A Pinch of Poison

by Alyssa Maxwell

  “Ask her to write when she can.” Mrs. Delacy gestured at one of several, overburdened side tables. “We haven’t a telephone, you see, though the district promises we shall be connected very soon.” She gave half a laugh. “They’ve been saying that for years now.”

  “I’ll, er, see you out.” Dr. Delacy opened the door into the narrow hallway that spanned the house from front to back. At the front door, he paused. “Please don’t judge us too harshly. I also spent part of the war in France, though I was not there as long as my daughter. No one who served returned home exactly as they had been. From the highest general to the lowliest private digging trenches, we were all affected in one way or another.”

  Phoebe searched his face, lined with weariness and disillusionment. What, exactly, was he trying to tell her? Was he making generalizations, or speaking specifically of his daughter? She didn’t have the heart to question him further. “I do understand the sacrifices made by England’s war heroes. My own father, and Miss Huntford’s brother, never returned.”

  “You both have my sincerest condolences. But in some instances, those who did not return are more fortunate than some of those who did.”

  With that, Dr. Delacy bade them good day, and in heavy silence Phoebe and Eva made their way back to the Vauxhall.

  * * *

  Upon arriving back in the environs of Little Barlow, Lady Phoebe surprised Eva by accelerating past the gates of Foxwood Hall. She had thought their adventures were over for the day. Apparently, she had thought wrong. Briefly, she considered the sewing, ironing, and jewelry cleaning that awaited her. At least she was no longer required to help with the other household chores as she had been during the Christmas holidays, when they had been short-staffed. She also pondered the scowls sure to crease Lady Julia’s brow when Eva finally did return to work, though those scowls might be aimed more at Lady Phoebe than at Eva herself.

  And yet, if Lady Phoebe had offered to drop her home first, she would have put up a protest and demanded—as much as a lady’s maid can demand—where her lady intended going and what she intended doing once she arrived. Impetuous was a word that best described Phoebe Renshaw at times, and Eva would never forgive herself if something happened to her young lady that she might have prevented.

  She ventured a guess as to their destination. “The school?”

  “I want to talk with Nurse Delacy myself. I’d like to observe her reaction when we tell her we visited her parents.”

  “Do you think it’s wise to admit where we went today?”

  “She’ll find out anyway the next time she visits home. Our questions left the Delacys visibly shaken. Much went unsaid.”

  “Olivia Delacy might have little or nothing to add. There is no reason she should be compelled to admit anything to us.”

  Lady Phoebe changed gears as they crested a hill and started the descent. “True, but as with her parents, her demeanor might speak volumes.”

  Once through the village, they continued at a speed that sent wind whipping at Eva’s hair and yanking tendrils painfully from her bun. She thanked goodness when the school came into view, then craned forward in her seat to make out two police vehicles, among several others, parked near the main entrance.

  “What can that be about?”

  “I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Lady Phoebe negotiated the last turn in the drive and rolled to a stop beside a faded but sturdy-looking Morris Oxford two-seater. “Isn’t this Mr. Amstead’s car?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lady.”

  Inside, the sound of weeping echoed from down the corridor. In reply to Phoebe’s puzzled glance, Eva said, “I believe that is coming from the headmistress’s office.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose they’ve decided to give the position to someone other than Miss Sedgewick?”

  She didn’t wait for Eva to answer, but led the way along the hall. A small crowd that included Mr. Amstead filled the headmistress’s office. Chief Inspector Perkins, his belly straining his suit coat, stood just inside the door, glaring at a spot beyond Eva’s field of vision, but which she determined to be the source of the weeping. Constable Brannock’s bright red hair stood out among the more ordinary browns, blonds, and grays of the others occupying the office. He held a small pad open on his palm and jotted down notes. Miss Sedgewick stood poised behind her chair at the desk, her chin tilted and her lips pursed. The others comprised two gentlemen, one elderly and one middle-aged, neither of whom Eva recognized, and two women who must be their wives, and whom she remembered glimpsing at the RCVF charity luncheon.

