A Soupçon of Poison

by Jennifer Ashley

  What I saw was Sir Lionel. He was slumped forward over his desk, his head turned to the side, his mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly. My carving knife was buried to the hilt in his back.

  Sally screeched and dropped the candle. I snatched the candle from the floor before a spark could catch the rug on fire, and raised the light high.

  My entire body went numb, no feeling anywhere. “May God have mercy,” I croaked, my throat tight and dry. “What a waste of a carver. And them so dear.”

  Chapter Four

  I woke John in his attic chamber—Copley heard Sally’s scream and came down on his own. I sent John for the constable but ordered Copley to stay with the body while I went downstairs and dressed myself.

  By time I returned to the library, the constable, a lad I’d seen walking his beat on the square, had arrived with an older sergeant. They’d lit up the room with every lamp and candle they could find and stoked the fire high. I imagined Sir Lionel’s ghost cringing at the expense.

  The sergeant, a squat, fat man with one string of hair across his bald pate and a wide, thick-lipped mouth, turned to me.

  “It’s your knife, eh?”

  Copley looked innocently at the ceiling, but I knew he must have been filling the constable’s ears with tales of my adventures with Sir Lionel.

  “Of course it is mine,” I snapped. “It came from the kitchens.”

  “’E made a grab for ye tonight, did ’e?” the sergeant asked. “And so you stuck your knife into ’im?”

  I stared in astonishment. “Of course not. I’ve been in bed asleep these past hours. Why would I have come to the library in the middle of the night, in any case? My bedchamber is next to the kitchen, and I have no need to be above stairs at all.”

  The sergeant did not look impressed. “’E made a grab for you afore this, didn’t ’e? And you stuck your knife to ’is throat?”

  I switched my glare to Copley. He wouldn’t meet my eye, but a smile hovered around his thin mouth. I said tartly, “That was weeks ago, and it was only to frighten him. I certainly would not have plunged my knife into a side of beef like Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury. It would ruin the knife. Carvers are expensive.”

  The constable’s eyes glittered a way I didn’t like. “But it was your knife. It would be ’andy.”

  “Absolute nonsense. Why would I carry my kitchen knife upstairs to the master’s rooms?”

  “Because ’e sent for you, and you were frightened. You brought your knife to make you feel safe-like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d feared to answer his summons, I’d have stayed securely in my kitchen, or asked John to come with me. He’s quite a strong lad.”

  The sergeant pointed a broad finger at me. “You ’ad a go at ’im before, Mr. Copley says. This time, you went too far, and did ’im.”

  My mouth went dry, but I kept up my bravado. “I did not kill him, you ignorant lout. Why should I?”

  “Who did then? With your sticker?”

  I clenched my hands. “Anyone could have taken the knife from the kitchen.”

  “Mr. Copley says you keep ’em put away special. No one else would know where.”

  “Copley does,” I pointed out.

  Copley sneered at me. “Bitch. She stabbed ’im. She must ’ave.”

  I put my closed fists on my hips. “Who says so? Did you see me, Mr. Copley?”

  “Yes.”

  My mouth popped open. He was a liar, but Copley’s look was so certain that the sergeant believed him.

  “I ’eard a noise and came down,” Copley said. “And there was you, a-bending over the master’s body, holding the knife.”

  Bloody man. “Of course I looked him over when I found him here,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “He was already dead. And you saw nothing at all, Mr. Copley. You only came charging in because Sally was screaming, after we found him.”

  Copley scowled. “I saw ye, I tell ye.”

  “You saw me discovering the knife, not plunging it in,” I countered, but my blood was cold. “Ask Sally.” But when I looked about for the scullery maid, I did not see her or hear her anywhere.

  The sergeant was obviously on Copley’s side, the young constable and John confused. All men against one woman.

  “No more o’ this,” the sergeant said severely. “You’ll promenade down to the magistrate with me, missus, and he can hear your story.”

