Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  An angry red crease opened across my skin, and blood spilled onto the bodice.

  The sudden streak of pain coupled with the heat of the battle stripped me of any genteelness I’d ever learned. The professional cook who struggled for respectability fled, and the girl from Bow Lane emerged.

  “You’ve ruined me dress, you owd bitch!”

  It was a shriek worthy of Tess at her most enraged. I seized the duchess, clamping hard on her wrist while I wrested the knife from her grasp. She fought me fiercely, another cut slicing across the bodice, this one stopped by my thick and sensible corset. I hadn’t taken the time to change into the pretty one.

  I lifted the knife out of the duchess’s reach, and she danced backward, a look of cunning on her face.

  “Help!” she cried. “She’s attacking me. She’s gone mad!”

  I brought the knife low, keeping her at bay. “No, missus, you’re the barmy one.”

  Both doors crashed open, and a number of people poured in. Mr. Fielding was the first to reach the duchess. He cast a glance at me and the knife, then twisted the duchess’ arms behind her back, holding her competently as she thrashed and screamed.

  “What are you doing?” she screeched. “She’s trying to kill me!”

  “That’s porkies, that is,” I raged. Mr. Fielding understood. Pork pies—lies. “And you’ve no notion how to hire a decent cook,” I snapped at the duchess, my ire high.

  Daniel came straight to me. I felt his touch on my back, and he pressed a handkerchief to my bleeding chest. “Kat.” His voice, warm in my ear, shook.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him, though my legs wobbled and my throat was tight. “It’s only a scratch.” One that hurt like the devil.

  Daniel had me on the settee, sinking down next to me. The duke stood in the middle of the room, his mouth open. Several footmen hovered nearby, a few without livery, likely just returned from their day out. They turned to the duke for instruction, but he stood as one stunned.

  “Ciara,” he whispered.

  I took that to be the duchess’s name. She continued to struggle against Mr. Fielding, wrath in her eyes. Mr. Fielding showed no worries about injuring the woman as he tightened his grip.

  “The police, I think,” Mr. Fielding said.

  “Do not let those bloody bastards into my house,” the duchess shouted. “John, stop them.”

  The duke only stared at her. “Ciara, what have you done?”

  “Confessed to funding illegal organizations plotting against the British crown and carrying out assassinations,” Daniel said grimly. He remained with me, his handkerchief now stained crimson. “I’m so sorry, Kat. I wanted to rush in right away, but Errol insisted we wait and hear her tell you all, with witnesses.”

  He glanced at the footmen, who watched in shock. Apparently, they were as surprised as I to find that the duchess was duplicitous.

  “I will summon our solicitor,” the duke said in a subdued voice.

  “You should,” Daniel said quietly. “The police will be here soon.”

  “Will they?” Mr. Fielding asked as the duchess struggled anew. “How will they have heard? Ah . . .” He gazed at Daniel with new respect. “I might have known.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but Daniel explained to me. “I have men stationed outside, and I sent them a signal.”

  “Of course you did,” Mr. Fielding said.

  “We have a few minutes, that is all.” Daniel held out his hand, and I put the knife, which I still clutched, into it. “I do not want you here when they arrive,” he said to me.

  “But I am a witness.” My ability to speak in more neutral tones had returned.

  “No. Errol and I are.”

  Daniel helped me to my feet and began to steer me toward the door in the back of the room. It led to a smaller chamber, I saw, a writing room, very neat and cozy. Daniel shut the door, blocking the view of the drawing room and its strange tableau.

  “Not only the police will come,” Daniel continued.

  I thought of the tall man with the icy gaze. “Your Mr. Monaghan will be with them.”

  “I do not want him to know about you.”

  “I understand.” I’d never spoken to the man, but I sensed that Mr. Monaghan, if he knew of our friendship, might use me to tighten his hold over Daniel. “The duke and duchess, never mind the servants, will tell the police about me.”

  “Yes, but I can deflect Monaghan’s attention from you, and Errol will help me. Now, you must be gone.”

