A Soupçon of Poison Read online

  I struggled for breath. “What are you talking about? You warned him off? What have you to do with Sir Lionel Leigh-Blasted-Bradbury?”

  “Kat, believe me, I wish I could unburden myself to you, but I cannot. Not because I do not trust you, but because it wouldn’t be safe for you. Or your daughter. Suffice it to say Sir Lionel mixed with people he should not have. In exchange for him continuing to live a free man, he was to tell me of all interactions he had with these people and the information they imparted to him. I believe that somehow, they got wind of what he was doing, and killed him.”

  “By poisoning my dinner?”

  “By poisoning him somehow. I thought Mrs. Fuller had done so, making herself sick as a blind. But she was genuinely distressed and confused and grieving for her husband. I don’t believe now she knew what dealings her husband had. The sugar caster ... I admit I have no idea how that fits in.”

  “I see.” I said the words, but I saw nothing. I only knew that I had been made to think one way, when events had been something else entirely.

  I could blame Daniel for deceiving me, but I mostly blamed myself. I’d been flattered by his attentions and preened myself because the handsome Daniel had interest in me.

  “I thank you for explaining,” I said, finishing drawing on my gloves. “I shall be boarding at Handley House in King Street, Covent Garden, if I can help you further in the matter of Sir Lionel. Good morning.”

  Daniel stepped in front of me. “I wish you to take the post in Berkeley Square.”

  His tone was firm, but I was tired of being told what to do. “No, thank you,” I said. “I will find another position soon. I will send you word—somehow—of where if it will make you feel better.”

  I marched around him, straightening my hat as I went, and this time Daniel did not try to prevent me.

  I went up the stairs without looking back, and to the street. I told James where I needed the trunk to be sent, and made my way to catch a hansom cab to take me to my boardinghouse.

  After settling myself in there, I paid a visit to my daughter.

  Chapter Nine

  Once my so-called husband had vanished into the mists, and it became clear that I had never been legally married, I knew I’d have to work hard or my child would starve. Because I was unlikely to find a post as a disgraced woman with an illegitimate offspring in tow, I called myself by my maiden name—appending “Mrs.” to it—and found a family who would foster my daughter.

  The woman who took her in had been a friend to me since childhood. She’d been a kindly girl and was now a kindly woman. Her husband was good-natured and liked children, so my Grace lived with them and their four offspring in their tiny house and seemed to be happy.

  Grace was never formal with me and unashamedly ran to throw her arms around me when I arrived. At ten years old, she was a beauty and possessed an understanding beyond her years. Grace did not resent the fact that I could not have her living with me where I cooked. She understood that we had to make our way in the world the best we could. One day, she said, she’d do the work and look after me.

  I took her to walk with me in Hyde Park—our treat, after ices from a vendor. “Is everything all right, Mama?” she asked, slipping her hand in mine. Grace was always able to sense my moods.

  I had not told my daughter about the horror of being arrested and imprisoned. I’d told my friend who looked after Grace but she’d agreed it wise not to mention it to the children, bless her.

  “I am sad and confused, Grace,” I said. “That is all.”

  “Because of the murder in Sir Lionel’s house?”

  So, she at least knew about that. Well, it is difficult to keep sensational news from a child, no matter how sheltered.

  I admitted as much. “I will have to find another place. I’m not sure where it will be.”

  “I know you didn’t poison anyone with your cooking, Mama,” Grace said. “It must have been someone else.”

  “Yes, indeed. The puzzling thing is how.” I pondered, forgetting to be cautious. “The arsenic was in no dish of mine. Mrs. Fuller said there was sugar; Mrs. Watkins says there was none. The sugar in the caster was tested—it was only sugar.”

  “Perhaps the caster was replaced with another,” Grace said. “Afterward.”

  “An intriguing idea.” I tapped my lower lip. “But why put the one with only sugar in the plant pot?”

  “They meant to retrieve it later?” Grace, with her pointed face and fine hair, looked nothing more than a sweet-tempered child, but I knew what a quick mind her young face hid. “They meant to switch it for the clean one, but were interrupted. They didn’t have time to fetch it out of the plant.”

