Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  “Good day to you,” I said.

  Jepson barely gave me a nod. She would not move, so I exited the house through the oval-windowed door that led to the garden, feeling Jepson’s cold gaze on me all the way.

  * * *

  * * *

  The gardens were refreshingly open and peaceful after the stifling atmosphere of the house. I took a few breaths to steady myself before I walked on.

  When I passed the stairs that led down to the kitchens, I decided to descend and speak to the cook myself, Jepson notwithstanding.

  I took care on the steps, which were steep and damp, and let myself in through the door at the bottom. Beyond a square foyer I found a kitchen that was far more spacious than mine. Light flooded the room from the high windows that faced the garden, rendering the space cheerful. The kitchen was fitted out with plenty of shelves and cupboards as well as the latest in stoves, with eight burners plus a warmer, and three ovens below. Baskets hung on one wall, and between them, a grainy photograph of an older man, possibly the cook’s husband, or brother, or father—someone she wanted to gaze at fondly as she worked.

  How fine to have a large, well-stocked kitchen with fresh herbs and vegetables just up the back stairs—the garden would save running to the market every day. It was difficult to grow vegetables in London because of all the soot and smoke, but it could be done by a competent gardener and a hothouse.

  Mrs. Gamble was what most people thought of when they heard the term “cook,” a plump woman with gray hair, a flour-dusted apron, and a round, pink face. She was rolling out dough at her work table, her hands as floury as the pastry.

  “Good morning,” I called to her. “I am Mrs. Holloway.”

  Mrs. Gamble blinked at me, frowned, and blinked again. We were alone in the kitchen—no kitchen maid evident, no housekeeper or male servants going in and out.

  “Oh, right, love. You are that cook what was coming to visit the mistress. Have you seen her?”

  “Indeed. I gave Jepson the recipe—a wonderful lemon cake. It’s simple, really. Eggs, lemon, flour, orange-flower water, sugar, and butter.” I went on to explain, knowing that cooks who couldn’t read had prodigious memories for recipes, and I did not trust Jepson to read the thing out to her. “Separate the eggs to keep it light. Beat the whites with the orange-flower water, sugar, and a bit of lemon rind, then beat the butter in a different bowl, add the egg yolks to it, and fold the egg white mixture into that. Then you stir the flour into the whole thing. The cake must go into the pan immediately after or the batter will deflate before it can bake.”

  Mrs. Gamble listened attentively. “The proportions?”

  “Three quarters of a pound each of sugar and flour, and a quarter pound of butter to ten eggs. The lemon and orange-flower water as you like.”

  She nodded. “The mistress will be expecting me to make this, I suppose.”

  “Possibly.” Lady Covington had been inventing so many excuses for my presence that she might have forgotten about the cake. “Can you remember the recipe? In case it slips Jepson’s memory.”

  Mrs. Gamble’s lips twitched. “Aye, I’ll remember. Jepson doesn’t always come to the kitchen.”

  “Her ladyship praises your cooking,” I said. “Says everything you prepare specially is sweet as can be.”

  Mrs. Gamble nodded without hesitation. “Aye, she has a finicky digestion. I make her soothing meals, as what I make for the family sometimes disagrees with her. Lemon cake will be just the ticket.”

  “If you have any questions about it—or if you would like other suggestions to help her ladyship’s digestion . . .”

  Mrs. Gamble returned to rolling the dough, a bit too harshly in my opinion. Pastry wants a light touch.

  “If those four children let her be, her insides would be well,” Mrs. Gamble declared. “I know I’m talking out of place, but ’tis true.”

  “I met three of them upstairs,” I said to encourage her to continue.

  “Three leeches, you mean. Young Lord Covington’s not a pleasant man either, but at least he has much to keep him occupied out of the house. The young ladies need marrying, and so does the younger gentleman. Places of their own to give them something to do. Idle hands are the devil’s tools, you know.”

  If one of the younger generation were poisoning Lady Covington, it was the devil’s work indeed.

  I waited, in case Mrs. Gamble was more forthcoming about the secrets of Lady Covington’s relations, but she pursed her lips and continued rolling her pastry. The piecrust would be much too tough if she continued to abuse it as she did.

