Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Mrs. Millburn is quite right.” Joanna Millburn, my greatest friend, had kindly taken in Grace and looked after her so I could earn my living. “You are a credit to her.”

  Grace blushed but accepted the praise with modesty. “Will you help Lady Covington?”

  She stated the words without pleading, but I could see that Grace was worried for the woman. As was I.

  “Of course I will,” I said. “I will visit her tomorrow, as she requests. But first, I must invent a recipe for lemon cake to take to her.”

  * * *

  * * *

  There you are, Mrs. H.” The voice of Lady Cynthia Shires echoed to me as Grace and I wound our way to the transept, as the aisle intersecting the main one was called.

  Lady Cynthia was dressed in a gown today that was not much different in cut from Lady Covington’s. This was worth remarking upon, because Lady Cynthia much preferred men’s suits to wearing frocks. She had conceded to the gown because Mr. Thanos, the dark-haired gentleman hovering behind her, had invited her and Miss Townsend on this outing to meet his benefactor, and Cynthia had not wanted to embarrass him with her eccentricities.

  “Time for that tea,” Cynthia continued as I reached her. “Won’t hold a candle to your teas, Mrs. H., but it might be jolly.”

  I was happy to partake. Today, Thursday, was my one full day out a week, a condition of my employment, and I wanted to make it last as long as I could. Grace lived with the Millburns, and I resided in the house of my employer, so Thursdays and Monday afternoons were all I had with her.

  The tea shop was situated near the indoor garden, enabling us to sit at a table and enjoy the beauty of exotic flowers and Egyptian palms amid the sound of burbling fountains.

  The five of us enjoyed tea brought by a harried waitress, my three friends chattering about the exhibits, especially liking the medieval court with its statuary. Miss Townsend, who was an artist, discussed with candor the merits—of lack thereof—of the picture gallery.

  As they conversed, I debated whether to tell them about my strange encounter with Lady Covington—my friends had been in the thick of problems I had faced in the past.

  But I wasn’t certain I should break Lady Covington’s confidence. The poison might be nothing but her imagination, that of an overwrought woman surrounded by a family who perhaps preyed on her fortune. The lady’s maid, Jepson, had certainly been a dragon. Lady Covington hadn’t been at ease with her brother or children, I recalled. She’d stood stiffly next to Sir Arthur when she’d been introduced to us, speaking polite phrases with no warmth behind them.

  Whether she was being poisoned in truth or only worried she had been, would Lady Covington thank me for spreading the tale? She might be horribly embarrassed if Lady Cynthia and Miss Townsend charged around to visit her, demanding the entire story.

  Well, I would meet Lady Covington tomorrow and assess the situation. I firmly drank tea and kept silent.

  “What did you think of Sir Arthur, Mrs. Holloway?” Mr. Thanos regarded me with eager brown eyes. His dark hair, courtesy of his Greek ancestry, was brushed back from his face, exposing sharp cheekbones and the few lines about his eyes inscribed from squinting. Mr. Thanos needed spectacles but was loath to wear them.

  “Very . . . zealous.” I chose my words carefully. I had no business forming opinions of my betters, but I knew Mr. Thanos truly wanted my impression. Sir Arthur, who looked much like his sister, had spoken at length and with vigor about the new Polytechnic. The younger members of the family had striven not to appear bored.

  “He does tend to go on a bit,” Mr. Thanos said apologetically. “But he is excited about an institute devoted to science and new discoveries. As am I. It will be wonderful to teach mathematics and theories to young men who have a true interest.”

  Young men who would understand what Mr. Thanos was talking about, he meant. Mr. Thanos had a brilliant mind, and we lesser mortals could not always follow him. He, however, did not always fathom social niceties, hence his invitation for me to join this outing, meet his employer, and render an opinion of a man far loftier than myself.

  “Do not worry.” Cynthia poked Mr. Thanos with her elbow. “Sir Arthur likes you. I could see that in the way he introduced you to his family. You are his pet mathematician. He expects great things from you, and you will give them to him.”

  Mr. Thanos’s smile dimmed. “I hope you are right.”

