Death at the Crystal Palace Page 9

  When the article wound into wilder and wilder speculations, I set it aside. Daniel had not been mentioned, either by name or as the lordship’s companion. He’d been ignored. That was a relief.

  Daniel had enemies, and I did not want those enemies to realize that the man in respectable gentleman’s clothing and the good-natured deliveryman with holes in his gloves were one and the same. That would be a very real disaster. I could only hope that Daniel was taking many more precautions than usual.

  * * *

  * * *

  That evening, Cynthia had Sara, the upstairs maid, pack a bag for her, and she left home for a stay with Lady Covington the next morning.

  Mrs. Bywater, as I had predicted, approved. Cynthia explained she’d met Lady Covington at the Crystal Palace and Lady Covington had taken a liking to her. Mrs. Bywater believed that Cynthia making friends with Baron Covington and his family was an excellent opportunity. After all, Baron Covington was single with no heir and ought to be looking for a bride. Even if he did not choose Cynthia, perhaps one of his friends would.

  Lady Clifford was less certain, but she did not object. I uncharitably mused that Lady Clifford did not mind someone else taking care of Cynthia for a time.

  Mr. Bywater was the only one who raised an objection, saying it strange that Lady Covington had any interest in Cynthia, but Mrs. Bywater and Lord and Lady Clifford overruled him. Cynthia’s father was all for the scheme, saying it might teach Cynthia to wear decent clothing and stay far from her more scandalous friends. Leave the scandals to him, Lord Clifford had finished jokingly.

  “Don’t get yourself poisoned, your ladyship,” Tess advised when Cynthia came down to the kitchen to say her farewells.

  “Not a bit of it,” Cynthia answered jovially. She’d dressed as a respectable young lady in a blue gown with tight sleeves, black buttons, and dark blue braid for trim. Her hat with a small brim perched on the back of her head. “Lady Covington’s family has not taken ill so far—I’ll eat only what they do, and I’ll be well. If there’s any doubt, I’ll nip out to a vendor’s cart and munch on whatever they sell.”

  “I will miss you,” I said suddenly. I hadn’t realized it, but as Cynthia tugged her gloves straight and prepared to leave, I knew I’d looked forward each day to chatting with her or hearing her laughter ring through the kitchen.

  “And I you, Mrs. H.” She blinked and touched a finger to the corner of her eye. “I’ll be back, though, and I’ll write, to tell you how I am getting on.”

  “Do take care.”

  “Of course.” Cynthia shook my hand, patted my shoulder, and strode out through the scullery.

  “I hope she’ll be all right,” Tess said as we watched her march up the stairs.

  “As do I, Tess.” I let out a long breath. “As do I.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The remainder of the weekend passed uneasily. I saw nothing of Mr. Fielding or James—or Daniel. I would attend Mr. Thanos’s lecture with Lady Cynthia on Monday evening—she had already persuaded Mrs. Bywater to let me accompany her. I was surprised Mrs. Bywater had sanctioned this, as she did not like me being friends with Cynthia, but I supposed she weighed the damage to Cynthia’s—and her own—reputation if Cynthia ran off to the Crystal Palace alone. Cynthia would go regardless, and I would at least be with her to guard her reputation.

  When Cynthia had settled in with Lady Covington, she wrote me a letter, which was hand delivered to me on Sunday afternoon by an errand boy who expected tuppence for his trouble.

  Well, I am here. I already see this entire house is poisonous, and by that I mean that the inhabitants, with a few exceptions, loathe one another. The only one rather removed is Sir Arthur, who is preoccupied by his Polytechnic, but good old George (which is what I call young Baron Covington) does not like Sir Arthur and considers him a parasite.

  The family gathers every evening for a meal. Good old George sits at the head of the table, trying to be pompous, with Lady Covington—the real head of the household—at its foot. The various other members—Miss and Mr. Morris (Harriet and Jonathan, Lady C.’s daughter and son) sit on one side with Mrs. Hume (Erica, the stepdaughter), Sir Arthur Maddox, and me on the other.