  “Indeed.” I glanced at myself, mourning the ruin of the lovely silk. “I cannot go home in this state.” I’d decided where I would seek refuge, but Daniel did not ask me. He trusted me to take care of myself, which gave me a warm feeling through my shock. “I will need a hansom,” I continued. “Or I might be arrested walking about like this, or at least stopped by a concerned person.”

  I started to turn away, but Daniel pulled me back. I landed against him, my bloody frock ruining his cashmere coat.

  “Damnation, Kat.” He kissed me. It was a hard kiss, Daniel’s mouth a point of heat. I clung to him, feeling his solid strength, and let him kiss me for as long as he liked.

  * * *

  * * *

  When Daniel at last ushered me out of the house, a hansom, with Lewis driving, waited. I supposed Daniel had signaled him too. Daniel helped me into it, his tender expression evaporating and the forbidding one returning as he made once more for the house.

  I did not envy the duke and duchess. The duke might be a lofty man, but he was about to face Mr. Monaghan, who I gathered would not care one whit about the duke’s status.

  I asked Lewis to please take me to Upper Brook Street. I found Cynthia there with Miss Townsend and Bobby, as I’d suspected I would.

  The three ladies were horrified at my injury and fussed over me with flattering attention. Bobby capably cleaned the wound and dressed it with a pad of cloth. Miss Townsend, who held the basin of water for her, waved away the destruction of the gown and said she’d give me another.

  I scarcely wanted it. My days of playing a well-bred young lady were finished.

  Cynthia had brought my work frock that I’d left at Mr. Thanos’s, and she helped me into it, careful of my wound. The cut wasn’t deep, Bobby said, and would soon heal, if I took care. I had enough knowledge of poultices and the benefits of clean water that I knew I could keep it from becoming septic.

  Exhausted, I took my basket, which Cynthia had also brought, and walked home. Miss Townsend wanted to fetch another hansom for me, but I said it would look more natural if I arrived on foot, basket over my arm, as though I’d simply run out to a shop. Besides, it wasn’t far.

  Cynthia accompanied me. Though she wore a frock tonight, she walked with a free stride, her skirt cut to hang straight, with no bustle or crinoline.

  It was with relief I stepped into my own kitchen, set down my basket, and hung up my coat. Elsie washed dishes with fervor, anxious to finish so she could go to bed. Tess stirred flour and water that would ferment overnight for bread dough in the morning. Mr. Davis was removing his coat, ready to sit at the kitchen table with his lump of meat pie, while the footmen and maids chattered loudly in the servants’ hall. Mrs. Redfern shushed those who grew too voluble.

  I inhaled the scents of roasted meat, thickened gravy, piles of herbs and greens, carbolic from Elsie’s sink, and the underlying mellow tang of fresh-baked bread that never quite went away.

  I belonged here, I knew as I donned my apron and moved to the larder. I was not hungry, as I’d eaten at the Berkeley Square house, though that unsatisfactory meal seemed a long time ago. A portion of meat pie waited under a cloth, and I cut a piece and put it on a crockery plate. The plain food would taste good at the moment.

  As I turned to leave, my gaze fell on the crates behind which I’d hidden the rhododendron clippings.
I bent to peer at them, but they seemed untouched.

  Carrying the plate back to the kitchen in shaking hands, I entered to hear Mr. Davis say, “A clerk at Mansion House has gone and stolen one pound eleven from his employers.” He clicked his tongue. “What is the world coming to?”

  Tess finished stirring the flour mixture and returned to the table, wiping her hands. Her eyes held curiosity, but she would not ask me where James had rushed me to in front of Mr. Davis and the others.

  “I done the greens.” Tess pointed to three small baskets on the sideboard with lettuce, more of the carrot tops, and mixtures of fresh herbs in them. “All rinsed and the dirt shaken out. I didn’t tear them up yet, ’cause I remembered you said they stayed crisp and bright if you don’t until the last minute.”

  “Well done, Tess,” I said with true approval. “Thank you.”

  “Bit of a dustup at the dining table,” Mr. Davis said, raising his head from the newspaper. “Mrs. Bywater has been insisting Lady Clifford take the first helping of everything, saying you must lay the best pieces of fish or meat on top. I suppose she believed you even put the best ladleful of soup on top as well. Mr. Bywater said that was rot and the bottom piece was no different from the first. I was called upon to give my opinion.”

