The sink was in the scullery so that dirty water and entrails from fish and fowl could be kept well away from the rest of my food. The larder, a long room lined with shelves and with a flagstone floor, looked well stocked, though I’d be the judge of that. From a cursory glance, I saw bags of flour, jars of barley and other grains, dried herbs hanging from the beams, spices in tinned copper jars with labels on the front, and crates of vegetables and fruit pushed back against the coolest walls.
The kitchen itself was fairly dark, as most kitchens were, despite the high windows, so we would have to burn lamps or gaslight all the time, but otherwise, I was satisfied.
The staff to run this lofty house in Mayfair wasn’t as large as I’d expect, but they seemed a diligent lot. I had an assistant, a rather pretty girl of about seventeen who seemed genial enough—she reminded me of myself at that age. Whether her assistance would be useful remained to be seen. Four footmen appeared and disappeared from the servants’ hall, as did half a dozen maids.
Mrs. Bowen, the housekeeper, was thin and birdlike, and I did not know her. This surprised me, because when you are in service in London, you come to know those in the great houses, or at least of them. However, I’d never heard of Mrs. Bowen, which either meant she’d not been in London long or hadn’t long been a housekeeper.
I was disturbed a bit by her very thin figure, because I preferred to work with those who enjoyed eating. Mrs. Bowen looked as though she took no more than a biscuit every day, and then only a digestive. On the other hand, I’d known a spindly man who could eat an entire platter of pork and potatoes followed by a hearty dose of steak and kidney pie and never had to loosen his clothing.
Mr. Davis, whom I soon put down as a friendly old gossip, gave me a book with notes from the last cook of what the master preferred for his dinners. I was pleased to find the dishes uncomplicated but not so dull that any chophouse could have provided the meals. I could do well here.
I carefully unpacked my knives, including a brand-new, sharp carver, took my apron from my valise, and started right in.
The young assistant, a bit unhappy that I wanted her help immediately, was soon chatting freely with me while she measured out flour and butter for my brioche. She gave her name as Sinead.
She pronounced it Shin-aide and gave me a hopeful look. I thought it a beautiful name, conjuring mists over the green Irish land—a place I’d never been—but this was London, and a cook’s kitchen was no place for an Irish nymph.
“It’s quite lovely,” I said as I cut butter into the flour. “But I’m sorry, my girl, we can’t be having Sinead. People get wrong ideas. You must have a plain English name. What did the last cook call you?”
Sinead let out a sigh, her dreams of romance dashed. “Ellen,” she said, resigned. I saw by her expression that she disliked the name immensely.
I studied her dark brown hair, blue eyes, and pale skin in some sympathy. Again, she reminded me of myself—poised on the edge of life and believing wonderful things would happen to her. Alas, I’d found out only too soon the bitter truth. Sinead’s prettiness would bring her only trouble, well I knew, and life was apt to dash her hopes again and again.
“Ellen,” I repeated, trying to sound cheerful. “A nice, solid name, but not too dull. Now, then, Ellen, I’ll need eggs. Large and whole, nothing cracked.”
Sinead gave me a long-suffering curtsy and scuttled for the larder.
“She puts on airs,” Mrs. Bowen said as she passed by the kitchen’s door. “Last cook took a strap to her.” She sounded vastly disapproving of the last cook, which made me begin to warm to Mrs. Bowen.
“Is that why the last cook was dismissed?” I already didn’t think much of this elderly cook, free with a strap, whoever she was. Sinead’s only crime, I could see so far, was having dreams.
“No.” Mrs. Bowen’s answer was short, clipped. She ducked away before she could tell me anything more interesting.
I continued with my bread. Brioche was a favorite of mine—a bread dough made rich with eggs and butter, subtly sweet. It was a fine accompaniment to any meal but also could be served as pudding in a pinch. A little cinnamon and stiff cream or a berry sauce poured over it was as grand as anything served in a posh hotel.
It was as I began beating flour and the eggs into the milk and sugar that I met Lady Rankin’s sister. I heard a loud banging and scrambling noise from the scullery, as though someone had fallen into it down the stairs. Pans clattered to the floor, and then a personage in a black suit burst through the scullery door into the kitchen, boot heels scraping on the flagstones, and collapsed onto a chair at the kitchen table, flinging out arms and legs.
