Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  The rest of the family did have a strong motive for wishing Lady Covington dead. Barring a will in favor of the Polytechnic, her children and stepchildren would presumably inherit all of Lady Covington’s wealth. I wagered Jonathan, as he was her oldest son, would get most of it, but I imagined she’d provided something for the others. Erica’s share now would be divided among them.

  “Mrs. Gamble,” I said after another thoughtful sip of tea. “Do you know anyone called Henry?”

  Mrs. Gamble looked blank. “Henry? No one here by that name. All our staff is called John and Peter and James, ain’t they?”

  “Including the gardener?”

  “Symes?” Her perplexity grew. “His name is Algernon. Who is this Henry?”

  “I wish I knew. Erica—Mrs. Hume—mentioned the name . . .”

  I did not want to break Erica’s confidence, but I could hardly uphold my promise to look after the fellow if I had no idea who he was.

  Mrs. Gamble shook her head. “No one I know. Mrs. Hume’s husband’s name was Jeremiah. They didn’t have no children. One would have been the making of her, I think. But from what I hear, he wasn’t home enough for her to have the chance. Gallivanting, he was. Almost every night, different lady each time. Such a shame.”

  A cheating husband explained some of Erica’s brittleness. I remembered my own shock and disbelief when I’d learned that my husband, now deceased, had raised an entire other family, unknown to me. The betrayal, humiliation, and self-deprecation had laid me low for a long while. I’d berated myself for being a fool, especially when I’d discovered that my marriage had not been legal. He’d wed the other woman first. Gradually I’d understood the fault was his, and I now blamed him squarely, but it had taken a long time for me to forgive myself.

  Erica must have known about her husband’s mistresses even while she lived with him. Horrible. I wondered if his death had brought her grief or relief.

  “Mr. Hume were an MP.” Now that Mrs. Gamble was full of tea and comfortable with me, she held forth. “Lord Covington—Erica’s father, that is—helped Mr. Hume win his seat in Parliament. Put his might behind it. Perhaps that was why Mr. Hume played away, couldn’t stand facing the constant reminder that he owed everything to his wife and her father.”

  “Perhaps,” I said without commitment. Some men needed no excuse.

  If Erica had found herself home alone every night, maybe this Henry had indeed been a lover, someone to comfort her in her loneliness.

  It wasn’t done for a lady to take a paramour, although plenty of society women did. Everyone knew of these ladies’ affairs, but no one spoke of them. A woman was more censured for being obvious about her lovers than for having them at all.

  Erica did not seem the type. Not a woman who graciously greeted her husband’s friends, all the while smiling to herself that she’d met a handsome man in secret who fulfilled her desires.

  Harriet, now. She was unmarried, but with her prettiness and youth, she likely had young men on a string, including the one I’d caught her with at the Crystal Palace. I would have to find out all about him. If he was someone her mother disapproved of, Lady Covington’s death might free Harriet to go to the man. Another idea I’d have to explore.

  “It’s a shame,” Mrs. Gamble said, her chin trembling. “Mrs. Hume was not the most pleasant lady, but it’s unfair she passed so suddenly. It ain’t right.”

  I reached across the corner of the table and laid my hand on her plump one.

  “It isn’t right, no. I intend to find out what happened, Mrs. Gamble, and bring whoever did this to justice.”

  It was a bold statement, and an overly dramatic one, but it made Mrs. Gamble wipe her eyes and give me a nod. “I’ll help as best I can, Mrs. Holloway. The fact that someone tainted my food ain’t to be borne.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I’d hoped to ascend to the main house to speak to Lady Covington, but the housemaid who came down to refresh her ladyship’s tea said she wasn’t receiving anyone, including me.

  Because I’d failed her? Or because the lady simply couldn’t bear to see any person who would wish to speak about Erica’s death?

  I would leave her be for now. I told Mrs. Gamble to sit and rest while I poured hot water into the teapot the maid carried, using the kettle Mrs. Gamble had heated for us. Lady Covington asked for nothing to eat, the maid reported, but I had a sniff and small taste of the lumps of sugar in their bowl on the tray. They tasted of only sugar, so I waved the maid off.

