Past Crimes: A Compendium of Historical Mysteries

by Jennifer Ashley

  His son and heir, as wild as the father, had died tragically at the young age of twenty, going slightly mad and shooting himself. Lady Clifford, devastated by the death of her favorite child, had gone into a decline. She was still alive, I believe, but living in poor health, shutting herself away on her husband’s estate in Hertfordshire.

  The daughters, Ladies Cynthia and Emily, had debuted and caught the eyes of many a gentlemen, but they’d not fared well, as their father’s debts were common knowledge, as were their mother’s nerves and their brother’s suicide. Lady Emily, the younger, had married Lord Rankin before he was Lord Rankin, when he was but a wealthy gentleman who’d made much in the City. Lord and Lady Clifford must have breathed a sigh of relief when he’d put the ring on her finger.

  I had known some of the Clifford story from gossip and newspapers. Now Mr. Davis kindly filled in the gaps as I plunged a tomato into hot water, showing Sinead how this loosened the skin so it could be easily peeled.

  “Lady Cynthia was not so fortunate.” Mr. Davis stretched out his long legs, making himself as comfortable as possible in the hard wooden chair. “She is the older sister, and so it is a scandal that the younger married and she did not. And of course, Lady Cynthia has no fortune. She is agreeable enough, but when she found herself in danger of being on the shelf, she chose to become an eccentric.”

  While I left Sinead to finish peeling, seeding, and chopping the tomatoes, I warmed butter and basted the hen, which was a plump, well-juiced specimen. Lord Rankin, it seemed, spared no expense on his victuals. Happily for me, as a cook’s job is made ten times easier with decent ingredients.

  “Poor thing,” I said, shoving the fowl into the roasting oven and licking melted butter from my thumb. I closed the door and fastened it, and snapped my fingers at the lad whose task it was to keep the stove stoked. He leapt from playing with pebbles in the corner and grabbed a few pieces of wood from the box under the window. He opened the grate and tossed in the wood quickly, but I was alarmed how close his little hands came to the flames. I warned him to be more careful. I’d have to make up the balm I liked of chamomile, lavender, and goose fat for burned fingers if he wasn’t.

  The boy returned to his game, and I wiped my hands and looked over Sinead’s shoulder as she moved on to tearing lettuce for the salads. I liked to have my greens washed, dried, and kept chilled well before serving the meal.

  “Lady Cynthia took at first to riding horses in breakneck races,” Mr. Davis continued. “Amateur ones of course, on the estates, racing young men fool enough to take her on. She has a light touch with a horse, does Lady Cynthia. She rode in breeches and won most of her gallops, along with the wagers. When our master married Lady Emily, he put a stop to Lady Cynthia’s riding, but I suppose she enjoyed wearing the breeches so much she didn’t want to give them up. Our lordship don’t like it, but he’s said that as long as Lady Cynthia stays quiet and behaves herself she can wear trousers if she likes.”

  Mrs. Bowen chose that moment to walk into the kitchen. She sniffed. “Speaking of your betters again, Mr. Davis?” She studied me getting on with the meal, then with head held high, departed for the servants’ hall, disapproval oozing from her.

  Mr. Davis chuckled. “Mrs. Bowen puts on airs, but most of what I know about the family I learned from her. She worked for Lady Clifford before she came here.”

  I pretended to absorb myself in my cooking, but I was curious. I have a healthy interest in my fellow beings, unfortunately.

  As Davis went momentarily silent, my thoughts strayed again to Daniel. He popped up here and there throughout London, always where something interesting was happening, and I wondered why he’d chosen the moment when Lady Cynthia had run down a cart driver.

  “If Lady Cynthia hurt this man for life with her recklessness,” I observed, “it could go badly for her.”

  Davis shook his head. “Not for the daughter of an earl decorated for bravery and the sister-in-law of one of the wealthiest men in London. Lord Rankin will pay to keep our Lady Cynthia out of the newspapers and out of the courts, you mark my words.”

  I believed him. Wealthy men could hide an embarrassment to the family, and Lady Cynthia viewed herself as an embarrassment—I had noted that in her eyes. I myself saw no shame in her running about in gentlemen’s attire—didn’t we enjoy the courageous heroines who dressed as men in plays of the Bard? Cheer for them in the Christmas pantomimes?