  “Nonsense. He wouldn’t have set you up in that lovely flat if he weren’t convinced you were the ticket. Cheer up. You’ll do well.”

  “Do you think so?” Mr. Thanos’s mouth pulled downward. “My first lecture is Monday evening, right here at the Crystal Palace. I hope I do not work myself into a muddle.”

  “No fear,” Cynthia said stoutly. “We shall all be in attendance. If they admit women to the lectures, that is. What a nuisance if they won’t.”

  Mr. Thanos looked puzzled. “I can’t imagine why ladies could not at least listen to the lectures. Scientific advancement benefits all.”

  “I will make certain of it.” Miss Townsend took a delicate sip of tea. “Cynthia and I will be there, and Bobby. Mrs. Holloway, you are welcome to join us.”

  She set her down her teacup, her fine kid gloves like a second skin to her slender fingers. Miss Townsend was ladylike and elegant to a fault, but I’d come to know that beneath this young woman’s modish exterior lay an intelligent mind and a steely will. If she determined that women could attend Mr. Thanos’s lecture, they would. She did not command me to accompany them, because she knew that Monday was my half day, and I spent my afternoon with Grace. She would leave the decision up to me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will give it some thought.”

  “I wouldn’t be half so nervous if I knew you were there, Mrs. Holloway.” Mr. Thanos sent me a wistful look. “You bolster my spirits. There’s nothing you wouldn’t face.”

  “You exaggerate, Mr. Thanos, but I know you are being kind.”

  I wished he’d said that Cynthia also would bolster his spirits, but he did not notice the omission, and neither did Cynthia. Cynthia and Mr. Thanos were a bit mired in the space between them, and they’d had gone no further than acknowledging they were friends.

  Miss Townsend managed to settle the cost of the tea—she had a private conversation with the headwaiter and herded us out soon after, and I never saw money change hands. Again, neither Mr. Thanos nor Cynthia seemed to notice a thing. They were an unworldly pair.

  Miss Townsend had us out of the Crystal Palace and heading for the train forthwith. I was grateful—I needed to return Grace to the Millburns’ and arrive home before the evening meal so Mrs. Bywater, Cynthia’s aunt, would not have reason to chide me. She and I had clashed recently, and I strove to return punctually to avoid further altercations.

  As we filed to the terrace overlooking the vast gardens, I glimpsed Lady Covington and her family near the base of the stairs and the great fountains there. Beyond, rose gardens and water features moved gently down the hill to lakes that bore islands full of antediluvian creatures.

  Sir Arthur was holding forth, waving his arm at the expanse of the park, probably giving a full lecture about it. Lady Covington adjusted her parasol against the sun, as though hiding her weariness at her brother’s pontification.

  I studied Lady Covington’s four children with interest. They did not bother to disguise their ennui with their uncle, the younger son, Jonathan, pointedly staring in the opposite direction. The four stood in two distinct groups, the older son and daughter to Sir Arthur’s left, the younger son and daughter to his right. Several yards of space separated the groups, giving them the air of strangers who happened to meet in the gardens of the Crystal Palace.

  “The youngest two are Lady Covington’s son and daughter from her first marriage.” Miss Townsend was at my elbow, her low voice in my ear. “The elder are her stepson an
d stepdaughter—the late Lord Covington’s children from his first marriage. The stepson, George, is now Baron Covington and lets no one forget it. Jonathan Morris, Lady Covington’s son, is a wild young man. Gets himself into scrapes, runs up debts.”

  And yet, Lady Covington had spoken of him as “dear Jonathan” and said what a help he was. Affection could make one blind to another’s faults, I well knew. Perhaps Lady Covington did not realize the extent of Jonathan’s misdeeds.

  “The younger daughter, Harriet Morris, is very much on the shelf and feels it keenly,” Miss Townsend went on. “The stepdaughter, Erica Hume, is the widow of a rather feckless MP. He left her penniless, and she’s entirely dependent on her brother and Lady Covington.”

  Erica held herself rigidly, her parasol at a precise angle. So unmoving was she that I envisioned a blow breaking her into a thousand brittle shards.

