Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries

by Jennifer Ashley

  The finished meal did me proud. I thanked James profusely, asked him to sup with the rest of us, and happily gave him a few more shillings. The dishes went up to the dining room via the lift in the corner, and Mrs. Watkins saw that all was served.

  Why not Copley? Because he’d fled the house while I had been ordering everyone about in the kitchen, got roaring drunk, and collapsed when he finally came back in. John and James carried him off to bed, which left Mrs. Watkins and John to see to the dining room. Mrs. Watkins was angry at this turn of events, but I knew she’d manage.

  Every plate came back scraped clean. My pride puffed up. They’d loved it.

  I was, as far as I was concerned that night, the greatest cook in the land.

  It was late before I crawled off, exhausted, to seek my bed. My bedroom was a cubby-hole of a chamber, but I liked it because it lay right behind the kitchen fireplace, which kept it warm and dry.

  I was deep in the slumber of the just when the scullery maid, Sally, shook me awake into darkness. “Oh, Mrs. Holloway,” she said breathlessly. “There’s someone above stairs.”

  I screwed my eyes shut against the flickering flame of her candle. “Of course there’s someone above stairs. Likely his royal highness stumbling to bed after drinking himself into a stupor.”

  “No, ma’am. It ain’t Sir Lionel.” Sally regarded me in terror. “The guests left hours ago, and the master dragged ’imself off to bed already. It ain’t John or Copley neither. I ’eard ’em snoring when I passed their rooms. And Mrs. Watkins went off to visit her sister.”

  I levered myself to a sitting position. I did not ask why Sally hadn’t woken the men instead of trotting all the way downstairs to me. Copley and John would be useless and we both knew it.

  “Get the poker then, girl. If it’s burglars, we’ll set about them.”

  Sally’s eyes grew even more round. I threw back the covers and swung my feet to the floor, pressing them into my slippers. Sally scuttled into the kitchen and wrested the poker from its place with so much clanking I was sure the thieves would hear and run away directly.

  I didn’t bother with my knives. They were suited to hacking chickens, chopping onions, and frightening overly amorous masters. For fending off marauders, a poker or a stout stick works much better. To use a knife, you must get close, and those you’re fighting might have something just as nasty to hand.

  I took the poker from Sally, bade her bring her candle, gathered my dressing gown about me, and led the way up into the darkened house.

  Sir Lionel’s house, on the north side of Portman Square, was typical of those in London at the time. We climbed the back stairs to the ground floor, emerging into a hall that ran the length of the house. A staircase with polished banisters and carved newel posts rose along one side of the hall, leading to the floors above us. Rooms opened from the opposite wall of this staircase—reception room and formal dining room on the ground floor, drawing rooms on the next floor, private chambers, including the library, above that.

  I went into the dining room after checking that the front door was still bolted. The walls in there were dark wood panels hung with paintings I suspected were not very good. No expensive artwork for Sir Lionel.

  The room was empty. The dining table had been cleared, a cloth cover draped over it to keep it clean between meals. The chairs were straight, the curtains drawn. Nothing to be seen.

  The reception room was likewise empty, nothing disturbed, no open windows anywhere.

  I was beginning to believe Sally had dreamed it all, but one never knew. A thief could have forced open a back window and be merrily burgling the house above us.

  I led Sally on up the stairs. We checked the front and rear drawing rooms and found nothing amiss.

  I’d check one more floor and then retire to bed. If Sir Lionel wasn’t stirring, then Sally had heard John or Copley moving about for whatever their reasons.

  On the next floor, I saw that the door to Sir Lionel’s library stood ajar. It was dark inside the room, no glow of a fire, lamp, or candle.

  While I did not truly believe thieves would grope around in absolute darkness for valuables in Sir Lionel’s library, the open door made me uneasy. I heard no sound within, not a rustle or thump of books as burglars searched for hidden caches of jewels.

  I noiselessly pushed the door open and went inside.