I caught up my bowl of dough before it could be upset, looked at the intruder, and then looked again.
The person wore black trousers, a waistcoat of watered silk in a dark shade of green, with a shining watch fob dangling from its pocket, a smooth frock coat and loose cravat, a long and rather dusty greatcoat, a pair of thick leather gloves, and boots that poked muddy toes from under the trousers. The low-crowned hat that went with the ensemble had been tossed to the table.
Above this male attire was the head and face of a woman, a rather pretty woman at that. She’d done her fair hair in a low bun at the back of her neck, slicking it straight from a fine-boned face. The light color of her hair, her high cheekbones, and light blue, almost colorless eyes were so like Lady Rankin’s, that for a moment, I stared, dumbfounded, believing I was seeing my mistress transformed. This lady was a bit older though, with the beginnings of lines about her eyes, and a manner far more robust than Lady Rankin’s.
“Oh Lord,” the woman announced, throwing her body back in the chair and letting her arms dangle to the floor. “I think I’ve killed someone.”
Chapter Two
As I stared at the woman in alarm, she looked up at me, fixed me with a gaze that was as surprised as mine, and demanded, “Who the devil are you?”
“I am Mrs. Holloway.” I curtsied as best I could with my hands around my dough bowl. “The new cook.”
“New? What happened to the last one? Nasty old Mrs. Cowles. Why did they give her the boot?”
Since I had no idea, I could not answer. “Has something happened?”
The lady shoved the chair from the table and banged to her feet, her color rising. “Good God, yes. Where the devil is everyone? What if I’ve killed him?”
“Killed who?” I asked, holding on to my patience. I’d already decided that the ladies of this family were prone to drama—one played the delicate creature, the other something from a music hall stage.
“Chap outside. I was driving a rig, a new one, and he jumped out in front of me. Come and see.”
I looked at my dough, which could become lumpy if I left it at this stage, but the young lady was genuinely agitated, and the entirety of the staff seemed to have disappeared. I shook out my hands, wiped them with a thick towel, laid the towel over the dough bowl, and nodded at her to lead me to the scene of the problem.
Fog shrouded the street onto which we emerged from the scullery stairs, Lady Cynthia—for that was Lady Rankin’s sister’s name—insisting we exit the house through the servants’ entrance, the way she’d come in.
The fog did nothing to slow the carriages, carts, delivery wagons, small conveyances, and people who scurried about on whatever business took them through Mount Street, which was situated between Grosvenor Square and Berkeley Square. London was always a town on the move. Mud flew as carriage wheels and horses churned it up, droplets becoming dark rain to meld with the fog.
Lady Cynthia led me rapidly through the traffic, ducking and dodging, moving easily in her trousers while I held my skirts out of the dirt and dung on the cobbles and hastened after her. People stared at Lady Cynthia in her odd attire, but no one pointed or said a word—those in the neighborhood were probably used to her.
“There.” Lady Cynthia halted at the corner of Park Street, a respectable enough place, one where a cook should not
be lurking, and pointed.
A leather-topped, four-wheeled phaeton had been halted against the railings of a house on the corner. A burly man held the two horses hitched to the phaeton, while a lad patted them, trying to keep them calm. Inside the vehicle, a man slumped against the seat—whether dead or alive, I could not tell.
“Him,” Lady Cynthia said, jabbing her finger at the figure inside the phaeton. “He popped out of nowhere and ran in front of me. Didn’t see the bloody man until he was right under the horses’ hooves.”
I was already moving toward the phaeton, Lady Cynthia behind me, pressing myself out of the way of carts and carriages rumbling through, lest I end up as the man inside. “Did you summon a doctor?” I asked her, raising my voice to be heard over the clatter of hooves and wheels.
“Why?” Lady Cynthia gave me a blank stare with her pale eyes. “He’s dead.”
