At the moment, I never wanted to cook anything again. But I heaved a sigh, climbed to my feet, and went through the larder to see what foodstuffs I’d need.
I had everything but the mushrooms, berries, fresh fish, and birds. James was dispatched to procure those. The leftover greens were a bit wilted, but edible, apples drying, but again, usable.
I set everything out as I remembered. A bit difficult because I never cooked to an exact recipe—I knew what went into each dish from experience, then I threw in a bit of this or that I had on hand or left out things I did not, so each meal was unique. A long time ago, when I’d first been a cook’s assistant, I’d doggedly learned every step of a recipe and followed it religiously, until a famous chef I met told me to trust my own instincts. After that, my skills rose quickly.
I tried to remember what I’d done as I worked. I set Daniel to helping me chop leeks and greens, core the apples, stir the roux for the velouté, and cream the butter for the scones.
Daniel proved to be quite skilled at cookery, though it was clear he’d never handled a chef’s knife before. I had to show him, with my hand over his, how to chop the leeks. His skin was warm, his breath on my cheek, warmer.
I might have stayed in the circle of his arm for a while longer had not James come banging back in. I nearly cut myself scrambling away from Daniel, who moved the knife safely aside, his eyes alight with amusement.
I set Daniel to washing and chopping the mushrooms, and James competently cleaned the fish in the scullery.
We created the meal again, which took the rest of the day, and then partook of it, enjoying the lightness of leek soup, the savory fish, the tenderness of the game birds with peppercorns, the sweet and tart tastes in the salad. The scones came out light and crumbly, the custard creamy with the bright bite of berries to finish.
When we ended the meal, Daniel pushed back his plate, clattered his fork to it, and let out a sigh. “You are an artist, Kat.”
“It’s only a bit of cookery,” I said modestly, but I was pleased.
James wiped his mouth with the napkin I’d given him. “’Tis bloody hard work. All that, and you eat it in ten minutes.”
“You eat it in ten minutes,” Daniel said with fatherly fondness. He took a sip of the wine I’d brought out of the butler’s pantry for the peppercorn sauce.
Daniel seemed to know about wine—he didn’t quaff it but savored it, pronouncing the vintage excellent. He was a paradox, was Daniel, though I had long since discarded the belief that he was a simple delivery man.
“You do well in the kitchen,” I told James. “You learn quickly and have a feel for the food. Perhaps you could study a bit and become a chef.”
“A chef?” James snorted. “Cooking for pampered gentlemen who complain when their dinner hasn’t been boiled long enough? No, thank you.”
“Well.” Daniel leaned back in his chair. “There was nothing wrong with that meal. Plenty of opportunities for you to slip in the poison, and you too, James—and me—but if everyone in the kitchen ate of the dishes, and you and James are well, I cannot see how the poison came from the meal as you cooked it.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “You might have taken my word for it before we did all that work.” Not that I’d eaten so well in a long time. I suspected part of Daniel’s motive had been to partake in an expertly cooked elegant meal, which I doubted came along for him very often. I’d rather liked cooking with Daniel—and James, of course.
Daniel and James obligingly helped me clean up. I expected them, as men often did, to abandon me once the enjoyment was over, but James scrubbed plates and Daniel dried them with good cheer.
I told them to leave me after that. I had nowhere to go and would make do with my bed here tonight, but tomorrow, I’d look for other digs and a new place.
James departed, his pockets full of leftover scones. Daniel lingered on the doorstep. “Are you certain you’ll be all right, Kat?”
“Not entirely.” The kitchen was echoing without Daniel and James in it, the rooms above me, too silent. However, the street was busy and noisy, and the neighbors and their servants were near to hand. “I don’t have much choice do I? But I am made of strong stuff, do not worry.”
“Hmm.” Daniel glanced at the ceiling, as though he could see the entire house above us. “Lock this door behind me then. I’ve already bolted the front door but keep the door at the top of the back stairs locked. And don’t go out until morning.”
His caution unnerved me. I felt the weight of the house above us, empty and waiting. I drew a breath and repeated that I’d be all right, and at last, Daniel departed.