  “Hm. A line I will have to investigate, I think.”

  “Will you tell me? If I’m right, will you tell me what happens?”

  I squeezed her hand. “Of course I will.”

  We walked back to the omnibus and returned to my friend’s home. My visit to Grace had lightened my heart. I never mentioned Daniel during this visit, and as I left my daughter, I realized he didn’t matter. As long as I had Grace in my life, the attentions of deceitful gentlemen were of no moment to me.

  I could not keep my thoughts entirely from Daniel, unfortunately, try as I might. As I made my way back to the boardinghouse, I wondered anew who was the lady in Oxford Street, the one he’d claimed was not his wife. Was she another person Daniel was deceiving? Or was he watching her, as he’d done with Sir Lionel?

  He’d said Sir Lionel had been meeting with certain people and reporting what they told him to Daniel, in exchange for Daniel ... doing what? Not telling the police Sir Lionel was spying, or plotting crimes, or whatever it was? Who were these bad people Daniel feared would hurt me? Or was Daniel the bad person, and whoever Sir Lionel had been in league with were on the side of good?

  No, I couldn’t believe that last. Sir Lionel had been mean-spirited, rather stupid, and cunning at the same time. He could not be up to any good no matter what he did.

  Grace’s idea about the sugar caster interested me, though. I could imagine someone at the table stealthily pocketing the caster full of poison, meaning to replace it on the table with one without poison. But they hadn’t managed it and had to stash the clean caster in the plant. Because the people at the table had started feeling ill and rushed away? Or had the person trying to replace the caster been interrupted by John or Sally coming to clear the table?

  But then, why had Mrs. Watkins claimed there was no sugar caster at all? Copley had been too drunk to wait at table that night ... or had he been? Had he crept upstairs and set the poison on the table, removing it again when Mrs. Watkins’s back was turned?

  There was nothing for it. I had to speak with Copley.

  This entailed finding out where he was being kept, now that he’d been arrested for stealing Sir Lionel’s wine and silver. I regretted hastening away from Daniel so abruptly, because Daniel would know.

  I knew I’d never find Daniel if I wanted to—even if I waited outside the house in Oxford Street, there was nothing to say he’d return there—so I hunted for James. Sure enough, James was lurking around Sir Lionel’s house with the excuse of doing odd jobs in the neighborhood. Daniel had told him to continue watching the place, he said.

  When I told him I needed to speak to his father, James nodded and told me to wait inside Sir Lionel’s house. He handed me the key, said he’d send Daniel to me, and ran off with the energy of youth.

  I entered through the back door and went to the only place in that house I was comfortable, the kitchen. The familiarity of it wrapped around me, wanting to draw me back.

  Too bad Sir Lionel had been such a terrible master. Perhaps when his heir moved in, he’d need a cook. The heir would be of sunnier disposition, appreciate my food, and not make strange demands on me or disgust me with amorous advances. Miracles could happen.

  To pass the time, I went into the butler’s pantry and looked through the silver in the glass wall cabinets. A
ll was as it should be, except of course for the missing pieces that Copley had stolen. The settings all matched—the Leigh-Bradburys had used the same silversmith for years.

  I frowned. I went to the housekeeper’s room, fetched her keys, and returned to the pantry to open the cases. I studied the silver plates, candlesticks, and serving pieces like the chafing pan, a footed dish in the shape of a shell, the cruet stand, and a wine bucket. These pieces were larger, difficult to carry off without being noticed, which was no doubt why Copley had left them. Copley had taken smaller pieces—salt cellar, cups, spoons, finger bowls.

  In a drawer below the glass-fronted shelves I found pots of silver polish and rags, as well as the velvet-lined boxes for the place settings. There were two unopened store-bought pots of polish with pink labels. A third pink-labeled pot had been opened, as had a pot of homemade polish—washing soda and salt, which the polisher would wet with lemon juice or vinegar before rubbing on the silver.