  I sat down at the table, my legs no longer wanting to hold me. If I kept on in this state, I’d fall to weeping. I held myself together with effort. “And what did you answer, Mr. Davis?”

  “That of course every slice of meat and spoonful of custard you prepare is as excellent as the last. But it was proper that Lady Clifford, as the highest-ranking lady guest, should of course have first choice.” Mr. Davis turned a page of the paper. “That satisfied all present. The upstairs was pleased with me tonight.” He snorted. “As if you would bury a bad piece of meat at the bottom of the platter. You’d take it out and not serve it at all.”

  I scarcely heard this last. As I studied the baskets overflowing with fragrant greens, and Mr. Davis began to read aloud how the Mahdi in the Sudan was trying to throw all Egyptians out of his realm, it came to me exactly how someone could have poisoned the dinner at Lady Covington’s house. And likely was still doing it.

  26

  In the morning, I saw absolutely nothing in the newspaper about the duke and duchess, nor any mention of a disturbance in Berkeley Square. Whatever Daniel’s Mr. Monaghan had done, he’d been very discreet.

  In any case, dukes didn’t get hauled to Newgate, nor made to trot through the tunnel connecting it with the Old Bailey to stand in the dock in front of an ordinary crowd. Dukes were tried in the House of Lords, if they came to trial at all. A man with as much wealth, power, and influence as the Duke of Daventry might never be forced to publicly admit he helped his wife with her vengeance against the English government.

  I sympathized with the duchess when I wasn’t reliving the fear of her slashing at me with her knife. I knew full well that those of the lower orders could be trampled upon without compunction, the poor blamed for being poor. If one was an Irish Catholic peasant and punished for it, well then, one shouldn’t be an Irish Catholic peasant, should one? Such logic filled the minds of those whose greatest worry was whether their valet would be at their bedside with coffee the instant they woke.

  But did killing make anything right? Very evil and wicked people needed to be punished, certainly, but when innocents were caught up in someone else’s vengeance on those evil and wicked people—where did it end?

  Which brought me around to my errand today.

  I debated taking tea cakes or some other treat to soften the blow I would deliver, but decided not to. This would not be a convivial visit.

  I summoned James, who’d been relieved Daniel and I had emerged well and whole but was a bit sorry to have missed the excitement. I gave him messages to deliver for me. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened for questions, but I sent him off.

  Today was my half day out. I’d go to Lady Covington’s first, though I was tempted to see Grace beforehand. I longed to be with my daughter, but I decided I’d prefer to spend the rest of my afternoon with her after my difficult task was finished.

  Cynthia agreed to walk with me. “Are you certain?” she asked in perplexity as I told her what I’d concluded.

  “Almost certain,” I admitted. “But it is the only explanation.”

  We continued in silence. Cynthia headed for the front entrance of the Park Lane house once we’d reached it, and I parted from her and went around to the back garden.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Symes,” I said as I entered through the gate.

  Symes looked up from raking the walk, brows rising under his cap. “You come here quite often these days, Mrs. Holloway. I wish I could believe it were to see me.”

  I kept my basket in front of me like a barrier. “You have been very kind, Mr. Symes.”

  “Ah, kindness.” He shook his head in regret. “Well, I suppose that’s all a body can hope for.”

  “I am popping down to the kitchen. Do carry on.”

  Symes touched his cap in salute. “Right you are, missus.”

  I tramped down the stairs to the door and inside the cool, slate-floored hall. I turned to the right, into the kitchen, where Mrs. Gamble stirred something on the stove.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Gamble,” I sang cheerily.

  Mrs. Gamble turned around, not startled. “I heard you up in the garden, love. I have a kettle on. Would you like a cuppa? Or did Lady Covington summon you?”

  “Lady Cynthia is visiting with her ladyship. I came to ask you a few questions—about how things are done in your kitchen.”

  Mrs. Gamble wrapped a towel around the kettle and carried it to the table, where she poured steaming water into a teapot. “Is this about who tainted my food and killed Mrs. Hume? Well, sit yourself down, and we’ll have a chat. I’ll help any way I can.”