  Whatever fire had burned that day in the grate had smoldered to ashes. Sally kept bumping into the back of me, because she held the candle and stared into the flame until she was night-blind. But I could see a bit by the streetlight that glittered through the front windows, the curtains wide open.

  What I saw was Sir Lionel. He was slumped forward over his desk, his head turned to the side, his mouth open, eyes staring sightlessly. My carving knife was buried to the hilt in his back.

  Sally screeched and dropped the candle. I snatched the candle from the floor before a spark could catch the rug on fire, and raised the light high.

  My entire body went numb, no feeling anywhere. “May God have mercy,” I croaked, my throat tight and dry. “What a waste of a carver. And them so dear.”

  Chapter 4

  I woke John in his attic chamber—Copley heard Sally’s scream and came down on his own. I sent John for the constable but ordered Copley to stay with the body while I went downstairs and dressed myself.

  By time I returned to the library, the constable, a lad I’d seen walking his beat on the square, had arrived with an older sergeant. They’d lit up the room with every lamp and candle they could find and stoked the fire high. I imagined Sir Lionel’s ghost cringing at the expense.

  The sergeant, a squat, fat man with one string of hair across his bald pate and a wide, thick-lipped mouth, turned to me.

  “It’s your knife, eh?”

  Copley looked innocently at the ceiling, but I knew he must have been filling the constable’s ears with tales of my adventures with Sir Lionel.

  “Of course it is mine,” I snapped. “It came from the kitchens.”

  “’E made a grab for ye tonight, did ’e?” the sergeant asked. “And so you stuck your knife into ’im?”

  I stared in astonishment. “Of course not. I’ve been in bed asleep these past hours. Why would I have come to the library in the middle of the night, in any case? My bedchamber is next to the kitchen, and I have no need to be above stairs at all.”

  The sergeant did not look impressed. “’E made a grab for you afore this, didn’t ’e? And you stuck your knife to ’is throat?”

  I switched my glare to Copley. He wouldn’t meet my eye, but a smile hovered around his thin mouth. I said tartly, “That was weeks ago, and it was only to frighten him. I certainly would not have plunged my knife into a side of beef like Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury. It would ruin the knife. Carvers are expensive.”

  The constable’s eyes glittered a way I didn’t like. “But it was your knife. It would be ’andy.”

  “Absolute nonsense. Why would I carry my kitchen knife upstairs to the master’s rooms?”

  “Because ’e sent for you, and you were frightened. You brought your knife to make you feel safe-like.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. If I’d feared to answer his summons, I’d have stayed securely in my kitchen, or asked John to come with me. He’s quite a strong lad.”

  The sergeant pointed a broad finger at me. “You ’ad a go at ’im before, Mr. Copley says. This time, you went too far, and did ’im.”

  My mouth went dry, but I kept up my bravado. “I did not kill him, you ignorant lout. Why should I?”

  “Who did then? With your sticker?”

  I clenched my hands. “Anyone could have taken the knife from the kitchen.”

  “Mr. Copley says you keep ’em put away special. No one else would know where.”

  “Copley does,” I pointed out.

  Copley sneered at me. “Bitch. She stabbed ’im. She must ’ave.”

  I put my closed fists on my hips. “Who says so? Did you
see me, Mr. Copley?”

  “Yes.”

  My mouth popped open. He was a liar, but Copley’s look was so certain that the sergeant believed him.

  “I ’eard a noise and came down,” Copley said. “And there was you, a-bending over the master’s body, holding the knife.”

  Bloody man. “Of course I looked him over when I found him here,” I said, trying not to sound desperate. “He was already dead. And you saw nothing at all, Mr. Copley. You only came charging in because Sally was screaming, after we found him.”

  Copley scowled. “I saw ye, I tell ye.”

  “You saw me discovering the knife, not plunging it in,” I countered, but my blood was cold. “Ask Sally.” But when I looked about for the scullery maid, I did not see her or hear her anywhere.

  The sergeant was obviously on Copley’s side, the young constable and John confused. All men against one woman.