  I took a delicate sniff of the homemade polish then closed the lid and slipped it into my pocket.

  “Kat?” An alarmed voice was calling with Daniel’s deep timbre. “Are you here? Where are you?”

  I locked the cabinets, not hurrying, returned the keys to the housekeeper’s room, and made my way to the kitchen.

  Daniel breathed out when he saw me. “Damn it all, Kat ...”

  “Please do not swear at me,” I said calmly. “And I am Mrs. Holloway.”

  “Why did you have James find me?” The irritation and anger did not leave his voice.

  “To take me to see Copley. I assume you know where they’ve put him?”

  Daniel gave me a nod, his look hard. “At the moment, in hospital. He’s seriously ill.”

  My brows lifted, my heart beating faster. “Oh, dear. In that case, I must speak to him at once.”

  ***

  Copley had been jailed at Newgate, but had been taken to the infirmary. He lay in a bed in a long, mostly empty ward. The ward was gray and unfriendly, windowless and gloomy, but it was a step better than the common cells. Just.

  Copley looked terrible. His face was as gray as the walls and had a yellow cast to it. His entire body trembled, and when we approached, he turned over in his bed and vomited into the bucket at his bedside.

  The air around him stank. I took a handkerchief from my bag and pressed it to my nose.

  “Copley,” Daniel said. “Sorry to see you so wretched, old chap.”

  Daniel was in his scruffy clothes again, holding his cloth cap. He looked like a carter or furniture mover, come to help the neat and tidy woman at his side. When we’d entered the jail, however, we’d been treated deferentially and led to Copley without question.

  “What d’ye want?” Copley rasped. “Let me die in peace. Why’d ye bring her here?”

  “You might not die,” I said cheerfully. “Mrs. Fuller managed to recover. I imagine because someone politely replenished the sugar on her tart for her instead of making her shake it on herself. You probably only held the caster long enough to hide it in the plant pot, and luckily, you wore gloves.”

  Daniel glanced at me, perplexed, and Copley blinked. “What th’ devil are ye going on about, woman?”

  “It is simple,” I said. “You took the sugar caster from the table.” I pointed a gloved finger at Copley. “You did so when you thought no one was looking. Maybe when you and John were clearing up? Or John was clearing up while you helped yourself to any leftover food and drink.” Those plates had been very clean when they’d returned to the kitchen. “You didn’t have time to do anything with the caster—perhaps someone nearly caught you with it. Or you hid it when I sent John for the police and was downstairs dressing, fearing it would be found on you or in your room if there was a search. You stole many of the smaller pieces that night and stashed them to fetch later. Why not the sugar caster too?”

  “Yes, all right,” Copley growled. “I plucked the bloody thing off the table when I saw it, but Mrs. Watkins and John were right on top of me, so I hid it in the plant.”

  “Why not take it back downstairs with the other pieces?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer, but I wanted Copley to say it in front of Daniel.

  “Because it weren’t ours,” Copley said angrily. “Not Sir Lionel’s. I thought maybe them Fullers brought their own caster with them and forgot and left it behind. John would return it to our cabinet, not knowing the difference, then Mrs. Interfering Watkins would find it and send it back to Mrs. Fuller.”

  Daniel listened with a sparkle in his eyes. “You’re saying the caster didn’t belong in the house?”

  Copley wet his lips, but he was losing strength, so I spoke for him. Copley really was a pitiful wretch.

  “The sugar caster was made by a different silversmith,” I explained. “If you check its hallmark, you’ll see. Sir Lionel’s family has used the same silversmith down the generations. All the pieces match. But I advise you, Mr. McAdam, that if you do handle the caster again, or your chemist does, please wear gloves. And ask your chemist to check the contents of this.”

  I brought out the small pot of homemade silver polish, which was still wrapped in my handkerchief. I set pot and handkerchief into Daniel’s outstretched hands—which were covered with thick workman’s gloves. He handled the pot with respect, but looked at me in bewilderment.