  I face Jonathan, who needs to be watched. He’s the very devil. Dear Jonathan is up to his neck in schemes and scrapes, lending friends money that is never seen again. He will not admit who these friends are or what the money is for—highly suspicious.

  The maid, Jepson, distrusted me entirely at first, but I think she is warming to me. That means she carries me a cup of tea without such a severe frown. The frown is still there, but it has softened a small amount. Lady Covington puts her well-being into the hands of Jepson, which I also think is highly suspicious.

  Lady C. believes Jonathan can do no wrong, suggesting the strange sort of maternal blindness that afflicts some women. On the other hand, her poor daughter, Harriet, can do no right. Lady C. mimics my parents in her adamancy in finding a husband for Harriet, but there is some difference. My parents have no idea what to do with me, while Lady Covington is determined Harriet shall marry none but the best.

  Harriet has a hard time of it, not coming from a titled family herself—being a baron’s stepdaughter takes her off the lists of the most finicky families. Her own father was no aristo, but I gather quite wealthy in his own right. One of these railroad magnates. Lady Covington met her second husband via her first—they were both on the board of the same railway company. I gather Lady Covington’s first husband died in some tragic circumstance, but I haven’t been able to find out what happened to him. The subject is abruptly changed whenever the man’s name comes up (he was also Jonathan Morris).

  No one has taken sick thus far, but there was a near thing. Lady Covington yesterday afternoon said her stomach ached slightly. Jepson was about to mix her a large glassful of some powder from an unmarked packet, but I happened to be passing the bedchamber and jumped in to offer a set of powders I’d found jolly good at passing off indigestion. I managed to foist them onto Lady Covington, who was willing to try them, before Jepson could grab them and throw them in a rubbish pail. I mixed the powder—which was bicarbonate of soda I’d procured at the local chemists for just this circumstance. Lady Covington drank it up, with Jepson hovering like a disapproving bat, and after the lady belched heartily, she declared she felt much better. She continued in roaring good health all night and continues this morning. It was after this episode that Jepson’s frowns grew less fierce.

  This makes me wonder: is Jepson on Lady Covington’s side or is she not? Surely she’d be less happy with me for curing her mistress’s dyspepsia if she were trying to murder her. Then again, she might be buttering me up so that next time I do not interfere.

  It is difficult for me to read people, Mrs. H. I am not certain how you do it so well.

  I will continue posting you my observations of the family, which so far have shown me that they are spoiled and ungrateful. Makes me ashamed of my own pique with my family, but then, my family can be overbearing.

  Erica has been disappearing from the house often, I gather, but where she goes, I have no idea. Neither does anyone else. She takes a maid, but the maid is always sent home with the excuse that Erica is meeting with a friend and doesn’t need her. Erica returns in a hansom and is vague about where she’s been. I suspect a liaison, but with whom, I do not know. Erica is not a beautiful woman and is rather stiff mannered, but perhaps with her paramour she is sweet and loving. I have difficulty imagining it though.

  The whole lot of them are keeping things from Lady Covington. Good old George sits on the board of the aforementioned railway company—a private line. George likes to talk about his business, but I gather he’s rather bad at it. Lady C. is constantly holding up his father as a prime example of a brilliant businessman, which must rankle him.

  In my family, and in Bobby’s
and Miss Townsend’s, talking about money and business, especially at the supper table, is considered rather gauche, but then Lady C. wasn’t raised in the peerage. Her father, somebody-or-other Maddox, was an entrepreneur, and Sir Arthur, his only son, is as well. Sir Arthur too twits dear old George on his lack of business sense.

  George points out that Sir Arthur now runs a school, as though that is a horrible scandal—like a brothel—at which Sir Arthur only looks weary. I try to like Sir Arthur, as he was kind enough to give Mr. Thanos a fine flat and a job as a lecturer, but he can be a tedious bore, I’m sorry to say. I will never express this opinion to his face, however, because I do not want to endanger Mr. Thanos’s position in any way.

