feet above us, pseudo Gothic fan vaulting punctuating the room’s vastness.

  Unlike sitting rooms and parlors that managed to be crammed full of as many pieces of furniture, plants, and objets d’art as possible, this room had but a few groupings of tables, sofas, and chairs, very little bric-a-brac, and no potted plants.

  The furniture was upholstered in a dark blue that matched the drapes, with splashes of yellow via cushions for contrast. The few paintings depicted vast landscapes and a fine manor house, possibly the Covington country estate. Only one portrait graced the collection, of a bearded man with a stern expression, whom I took to be the late Lord Covington.