I locked the kitchen door then scurried up the back stairs to the door at the top, its green baize tight and unblemished, as though nothing untoward had occurred beyond it. I opened the door and peered out into the cold darkness of the house.
I was too sensible to believe in spirits, but the shadows seemed to press at me. Sir Lionel had died here, alone and unpitied.
I quickly closed that door, locked it, and descended again to the kitchen, where I rechecked the back door and made certain none of the high windows were open. The kitchen was stuffy with the windows closed, but I’d put up with it.
I retired to bed, but I could not sleep for a good long time, as tired as I was. I kept picturing the rooms upstairs, dark, deserted, silent.
At last I did drift off, only to be woken by a loud thump. Then came a creak of floorboard above me. Someone was in the house.
I had a moment of panic, wanting to put the bedcovers over my head and pretend it hadn’t happened. But I hardened my resolve and sat up.
Burglars must have broken in—empty houses were good targets, especially those belonging to rich men. Sir Lionel’s heir would no doubt arrive to take possession soon, but until then, a house full of silver, wine, and other valuables was a sitting duck waiting to be plucked.
I wasn’t having it. I sprang quietly out of bed, pulled on a blouse and skirt over my nightclothes and found my good, stout boots. I’d run for the constable who patrolled the street—never mind he’d had a hand in my arrest—and bring him in to the take the thieves.
As I left my tiny bedchamber and made my way through the short hall to the kitchen, I heard the burglar start down the back stairs.
Damn and blast. The entire expanse of the kitchen lay between me and the back door. I knew why they’d come down here—the master’s collection of wine and much of the silver lay in the butler’s pantry beyond the kitchen.
I’d have to risk it. Taking a deep breath, I scurried across the flagstone floor toward the scullery and the back door.
A dark figure leapt down the last part of the stairs and grabbed me before I could reach for the door latch—the door was already unlocked, I saw belatedly. I let out a scream. A hand clamped over my mouth and dragged me back into the kitchen. I fought like mad, kicking and flailing with my fists.
“For God’s sake, Kat, stop!”
Daniel’s voice was a hiss in my ear, and a second later, I realized it was he who held me. I broke away. “What the devil are you doing, frightening me out of my wits?” I asked in a fierce whisper.
“Shh.” He put a finger to my lips.
I understood. Though it had been Daniel creeping down to the kitchen, someone was still upstairs, robbing the place.
“It’s Copley,” Daniel said into my ear.
I started in indignation. “That rat. We should run for the constable. Catch him at it.”
“The police are already waiting outside. When he runs out with the goods, they’ll nab him. He won’t have any excuse or chance to hide.”
I went quiet as the floorboards creaked again. I might have known. “What if he comes down here?” I asked.
“Then I’ll lay him out and deliver him to the Peelers.”
I liked the idea, but I had to wonder. “Why are you hand in glove with the police?”
Daniel’s vague shrug was maddening, but I fell silent. We trac
ed Copley’s path across the ground floor above us until he disappeared into the rear of the house.
“The garden door,” Daniel said in a low voice, no more whispering. “That’s how he came in. He’ll find plenty of the Old Bill waiting for him as he goes out.”
The nearness of Daniel was warming. “How did you know he was here at all?”
“I was watching the house, saw him pass a few times. Then he nipped around the corner to the mews behind it. I told the constable to bring some stout fellows, and I followed Copley inside.”
“You were watching the house?” I was befuddled from being jerked from a sound sleep and having Daniel so close to me.
Daniel gave me a nod. “I wanted to make sure all was well. I worry about you, Kat.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then touched my chin with his forefinger, leaned down, and brushed a kiss across my lips.
I was too astonished to do anything but let him. Daniel straightened, gave me a wry smile, and moved around me to let himself out the kitchen door.
A blast of cold air poured over me, but my body was warm where he’d held me. I touched my fingertips to my lips, still feeling the pressure of his soft kiss.
Chapter 7
Daniel returned in the morning, knocking on the kitchen door, which I’d re-locked.