  My body went colder still. If I could not convince the magistrate of my innocence, I would be thrown to the wolves—or at least, to an Old Bailey trial and a jury. A long bench of men would gaze at me disapprovingly and pronounce that cooks should not stick their carving knives into their masters. And that would be the end of me.

  At twenty-nine summers, I found life sweet, and I had more to live for than just myself.

  I wanted to bolt. To run, run, run, snatch up my daughter from where I’d hidden her and flee. To the countryside—no, not far enough. The Continent, or farther, to Asia, perhaps, where I could cook for some colonial nabob who wouldn’t care too much what I ran from as long as I could give him his familiar English fare.

  I closed my eyes, and I prayed. I hadn’t gone to church in about half a dozen years, but praying and church are two different things. I begged God to have mercy on me, and I opened my eyes again.

  “Very well, then,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “But no cuffs, if you please. I am a respectable woman.”

  I lifted my chin and marched before them out of the room, down the stairs, and straight out of the house.

  ***

  The magistrate who examined me at Bow Street was a jovial man whose rotund body betrayed that he liked his meals and missed few. I had to stand up before him while those also awaiting examination filled the room behind me—I was a nobody, and warranted no special treatment.

  Most of the people at the house had been arrested in the night for theft, drunkenness, fighting, being loud and disorderly, and for prostitution. A few well-dressed solicitors wandered the crowd, looking for clients to take to barristers, but they didn’t bother approaching me. I had a bit of money put by, but I doubted I’d be able to afford an eloquent, wigged barrister to argue in my defense.

  The magistrate’s chair creaked as he leaned over his bench and peered at me nearsightedly. “Name?”

  “Katharine Holloway, sir,” I said, though it was sure to be on the paper his clerk had handed him.

  “And you were the mistress of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury of Portman Square?”

  I gave him a look of shock. “Indeed not, sir. I was his cook.”

  The magistrate stared at me with unblinking, light blue eyes. “His cook? Well, madam ... you certainly cooked his goose.”

  The stuffy room rang with laughter.

  “I did not murder him, sir,” I declared over the noise.

  “You claim to be innocent of this crime, do you?” the magistrate asked. “Even though the butler saw you chopping his onions?” More laughter.

  “Mr. Copley saw nothing,” I said indignantly. “He is a drunken fool and a liar. Besides, it was a carving knife, not a chopper.”

  The magistrate lost his smile. “It makes no difference whether it were for skewering or filleting. The butler saw you with your sticker, and he stands by that. Do you have any witnesses as to your character? Someone who might argue for you?”

  I thought quickly. Daniel leapt to mind, but I had no way of knowing where to find him. Besides, why should he speak for me, when we were only friends in passing? This magistrate, with his obnoxious sense of humor, might accuse me of being Daniel’s mistress as well.

  “No, sir,” I said stiffly. “My family is gone. I am on my own.”

  “You sound proud of that fact. No woman should be pleased she has no one to take care of her.”

  I raised my chin. “I take care of myself.”

  The magistrate studied me over his bench, and I read the assessment in his face: No better than she ought to be.

  “You take
care of yourself by giving your master supper and then stabbing him through the heart?” the magistrate demanded. “I suppose you thought him ... well served.”

  His clerks and constables as well as many of London’s unwashed, roared again. I suppose this magistrate spent all his quiet time inventing quips to bring out when the opportunity arose, for the entertainment of the court.

  The magistrate gave me a wide smile, betraying that his back teeth were going rotten. “Katherine Holloway, I am binding you over for the willful murder of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury of Portman Square. You will be taken to Newgate to await your trial. That will give you time to simmer in your own sauce.”

  The room went positively riotous.

  I was icy with fear but refused to bow my head. I stood there, staring at the magistrate until he signaled to his bailiff. The bailiff, a tall man with wiry hair, seized my arm and pulled me from the room.

  ***

  The jailer who led me to a cell in Newgate had legs far longer than mine, and I had to scuttle swiftly to keep up with him.