  “Thank you for the chat, Mrs. Holloway,” Mrs. Gamble said as I resumed my coat to leave. “It did me good.”

  “It did me good too, Mrs. Gamble. Thank you for the tea.”

  “Anytime, love.”

  I left her puttering about her kitchen and made my way up the outside stairs to the garden.

  The sun breaking through the clouds warmed me. I loosened the top button of my coat as I looked around the green paradise.

  One would never know this garden was here if one did not walk in through the gate. A high wall separated it from the street, and the gate had close-set gratings that blocked the view from without.

  The garden wound through land between Lady Covington’s home and the house behind it on Upper Brook Street. I walked along, admiring the low hedges and rows of herbs and flowers, impressed by how the meandering path made the garden appear larger than it was. The walkway ended at another gate, which led to the mews between Upper Brook Street and Upper Grosvenor Street.

  “Morning.”

  I jumped and spun to find the gardener behind me. He smiled, teeth showing behind his dark beard.

  “Didn’t mean to give you a fright, Mrs. Holloway. Did you come for more herbs?”

  “Not at all,” I said coolly. “I wanted to give her ladyship and family my condolences.”

  “Aye, a bad business.” Symes took another step to me. “Poor Mrs. Hume. No one really liked the poor woman, which is even sadder.”

  I had to agree. “Have you heard of anyone named Henry, Mr. Symes?”

  Symes took off his hat, rumpled his thick hair, and clapped the hat on again. “Can’t say that I have. Who is he?”

  “This is what I do not know. I believe Mrs. Hume left the house now and again, dismissing her maid before she returned. Do you have any idea where she went?”

  Now Symes’s gaze turned suspicious. “Why do you want to know that?”

  Cynthia had described these absences, which were strange. They might have nothing to do with the poisoning—or everything to do with it.

  “It might not matter at all. But then again . . . who knows?” I lifted my palms.

  “It’s police business now,” Symes said. “Not ours. Lady Covington is not happy about that. She won’t have police in the house.”

  “Not even to discover who killed Mrs. Hume?”

  “That’s why her ladyship sent for you in the first place.” Symes was even closer now, not in a threatening way, but one a little too familiar for my liking. “I know all about that—not much goes on in this house the staff don’t know. Her ladyship thought you could help, but you couldn’t. Not your fault,” he added quickly. “What do the likes of you and me know about these things?”

  His tone exuded sympathy. Our betters asked too much of us, it said. He and I should draw together over this tragedy I’d been expected to prevent.

  I took a step back. “What sorts of plants do you grow here, Mr. Symes?”

  Symes grinned, not offended, and waved a hand over the garden with a glow of pride. “All sorts. We have carrots coming up, lettuces, and I’ve planted the tomatoes and peppers in the hothouse.” He motioned me to follow him, and against my better judgment, I did.

  The hothouse sat on the south side of the property, against the wall that separated it from the mews. It was a long, low building open at either end with
many glass windows to trap the sun’s warmth.

  I stepped inside after Symes, close air surrounding me. In any other circumstance, I would be delighted. Large pots of tomato plants lined a bench, and below those, the large green leaves of peppers showed. None of the plants had any flowers or fruit at the moment, but that would come later, in July and August. If the plants thrived, the household would have all the tomatoes and sweet peppers they wanted.

  Several flats held seedlings, each carefully labeled as beans, cucumber, courgettes, and spring onions. All specimens looked healthy. From this bountiful hothouse and the lush grounds, I concluded that Symes was an excellent gardener.

  “Anything you want from here, you just say, Mrs. Holloway. As soon as I harvest, I’ll set things aside for you.”

  “You ought to ask Lady Covington first,” I admonished. “These are her vegetables and herbs, after all.”

  Symes shrugged. “She said I should give you what you like. She’s taken with you, is her ladyship.”

  “She was taken with me, you mean. She might not be now.”