  I saw no more of Lady Cynthia that evening, or indeed of anyone, as I turned to the business of getting the supper done. Once I gave my attention solely to cooking, ’ware any who stepped in my way.

  Sinead proved to be capable if not as well trained as I liked, but we got on, and she burst into tears only once. She ceased her sobbing after she cleaned up the salt she had spilled all over the lettuce and helped me pull the roasted fowl out of the oven, bubbling and sizzling, the aroma splendid. I cut off a tiny piece of meat and a speared a square of potato and shared them with her.

  Sinead’s face changed to rapture. “Oh, ma’am, it’s the best I ever tasted.”

  She exaggerated, I knew, although I suppose her comment was a testament to the previous cook’s abilities. I thought the fowl’s taste could have been richer, but I would not be ashamed to serve this dish.

  Mr. Davis and the footmen were already in the dining room above. I rounded up the maids to help me load a tureen of steaming asparagus soup into the lift, followed by the lightly poached skate, and then when it was time, the covered plate of the carved fowl with roasted vegetables and the greens. I hadn’t had time to fix more than the brioche for pudding, and so I sent up fruit with a bite of cheese alongside the rich bread.

  It was my habit never to rest until I heard from the dining room that all was well. Tonight, I heard nothing, not a word of praise—but not a word of complaint either. The plates returned scraped clean, although one of the three in each course was always lightly touched.

  Such a shame to waste good food. I shook my head over it and told the kitchen maids to pack away the uneaten portions to give to beggars.

  I’d learned long ago that not every person on earth appreciates good food—some don’t even know how to taste it. Instead of growing incensed as I had done when I began, I now felt sorry for that person and distributed the food to the cold and hungry who better deserved it.

  “Who is the faint appetite?” I asked Mr. Davis when he and I and Mrs. Bowen at last took our supper in the housekeeper’s parlor, with Sinead to wait on us.

  “Tonight, Lady Cynthia,” Mr. Davis said between shoveling in bites of the pieces of roasted hen and potatoes I’d held back for us. “She is still most upset about the accident. She even wore a frock to dinner.”

  Apparently, this was significant. Mrs. Bowen and Sinead gave Mr. Davis amazed looks.

  One of the footmen—I thought his name was Paul—tapped hesitantly on the door of Mrs. Bowen’s parlor and entered when invited.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said nervously. “But his lordship is asking for his evening cup of coffee.” He swallowed, his young face rather spotty, his Adam’s apple prominent. He darted Mrs. Bowen a worried look. “He’s asking for Sinead—I mean Ellen—to deliver it.”

  An awful hush descended over the room. I was struck by the paling faces of Mrs. Bowen and Davis and the unhappiness in the footman’s eyes, but mostly by the look of dread that came over Sinead.

  She set down the teapot she’d lifted to refill Mrs. Bowen’s cup and turned to that lady pleadingly, distress in every line of her.

  Mrs. Bowen gave her a sorrowful nod. “You’d best be going on up, girl.”

  Sinead’s eyes filled with tears, every bit of cheerfulness dying. She wiped her hands on her apron, curtsied, and said, “Yes, ma’am,” before she made for the door.

  She found me in the doorway, blocking her way out. “Why?” I asked the room, not excluding the footman. “What is the matter with Ellen taking the master his coffee? Mrs. Bowen, Mr. Davis, you tell me
this minute.”

  Mr. Davis and Mrs. Bowen exchanged a long glance. Sinead would not look at me, her cheeks stark white and blotched with red.

  It was Mrs. Bowen who answered. “I am afraid that his lordship occasionally believes in the idea of . . . I suppose we could call it droit du seigneur. Not often, fortunately.”

  “Fortunately?” The word snapped out of me, my anger, which had touched me when I’d seen Daniel in the street, finally finding a vent.