  He took me down a flight of stairs to a chilly room already filled with people. The jailer shoved me roughly inside then retreated and locked the door. I stumbled and collided with a stone wall, pins falling from my hair, the dark mass of it tumbling down. I clung to that wall, unwilling to turn and face the crowd behind me.

  What on earth was I to do? Who could help me? I needed a solicitor, but as I said, I doubted I could secure even the cheapest brief to stand up for me. I might appeal to Daniel, because he’d been kind to me, but even if he would be willing to help, I had no idea how to find him or where to send him word.

  Daniel might not be in London at all. He disappeared from the metropolis now and again for weeks at a time, I supposed to work other odd jobs. I could send someone to search for him or for James, but still I had no way of knowing where to start looking—except at posh houses where he might make deliveries—nor anyone to send.

  I turned around and slid down the wall to sit with my knees against my chest. I could not remain here. It was not only my own well-being I thought of—I took care of my daughter with my wages, and what would become of her if no more money went to the family she lived with? They were kind people, but not wealthy enough to care for a child not their own. No, I had to get out.

  But perhaps Daniel would hear of my arrest. He’d go to Portman Square on his usual rounds and find me gone. The newspapers, not to mention the neighbors’ servants, would be full of the tale of Sir Lionel’s murder.

  Then again, Daniel might believe with everyone else that I’d killed Sir Lionel. He’d go about his business, thinking himself well rid of me. I’d be convicted by a jury and hanged, my feet twisting in the breeze. Copley would come to the hanging and laugh at me.

  Anger at Copley nudged away despair. If I survived this, so help me, I would exact my revenge on the man. I had only a vague idea how I’d go about doing so, but I would have plenty of time to think.

  The window high in the wall darkened, and I grew hungry. My fellow inmates slumped around me, grumbling quietly among themselves. The stink of urine, sweat, and human confinement blanketed the room.

  “Eat this, luv. You’ll feel better.”

  I looked up. The woman who stood over me had snarled red hair and smelled of gin and sweat, but the look in her blue eyes was kindly. Her red satin dress was almost clean and well-mended, as though she kept it carefully, but it hung on her thin frame without stays.

  Her costume made me guess her profession. Yesterday, I would have swept by such a woman, perhaps thinking on the evils of the world that drove women to lowly things—where I might be myself had I not been lucky enough to learn cookery. Today, as the woman smiled at me and held out a bit of pasty, and I wanted to embrace her as a sister.

  She placed the cold pie into my hands and sat down next to me as I took a hungry bite. The pie was soggy and laden with salt, nothing like the light-crusted savory concoctions I baked myself. But at the moment, it tasted like the finest cake.

  “Me name’s Anne,” the woman said. “You’re wrong about me, you know, luv. I’m an actress.”

  I studied her with renewed interest but could not remember seeing her on a stage at Drury Lane or Haymarket. However, the fact that she was an actress did not necessarily mean she was a principal—one could be buried in the chorus, quietly anonymous.

  “I was unjustly accused,” I said, brushing a tear from my cheek.

  “Ain’t we all, luv? But me old lad will come for me.”

  Alas, I did not have an old lad, but I did have a lass who needed to be taken care of. If perhaps I did get word to Daniel, I would at least ask him to see that she got the stash of money I had managed to put by. Daniel could be trusted with that, I felt certain.

  But now that I had time to think, what did I know about Daniel, really? Next to nothing. He’d been a bolstering help to me these last few weeks, and he flirted with me, but in a friendly, harmless way. He never tried anything improper, though he must know by now that I might not say no to improper advances from Daniel.

  I knew nothing of Daniel beyond that. Not where he dwelled or who his family was nor what he did when I did not see him. I only knew that I wanted to lean my head against his strong shoulder, feel him stoke my hair, and hear him say, “There now, Kat. Never you worry. I’ll see to everything.”

  I chewed on the pasty and remained miserable.

  ***

  The next morning, Anne was released. I clung to her hand when she said good-bye, knowing hers might be the last kind face I ever saw. I begged her to look for a man called Daniel McAdam and tell him what had become of me. She promised to do her best.