  The younger woman, Harriet, seemed more at ease, her blue plaid gown rippling in the breeze. Though she must be well into her twenties, she swiveled back and forth, like a child who longed to be elsewhere.

  “Why tell me this, Miss Townsend?” I glanced into her shrewd brown eyes and wondered if she’d seen me having the tête-à-tête with Lady Covington.

  “You like to know about people,” Miss Townsend replied smoothly. “And they are an interesting family. The lot of them live together in the house in Park Lane, as well as on an estate in Kent. Though George is now the baron and could heave them all, including his stepmother, to the pavement, it is Lady Covington who rules the roost.”

  “Perhaps the new Lord Covington is showing kindness to his stepmother and siblings.” I did not believe this was the case, but I always attempted to find good where none seemed to lie.

  “There is no kindness in George Broadhurst. He once asked me to marry him, as a matter of fact. I turned him down flat— I shudder to think what life would be, shackled to the likes of him. Now he sneers at me, as though I made the wrong choice. I had my chance to be Lady Covington, his contempt says, but ah well.”

  I did not press Miss Townsend for further details. Lady Cynthia and Mr. Thanos, who had been discussing a towering specimen of tree that I believed came from the Americas, joined us, and we turned for the railway station.

  The Crystal Palace had two stations—the High Level Station, which first-class passengers could reach through a tunnel from the Palace’s main entrance, and the Low Level Station, a short walk through the park. Miss Townsend, who’d booked the tickets, had chosen the Low Level, as it was a fine day, and we enjoyed the stroll through the gardens.

  As our train skimmed out of the station past the lakes, Grace pressed her face to the windows to gaze at the models of ancient beasts that inhabited the islands. The giant reptiles glowered at their human observers, though children ran among them fearlessly. We’d not had time to visit the islands today, but I would bring her back another time so we could explore them thoroughly.

  At Victoria Station, Grace and I parted ways with my friends. A hansom, generously provided by Miss Townsend, conveyed my daughter and me across St. James’s to the Strand and along Fleet Street to St. Paul’s and the Millburns’ house not far from the cathedral. I visited briefly with Joanna then parted with Grace, again praising her good manners as I hugged her. After this, I ascended the hansom once more to return to Mayfair.

  I wiped my eyes as we went—dratted soot in the air. My chest felt hollow, as it always did when leaving my daughter.

  I alighted from the hansom in South Audley Street near Grosvenor Chapel and walked around the corner to Mount Street. It would never do for the mistress to look out the window and see me emerge from a cab—she’d lecture me, as usual, on me getting above myself.

  The sky darkened with the coming evening as I tramped heavily down the outside steps to the kitchen door. I entered to find Elsie singing in the scullery as she washed a stack of dishes, and the kitchen abuzz with activity.

  Tess, my assistant, vigorously stirred something burbling on the stove, sweat dripping down her freckled face. She’d come a long way in the last year from the impertinent waif who’d never chopped a carrot to a competent cook I could leave in charge on my days out.

  Mr. Davis, the butler, was lecturing a footman in the servants’ hall—from the words that floated to the kitchen, I gathered the new footman had made some sort of gaffe while serving at table during luncheon.

  Tess called out a cheerful good evening to me. “Happy to see you, Mrs. H. This sauce ain’t thickening for nothing. It needs your touch, it does.”

  I unwound myself from coat and hat, though I’d need to change my frock before I began cooking. I could not afford to let this one be stained.

  Mrs. Redfern, our housekeeper, strode from the passageway into the kitchen, though she halted just inside the doorway. She would never presume to impede meal preparations.

  “I feel I must warn you.” Mrs. Redfern’s preamble made Tess spin in alarm, the spoon with which she’d been stirring the recalcitrant sauce dripping white stock to the floor.

  “Warn me of what, Mrs. Redfern?” I asked, a trifle impatiently. I was tired and still had much work to do before I could rest.

  “Of what is happening upstairs—”

  “It’s a devil of a thing,” Mr. Davis cut in as he joined her, having finished his lecturing. “The Earl and Countess of Clifford have arrived.”

