Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  No other portraits. No photographs on the tables, nothing but impersonal elegance, and several buttons on the paneled wall that could summon individual servants.

  “Sit. Do.” Lady Covington indicated a chair of stiff blue damask. I perched on its edge, still in my coat and hat—the maid had not offered to take my things, and Lady Covington had not asked her to, a signal I would not stay long.

  Lady Covington paced until the maid returned with a tray bearing a teapot and teacups. Lady Covington waved her away with a languid hand, seated herself on the chair next to mine, and poured out tea for both of us.

  I hesitated to take a cup in a house where Lady Covington—and Daniel—feared poison, but I cautiously sipped. I tasted nothing but tea.

  “Do not worry,” Lady Covington said, seeing my hesitance. “It is never in the tea.”

  “Why would anyone wish to poison you, your ladyship?” I asked in a quiet voice. I noticed Lady Covington had settled us far from the door, which was now closed.

  “To kill me, of course.” She sat rigidly upright, back straight, her silver-gray gown in the latest fashion, her hair pulled in a simple style away from her face. “But you mean, what motive has anyone for doing away with me? My wealth, I would guess. My first husband left me well off; my second husband, even more so. My stepson now chairs our railway company, as the late Lord Covington did, but he is not as sound in business as his father. George is a spoiled brat, quite frankly—his mother indulged him far too much from what I understand. He inherited the title and the entailed estate, but Covington left a large amount of unentailed money to me. If I had not married his father, George would have received much more cash, and he resents me for that. He does not hide the resentment either.” Lady Covington took a decided sip of tea.

  “Then you believe the new Lord Covington is the culprit?”

  Lady Covington sighed and set her teacup on the table between us. “I would if he had the wits. George has much arrogance but is not overly gifted in intelligence.” She fell silent, as though waiting for me to explain all.

  I had no idea how to proceed—I was well out of my depth. The only thing to do, I told myself, was ferret out as much information as I could and try to discover evidence that someone was indeed poisoning the poor woman. I would then take this evidence to Inspector McGregor, an intelligent and respected man at Scotland Yard, and have him properly deal with it.

  Feeling a bit more confident, I continued my questions. “What brought you to the Crystal Palace yesterday? Your brother, Sir Arthur? I understand there will be scientific lectures there next week.”

  “Indeed, but that is George’s idea, not my brother’s. George has many shares in the Crystal Palace, and he’s always trying to revive it to its former glory. It’s a bit run-down for my taste. But we scurry there as often as possible to make certain all is well. George is convinced more tickets will be sold if he makes an appearance and drags his entire respectable family with him. He decided that since I am giving Sir Arthur funds for the Polytechnic, Sir Arthur can take his scientists to the Crystal Palace to entertain paying attendees.”

  “I see.”

  “You do not.” Lady Covington lifted her teacup. “But I will try to make things clear. Everyone in this house is in need of money. Erica, my stepdaughter, married one Jeremiah Hume, who died in a coaching accident. The trouble was, when the coach struck him, he was nowhere near home but very near the house of a woman he was reputed to be carrying on with. He left Erica penniless—everything Hume had, and it was not much, went to an heir in Canada. Hence Erica had to return here to live or starve. She feels the humiliation.”

  I did not blame her. As one who’d been left penniless by an unfaithful husband, I understood Mrs. Hume’s mortification. I at least had the chance to earn my living, while Erica would be dependent on her family if she found no other man to marry her.

  “Do your stepchildren and own children get on?” I asked tentatively.

  “Of course not. My daughter, Harriet, despises Erica and George. Not that Harriet has had much luck in matters of marriage herself. She was nearly engaged to a young man who then decided to marry another. Harriet pretends not to mind, but she too was humiliated. Oh, do not think she was in love with the idiot. She simply wanted to be married and out from under my thumb.”

  Lady Covington’s death might give Harriet a bit of money, depending on how Lady Covington left things. She’d be out from under her thumb that way.