He’d brought James with him again, to help me with the morning chores necessary to any house, no matter I was its only resident. James whipped around, carrying in coal and helping stir up the fire, while I mixed up dough for flat muffins and fried the last of the bacon.
I kept glancing sideways at Daniel as we ate at the table, though he did not seem to notice. He said nothing about the adventure of the night before—not to mention the kiss—as if none of it were of any moment.
I was no stranger to the relations between men and women—I had a daughter, after all—but what I’d had with my husband had been sometimes painful and always far from affectionate. The gentle heat of Daniel’s mouth had opened possibilities to me, thoughts I’d never explored. I’d had no idea a man could be so tender.
Daniel seemed to have forgotten all about the kiss, however. That stung, but I made myself feel better by pretending he was being discreet in front of his son.
After breakfast, I mentioned I needed to tidy myself and return to the agency to find another post, but Daniel forestalled me. “First we are visiting Mrs. Fuller.”
I blinked as I set the plates on the draining board. “The woman who shared the fatal meal? She has recovered?”
“She has, and was lucky to. The coroner tells me there was a large quantity of poison in the two men, enough to kill a person several times over. Mrs. Fuller is rather stout, so perhaps the arsenic did not penetrate her system as thoroughly. Her doctors purged her well.”
“Poor thing,” I said. “Do you think Copley somehow added the poison to the meal? To clear Sir Lionel out of the way so he might help himself to the goods?” I contemplated this a moment, rinsing plates under the taps. “Perhaps he only pretended to be too drunk to serve that night, so the food wouldn’t be connected with him.”
Daniel shook his head. “I think Copley is more an opportunist than a schemer. Though he might have seen an opportunity to administer the poison and taken it.”
“I still don’t see how. Copley is limber and thin, but I can’t imagine him crouching in the dumbwaiter shaft with a bottle of poison.”
Daniel gave me his warm laugh. “Nor can I. Ready yourself, and we’ll go.”
James finished the washing up so I could change. I put on my second-best dress, the one I kept clean for visiting agencies or my acquaintances on my day out, or my occasional jaunt to the theatre. For church and visiting my daughter, I always wore my best dress.
This gown was a modest dark brown, with black piping on cuffs, bodice, and neckline. I flattered myself that it went with my glossy brown hair and dark blue eyes. The hat that matched it—coffee-brown straw with a subdued collection of feathers and a black ribbon—set it off to perfection.
Daniel gave me a glance of approval when I emerged, which warmed me. Ridiculous. I was behaving like a smitten girl.
But then, he’d never seen me in anything but my gray work dress and apron. James grinned at me, told me I was lovely, and offered me his arm. Sweet boy.
Mrs. Fuller lived on Wilton Crescent, near Belgrave Square. A fine address, and the mansion that went with it took my breath away. Daniel and I were let in by a side door, though James remained outside with the hired coach.
The ceilings of the house above stairs were enormously high, the back and front parlors divided by pointed arches. Plants were everywhere—we had stepped into a tropical rainforest it seemed. Rubber trees, elephant’s ears, potted palms, and other exotic species I couldn’t identify filled the rooms. The furniture surrounding these plants was elegantly carved, heavy, and upholstered in velvet.
The butler led us through the front and back parlors and into a bedchamber that looked out to the gardens in back of the house.
This room was as elegant as the others, the ceiling crisscrossed with beams carved like those in an Indian mogul’s palace. Mosaics covered blank spaces in the ceiling, and outside in the garden, a fountain containing tiles with more mosaics burbled.
Mrs. Fuller lay on a thick mattress in an enormous mahogany bedstead with curved sides. Mrs. Fuller was indeed stout, about twice my girth, and I am not a thin woman. Her face, however, was pretty in a girlish way, the hair under her cap brown without a touch of gray.
I curtsied when the butler announced us, and Daniel made a polite bow. “I apologize for disturbing you, madam,” Daniel began. “The police inspector thought Mrs. Holloway might be of assistance, as he discussed with you.”
“Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Fuller lifted a damp handkerchief from the bedcovers and wiped her red-rimmed eyes. “I am anxious to find out what happened. Forgive me, my dear, if I am not myself. It is still incredible to me that my dear husband is gone, and yet, here I am. You are the cook?”
“I am.” I gave her another polite curtsy. “My condolences, ma’am. Yes, I cooked the meal, but I promise you, I never would have dreamed of tainting it in any way.”
Mrs. Fuller dabbed her eyes again. “They told me you were innocent of the crime. I suppose you are suffering from this in your own way as well. Your reputation … you are an excellent cook, my dear. If it is any consolation, I so enjoyed the meal.” Her smile was weary, that of a woman trying to make sense of a bizarre circumstance.
Daniel broke in, his voice quiet. “I’ve asked Mrs. Holloway about what she served and how she prepared it. It would help if you described the meal in your own words, Mrs. Fuller, and tell us if any dishes tasted odd.”
Mrs. Fuller looked thoughtful. I pitied her, ill and abruptly widowed. She could have doctored the food herself to kill her rich husband, of course, but her husband dying did not mean she inherited all the money. That would go to her oldest son, if she had sons, or to nephews or other male kin if she did not. She’d receive only what was apportioned to her in the will or in the marriage agreement, though the heir could be generous and give her an allowance and place to live. However, the heir did not have to, not legally.
One reason not to marry in haste was that a widowed woman might find herself destitute. Careful planning was best, as were contracts signed by solicitors, as I’d learned to my regret.
“Let me see,” Mrs. Fuller began. She then listed all the dishes I had prepared, forgetting about the mushrooms at first, but she said, “oh, yes,” and came back to them. No, all tasted as they should, Mrs. Fuller thought, and she heaped more praise on my cooking.
“The custard at the end was very nice,” she finished, sounding tired. “With the berries, all sweetened with sugar.”
She had described what I did. Nothing added or missing. She and Sir Lionel had taken coffee, while her husband had been served tea, so if the poison had been in the coffee, she would have still have been ill but her husband alive
.
Daniel seemed neither disappointed nor enlightened at the end of this interview. He thanked Mrs. Fuller, who looked tired, and we began to take our leave.
As her maid ushered us out of the bedchamber, a thought struck me. “A moment,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Fuller. “You said the custard and berries were sweet with sugar. I put a burnt sugar sauce on the custard, yes, but did not sprinkle more sugar on top. Is that what you meant?”
Mrs. Fuller frowned. “I meant that there was sugar in a caster that came with the tarts on the tray. We all made use of it.”
“Ah,” I said.
Mrs. Fuller drooped against her pillows, the handkerchief coming up to her eyes again. The maid gave us a severe look, protective of her mistress, and Daniel led me firmly from the room.
I tried to walk decorously out of the house, but I moved faster and faster until I was nearly running as we reached the carriage.
“What the devil is it, Kat?” Daniel asked as he helped me in and climbed up beside me. “What did she say that’s got you agitated?”
“The caster.” I beamed as James slammed the door. “There is your incongruity.”
Daniel only peered at me. “Why?”
“Because, my dear Daniel, I never sprinkle extra sugar on my custards, especially with the berries. Ruins the contrast—the custard is plenty sweet with the burnt sugar sauce, and the slight tartness of the berries sets it off perfectly. Extra sugar only drowns the flavor. I would never have sent up a caster full of it on a tray to ruin my dessert. I didn’t, in fact. That means the poison must have been in the sugar.”
Daniel’s eyes lit, a wonderful sight in a handsome man. “I see. The murk begins to clear.”
“Does it?” I deflated a bit. “Now all we need to know is where the caster came from, who put the poison into it, and how it got on the table that night.”
Daniel gave me a wise nod. “I’m sure you’ll discover that soon enough.”
“Don’t tease. I am not a policeman, Mr. McAdam.”
“I know, but perhaps you ought to be.” His amusement evaporated. “I must ask the inspector how he and his men missed a container full of poison when they searched the house.”
Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries Page 5