  Harriet is quite a frustrated young lady, I’d say. She does wish to marry, I think, but any mention of a suitable gentleman is brushed aside with a scoff. When Erica, who had a bad marriage as you know, complained that Harriet was an ungrateful harridan for turning up her nose at perfectly good gentlemen, Harriet threw a spoon at her. Lady Covington banished Harriet from the table, and Harriet stomped off with her nose in the air.

  I found Harriet later, crying her eyes out. I tried to comfort her, saying marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly, and I agreed she ought to be picky, but Harriet stared at me as though I’d run mad. This morning, she disappeared from the house for a time, though she returned before anyone raised the alarm. She was much happier then, and I suppose she simply needed a bit of time to herself, perhaps for a brisk walk. She was flushed and windblown when she returned.

  There you have what I know so far about the family. When we dined, all dishes were served by the footmen, and we ate the same thing. The cook is nowhere as talented as you, but she turns out some decent grub. If any member of the family refused a dish, I did as well, eating only what was taken by all. Lady Covington is always served first. Apparently, the late Lord Covington paid her this courtesy, and the custom remains. Dear George tried to look gracious when she took the first helping, but I saw his resentment.

  His resentment stems from the fact that she is given deference by all the staff, not because she is greedy with the food. Lady Covington, though she has a good appetite, takes far less on her plate than the younger ones. Sir Arthur eats like a horse. It is interesting that only Lady C. takes ill, because the others consume enough for an army. If the poison were put into the food in the kitchen, everyone at the table would be writhing in agony.

  I will try to find out more about Erica’s and Harriet’s mysterious outings, where Jonathan’s money actually goes, and how poison gets into the house. I managed to purloin one of the powder packets that Jepson tried to feed Lady C., and I will take it to a chemist to see what he believes is in it.

  I must finish now to send this to you. I wish I was in your kitchen, nattering away with you, but I will be a good soldier, and remain on duty until the poisoner is uncovered.

  Yours in haste,

  Corporal Shires (saluting)

  * * *

  * * *

  On Monday, I returned from my half day out with Grace, helped Tess prepare supper, and then changed into my best frock and boarded a train with Cynthia, Bobby, and Miss Townsend to Sydenham and the Crystal Palace.

  Cynthia had procured my ticket, and I found myself in a first-class carriage with the three young ladies. I never felt comfortable traveling first class—servants rode third class—but Cynthia saw no reason I should not journey with her. I sat on the corridor side of the coach, my hands folded in my lap, trying to be unobtrusive.

  Bobby, dressed in a gentleman’s suit with a high hat, so resembled a male that the conductor did not realize she was a lady—he called her sir. Unlike willowy Cynthia and Miss Townsend, Bobby was a bit plump around the middle and was the very image of a young gent who liked his pudding. She cut her hair short—couldn’t be bothered with it, she’d told me—and slicked it back with pomade. If she pasted on a mustache, none would be able to tell her from a man.

  Miss Townsend, with whom Bobby now lived, was an artist, and did not dress in the restrictive, highly fashionable clothing other young ladies of her class did. I liked her simple close-fitting chocolate-colored gown with cream lace. Her hat was the same shade as the gown, its front brim adorned by a short cream lace veil.

  Cynthia had forsaken male dress tonight for a maroon gown with black trim and a delicate bon bon of a pillbox hat set on her carefully curled fair hair. She did not wear a veil, as she’d once declared she hated the things. If this hat had originally had a veil, she’d torn it off.

  “Couldn’t let Thanos down,” Cynthia said when Bobby chided her for looking like a fashion plate. “It’s his debut, as it were, and I’d hate for him to be embarrassed because his best woman chum is shocking the audience by dressing as a gent. No one minds you doing as you like, Bobby,” she added hastily.

  Bobby nodded, not offended. “They’re used to me. Shock has worn off. Or, like the conductor chappie, they have no idea.” She chortled.

  Miss Townsend drew out a box with glasses and a bottle of brandy, and poured out for all of us. I accepted a goblet politely and took the barest sip, though I was not one for spirits.

  “Mr. Thanos would never be embarrassed by you,” Miss Townsend told Cynthia. “He likes you too well.”