  Suddenly, the scene became all too familiar as a small voice, clogged with sobs, choked out, “I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”

  The words hurtled Eva back to the troubles and misunderstandings that plagued Foxwood Hall last Christmas. A footman accused, a maid forced to give evidence against him. She shook the memory away in order to concentrate on what was happening here, before her eyes.

  “As we all know, cyanide is an ingredient of some insect and rat poisons. Did you or did you not spray rodent repellent around the kitchen and pantries the very day before the luncheon?” Inspector Perkins looked down his pocked nose at his fingernails, as if bored with the proceedings.

  “I did, but I was careful. I’m always very careful. I dusted the floor and crevices only. Nothing else. It could not have gotten onto the pots and pans, nor the dishes. I swear.”

  “We have been all through the kitchen and pantries,” the inspector continued relentlessly, “and no other source of cyanide has been found.”

  Lady Phoebe cast Eva a look of astonishment and made her way into the office. “What is going on here?”

  No one answered. Miles Brannock looked up from his note taking, spotted Eva through the doorway, and strode out into the hall. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.

  “We came to—never mind,” she whispered back. “We never expected this. Is this kitchen girl being arrested?”

  The maid, her hair tucked up in an old-fashioned mob cap that sat askew on her head, stood backed against the office wall. The more elderly of the two wives moved to Lady Phoebe’s side. “Inspector Perkins has determined Miss Finch’s death to be an accident, caused by this daft girl’s incompetency.”

  The weeping increased in volume.

  “Is this true?” Eva asked the constable low enough to prevent the others from hearing. “How can he be certain? Zara Worthington made the cake. How do we know she didn’t accidentally add the toxic ingredient?”

  “If she did,” he whispered back, “do you think the inspector is going to accuse her? The daughter of an earl?” His jaw tightened and he hissed air through his teeth.

  “You don’t believe the maid did it, though.”

  He gave a tiny shrug, and Eva concluded there hadn’t been a thorough enough investigation to determine with any certainty what happened. But the chief inspector’s shortcomings no longer surprised her.

  Inside, Phoebe demanded answers. “How often is the kitchen sprayed for rodents?”

  “Every few weeks, my lady,” Miss Sedgewick supplied, “or more as needed.” She darted glances at the two well-dressed couples, undoubtedly members of the Haverleigh governing body. “Mostly it is a precaution. We maintain the strictest standards of cleanliness and order in this school.”

  “Then why did this girl—” Phoebe paused and addressed the kitchen maid herself. “Your name is Bernice, I believe?” When the girl nodded, Phoebe continued. “Bernice, why did you spray for rodents the day before the luncheon? Had you seen a rat on the premises?”

  “No, my lady.” Bernice sucked in a trembling breath. “It was on my list of things to do.”

  “Was that list written by Mrs. Honeychurch?”

  “No, my lady. By . . .” Her gaze wandered to the desk, and the woman standing behind it. Miss Sedgewick gasped.

  “That list is the same every month. It is up to the kitchen staff to modify
their schedule of chores to accommodate special events in any given month.”

  Phoebe turned to the woman. “Did you remind the kitchen staff of this?”

  Miss Sedgewick visibly bristled. “Of course not. Why should I concern myself with what goes on from day to day in the kitchen? That is Mrs. Honeychurch’s domain, and I am quite content to leave such matters to her. If she was too busy before the luncheon, then this”—her lips turned down as if a sour taste had entered her mouth—“individual should have had the intelligence to forestall spraying the kitchen or at least ask first.”

  “I am sure you are right, Miss Sedgewick,” the elderly gentleman said. “The governing body is eager to have this matter settled and return the students to school as quickly and quietly as possible.”

  Lady Phoebe snapped her hands to her hips in a way that would have surely drawn censure from her grandmother. “And Bernice?”

  The inspector hefted a tangled eyebrow. “With all due respect, my lady, this is hardly a matter for you to concern yourself with. Why don’t you run along and allow—”

  “Inspector Perkins,” she interrupted so boldly, Eva inwardly flinched, “I am here as a representative of my grandmother, Lady Wroxly. I have every right to inquire into the proceedings so I can make an accurate report when I see her later today.”