  “No more o’ this,” the sergeant said severely. “You’ll promenade down to the magistrate with me, missus, and he can hear your story.”

  My body went colder still. If I could not convince the magistrate of my innocence, I would be thrown to the wolves—or at least, to an Old Bailey trial and a jury. A long bench of men would gaze at me disapprovingly and pronounce that cooks should not stick their carving knives into their masters. And that would be the end of me.

  At twenty-nine summers, I found life sweet, and I had more to live for than just myself.

  I wanted to bolt. To run, run, run, snatch up my daughter from where I’d hidden her and flee. To the countryside—no, not far enough. The Continent, or farther, to Asia, perhaps, where I could cook for some colonial nabob who wouldn’t care too much what I ran from as long as I could give him his familiar English fare.

  I closed my eyes, and I prayed. I hadn’t gone to church in about half a dozen years, but praying and church are two different things. I begged God to have mercy on me, and I opened my eyes again.

  “Very well, then,” I said, straightening my shoulders. “But no cuffs, if you please. I am a respectable woman.”

  I lifted my chin and marched before them out of the room, down the stairs, and straight out of the house.

  The magistrate who examined me at Bow Street was a jovial man whose rotund body betrayed that he liked his meals and missed few. I had to stand up before him while those also awaiting examination filled the room behind me—I was a nobody, and warranted no special treatment.

  Most of the people at the house had been arrested in the night for theft, drunkenness, fighting, being loud and disorderly, and for prostitution. A few well-dressed solicitors wandered the crowd, looking for clients to take to barristers, but they didn’t bother approaching me. I had a bit of money put by, but I doubted I’d be able to afford an eloquent, wigged barrister to argue in my defense.

  The magistrate’s chair creaked as he leaned over his bench and peered at me nearsightedly. “Name?”

  “Katharine Holloway, sir,” I said, though it was sure to be on the paper his clerk had handed him.

  “And you were the mistress of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury of Portman Square?”

  I gave him a look of shock. “Indeed not, sir. I was his cook.”

  The magistrate stared at me with unblinking, light blue eyes. “His cook? Well, madam ... you certainly cooked his goose.”

  The stuffy room rang with laughter.

  “I did not murder him, sir,” I declared over the noise.

  “You claim to be innocent of this crime, do you?” the magistrate asked. “Even though the butler saw you chopping his onions?” More laughter.

  “Mr. Copley saw nothing,” I said indignantly. “He is a drunken fool and a liar. Besides, it was a carving knife, not a chopper.”

  The magistrate lost his smile. “It makes no difference whether it were for skewering or filleting. The butler saw you with your sticker, and he stands by that. Do you have any witnesses as to your character? Someone who might argue for you?”

  I thought quickly. Daniel leapt to mind, but I had no way of knowing where to find him. Besides, why should he speak for me, when we were only friends in passing? This magistrate, with his obnoxious sense of humor, might accuse me of being Daniel’s mistress as well.

  “No, sir,” I said stiffly. “My family is gone. I am on my own.”

  “You sound proud of that fact. No woman should be pleased she has no one to take care of her.”

  I raised my chin. “I take care of myself.”

  The magistrate studied me over his bench, and I read the assessment in his face: No better than she ought to be.

  “You take care of yourself by giving your master supper and then stabbing him through the heart?” the magistrate demanded. “I suppose you thought him ... well served.”

  His clerks and constables as well as many of London’s unwashed, roared again. I suppose this magistrate spent all his quiet time inventing quips to bring out when the opportunity arose, for the entertainment of the court.

  The magistrate gave me a wide smile, betraying that his back teeth were going rotten. “Katherine Holloway, I am binding you over for the willful murder of Sir Lionel Leigh-Bradbury of Portman Square. You will be taken to Newgate to await your trial. That will give you time to simmer in your own sauce.”

  The room went positively riotous.

  I was icy with fear but refused to bow my head. I stood there, staring at the magistrate until he signaled to his bailiff. The bailiff, a tall man with wiry hair, seized my arm and pulled me from the room.