  Mr. Davis’s words made me stop in astonishment. “Good heavens.” Lord and Lady Clifford were Lady Cynthia’s parents. They lived on an estate in Hertfordshire and seldom left it.

  “Good heavens, indeed,” Mr. Davis said. “They’ve declared they’re here to fetch our Lady Cynthia home.”

  2

  Fetch her home?” I asked Mr. Davis in dismay.

  Lady Cynthia’s parents were rather weak people, in my opinion—though I’d never met them—but she was their daughter, and they could summon her home if they wished. Cynthia was a spinster with no income of her own, entirely dependent on her family.

  She was also my friend. Working in this house would be terribly lonely without her.

  “I know who’s doing this is,” Mr. Davis said darkly. He meant Mrs. Bywater, a woman he considered to be hopelessly middle-class and without taste.

  Tess sent me an imploring gaze. “They can’t take her away, can they, Mrs. H.? What are we going to do?”

  I made myself move to the table to inspect the greens and new carrots Tess had washed and chopped. “Do not screech, Tess, please. There is little we can do. Lady Cynthia is a guest in this house, not its mistress.”

  Tess’s mouth hung open, and even Mr. Davis stared at me. Elsie had ceased her singing and peered into the kitchen, her dishcloth dribbling soapy droplets to her apron.

  “How can you say that?” Tess demanded. “You must do something. Speak to the mistress. Speak to her folks.”

  “My dear Tess, they will not listen to the likes of me. Now we must get on. Tear the greens next time rather than chop them, though we can shred some cabbage with them and make a tasty salad. I must change my frock. Won’t be a tick.”

  The others regarded me in amazed silence. I suppose they expected me to march upstairs and lecture Lady Cynthia’s parents about where it was best for her to stay, but I could hardly do such a thing.

  Truth to tell, my heart was breaking. I’d come to be good friends with Cynthia, and I’d miss her dreadfully. Though we were close in age, Cynthia often sought my advice when she was worried, and she’d helped me out of trouble more than once.

  But it was no good giving way to despair. I hurried through the passageway with their silence behind me and climbed the stairs to the main house.

  I opened the green baize door, intending to nip through the landing to the set of stairs that would take me to my attic room, but raised voices from beyond the drawing room’s open doors made me pause. I do not approve of eavesdropping, but
the people within were speaking so loudly, I could not help but overhear.

  “If you wish me to catch a husband, rusticating in the country will do me no good.” Cynthia’s strident tones rang. “The only bachelors for miles are a fourteen-year-old boy and Mr. Weir the farmer next door, who is eighty-two. Do you see me as a doting farmer’s wife?”

  “Cynthia, darling, do not be so droll.” A weary female voice floated past Cynthia’s adamance, but the words held steel. “Of course there are plenty of young men near Ardeley Hall. Many of our friends have sons, and they’ve retired to the country for the summer. I cannot imagine how you remain here in London, with the heat and the stink.”

  “It smells better than endless cowpats,” Cynthia said.

  “Ha.” A man’s voice, rather high-pitched and languid, joined in. “Cynthia, darling, you do say the most amusing things. But really, dear girl, how pleasant can it be for you staying here with my brother-in-law and his dreary wife?”

  I wondered, wincing, if the Bywaters were at home to hear him. Or perhaps Lord Clifford did not care whom he skewered with his opinions.

  “Better than rattling around a manor house with a leaky roof,” was Cynthia’s rejoinder. “Why you wanted that pile of bricks, Papa, I cannot fathom.”

  Lord Clifford chuckled breathlessly. “Yes, yes. Highly amusing.”

  “My friends are in London,” Cynthia went on. “But you needn’t worry about me enduring the heat and stink this summer—Miss Townsend has a house at the seaside, and she’s invited Bobby and me to stay with her for a few weeks.”

  “Cynthia, you know my views on Lady Roberta,” Lady Clifford said, her dying-away voice full of disapproval.

  “You barely know her, Mummy. She’s a good egg with intelligent conversation.”

  “She wears trousers.” Lady Clifford pronounced the words as though Bobby, Cynthia’s closest friend, regularly drowned children. “And cuts off her hair. Please tell me she has grown out of such crudeness.”