  “You think me a hard woman to suspect my own flesh and blood—my own daughter,” Lady Covington said. “But if you lived in this house, you would not consider it odd. It’s rather fetid in here. Simmering anger, jealousy, resentment. In an earlier age, we’d have all killed one another by now, by the sword or pistol, in old-fashioned duels.”

  She spoke with no fear. Yesterday, at the Crystal Palace, she’d been worried and tired, but today she was robust, her tongue sharp.

  “You have not mentioned your son,” I ventured.

  Immediately, her eyes softened. “No, no, Jonathan has nothing to do with any of this. He does not stay much in the house, which I think is wise. George hates him. But Jonathan is as concerned as I am.”

  Miss Townsend had mentioned that Jonathan got himself into scrapes, probably helped out of them by his mother. If she favored him in her will, here was another person who might not be sorry if she died. Jonathan absenting himself often from the house would keep suspicion from him and protect him from ingesting any poison accidentally.

  “Is there anyone else you suspect?” I asked. “Someone close to you—your lady’s maid, perhaps?”

  “Jepson?” Lady Covington gazed at me in unfeigned astonishment. “Jepson would no more poison me than she would a child. She has a soft heart.”

  I recalled the pinch-faced woman who’d charged to us at the Egyptian exhibition, with her impertinent words and disapproving glare. I’d never connect her with the phrase soft heart. She’d certainly chivvied Lady Covington without apology.

  “It would be easiest for one of your staff to put poison into your food,” I explained. “They have the most access to your meals, while the upstairs—your family—might not. Do any of the family cook?” Some ladies and gentlemen dabbled in the culinary arts for enjoyment.

  “My children and stepchildren?” Lady Covington gave me a mock-astonished look. “Heavens no. They couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger. The cook is in charge of all meals, and the footmen serve them. I do understand what you mean—it would be easy for a maid to slip something into a dish while it sits in the dumbwaiter downstairs, or a footman could while the food waits on the sideboard. But the odd thing is, only I take ill. None of the others do—they are rather complacent about that. They believe I am simply weak and sickly. I once mentioned that I worried about poisoning, but they dismissed it as a flight of fancy.”

  She glared at me, as though daring me to tell her I agreed that she was in less than vigorous health.

  “This person is clever then,” I said. “Or, they have access to things only you eat or drink. Do you take powders for sleeping or other ailments?” Daniel had told me she took powdered medicine, but I wanted to hear the answer from her lips.

  “Only when I am ill from the food.” Lady Covington lifted her chin. “I am not subject to ailments. I have a very strong constitution. That is why I know I am being poisoned.”

  “But you are unsure who is doing it. If you were certain of the culprit, you’d confront them, or summon the police.”

  “You have grasped things precisely. I know I am not imagining things, but I do not know who is undertaking this or how. Now, what can you do? I have heard of you delving into the truth of matters, especially in the goings-on at the house of Sir Evan Godfrey, but speaking to you now, I wonder if you are up to the task.”

  I was not offended, because I agreed with her. I’d solved the mystery in the Godfrey h
ome—a few houses away from this one—with the help of my friends. Unless I sat in a corner watching everyone in this household, I doubted I could discover who was putting noxious substances into her meals.

  “I can only do my best, your ladyship.”

  “I suppose—”

  “Mama?” A rustle of skirts drew my attention to the doorway, through which a young woman strode. She was Harriet, Lady Covington’s daughter. “Jepson told me you were in here. What are you doing entertaining a domestic in the sitting room?”

  Her tone and her pinched lips implied that finding me here confirmed her opinion that her mother had gone completely mad.

  Lady Covington regarded her daughter coldly. “I asked Mrs. Holloway to provide me a recipe. I thought it kind to give her tea for walking all this way when she has work to do.”

  Harriet exuded displeasure. “You could have had Mrs. Gamble give her tea in the kitchen.”

  Lady Covington rose and faced her daughter. I quietly set aside my tea and came to my feet.