  “Thank you.” I took a stool at the table, happy to rest my feet. I’d been doing much walking lately.

  Mrs. Gamble brought two cups from the sideboard and also a plate of lemon cake. “The family do love this cake.” She set everything on the table. “I thank you a thousand times for the recipe.”

  “You are most welcome,” I said modestly. “It isn’t much, really.”

  “Ah, but the proportions are so exact, it’s almost magical. Such a lovely taste.”

  Once the tea had steeped, she poured it out into cups. “I have sugar and cream if you’d like.” She dropped a broken piece of a sugar loaf into her cup, followed by a thick stream of cream from a pot.

  “No, thank you. I’ve learned to take it plain.” I sipped, trying not to make a face. Tea for servants was usually cheap, the leftover twigs and dust from finer leaves. I’d learned how to seek out the best of the inexpensive teas, but this was far from that.

  Mrs. Gamble finished turning her tea into cream and sugar soup, sipped, and made a noise of satisfaction. She lifted a crumb from the lemon cake plate and nibbled it.

  “Have you brought something for Lady Covington?” she asked, peering at my basket.

  “Not today. As I said, I’ve come to ask how you do things in your kitchen.” I turned my cup around in its saucer. “In mine, we wash and leave the greens either in the larder or on the dresser, depending on how hot the kitchen is, so that they’ll be handy when we want to pop some into a dish, or start a soup, or make a salad.”

  Mrs. Gamble nodded. “I do the same. I don’t have an assistant, which is a pity, but I do sort everything and then have it handy. I never know what his lordship is going to demand, or what her ladyship will need.”

  “Precisely.” I scanned the boxes of produce on her shelves—radishes, asparagus, and plenty of leafy lettuce and herbs from Symes’s careful tending. The mortar and pestle I’d spied on my previous visit rested on a table below the herbs. “It must be nice to have the garden handy.”

 
“It does save a journey to Covent Garden.” Mrs. Gamble took another sip. “You walk all that way and then the stalls are out of what you’ve gone for. Most annoying. Greengrocers don’t always have the best foodstuffs either.”

  “Very true,” I said with feeling. “They’ll sell radish tops as parsley or fennel for onions, thinking we don’t know the difference.”

  Mrs. Gamble chuckled her acknowledgment. “They will indeed. Mr. Symes, now, he understands what’s what and sends me down exactly what I ask for.”

  “He is a good gardener, is Mr. Symes.”

  “Aye.” Mrs. Gamble glanced again at my basket, and I decided to relieve her curiosity.

  “I obtained these from your garden.” I lifted the cloth to reveal long green leaves on darker green stems.

  Mrs. Gamble stared in bewilderment. “You did? Whatever for?”

  “I fancied them,” I said. “Shall I gather them with some of your herbs and make us a salad?”

  Mrs. Gamble pulled back. “Them’s rhodies, Mrs. Holloway. They’re poisonous.” Her brow cleared. “Are you saying this is what was used to try to kill her ladyship?”

  “Yes.” I sipped more tea. “You recognize them.”

  “Well, of course I do. They grow right outside the back door.” Mrs. Gamble took a plate from a stack at the end of the table and cut a piece of the lemon cake. She placed it in front of me and laid a fork beside it.

  I continued. “What I mean is, if someone who wanted to poison Lady Covington sneaked these leaves into your kitchen and mixed them with the chervil or the basil, you would notice.”

  “Aye.” She frowned in puzzlement.

  “I’ve thought and thought about how someone could be poisoning your food. They could gather the rhodie cuttings and grind them up with a mortar and pestle.” I waved a hand at hers, a utensil found in every kitchen. “The poison is rubbed onto the very top fillet or slice of meat or mixed into the top dollop of a vegetable platter. Lady Covington always takes the first helping of every dish—a person could watch for a time and see what piece she favors. The poison could be added to her food right here in the kitchen, or surreptitiously in the dining room as the dishes sit on the sideboard before a meal. Or the dumbwaiter could be stopped between floors and the poison added there.”