I reached the phaeton and opened the door to study the man slumped in the seat. I let out a breath of relief—he was quite alive. I’d unfortunately been witness to those brutally and suddenly killed, but the one thing I’d mainly observed about the dead was that they did not raise their heads or open eyes to stare at me in bewilderment and pain.
The burly man holding the horses called to Lady Cynthia. “Not dead, m’lady. Just a bit bashed about.”
“You, lad,” I said to the boy with him. “Run for a doctor. Perhaps, my lady, we should get him into the house.”
Lady Cynthia might wear the clothes of a man, but she hesitated in the fluttery way young ladies are taught to adopt these days. Cooks, I am pleased to say, are expected to be a bit more formidable. While the boy raced away at my command to summon a physician, I had no compunction about climbing into the phaeton and looking the fellow over myself.
He was an ordinary person, the sort one would find driving a cart and making deliveries to Mayfair households, though I saw no van nearby, nothing to say who his employer was. He wore a plain but thick coat and linen shirt, working trousers, and stout boots. The lack of rents or stains in his clothing told me he was well looked after, either by a wife, or perhaps he could afford to hire out his mending. Or perhaps he even took up a needle himself—but the point was he had enough self-respect to present a clean and neat appearance. That meant he had work and was no ruffian of the street.
I touched his hand, finding it warm, and he groaned piteously.
Lady Cynthia, hearing him, looked much relieved and regained some of her vigor. “Yes, inside. Excellent idea Mrs. . . . Mrs. . . .”
“Holloway,” I reminded her.
“Holloway. You.” She pointed a long, aristocratic finger at another sturdy youth who’d paused to take in the drama. “Help us carry him into the house. Where have you been?” She snapped at a gangly man in knee breeches and heavy boots who came running around the corner. “Take the rig to the mews. Wait until we heave this man out of it.”
The thin man, who appeared to be a groom—indeed, he would prove to be the head groomsman for Lord Rankin’s town stables—climbed onto the box and took the reins, sending Lady Cynthia a dark look. His back quivered as he waited for the burly man who’d been holding the horses and the youth to help me pry the hurt man out of the phaeton.
I looked into the youth’s face and nearly hit my head on the phaeton’s leather top. “Good heavens,” I said. “James!”
James, a lad of about fifteen or so years with dark eyes, a round, rather handsome and freckled face, and red-brown hair sticking out from under his cap, shot a grin at me. I hadn’t seen him for weeks, and only a few times since I’d taken the post in Richmond. James didn’t move much beyond the middle of London, as he made his living doing odd jobs here and there around the metropolis. I’d seen him only when I’d had cause to come into London and our paths happened to cross.
James, with his father, Daniel, had helped me avoid much trouble at the place I’d been before Richmond, and I’d come to count the lad as a friend.
As for his father . . .
I could not decide these days how I regarded his father. Daniel McAdam, a jack-of-all-trades if ever there was one, had been my friend since the day he’d begun deliveries in a household I’d worked in a year or so ago. He was charming, flirtatious, ever ready with a joke or an encouraging word. He’d helped me in a time of great need last autumn, but then I’d learned more about Daniel than perhaps I’d wanted to. I was still hurt about it, and uncertain.
After James and the burly man worked the injured man from the carriage, I pulled myself upright on the phaeton’s step and scanned the street. I have sharp eyes, and I did not have to look far until I saw Daniel.
He was just ducking around a corner up Park Street, glancing behind him as though expecting me to be seeking him. He wore the brown homespun suit he donned when making deliveries to kitchens all over Mayfair and north of Oxford Street and the shapeless gloves that hid his strong hands. I recognized his sharp face, the blue eyes over a well-formed nose, the dark hair he never could tame under his cloth cap.
He saw me. Did he look abashed? No, indeed. Mr. McAdam only sent me a merry look, touched his cap in salute, and disappeared.
I did not know all Daniel McAdam’s secrets, and I knew he had many. He’d helped me when none other would, it was true, but at the same time he’d angered and confused me. I was grateful and could admire his resolve, but I refused to let myself fall under his spell. I had even allowed him to kiss me on the lips once or twice, but that had been as far as that went.
“Drat the man,” I said.
