Murder Most Historical: A Collection of Short Mysteries

by Ashley Gardner

  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-mended, 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, and 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.

  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.”

  I chewed on the pasty and remained miserable.

  ***

  The next morning, Anne was released. I clung to her hand when she said good-bye, knowing hers might be the last kind face I ever saw. I begged her to look for a man called Daniel McAdam and tell him what had become of me. She promised to do her best.

  Anne went out, and I cried. I wept hard into my skirt and huddled like everyone else. I was thirsty, exhausted, and worried for my fate.

  Later that day, the door to the common room opened, and the bailiff bellowed, “Mrs. Holloway!”

  I scrambled to my feet, my heart beating wildly, my limbs cramped from sitting on the cold stone floor. I had no idea what was happening—was it time for my trial already? Or perhaps the magistrate simply wanted me back so he could make a few more jokes at my expense.

  I
found, to my astonishment, that the person the bailiff took me to in the jailer’s room was James. Still more astonished when James said, “I’m to take you home, Mrs. Holloway. You won’t stay here another minute.”

  I had no words, not to thank James, not to ask questions. As I stood like a mute fool, James took my hand and pulled me from the jailer’s room, through the courtyard, and out the formidable gate into the light of day. Or at least a rainy afternoon.

  The area around Newgate was a busy one. James had to walk me through the bustle a long way before he pushed me into a hansom cab in Ludgate Hill.

  I finally found my tongue to ask questions, but James did not enter the cab with me. He only slammed the door and signaled the cabby to go. I craned my head to call out to him as the cab jerked forward, but James gave me a cheerful wave and faded into the crowd.

  Had Daniel rescued me? I wondered. If so, where was he? And why wasn’t James coming with me?

  James had said he’d been sent to take me home. What did he mean by home? Sir Lionel’s house would go to whoever inherited the baronetcy—a younger brother, nephew, cousin. If his heir did not want a cook who’d been arrested for murdering the previous master, then I had no home to go to.

  The cab took me, however, directly to Portman Square, and Sir Lionel’s house.

  Chapter Five

  Daniel waited for me on the stairs that led down to the scullery. He ran up them with his usual verve to assist me from the hansom, then he paid the cabby and took me down into the kitchens.

  I was shaking with hunger, worry, and exhaustion. I was grimy and dirty, my clothes filthy. A long bath, a hearty meal, and a good sleep would help me considerably, but I had not the patience for any of those.

  I broke from Daniel and faced him, hands on hips. “Explain yourself, Mr. McAdam.”

  In spite of my bravado, my voice shook, my weakened knees bent, and I swayed dangerously.

  Daniel caught me and steered me to the stool where I’d sat sharpening my knives the night Sir Lionel had come down. As I caught my breath, Daniel found the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, which had already been lit.

  “Nothing to explain.” Daniel moved smoothly about, collecting cups and plates from the cupboards, and rummaged in the pantry for leftover seed cake and a crock of butter. He knew his way around a kitchen, that was certain. “James told me you were in trouble, and I went along to see what I could do.”

  “But I was released,” I said, trying to understand. “No one is released from Newgate. No one like me, anyway.”

  “Ah, well, the magistrates were made to see that they had no reason to keep you. The fellow who examined you is a fool, and the charge of murder has been dismissed.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. Daniel poured water, now boiling, into a teapot. He brought the pot to the table, and when the tea had steeped a few minutes, poured out a cup and shoved it and a plate of buttered seedcake at me.

  “Get that inside you. You’ll feel better.”

  Indeed, yes. I fell upon the feast and made short work of it. Soon I was no longer hungry and thirsty, but I remained half-asleep and filthy.

  “What did you do?” I asked. “I sent Anne to find you, but I thought perhaps you’d do no more than see I had a solicitor, if that.”

  Daniel finished off his tea and poured himself another cup. “If you mean Anne the actress, yes, she did find James—James is a friend of her son’s. But James had already seen you being arrested from here. He followed you to Bow Street and realized you were being taken off to Newgate. After that, he legged it to me and told me all. I regret you had to stay the night in that place, but I could not put things in motion sooner. I’m sorry.”

  I listened in amazement. “You mystify me more and more. Why should you apologize, let alone rush to my rescue? How did you rush to my rescue? I’m only a cook, not a duchess, with no one to speak for me.”

  Daniel lifted his dark brows. “Are you saying a cook should be tried and condemned for a murder she did not commit, because she is only a cook?”

  I was too tired to argue with him, or even to understand what he was saying. “How do you know I didn’t murder Sir Lionel? It was my knife in his back.”

  “Which someone other than you took from this kitchen and used. Someone evil enough to push the blame onto to you.” Daniel sat down, comfortably pouring himself a cup of tea. He pulled a flask from his pocket, tipped a drop of whiskey into it, then a drop into mine, if you please.