  “This is a fine kitchen.” The dresser brimmed with plates and bowls and the shelves with foodstuffs, and polished copper pots hung over the stove.

  Mrs. Gamble gave me a modest nod. “This mistress knows how to fit out a kitchen. So many don’t, and then they expect perfect meals made on a smoky stove that won’t boil water and a table too small for anything but setting down a teacup.”

  “Too true, Mrs. Gamble,” I agreed. “We are fortunate to work in good houses.”

  “Well, the mistress is all right. She’s the second wife, as you know. The first, I hear, ran this house like a martinet but couldn’t put together a menu to save her soul.”

  “You weren’t here when she was alive?”

  “Lordy, no. I was in Oxfordshire. Didn’t come to London until last year.”

  “Has her ladyship always had a delicate digestion?”

  Mrs. Gamble sent me a peculiar glance, as though wondering at my interest. Daniel had pried much out of her, but then, Daniel had a warm smile and handsome eyes.

  “It’s a trial when our ladies and gentlemen can only stomach certain foods,” I extemporized. “I wondered if you had any advice, seeing as her ladyship is a bit dyspeptic.”

  “She wasn’t always,” Mrs. Gamble said. “Didn’t start until, oh, six months ago? Nothing to do with my cooking.” Her gaze was hard.

  “It wouldn’t be, would it, if all of the household eats your food but only her ladyship has troubles?” I said quickly. “No doubt she is grateful for your soothing dishes.”

  “She is, indeed. I imagine that when the leeches leave for their own lives—if they ever do—she’ll be fine again.”

  “Worry does affect the stomach,” I said. “Well, I must be off. I hope you enjoy the lemon cake, Mrs. Gamble.”

  “Huh. Won’t be me that’s eating it, will it?”

  “An extra pan with leftover batter never goes unwanted in the kitchen. Good day, Mrs. Gamble.”

  She nodded at me, then she banged down the rolling pin as though remembering something, snatched up a basket, and thrust it at me. “These are for you, love. Picked by Symes—said her ladyship instructed it.”

  I remembered Lady Covington demanding of Symes whether the herbs Lady Cynthia had asked for were ready. I did not need the herbs, and I knew Cynthia had never asked for them, but I took the basket without question.

  Mrs. Gamble and I exchanged another farewell, and I exited via the stairs leading up to the garden.

  When I’d reached the top of the staircase, I saw the young gardener, Symes, leaning on his hoe, studying the greens at his feet. He glanced up as I emerged, and pulled off his hat.

  “All well, Mrs. Holloway?”

  “Yes, Symes, thank you.” I hefted the basket. “And for the herbs.”

  He grinned, showing white teeth. “Aye. Seems the mistress was a bit confused on why you were coming.”

  I sent him a small smile. “Lords and ladies don’t have to have reasons for what they do, you know.”

  “Too true. Not like you and me, eh, Mrs. Holloway?”

  I did not like the familiar way he looked at me or that he lumped me into a class of human being with him, but I could be civil. Besides, I did not want to spurn any resource that might help me discover who was trying to
poison Lady Covington.

  “No, indeed, Symes. Good morning.”

  He gave me a friendly nod, waiting until I’d exited through the gate before he resumed his cap.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I returned to the Mount Street house, I was struck by the contrast between it and Lady Covington’s. Even the kitchen had been quiet, Mrs. Gamble working by herself in the large and well-appointed room.

  My kitchen was cramped, with pots, pans, and crockery taking up every available space. But it was cozy with Elsie singing in the scullery, Charlie playing a game with one of the footmen in the corner, Tess joining her voice with Elsie’s from time to time, an upstairs maid sailing in to fetch a cup of tea for Mrs. Bywater, and Lady Cynthia, planted at the table, her elbows on it, looking morose.

  Cynthia wore trousers and frock coat today, a garb not much different from that of Jonathan Morris. I knew Cynthia’s clothes were tailor-made for her—I wondered what the tailor thought when she came in for fittings.