  Lady Covington and Harriet possessed the same stance and shape of face, glossy brown hair, and blue eyes. Their expressions of willfulness were similar as well. But I saw that the older woman was the stronger. Harriet began to wilt under her mother’s steady gaze.

  “This is my house,” Lady Covington stated. “If I wish to entertain a pack of monkeys in my own sitting room, I will.”

  “It’s George’s house now.” Harriet’s mouth turned down sourly. “But never mind. Do as you like. I hate George.”

  “Harriet . . .” Lady Covington’s admonishment wasn’t because of Harriet’s sentiment, I surmised, but because Harriet had said such a thing in front of me.

  Harriet ignored her mother and turned to me. “What sort of recipe?”

  I curtsied to her. “Lemon cake, miss.”

  “Ooh, I love lemon cake. Have Cook make it for tea.”

  “The menus have already been set for the day,” Lady Covington said frostily.

  “Well, do forgive me.” Harriet’s tone matched her mother’s. “When George marries, you know, the new Lady Covington will set the menus. Like as not, she’ll boot us all out, and then where will we be? Not that anyone would marry George, the ass.”

  On the heels of these words, another woman hurried into the room, her face blotchy red with anger.

  “Harriet,” she admonished. “You take that back.”

  Erica Hume, née Broadhurst, dressed as fashionably as the other two ladies, but she managed to make her frock frumpy. The skirt was twisted, her collar soiled, strands of hair escaping their pins. Her coloring was pallid compared with the other two, with her sand-colored hair and light brown eyes.

  “Well, he is an ass, Erica,” Harriet stated. “I know you dote on him, but he’s a stuck-up prig who believes he’s more intelligent than he is.”

  “Stop!” Erica shouted, raising her hand to strike Harriet. “You stop. He’s better than your brother, who is a lying, thieving—”

  “Ladies, cease this at once.” Lady Covington’s voice boomed through the room. “What will Mrs. Holloway think of us?”

  Lady Covington likely didn’t worry about my opinion of her family, but I was a servant, and who knew what tales I’d pass along?

  “I do not gossip, your ladyship,” I told her primly.

  Lady Covington ignored me, her focus on the two younger women. Erica flushed. “Beg pardon, Stepmother.”

  “Yes, all right, I beg your pardon, Mama.” Harriet wrinkled her nose at Erica and stuck her tongue out at me once Lady Covington turned away. Then she grinned as though she’d made a joke. As I’d observed at the Crystal Palace, Harriet was much like a child in grown-up clothes.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Holloway, you may go,” Lady Covington told me. “The footman will show you the way to the back stairs.”

  I curtsied once more, not that any of the three noticed, and exited the room through the double door Harriet had left open.

  No footman was in sight, nor was the maid who had served us, but I guessed the back stairs would be under the grand, polished staircase in the main hall.

  I was struck by the quiet as I crossed the expanse of carpet. In the Mount Street house, Mrs. Bywater regularly had callers or hosted one of the many organizations she was a member of. The sound of female chatter constantly filled the main floor. Cynthia’s laughter rang, or her voice and Mrs. Bywater’s rose in disagreement, which happened frequently. In my kitchen, Elsie sang, Tess chattered about anything that came into her head, and Mr. Davis and Mrs. Redfern were free with their opinions as they passed to and fro. Here, dust motes swam in the air, caught in the feeble light from the high windows.

  Silence sat upon this house like a shroud. Even the women in the drawing room could barely be heard from here—the carpet and space muffled all. More rooms opened behind the staircase, including the dining room, which was reached by a set of five steps next to the main stairs. Its doors were open to reveal a massive table and solid chairs.

  I moved through this soundlessness to the door under the stairs and reached for the brass doorknob . . . to have it wrenched out of my grasp as the maid Jepson yanked open the door from the other side.

  Jepson’s lip curled when she saw me, her eyes like flint. She wore no cap—lady’s maids, who had high status in the household, often did not. Her gray hair had been severely tamed into a knot, her black brows telling me the color it had been originally. Jepson was a few inches shorter than I was, but the way she peered up at me in complete distrust did not give me an advantage.