  The jailer who led me to a cell in Newgate had legs far longer than mine, and I had to scuttle swiftly to keep up with him.

  He took me down a flight of stairs to a chilly room already filled with people. The jailer shoved me roughly inside then retreated and locked the door. I stumbled and collided with a stone wall, pins falling from my hair, the dark mass of it tumbling down. I clung to that wall, unwilling to turn and face the crowd behind me.

  What on earth was I to do? Who could help me? I needed a solicitor, but as I said, I doubted I could secure even the cheapest brief to stand up for me. I might appeal to Daniel, because he’d been kind to me, but even if he would be willing to help, I had no idea how to find him or where to send him word.

  Daniel might not be in London at all. He disappeared from the metropolis now and again for weeks at a time, I supposed to work other odd jobs. I could send someone to search for him or for James, but still I had no way of knowing where to start looking—except at posh houses where he might make deliveries—nor anyone to send.

  I turned around and slid down the wall to sit with my knees against my chest. I could not remain here. It was not only my own well-being I thought of—I took care of my daughter with my wages, and what would become of her if no more money went to the family she lived with? They were kind people, but not wealthy enough to care for a child not their own. No, I had to get out.

  But perhaps Daniel would hear of my arrest. He’d go to Portman Square on his usual rounds and find me gone. The newspapers, not to mention the neighbors’ servants, would be full of the tale of Sir Lionel’s murder.

  Then again, Daniel might believe with everyone else that I’d killed Sir Lionel. He’d go about his business, thinking himself well rid of me. I’d be convicted by a jury and hanged, my feet twisting in the breeze. Copley would come to the hanging and laugh at me.

  Anger at Copley nudged away despair. If I survived this, so help me, I would exact my revenge on the man. I had only a vague idea how I’d go about doing so, but I would have plenty of time to think.

  The window high in the wall darkened, and I grew hungry. My fellow inmates slumped around me, grumbling quietly among themselves. The stink of urine, sweat, and human confinement blanketed the room.

  “Eat this, luv. You’ll feel better.”

  I looked up. The woman who stood over me had snarled red hair and smelled of gin and sweat, but the look in her blue eyes was kindly. Her red satin dress was almost clean and well-me
nded, as though she kept it carefully, but it hung on her thin frame without stays.

  Her costume made me guess her profession. Yesterday, I would have swept by such a woman, perhaps thinking on the evils of the world that drove women to lowly things—where I might be myself had I not been lucky enough to learn cookery. Today, as the woman smiled at me and held out a bit of pasty, I wanted to embrace her as a sister.

  She placed the cold pie into my hands and sat down next to me as I took a hungry bite. The pie was soggy and laden with salt, nothing like the light-crusted savory concoctions I baked myself. But at the moment, it tasted like the finest cake.

  “Me name’s Anne,” the woman said. “You’re wrong about me, you know, luv. I’m an actress.”

  I studied her with renewed interest but could not remember seeing her on a stage at Drury Lane or Haymarket. However, the fact that she was an actress did not necessarily mean she was a principal—one could be buried in the chorus, quietly anonymous.

  “I was unjustly accused,” I said, brushing a tear from my cheek.

  “Ain’t we all, luv? But me old lad will come for me.”

  Alas, I did not have an old lad, but I did have a lass who needed to be taken care of. If perhaps I did get word to Daniel, I would at least ask him to see that she got the stash of money I had managed to put by. Daniel could be trusted with that, I felt certain.

  But now that I had time to think, what did I know about Daniel, really? Next to nothing. He’d been a bolstering help to me these last few weeks, and he flirted with me, but in a friendly, harmless way. He never tried anything improper, though he must know by now that I might not say no to improper advances from Daniel McAdam.

  I knew nothing of Daniel beyond that. Not where he dwelled or who his family was nor what he did when I did not see him. I only knew that I wanted to lean my head against his strong shoulder, feel him stoke my hair, and hear him say, “There now, Kat. Never you worry. I’ll see to everything.”