  I set down the basket of herbs and removed my coat, then carried the basket to the table and began to sort through the greens, their fragrance pleasantly clean.

  “What’s all that?” Cynthia asked in a dull voice.

  “Thyme, a bit of basil—too early for it, so it must have come from the hothouse—tarragon, and chervil.” I lifted the tarragon, my favorite, and inhaled its fragrance. Some said it smelled of anise, but I thought it had a bright scent all its own.

  “Oh.” Cynthia rested her chin on her fists, which slid the skin of her face upward.

  “Should you be downstairs?” I asked her as I tied on my apron. “Did your parents go out?”

  “I shall never go upstairs again,” Cynthia said. “I’m certain a cubby can be fixed down here for me to sleep in.”

  Tess sent me a tense look that told me Cynthia had been here for some time.

  “You would be vastly uncomfortable,” I said to Cynthia. “Not to mention hot.”

  “A bit of sympathy would not go amiss, Mrs. H.,” Cynthia said crossly. “You know they’ve come to drag me back to the country. I can dig in my heels, but they’ll drag me all the same—I’ll leave grooves behind me. I can’t stick it, so I’m not moving.”

  She leaned back in the chair and propped her boots on a low stool.

  “I do sympathize.” The herbs I sorted were in very good condition and quite fresh. I would use them for dishes today. “I have been pondering a way to keep you here.”

  “Have you?” Cynthia brightened a fraction. “What shall we do?”

  “How well do you know Baroness Covington?”

  Cynthia considered. “Slightly. Miss Townsend knows her better. Why?”

  “Perhaps you could stay with her for a time. This house is becoming a bit crowded with your mother and father and the Bywaters. Perhaps Miss Townsend could persuade Lady Covington to take you in. It’s a very large house. I’ve just come from there.”

  Cynthia eyed me in surprise then with misgiving. “Why on earth should I? What’s it all about, Mrs. H.?”

  I waited until the maid hurried out with Mrs. Bywater’s cup of tea, and the footman and Charlie moved their game to the servants’ hall. Elsie was belting out a tune and splashing loudly in the sink.

  In a quiet voice, I told Cynthia and Tess about my encounter with Lady Covington at the Crystal Palace and all I’d learned from her and the cook today, as well as what Daniel had reported. Now that I was certain something foul was happening, I had no hesitation in recruiting Cynthia and Tess to help.

  Both listened in disbelief, which soon became concern. “You think the lady’s maid’s doing it?” Tess asked when I finished. “Poisoning the poor woman? Nasty old bat. The lady’s maid, I mean.”

  “That I do not know. If Cynthia were there to keep an eye on things . . .”

  “Delighted to,” Cynthia said at once. “Not only can I watch this maid and the other members of Lady Covington’s ghastly family, but I can clear out of here. Papa bleats on about having me at home or respectably married off, but I don’t trust him. He’s up to something.”

  I did not admonish her for speaking so of her father, because I agreed with her. Lord Clifford had lied his way into his title, claiming to be next in line when he’d in fact been a few spaces removed, but the heirs had been scattered across the globe and difficult to track down. Time had made Lord Clifford now the correct heir, as the others had passed on, but he had taken advantage of distance and the time it took for legal dispatches to arrive to stake his claim. He’d apparently undertaken other swindles in the past, though I did not know the details about them.

  “He cannot do much while staying here with the Bywaters,” I said, hoping this was the case.

  Cynthia scoffed. “Auntie Isobel dotes on Papa. She does love a peerage. Uncle might have a thing or two to say, however. He’s a plain-speaking man.”

  Mr. Bywater was an upright middle-class gentleman who went to work in the City, read his newspapers in the morning and evening, and preferred easy comfort to extravagance. His sister, Cynthia’s mother, had been a famous beauty and far more frivolous than her brother, eloping with Lord Clifford long ago.

  “Will your mum and dad let you stay with another lady?” Tess asked. “If they’re trying to catch you a husband?”

  “They might not notice. Haven’t said a word to me all morning. Papa was at the table when I went in to breakfast, deep in the racing news, never even grunted when I greeted him. Mummy, of course, is still in bed.”