  I regarded her with the same lack of trust. Here was a woman who could easily poison her mistress—Jepson handled Lady Covington’s food, tea, coffee, or any other drink, as well as her medicines.

  Jepson opened her mouth, likely to demand what I was doing there, but was interrupted when the front door flew open, banging harshly into the wall. The footman leapt from the shadows of the vestibule to catch it, but too late.

  A young man strode past the flustered footman, tossing the lad his hat. The footman caught it without fumbling, showing he’d performed this ritual before. The young man also threw the footman his walking stick, then gloves, which the footman scooped up, a grin on his face.

  “Jepson,” the intruder called. “What the devil are you doing hiding so furtively under the stairs? And who are you?” He halted directly in front of me and sent me a very impudent grin.

  5

  Jonathan Morris, the ne’er-do-well son, wore a dark suit of fine fabric—I’d seen enough of Daniel’s tailor-made clothes to realize these had been crafted by the best in Bond Street or Savile Row. His morning coat buttoned to a tie that peeked modestly from under his collar. Above that tie was a flushed face, light blue eyes, and the dark brown hair of his mother.

  “I am Mrs. Holloway,” I answered him with dignity. “Your mother sent for me.”

  “Did she? Why?” Jonathan’s question held lively curiosity.

  “Mrs. Holloway is a cook,” Jepson supplied. “She is delivering a recipe.”

  “Jolly good.” Jonathan beamed at me. “Something tasty, I hope.”

  “Lemon cake.” Though I’d not had a chance so far to hand anyone the recipe I’d labored over.

  Jonathan rubbed his hands. “Excellent. I hope I can try it soon. That is, if our cook can manage it. Where is my mother, Jepson? I must report in like the dutiful offspring I am.”

  “Sitting room.” Jepson’s disapproval rang in her voice.

  Jonathan did not respond to her chill tones. I could see he was a charming young man—his smiles and way of speaking directly and without hauteur were disarming. If I had not become used to Daniel’s constant charm, I might have succumbed.

  “Well, the maternal love calls. Best be getting on, Cookie,” he said to me, “or Jepson will boil over. She hates strangers in the house.”

 
Jepson looked as though she’d boil over on the moment. I gave Jonathan a rather stiff curtsy.

  “Mrs. Holloway,” I said.

  “Pardon?” Jonathan blinked ingenuous blue eyes.

  “I am Mrs. Holloway,” I repeated. “Not Cookie.”

  He stared at me a moment longer, then his grin returned. “Cheeky little devil, ain’t you? And so young to be a cook. I do look forward to this lemon cake. Maybe Cook—our cook—will let you stay and make it yourself. I would be delighted.”

  I wanted to let him know his familiarity was not acceptable, but I must take care not to offend him. Sons of wealthy widows and stepbrothers of aristocrats could make life difficult for me.

  Before I could decide how to answer, Erica emerged from the sitting room. “Jonathan,” she snapped. “Cease bothering the servants. Your mother wants you.”

  Jonathan turned back to us and rolled his eyes so comically that I wanted to laugh. A treacherous young man, I concluded, far too winsome and forward.

  “Coming, dear sister.” Jonathan put on a falsetto and trotted across the hall to Erica. He pinched her cheek as he passed and sailed into the sitting room. I heard a squeal of delight from Harriet within.

  Jonathan banged the sitting room door closed behind him, shutting Erica out. Erica glared at the door then gathered her skirts and marched stiffly up the stairs, ignoring us completely.

  “He is a handful,” I said, nodding at the sitting room. “Quite boisterous.”

  Jepson’s baleful stare told me she did not care for my observations. I also saw she agreed with them. “Mr. Morris is right that you had best be off.”

  “I do need to give your cook the recipe.”

  “Give it to me. Cook can’t read.”

  I withdrew the paper from my pocket and handed it to Jepson, as she continued blocking my way downstairs. I wondered if the cook would even receive it.