  I turned back to Copley. “Did you or John ever use homemade silver polish?”

  “No.” Copley’s voice was weak. “I used the stuff from Finch’s. Much better for keeping off the tarnish.”

  “That’s what I thought. Thank you, Copley. I do hope you mend soon.”

  “Would if the buggers in this place would give me a decent drop to drink.”

  I gave Copley a nod, pleased with him, and excited by what he’d told me. “That is possibly true.” I said. “Shall we depart, Mr. McAdam?”

  ***

  Daniel insisted on hiring a hansom cab to take us back through London. I didn’t like to sit so close to him in the small vehicle, but rain had begun to pelt down, and I would have to endure the annoyance for a dry ride to King Street.

  Daniel began speaking as though we had no tension between us. “You believe the poison was on the caster itself?” he asked. “Coating it?”

  I nodded. “Test the homemade silver polish I gave you. If it were rubbed into a paste onto the caster, anyone lifting it would get it on their fingers. Then if they ate bits of food—eventually, they would ingest enough of whatever it is to make them ill. Or the poison could sink in through the skin. I’m not certain about that. Perhaps it would work by both means.”

  “Mrs. Watkins didn’t take ill,” Daniel pointed out. “If she handled the caster ... though she insists it wasn’t there. What about poor John? We need to find him.”

  “John always wore gloves when waiting at table. Mrs. Watkins did not, but she was right as rain when I saw her yesterday, obviously not ill from poison. It is bad manners for ladies and gentlemen to wear gloves at table, and so the diners had no protection.”

  “But Copley?” Daniel frowned as he puzzled things out. “Why did it take him some time to become ill? Butlers wear gloves while they’re setting up or serving at table, as footmen do.”

  He knew a lot about butlers, did he? “True, but I’ve watched how Copley sometimes takes his gloves off.”

  I demonstrated, delicately tugging at the fingers of one glove with my teeth, loosening it before drawing it off. “This is why I do not believe Copley poisoned Sir Lionel and the Fullers. If he’d coated the caster with poison, he’d have been more careful.”

  Daniel made a sound of agreement. “So, Copley is a thief, not a murderer.”

  This wouldn’t help Copley much—he’d stolen items of high value and might be hanged for it, or perhaps transported if someone spoke up for him. Poor drunken fool.

  “I will visit Mrs. Fuller again,” Daniel said briskly. “And see if the caster came from her household. It is still possible she did the poisoning—or someone e
mployed by her at her instruction.”

  I didn’t think so, but I said nothing. Mrs. Fuller would have been certain to take the caster away and dispose of it, I would think, even if she’d deliberately made herself ill. The caster would not have been there for Copley to try to steal.

  When the hansom stopped in front of my boardinghouse, I began to descend, but Daniel caught my hand and drew me back.

  “I want you to take the post I spoke about,” he said. “I will tell Clarendon’s housekeeper to expect you for an interview.”

  I’d had enough. I jerked from his grasp but remained in the hansom. “Let me speak plainly, Mr. McAdam. You have deceived me at every turn. Believe me, I am vexed with myself for letting you. However, I have made my way in this world on my own for a number of years now, and I will continue to do so. I am grateful for what you have done for me—I sincerely thank you for saving me from the magistrates—but I have my life to get on with. I am not a silly woman; I will take every precaution for my own safety.”

  How this speech affected Daniel, I could not tell. He only regarded me with calm eyes—the eyes I’d once thought so handsome—and did not change expression.

  “Very well,” he said, his voice cool. “Then I will bid you good night.”

  I made a noise of exasperation. The least he could do was look contrite. He’d withdrawn, the affable Daniel gone, a cool shell in his place.

  So be it.

  My heart ached as I scrambled down from the hansom and made for my lodgings. I’d fallen for Daniel McAdam, whoever he was, but that Daniel did not exist. This was the painful truth I had to accept, and continue with my life.

  Chapter Ten

  I saw nothing of Daniel or James for the next few days. I unpacked my box at the boardinghouse and visited my agency to find another post.