  I was well aware that a hazard for young women in service, no matter how grand the household, was that the master, and sometimes his guests, saw no reason not to help themselves to a maid, or a cook’s assistant, or, indeed, even a cook, when they fancied her. The young woman in question was powerless—all she could do was either give in or find herself another place. If she fled the house without reference, gaining new employment could be difficult. If she gave in to the master’s lusts, she risked being cast out with a stain on her character. If her own family would not let her come home, or she had no family, she had no choice but to take to the streets.

  I had learned as a very young cook’s assistant to keep myself buried in the kitchen and rarely cross the paths of the gentlemen of the household. As cooks seldom went above stairs, this had worked well for me. My ruin had been entirely my own fault and nothing to do with any house in which I’d worked.

  “It does not happen often, does it?” I asked testily.

  I was pleased that at least Mr. Davis and Mrs. Bowen looked ashamed, Mrs. Bowen bordering on wretched. “Only when his lordship has been made unhappy,” Mr. Davis said.

  And he’d been made unhappy today by Lady Cynthia running down a man in the street, a story everyone in Mayfair likely knew by now. “Good heavens—why on earth do you stay here?” I demanded of all present. “There are masters respectable enough in other houses, and wives who will not put up with that sort of thing.”

  Mr. Davis regarded me in some surprise. “We stay because it’s a good place—you’ll see. His lordship is generous to the staff. Always has been.”

  “I see. And sending a young woman as sacrifice every once in a while is a small price to pay?” My mounting anger made my blood fire in my veins. “Well, I will not have it. Not in my kitchen.”

  “Mrs. Holloway, I understand your unhappiness,” Mrs. Bowen said. “I share it. But what can we do? I try to keep the maids occupied away from his lordship, but it is not my house. Her ladyship ought to keep him under her eye, but she cannot.”

  I full well knew Mrs. Bowen was right. Some gentlemen are high-handed enough to believe everything they do is justified. Those who have power and wealth behind them are only encouraged in their prideful thinking. The frail Lady Rankin likely knew what was going on but hadn’t the strength to confront him about it.

  My heart sank at the thought of having to look for another place when I’d only just found this one. The kitchen was well stocked, the house efficiently run, and the street near to an omnibus that would take me easily to the place in London where my heart was. Why, oh why, did the master and his base needs have to ruin a perfectly good situation?

  My fury made me reckless. “I won’t have it,” I repeated. “Ellen, sit down and calm yourself. I will take Lord Rankin his coffee.”

  Blood Debts

  Leonidas the Gladiator Mysteries by Ashley Gardner

  Chapter 1

  Rome, AD 63

  “The baker owes us money.”

  I crawled out of sleep when a slim stick tapped my side and a woman’s voice slid through my dreams. Cassia had learned to use the stick to poke at me, because I usually came roaring awake, ready to murder all within reach.

  When she’d first come to live with me, Cassia had shaken me from a dream in which I’d been surrounded by swords, the ghosts of men I’d slain rising up to drag me down. I’d been naked and without weapons, only my balled fists for defense.

  I’d grabbed the arm that had come at me and torn open my eyes to find Cassia in terror, her slender wrist in my deadly grip. I’d nearly broken her arm before I’d let go.

  Hence, the stick.

  I was too exhausted this morning for roaring, so I mumbled, “Wha’?”

  “The baker.” Cassia returned the polished branch of walnut to the corner and picked up the wax tablet on which she did the household accounts, such as they were. “Quintus Publius. You guarded his shipments from Ostia three weeks ago, and he has yet to pay a thing. He owes us ten sestertii.”

  “Mmph.” I scrubbed my face, hoping to sink back into darkness. “Send him a notice.” I settled my head on my hard pillow. “You like to send notices.”

  “I have sent him seventeen,” Cassia said crisply. “He ignores them. You ought to go yourself. He will not be able to ignore you.”

  I opened my eyes all the way. Cassia sat in her usual place, a stool on the other side of our one-roomed apartment, near the door. She wore a modest sheath of a dress, sandals I’d bought her, and held her stylus poised over her tablet. I always thought of her like that, eyes on the hinged wooden and wax tablet in her hand, stylus at the ready to add a notation.