  Eva chewed her lip and wondered how often Lady Phoebe could summon her grandmother’s influence before someone finally called her bluff.

  “Yes, well . . . I suppose.” The inspector’s hand wandered to his coat pocket, but fell away quickly. Eva didn’t doubt he had instinctively been reaching for his hip flask, but thought better of it. Even so, he made no attempt to hide his disgruntlement at being dictated to by a twenty-year-old woman.

  “Do you mean to arrest Bernice?” Lady Phoebe asked.

  “Of course not,” one of the gentlemen replied. “Didn’t you hear the inspector? Miss Finch’s death has been ruled an accident. The girl is to be sacked, the students are to return, and we shall all put this unpleasant business behind us.”

  “And not a moment too soon,” Miss Sedgewick said with all the aplomb of a hostess who has just been informed by her butler that dinner was about to be served. She jabbed a finger at Bernice. “You are to pack your things and be gone from the premises within the hour.”

  Lady Phoebe blocked the maid’s path to the door. “But if Miss Finch’s death was an accident, why sack Bernice?”

  “We cannot have such a careless oaf endangering our students,” the younger of the two wives said. She reached up with a gloved hand to make an unnecessary adjustment to the brim of her hat. “I would be happy to answer any questions your grandmother might have, Lady Phoebe. Have her telephone me, if she wishes. Good day.”

  She and her husband took their leave, and the rest followed. Eva and Constable Brannock moved away from the doorway to allow them passage into the hall. Miss Sedgewick herded young Bernice out of the office and toward the back of the house, to the service staircase, with terse commands of “Move along now. Hurry up. Don’t dawdle.”

  Lady Phoebe and Mr. Amstead filed out last, right after the inspector. The vicar bore a troubled expression, which deepened when Lady Phoebe stopped him with a blunt question.

  “Sir, you are the current head of the governing body. Are you in agreement with what just happened here?”

  He seemed to weigh his answer carefully before he spoke. “This is a complicated matter, my lady. I believe this may be best for the school.”

  “That a girl is dismissed from her employment while a woman’s murderer goes unpunished?”

  “The inspector has found no evidence to warrant an arrest, my lady. You must understand, the resources of our small district are limited. As are those of the school, should we lose our most generous benefactors. No, I must agree with the others that the sooner this matter is resolved, the better for everyone.”

  “Swept under the rug, you mean.”

  Eva gasped at Lady Phoebe’s brashness. Would the vicar take offense? Would word of this reach Lord and Lady Wroxly’s ears? But the man showed no sign of exasperation as he hunched a bit lower and spoke quietly.

  “Between the two of us, Lady Phoebe, I’ve no doubt we shall find a position for Bernice before the passing of much time. I’ll even write a letter of reference myself. She should not suffer for what was, in the inspector’s judgment, an accident. Somewhere other than a school, I should think.” His eyes gave a little twinkle of humor, and Eva was relieved to see Phoebe’s lips turn up in a smile.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Shall I walk you out, my lady?”

  “No, I’ll not be leaving just yet. I’d like to deliver the good news to Bernice, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course, my lady. Please give my best regards to Lord and Lady Wroxly.”

  Lady Phoebe stood watching the vicar as he proceeded down the corridor and let himself out. Then she whirled about to face Eva and the constable. “An accident, my foot. It’s Christmas all over again, and something must be done before it’s too late. We three need to talk privately.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Nurse Delacy’s own parents were unnerved to speak of her,” Phoebe explained to Constable Brannock a few minutes later in the garden behind the conservatory. She looked to Eva for consensus, and received it in the form of a nod. “They told us their daughter served at a casualty clearing station right behind the front lines, and even helped the medics in the ambulances.”

  The constable swore under his breath—at least, Phoebe believed the word he murmured with a strong Irish cadence to be an oath. “If that is the case, our nurse could be a deeply troubled individual.”

  “You’re talking about shell shock, aren’t you?”