“Ma’am?” the groom asked over his shoulder.
“Never mind.” I hopped to the ground, the cobbles hard under my shoes. “When you’re done in the stables, come ’round to the kitchen for a strong cup of tea. I have the inkling we will all need one.”
A doctor came and looked over the man Lady Cynthia had run down. He’d been put into one of the rooms in the large attic and pronounced to have a broken arm and many bruises. The doctor, who was not at all happy to be called out to look at a mere laborer, sent for a surgeon to set the arm. The surgeon departed when he was finished, after dosing the man with laudanum and giving Mrs. Bowen instructions to not let him move for at least a day.
The man, now able to speak, or at least to mumble, said his name was Timmons and begged us to send word to his wife in their rooms near Euston Station.
At least, this is what Mr. Davis, the butler, related to me. I had scrubbed my hands and returned to my brioche when the hurt man had been carried upstairs, as I needed to carry on with my duties if I was to have a meal on the table when the master came home. Lady Rankin had said he returned on the dot of eight and expected to dine right away, and it was after six now. Ellen-Sinead, though curious, obediently resumed her kitchen duties.
As Sinead and I worked, Mr. Davis told us all about the doctor’s arrival and his sour expression when he’d learned he’d come to see to a working-class man; the surgeon, who was much more cheerful; and the fact that this Timmons would have to spend the night. One of the footmen had gone in search of his wife.
By that time, I had shaped my rich bread and was letting it rise in its round fluted pan while I turned to sort out the vegetables I’d chosen from the larder—plump mushrooms that were fresh smelling, asparagus nice and green, a firm onion, bright tomatoes.
“Lady Cynthia is beside herself,” Mr. Davis said. He sat down at the kitchen table, propping his elbows on it, doing nothing useful. My chopping board was near him, and I thumped the blade menacingly as I cut through the onions Sinead had peeled for me. Mr. Davis took notice. “She’s a flibbertigibbet but has a kind heart, does our Lady Cynthia,” he went on. “She promised Timmons a sum of money for his trouble—which Lord Rankin will have to furnish, of course. She hasn’t got any money. That’s why she lives here. Sort of a poor relation, but never say so.”
“I would not dream of it, Mr. Davis.” I held a hothouse tomato to my nose, rewarded by a bright scent, the tomato an excellent color. I longed t
o bite into it and taste its juices, but I returned it to the board with its fellows and picked over the asparagus. Whoever had chosen the produce had a good eye.
Mr. Davis chuckled. I’d already seen, when he’d led me through the house, that he could be haughty as anything above stairs, but down here in the kitchens, he loosened his coat and his tongue. Mr. Davis’s hair was dark, though gray at the temples, parted severely in the middle and held in place with pomade. He had a pleasant sort of face, blue eyes, and a thin line of mouth that was usually moving in speech.
“Lady Cynthia and Lady Emily are the Earl of Clifford’s daughters,” Mr. Davis said, sending me a significant look.
Interesting. I left the vegetables and uncovered the fowl I was to roast. I’d cook potatoes and onions in its juices and throw in the mushrooms at the end, along with the tomatoes for tang. For fish, I had skate waiting to be poached in milk, which I’d finish with parsley and walnuts. Early March could be a difficult time—the winter fruits and vegetables were fading, and spring’s bounty barely beginning. I enjoyed cooking in spring the most, when everything was fresh and new. Biting into early greens tasted of bright skies and the end of winter’s grip.
I had heard of the Earl of Clifford, who was famous for being a bankrupt. The title was an old one, from what I understood, one of those that kings had been bestowing for centuries—reverting to the crown when the particular family line died out but given to another family when that family pleased royalty enough to be so rewarded.
I did not have my finger on every title in Britain, but I had heard that Clifford was the eighth of this earldom, given to a family called Shires. The present Lord Clifford had, in his youth, been renowned for bravery—deeds done in Crimea and that sort of thing. He’d come home to England to race horses, tangle himself in scandals, and have notorious affairs with famous beauties. He’d finally married one of these beauties, proceeded to sire two daughters and a son, and then gambled himself into ruinous debt.
Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries Page 10