  Cynthia’s cheeks grew pink. “But his new employer will be nigh, and I now take meals with Sir Arthur. I must come off as demure and ordinary, so I won’t be banned from the house before Mrs. H. can wrap up the investigation.”

  Bobby and Miss Townsend knew all about Lady Covington’s troubles, and in fact had eagerly inquired if we’d made any progress when Cynthia and I had entered the compartment.

  “They’re coming, you say?” Miss Townsend asked.

  Cynthia took a deep gulp of the brandy. “The whole lot of them. Wouldn’t miss dear Arthur’s presentation about his new Polytechnic. Well, Lady Covington said that, and the rest of the brood had to agree they’d toddle along with her. They were happy when I said I’d be traveling down with friends—I think the younger generation is glad to see the back of me for a time.”

  “Be careful George doesn’t propose.” Miss Townsend raised her glass in a toast. “I’d have to start calling you Baroness.”

  Cynthia scoffed. “No fear. I know Auntie hopes that good old George will fall hopelessly in love with me and offer me an immense engagement ring, but I see no sign of it. Not the least bit interested in me, is old George, thank heaven.” She wiped her forehead in relief. “Young Mr. Morris, now, has tried to corner me several times, not to propose, if you take my meaning, but I rebuff him. I’m not averse to punching him in the nose if I have to. He takes my rejection amiably, but I’ve learned not to be in a lonely corner when he is in the house.”

  “He is rather handsome,” Miss Townsend pointed out. “Perhaps Auntie Bywater wouldn’t mind if you married the younger fellow, who’s bound to inherit a fortune sometime.”

  “Rot that.” Cynthia shuddered. “I’d kick you if I didn’t know you were teasing. Besides, I suspect young Jonathan has his hand in the jam pot. Stealing from his own mother—I ask you.”

  “Sounds a right hellion,” Bobby agreed. “Besides, Cynthia prefers a gent who wears spectacles.”

  Cynthia flushed a bright red while the other two ladies guffawed at her expense. I sipped more brandy, pretending not to notice.

  When we arrived at the Crystal Palace, the weather good for walking the short distance from the station, I was pleased to see a crowd. Fountains played in the gardens, and the interior of the Palace was lit by gaslights, rendering it a shining beacon in the night.

  The walkways inside looked odd at night without the sun beaming on them, as we made for the space in the nave where Mr. Thanos and others from the Polytechnic would lecture.

  We reached the south end of the building near the natural history exhibitions. A platform for the speakers had been
erected in front of the screen of the kings and queens of England that adorned the very end of the Palace, the statuary making a regal backdrop. Rows of chairs had been placed before the platform, though a long fountain rather butted into the space, and seats had to be divided around it. Potted plants and live trees framed the dais, as though the lecturers sat in a slice of jungle.

  I spied Lady Covington and family. They were already seated in the front, which told me they must have arrived by an earlier train. Lady Covington sat upright, with Erica beside her. Jonathan lounged on Lady Covington’s other side, with Harriet fidgeting next to him. George sat next to Erica, a look of disapproval on his face as he studied the crowd around him. Sir Arthur Maddox lingered near the platform, bouncing on his toes as he waited for the program to begin.

  Mr. Thanos, his dark hair combed flat, his spectacles flashing in the lamplight, stood with a clump of gentlemen similarly clad in dark suits. Mr. Thanos clutched some papers, possibly his speech, and was crumpling them absently. He brightened when he caught sight of us, lifted his hand in greeting, dropped his papers, and scrambled to retreive them.

  Miss Townsend led us to a row behind Lady Covington’s family. As I filed in to my seat, apologizing to those I passed, I caught sight of a man in the back. No mistaking his neatly trimmed beard, clerical collar, and beatific expression. Mr. Fielding. I was busily wondering why he’d come when the man beside him turned around.

  I stopped, treading on a older gentleman’s foot, and my skirts, which I’d held out of the way, fell from my slack hands. The gentleman I’d tripped over bit back a curse and glared at me.