  “Aye.” Symes nodded. “They expect too much.” He gave me a hopeful look. “Maybe I do as well?”

  I straightened. “Mr. Symes, you are a kind man and a talented gardener. But I am very busy.”

  Symes’s face fell. I did not like to disappoint him, but I truly had much to do, not to mention a daughter to look after and a man I was falling in love with. I did not need the complication of a well-meaning gardener who wanted to walk out with me.

  “Ah well. Don’t think too harshly of me, Mrs. Holloway. You are a fine-looking woman.”

  “I appreciate the compliment,” I said politely. “I will take you up on the offer of the herbs and vegetables. They are excellent specimens.”

  “Thank you.” Symes accepted my praise as his due. “I do my best.”

  “Well, good day, Mr. Symes. If you happen to discover who the person called Henry is, will you please tell me?”

  “As you like.” Symes clearly wondered why I’d fixed on this Henry, but he nodded.

  He remained in the hothouse, taking up a trowel, as I departed. I let myself out of the gate to the mews and walked through a tiny passageway that led between coach houses. I emerged into the mews, which were busy with coachmen grooming horses or repairing harness or carriage wheels, the scent of horse pungent. The mews led out to Park Street, which roughly paralleled Park Lane, and I turned down this to walk home.

  When I entered the kitchen, Cynthia sprang up from the table where she’d been chatting with Tess. She wore a suit, and thrust her hands into its pockets.

  “The chemist told me what was in Lady Covington’s powders,” she said. “The ones Jepson was so angry at me for not giving her.” She bent closer, though there was no one else in the kitchen but Tess, and confided, “Magnesium hydroxide.”

  13

  Oh.” Cynthia’s words arrested me in the act of lifting off my hat. I took it all the way off and hung it up with my coat, hiding my disappointment.

  “What’s magnees . . . ?” Tess asked. “Whatever you said?”

  “A common substance,” I answered, retrieving my apron and moving to the table. “Sometimes it’s known as magnesium milk, and it’s nothing more than a laxative.”

  “Not poison, then,” Tess said, deflating.

  “I suppose it can be if you take too much,” I answered. “But the symptoms would be different.”

  Cynthia rocked on her heels. “Chemist said there wasn’t anything but the laxative in the powders, so that wasn’t how the poison was given. Anyway, we do know Erica took sick from what she ate from the hamper.”

  “As did Sir Arthur,” I said as I resumed my apron. “We can’t know which food was dosed, however. The hamper was empty when someone from the railway returned it to the house, Mrs. Gamble says.”

  Cynthia’s eyes widened in alarm. “Lord, I hope none of the porters nicked leftovers from it.”

  “That would indeed be terrible,” I said with a shiver. “Though I think any porters falling ill would have been reported in the newspaper.”

  “That’s somefink I could find out,” Tess chirped. “Can tell Caleb to, I mean. Whether any porters on that train got sick. Be more evidence the food was tainted, wouldn’t it?”

  “That is true,” I said. “Thank you, Tess. I appreciate the help.”

  She beamed, pleased.

  “What do you want me to do, Mrs. H.?” Cynthia asked. “I’ll go back to Lady Covington’s tomorrow—I’m giving her family a day to themselves. What sorts of things can I ferret out?”

  “Please, do not go,” I said quickly. “It is obviously not safe to eat food from that house.”

  “Nonsense. The hamper was meant for Lady Covington alone. The poisoner couldn’t have known it would be passed around.” Cynthia paused. “Jove, if the poisoner is one of the family, and he or she sat calmly and watched Erica down the lot . . .” She trailed off grimly. “I’ll go back so I can wring his neck. Or hers.”

  “Anyone on the train could have had the chance to doctor it,” I pointed out.

  Cynthia dug her hands deeper into her pockets, slouching like a languid young man. “True, the hamper would have sat with the luggage on the platform, then been loaded into the baggage car and carried from there to the compartment. An enemy who didn’t live in the house could have seized the opportunity. He’d not have guessed Lady Covington wouldn’t eat a thing.”