  I pretended not to notice Cynthia’s hurt at her parents’ disregard. “Mrs. Bywater is more likely to object to you going. But if Miss Townsend asks her, I am certain all will be well. Your aunt likes Miss Townsend.”

  “Dear Judith does know how to wrap people around her fingers.” Cynthia slapped the table with both hands, rattling the cutlery there. “I’ll do it. Anything to escape this beastly house, and I’ll be doing a good deed.”

  “If you don’t get poisoned yourself,” Tess said, eyes round.

  “Might put the poisoner off, having a guest in the house,” Cynthia said. “A widow growing ill and passing on is one thing. A healthy young woman turning up her toes on the dining room carpet is another.”

  “Oh dear,” I said with a qualm. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go, after all. It isn’t fair for me to put you in danger.”

  “Nonsense. If no one else in the house is taking ill, then I won’t either. The cruel fellow—or lady—seems to be targeting Lady Covington.”

  “While that is true, they might resent you poking about.”

  “I will have a care, Mrs. Holloway. If Lady Covington truly is in danger, we can’t abandon her.”

  “I agree.” I subsided. “It could be she is not ingesting the substance inside the house at all. When the cook takes her a private meal, she is fine. Perhaps you should try to discover if Lady Covington goes out for tea or some such, say, at a friend’s home. Or secretly devours chocolates from a certain shop, or is taking some sort of remedy for beauty or slimness.”

  “True, there are foul concoctions out there purporting to make you young, lithe, and free of blemishes,” Cynthia said cheerfully. “Plenty of women sicken themselves trying to look different from what they do.”

  She spoke with the confidence of one who’d never had to worry about excessive plumpness or spots on her face. Cynthia took her very fine looks from her mother.

  Lady Covington, approaching fifty, might have begun to feel her age and worry about her attractiveness, turning to the remedies we’d mentioned. I doubted this, as she was such a steely lady, but all of this was only my conjecture.

  Cynthia’s moroseness fled. “I’ll alert Miss Townsend and bring her in to help me confront Auntie. Then I’ll storm the battlements, as it were. Never fear, Mrs. H. I’ll report in every day, like a good soldier.”

 
Cynthia came at me, and I thought she’d embrace me, herbs and all, but she only gave me a hearty pat on the shoulder before skimming out on light feet.

  I knew Tess would want to continue discussing Lady Covington and Cynthia’s parents, but I forestalled her.

  “You are ready to learn something new, my girl.” I lifted the aromatic strands of dill. “I will teach you to make green mayonnaise.”

  “Green?” Tess wrinkled her nose. “Why would you want mayonnaise to be green?”

  “It is simply an herb sauce, but wonderful with fish and meat. Gather a half-dozen eggs and separate out the yolks, and we’ll make a batch. Put the whites aside to save for meringues.”

  Tess had come to know me well enough to obey my orders without lingering to ask questions.

  While she gathered up the things, James came in from the street, giving Elsie a cheery greeting.

  “Message from Dad, Mrs. H.,” James told me as Tess competently broke open an egg and slid the yolk from shell to shell to drain off the white.

  I reached out a hand so James could put whatever letter into it, but he shook his head. “He didn’t write nothing down. Just wanted me to tell you he couldn’t be reached for a time. I know where he is, and I’m to linger nearby once every day or so, in case he can slip out. But he’s well lodged inside the mansion of a prominent gentleman, and will remain there for a while.”

  6

  I did not like the idea of Daniel out of reach. I admonished myself that I had no business expecting him to be nearby whenever I wanted him, but emotions do not always respond to logic. I knew his life was not always his own, and I understood, but my heart felt heavy all the same.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I said to James. “Before you run off, I have a missive for you to deliver.”

  Instead of being annoyed I wanted to employ him as the post, James scrunched his cap in his hands and told me he’d be happy to wait.

  I slipped down the hall to the housekeeper’s parlor, which was empty, as Mrs. Redfern was busy supervising the maids upstairs. I seated myself at the desk and scribbled a note on paper torn from my notebook. I folded it neatly and left the parlor, briefly visiting the larder before carrying the letter to James.