  “I am, my lady.”

  “And can such an individual suddenly snap?” she asked.

  “We know from experience they can,” Eva reminded her. “Christmas taught us that, if nothing else.”

  “Yes, and no,” Phoebe replied after a moment’s consideration. “I believe the person you’re referring to would have snapped even if there had never been a war.” By unspoken agreement, she and Eva never discussed that person by name, for it dredged up too many unsavory memories along with a heavy measure of guilt.

  Eva nodded and gave a little shrug. “Yes, true, but Nurse Delacy has certainly shown signs of the war having affected her mind.”

  The constable shoved his hands into the pockets of his woolen uniform coat. “Such as what? What have you two learned that you have yet to share with me?”

  “You can wipe that suspicious look from your face, Constable,” Phoebe said tartly. “This is something we only just learned from one of our young guests at Foxwood Hall. It appears Lilyanne Mucklow was injured on the tennis court. She received a gash on the knee from a racket, and when the nurse saw the wound she simply turned away and strode off. Left Lilyanne holding a compress to her bleeding knee. According to Dr. Delacy, his daughter served for years in the war, yet she is unable to deal with a sporting injury? That doesn’t make sense.”

  The constable’s eyes closed, and he stood for a moment as the breeze lifted the ends of his bright, wavy hair. His eyes slowly opened. “Yes, it does. You cannot imagine what Nurse Delacy has seen.”

  “Can you imagine it, Constable?” Eva, perhaps unconsciously, stepped closer to him, her expression searching and almost eager.

  Phoebe shivered at the shadow that crossed his face. He said, sharply, “No, Miss Huntford. I cannot.”

  Phoebe didn’t at first understand why Eva looked crestfallen, until she remembered that months ago, when they had first made Constable Brannock’s acquaintance, Eva hadn’t trusted him. Not least of the reasons was that she believed he had shirked his duty during the war. When so many other men had served their country, Eva hadn’t liked that a fit man had remained at home, while her own brother had died. Phoebe didn’t think it would help to point out that if Miles Brannock had gone to war, he might have
died as well.

  She decided to bring them back to present concerns. “Do you believe the distress of the war might have affected Nurse Delacy’s judgment, and prompted her to do something regrettable?”

  “It’s very possible,” he said.

  “More possible than Bernice having poisoned a cake pan with rat poison?”

  “Aye, my lady. I have trouble believing that, unless our Bernice had a reason to want Miss Finch dead. I’ve questioned the girl, and I didn’t detect anything ingenuous in her answers. But there is the matter of the handyman and the fright he caused Miss Sedgewick.”

  Eva, left brooding these past few moments, roused herself. “You know about that? Did Miss Sedgewick tell you?”

  “She did. She told you as well?”

  Phoebe nodded. “She’s made it clear she’d like to see Elliot dismissed.”

  “I spoke to Elliot earlier today,” Eva added. “I don’t believe he did anything but offer a flower to Miss Sedgewick. The dear boy doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body that I can detect. It was Miss Sedgewick’s imagination run amok, if you ask me.”

  Constable Brannock eyed her levelly. “If you’ll forgive my saying so, you’ve been wrong before, Miss Huntford.”

  Eva blanched, and Phoebe inwardly shrank in sympathy. It was true, Eva had misjudged someone in the past. They all had, but Eva had taken it most to heart.

  “Thank you for pointing that out, Constable,” she said calmly, but with an edge of ice. Constable Brannock offered an apologetic look, and Eva recovered her composure enough to speak again. “When I spoke to Elliot, he did something rather telling. I reminded him about the incident with Miss Sedgewick, and he became fretful and grasped a chain, or a necklace, he wears beneath his shirt. The gesture seemed meant to ward off ill feelings, and I concluded it must be something particularly meaningful for him to seek comfort from it.”

  The constable tilted his chin in interest. “Could you see what it was?”

  “No, as I said, he wore it beneath his shirt, but when I spoke of the flower he attempted to give Miss Sedgewick, he immediately reached into his collar for it. It looked to be silver, I believe.”