  “But how would someone from outside the house poison the family meals Lady Covington has taken sick from?” I carried my spice boxes from the dresser to the table and began laying out ingredients for the Antiguan custard. “They’d have to find a way to slip into the kitchen and sprinkle the substance into the dishes, and I’m certain Mrs. Gamble would notice. A good cook never lets a meal go up without having a taste to make certain all is well.”

  “Has the cook ever been sick?” Tess asked Cynthia.

  “Not that I’ve heard. None of the staff either. Hmm.”

  I sniffed a fragrant star anise and set it into a bowl. “Then the poison must be introduced after the food leaves the kitchen. Everyone below stairs would sample a bit of what goes upstairs—I always make extra to feed the staff if I do not cook them a separate meal. Or I have Tess taste things to give me her opinion. Depend upon it, if the food was poisoned in the kitchen, someone else would fall ill, mostly likely Mrs. Gamble herself.”

  “I’ll just have to catch them at it.” Cynthia bounced on her toes with the eagerness of a pup. “Don’t worry, Mrs. H. I’ll eat very little and smuggle in biscuits to keep myself nourished in the middle of the night. Now that Erica has paid the price, I’ll wager the rest of the family will take Lady Covington’s fears more seriously.”

  “If they find poison in Erica,” I said, recalling my discussion about this with Daniel. “After all, bad food lays people low or kills them all the time. Not always the fault of the cook—ingredients can go off, with none the wiser until it’s too late.”

  “Miss Townsend has some leverage with the police,” Cynthia said. “Her father is in the Cabinet and does something or other in the Home Office. She can encourage them to look for poison. Look carefully, I mean.”

  I was not optimistic. Erica belonged to a wealthy and prominent family, that was true, but I did not have much faith in a police coroner if the poison wasn’t obvious. I was not an expert on such, but the coroner could decide that Erica’s symptoms came from a bad egg or a spoiled strawberry. The police might dismiss Lady Covington’s conviction about poison out of hand, labeling her a hysterical woman.

  “Or I could speak to Inspector McGregor,” I said. “He does not welcome my interference, but he knows by now that I do not cry wolf.”

  Tess grimaced. “He frightens me, does the inspector. Caleb’s terrified of him, though he says Inspector McGregor is a good policeman.”
She added the last reluctantly.

  “I will speak to the inspector as soon as I can.” I did not relish hunting him up—McGregor could be intimidating, though I agreed with Caleb that he was a good policeman, if a bad-tempered one.

  Cynthia let out a breath. “I feel ineffectual shuffling about this house. Every time I see Mummy or Auntie, they immediately open their mouths to tell me about some young toad they want to pair me up with. It’s galling. My father is chumming up to some prominent chaps while he’s here—I imagine to fleece them somehow—and I live in terror he’ll convince one to throw his son at me. It’s becoming stifling.”

  “Do you not want to marry at all, Lady Cynthia?” Tess asked. “You’d have your own house and your own servants. Maybe me and Mrs. H. could work for you.” She gazed at Cynthia, her freckled face hopeful.

  “Marriage is all right for some,” Cynthia conceded. “But I won’t do it if I have to be paired with an idiot.”

  “Maybe Mr. Thanos will propose,” Tess suggested brightly.

  Cynthia’s flush rose all the way to her fair hair. “Why should he? Bachelor’s life is good for Mr. Thanos. Besides, he hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. He can’t afford a wife. Well, must get upstairs before Auntie realizes I’m here and drags me away by the ear.”

  She turned and nearly ran out of the kitchen, banging her way up the stairs. The slam of the door at the top echoed down the corridor.

  Tess drooped. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said nothing. Didn’t mean to put me foot in it.”

  I calmly laid out a few cinnamon sticks. “Not your fault, Tess. I think Cynthia would be deliriously happy living in a cramped flat with Mr. Thanos and making certain his socks match. I must do something about that.”

  Tess clapped her floury hands. “Can I help?”