  Anne went out, and I cried. I wept hard into my skirt and huddled like everyone else. I was thirsty, exhausted, and worried for my fate.

  Later that day, the door to the common room opened, and the bailiff bellowed, “Mrs. Holloway!”

  I scrambled to my feet, my heart beating wildly, my limbs cramped from sitting on the cold stone floor. I had no idea what was happening—was it time for my trial already? Or perhaps the magistrate simply wanted me back so he could make a few more jokes at my expense.

  I found, to my astonishment, that the person the bailiff took me to in the jailer’s room was James. Still more astonished when James said, “I’m to take you home, Mrs. Holloway. You won’t stay here another minute.”

  I had no words, not to thank James, not to ask questions. As I stood like a mute fool, James took my hand and pulled me from the jailer’s room, through the courtyard, and out the formidable gate into the light of day. Or at least a rainy afternoon.

  The area around Newgate was a busy one. James had to walk me through the bustle a long way before he pushed me into a hansom cab in Ludgate Hill.

  I finally found my tongue to ask questions, but James did not enter the cab with me. He only slammed the door and signaled the cabby to go. I craned my head to call out to him as the cab jerked forward, but James gave me a cheerful wave and faded into the crowd.

  Had Daniel rescued me? I wondered. If so, where was he? And why wasn’t James coming with me?

  James had said he’d been sent to take me home. What did he mean by home? Sir Lionel’s house would go to whoever inherited the baronetcy—a younger brother, nephew, cousin. If his heir did not want a cook who’d been arrested for murdering the previous master, then I had no home to go to.

  The cab took me, however, directly to Portman Square, and Sir Lionel’s house.

  Chapter Five

  Daniel waited for me on the stairs that led down to the scullery. He ran up them with his usual verve to assist me from the hansom, then he paid the cabby and took me down into the kitchens.

  I was shaking with hunger, worry, and exhaustion. I was grimy and dirty, my clothes filthy. A long bath, a hearty meal, and a good sleep would help me considerably, but I had not the patience for any of those.

  I broke from Daniel and faced him, hands on hips. “Explain yourself
, Mr. McAdam.”

  In spite of my bravado, my voice shook, my weakened knees bent, and I swayed dangerously.

  Daniel caught me and steered me to the stool where I’d sat sharpening my knives the night Sir Lionel had come down. As I caught my breath, Daniel found the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, which had already been lit.

  “Nothing to explain.” Daniel moved smoothly about, collecting cups and plates from the cupboards, and rummaged in the pantry for leftover seed cake and a crock of butter. He knew his way around a kitchen, that was certain. “James told me you were in trouble, and I went along to see what I could do.”

  “But I was released,” I said, trying to understand. “No one is released from Newgate. No one like me, anyway.”

  “Ah, well, the magistrates were made to see that they had no reason to keep you. The fellow who examined you is a fool, and the charge of murder has been dismissed.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. Daniel poured water, now boiling, into a teapot. He brought the pot to the table, and when the tea had steeped a few minutes, poured out a cup and shoved it and a plate of buttered seedcake at me.

  “Get that inside you. You’ll feel better.”

  Indeed, yes. I fell upon the feast and made short work of it. Soon I was no longer hungry and thirsty, but I remained half-asleep and filthy.

  “What did you do?” I asked. “I sent Anne to find you, but I thought perhaps you’d do no more than see I had a solicitor, if that.”

  Daniel finished off his tea and poured himself another cup. “If you mean Anne the actress, yes, she did find James—James is a friend of her son’s. But James had already seen you being arrested from here. He followed you to Bow Street and realized you were being taken off to Newgate. After that, he legged it to me and told me all. I regret you had to stay the night in that place, but I could not put things in motion sooner. I’m sorry.”

  I listened in amazement. “You mystify me more and more. Why should you apologize, let alone rush to my rescue? How did you rush to my rescue? I’m only a cook, not a duchess, with no one to speak for me.”