  He went on. “If you had killed Sir Lionel, why would you leave the knife in him instead of cleaning it up or getting rid of it? Why would you go happily back to bed to wait for the constables to arrive instead of running away? It was you who raised the alarm and sent for the police, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I had done all that. It seemed so long ago now.

  Daniel sipped his tea, and I took another drink of mine. Whatever spirits he’d poured into the tea danced on my tongue and warmed my gullet.

  Daniel watched me over his cup. “Tell me about these people who came to dinner with Sir Lionel last evening.”

  I could barely remember. “Mrs. Watkins would know better than I about his guests. She served at table, because Copley was a mess.”

  “Mrs. Watkins doesn’t seem to be here. In fact, the staff have deserted the house. Does Mrs. Watkins have another address?”

  I clattered my teacup to its saucer, my hands shaking. “Mrs. Watkins has a sister in Pimlico—Sally, the scullery maid, told me she’d gone there, if I remember aright. However, if you imagine I can give you the particulars of all the people who worked here and where they might be, along with the names and address of the friends who visited Sir Lionel last night ...” I broke off, no longer certain where the sentence had been taking me. “You clearly have never been up before a magistrate and thrown into a common cell at Newgate for a night. It clouds the memory.”

  “Oh, haven’t I?” Daniel’s dark eyes twinkled. “But that’s a tale for another day. Come along, Kat. You have a good rest, and we’ll talk when you wake.”

  I found myself on my feet, again supported by Daniel. “I’m wretched dirty. I need a wash.”

  “I have plenty of hot water going on the stove. Off we go.”

  He steered me to my little bedroom and then went back out to carry in steaming water and pour it into my basin. Daniel left me to it, saying a cheerful good-night.

  I was so exhausted I simply stripped off every layer of clothing I wore and dumped them on the floor. I washed the best I could, then crawled into bed, still damp, in my skin.

  Some believe it is very wicked to sleep without clothes, but I’d already been a sinner, and I couldn’t see that God would care very much whether or not I pulled on a nightgown. I was asleep as soon as my head touched my pillow, in any case.

  ***

  When I woke, it was bright daylight. I spent some time trying to convince myself that everything that had happened to me had been a bad dream, and that I’d rise as usual and go out into my kitchen to cook. I had an idea for tea cakes with caraway and rosemary that I wanted to try.

  I threw back the covers to find myself unclothed, which reminded me of my quick bath, after which I’d been too tired to don a nightdress. This told me my adventures had been real enough—I was usually quite modest and would never risk being caught without any sort of clothing on my body.

  The events of the night before notwithstanding, I rose and did my toilette, put on a clean frock and apron, pinned up my unruly hair, and set my cook’s cap on my head. The familiar routine comforted me, and besides, I had no idea what else to do.

  When I opened the door, the sharp smell of frying bacon came to me. I moved out to the kitchen to find Daniel at the stove, cooking. The urchin, James, a bit cleaner than he usually was, sat at the kitchen table.

  When I looked at James this morning, I noticed something I had been too distracted to note in the past—he and Daniel had the same eyes. But then, I hadn’t seen the tw
o together when James’s face hadn’t been covered with dirt. Now I saw that the shape of James’s jaw, the jut of chin, the manner in which he sat sipping a mug of tea, mirrored Daniel’s almost exactly.

  “You’re his son,” I exclaimed to James. I had no idea whether this fact was a secret, but I was too bewildered and tired to guard my tongue.

  James gave me his good-natured look, and Daniel glanced over his shoulder at me. “Ah, Kat,” Daniel said. “Awake at last. You slept the day away, and a night.”

  I rocked on my feet, disoriented. “Did I?”

  “Indeed. I didn’t have the heart to wake you yesterday, but I knew you’d be hungry this morning. Sit down—these eggs are almost finished.”

  “You have changed the subject,” I said. “As usual when you don’t wish to answer. Why did you not tell me James was your son? Why did you not tell me?” I shot at James.

  James shrugged. “Embarrassing, innit? For me, I mean. T’ have to admit he sired me?”

  “I don’t see why,” I said. “You could do much worse than Mr. McAdam.”

  James grinned. “Suppose.”

  Daniel shot him a weary look, which made James more amused. I realized they must banter like this all the time. It reminded me of the jokes I shared with my daughter, and my heart squeezed.

  By habit, I brought out my bin of flour and the sponge starter I kept on a shelf beside the icebox. I stopped after lugging the flour bin to the middle of the table. Who was I baking for? Did I still even have employment? And why were Daniel and James here, when no one else seemed to be?

  “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Did Mrs. Watkins return? Copley? Sally?”

  James answered, Daniel still at the stove. “The house be empty. Dangerous, that. Anyone could come in and make off with the silver.”

  “Have they?” I asked. “Was Sir Lionel robbed? And that’s why he was killed?”

  My hands measured the flour and bubbly starter into a bowl, and I took up a wooden spoon to mix it all together. The familiar feel of my muscles working as the dough grew stiffer calmed me somewhat. If there’d only be three of us today, I wouldn’t need more than one loaf.