  Her black hair, pulled up out of her face, curled wildly about her forehead and cascaded down her back in one tail. No hairdresser had styled those curls—Cassia was a slave, bestowed upon me by my unknown benefactor, a man who’d apparently followed my career in the arena more ardently than I had.

  This man, whoever he was, had decided I needed looking after, and sent Cassia to be my caretaker when I’d gained my freedom six months ago. Cassia had grown up the daughter of a slave, who’d been a scribe to a very wealthy patrician family in Campania. She was here now because, after her father’s death, the master of the house had decided to notice that Cassia had become a woman, and Cassia’s mistress had made certain she was quickly sold.

  Cassia didn’t know who our benefactor was either. Everything went through another scribe, a dried stick of a slave called Hesiodos, who steadfastly refused to tell us.

  Cassia dressed her hair simply, because she wasn’t good at hair, she’d told me, or clothes, or cooking, or really much of anything else, which was why no one had known what to do with her once her father had gone to the gods. Her master had known what he wanted, and so Cassia’s mistress had ejected her.

  What Cassia excelled at was accounts. And noticing things, important things. And driving a man spare so he couldn’t sleep.

  These days, I liked sleep. There was no reason to pull myself out of bed—no training, no meals of barley and vegetables, or grand feasts in my honor the night before the games. These feasts had always been wasted on me because I could never swallow a bite.

  “Tomorrow.” I closed my eyes, seeking the comfort of oblivion.

  Often the dreams broke through to haunt me, but sometimes there was nothing. Sweet peace. I must not have slept at all in the seven years I was a gladiator because now I could not get enough of it.

  “Leonidas.” Cassia’s firm voice broke that peace.

  This time I came up with a hint of a snarl. “Wha’?”

  “If the baker pays us, we can remain in our palatial surroundings. Otherwise, we’ll be out on the street. And hungry. We can prevent this by prying what we are owed out of Quintus.”

  The interesting thing about our so-called benefactor is that he didn’t pay our rent or provide us food. He’d found me this apartment, bestowed upon me a slave no one else wanted, and then left the rest of our living up to us. What this man would demand in return for this uneven generosity remained to be seen.

  Cassia trailed off, watching to gauge the effect of her words on me, every one of them reasonable, every one unarguable.

  The trouble with Cassia was that she was nearly always right. A man needed money to live. A gladiator in a ludus did not, but I was no longer kept at others’ expense. The animal, freed from its cage, didn’t know how to hunt.

  My hint of a snarl turned into a real one as I hauled myself up and off the slab of wood our landlord call
ed a bed. The blanket Cassia must have laid over me in the night slid from my bare body as I rose to my feet. Cassia averted her gaze, her cheeks burning red.

  I’d never met a woman shy with men before, one who didn’t openly size up the goods, especially when they took up half the apartment. But then, my experience with women had been in brothels and with those eager to sneak themselves into a gladiator’s cell. Cassia had lived with modest women who’d covered themselves at all times and required her to as well.

  Cassia’s head remained bent, her eyes fixed resolutely on her tablet. Maybe she’d caught sight of a mistake in her calculations. No, Cassia didn’t make mistakes. She was simply uncomfortable with so much naked flesh in such a small space.

  I’d never noticed my own body much until Cassia’s arrival. I’d thought of male bodies in terms of places to stab—chest for heart and lungs, abdomen for guts, throat for a rapid kill. Women’s bodies were somewhat different—their parts fit with mine for a short time of mind-numbing pleasure to chase away the demons.

  Cassia, on the other hand, saw me, Leonidas, the whole person. No one else ever had. Instead of being flattered, I always felt the immediate need to cover myself.

  I reached for a tunic and pulled it on. Cassia flicked me a glance, and she breathed out, no mistaking her relief.

  I pretended to ignore her while I sluiced clean water from the ewer over my face and looked around for my sandals. There they were, my one pair, in a neat line by the door. Cassia tidied every night after I went to bed—if collapsing onto my mat of reeds on a wooden block could be given such a formal term.

  “Not that tunic,” Cassia said behind me. I felt her critical eyes on my back. “A clean one.”

  I halted. No wonder Jupiter constantly fled Juno. She was probably always going on at him about wearing clean tunics and combing his hair.