by M. J. Carter
“Come, Mr. Percy, don’t you have something to say about this?” said Loin, rubbing his eyes when I had finished.
Percy inhaled, examined his cuffs and gave a vague smile.
Loin scowled. He began to question Percy, to cajole and shout and thump the table. Not once did Percy speak, nor even look at him.
Soyer sat down by him. “Please, Percy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “if you ever held me in esteem, speak. What have I done to so offend you?”
Percy looked straight ahead as if Soyer were not there.
“I thought we understood each other. Have I not treated you well? Say something. Exonerate yourself. Anything. Explain. But please, I cannot lose you and Morel and Perrin.”
Percy turned away from him.
I fell in and out of sleep, my head resting on the table. Loin continued to ask questions, which Percy continued to ignore. The hours passed. Lord Marcus eventually took himself upstairs to find a bed. One of the constables asked Loin in a low voice why they did not simply take Percy to the cells, even if they could not arrest him. Loin muttered that they must wait for Mr. Blake. Soyer went to sleep in his office.
Would Blake return? A part of me wished him on that ship to America, away from Collinson’s sinister influence. But then Percy would likely go free and I would be back in jail, charged with incitement to riot. Loin disappeared to sleep. The constables continued to watch Percy, who sat upright, apparently oblivious to us all, eyes open, no sign of fatigue. Loin reappeared. It was dawn.
• • •
I WENT TO RAISE MATTY. I found her asleep on the top step of the servants’ stairs, her head on the bare boards, her body on the stone step, a shawl wrapped about her. My footfall roused her.
“You are safe,” she said, stretching. “They sent me to bed. But I thought I might be needed. Has he confessed?”
“No. He will not speak.” I sat down next to her. “You would not happen to have a bowl of the soup about you? We have no proof that it was poisoned, you see. I was arrested for causing a riot. I think my defense may very well rest on it.”
“Oh no, I’ve nothing. What became of the rest?”
“It spilled over the cobbles of Spitalfields Market.”
“And Mr. Loin says Blake is going back to prison.”
“But you’ll say what you saw? That you saw him add something and stir it?”
“It looked like salt. He stirred it into the soup and, now I think of it, he did not taste it after.”
“I am sure what you have to say will be of use.”
“I thought he was my friend,” she said. “I trusted him. When we came back here he was so cold.”
I took her hand and squeezed it gently. “There are still people you can trust. Soyer. Mrs. Relph, Blake, me. After all this, Matty, you must stay here. You cannot give up.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Soyer will need you. He has lost Morel, and Percy. Maybe Perrin. And you have come so far.”
“I don’t know if it’s for me. There are people here who hate me. Maybe my place is on the street.”
“Everyone knows you were sinned against, and they were glad when you were freed. Your place was never on the street. The world is full of faithless, weak people, but you are not weak and you should have faith in yourself.”
“You’ll be going soon, won’t you?” she said.
I nodded. I could not bring myself to tell her about Helen.
We sat quietly for some time.
• • •
WHEN WE RETURNED to the kitchen so Matty could give her account, there was still no sign of Blake but the scullery and kitchen maids had begun the daily round of scrubbing and washing. Percy had been taken to the butler’s pantry, where he sat, unchangingly silent and blank, occasionally smiling to himself, his mind apparently somewhere else. He could not be kept at the Reform much longer.
Loin took me aside. “I will take Percy up to Scotland Yard for questioning, but I will not be able to keep him long.”
“Blake will come,” I said. “I assure you.”
“I am not sure your assurances are worth much when it comes to Mr. Blake,” said Loin.
“Just a few more minutes.”
“He will not come,” said Loin, drumming his fingers. He did not.
Loin sighed and decided they must leave. The constables hauled Percy roughly to his feet and pushed him out into the corridor. Blake was there, waiting and whistling nonchalantly.
“I thought you’d be an hour or two,” said Loin crossly. “We’ve waited all night.”
“Give me a moment.” Blake returned a few moments later, holding Margaret by the arm. She looked sallow, and her cheeks were sunken, as if she had been wrung out.
When she saw Percy she turned to flee, but Blake caught her. We returned to the butler’s pantry: me, Loin, Matty, Percy and the three constables. Blake walked Margaret into the room. I realized she was leaning upon him.
“Sergeant Loin, this is Margaret. She needs something to eat and drink, something simple. Until two days ago, she worked at the Reform as a kitchen maid. She was dismissed the night before last, at Percy’s behest. Tell him what you saw, Margaret.”
“I was waiting in his rooms the morning before I was dismissed, that’s to say, the day before yesterday.” She was breathless. “I—I had a look about. Under his bed I found three big bags of white powder. I knew what it was, because it was the same as the bags that I seen locked in the poisons cupboard.”
“What was it, Margaret?”
“It was white arsenic, sir.” There was a dead silence in the room.
“And what happened next?”
“I don’t know how it happened, but I knocked over one of the bags and the powder went everywhere.” She shivered at the recollection. “I did my best to scoop it up and put it back in the bag. I was so frightened of what he’d do if he came back and found me there with it. It got all over my fingers, so I ran from the room to wash them. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone, Margaret?” said Blake.
“I was going to, honest, but then the banquet was happening again. I thought if I said anything, they’d think I was in on it. So I went to talk to him. I was frightened, but I didn’t know what else to do. I said I’d seen what was under the bed. I wouldn’t tell anyone, but he had to get rid of it. I offered to help. He wasn’t angry like I expected; he said it wasn’t what I thought, and we’d get rid of it that night. But I needed to do something for him first. I shouldn’t have believed him, but I wanted to.”
“May I ask,” said Loin disapprovingly, “what the girl was doing in Mr. Percy’s room in the first place?”
“Margaret?”
In a small voice, she said, “I was Mr. Percy’s mistress. He said he loved me, and that he’d see I was made first kitchen maid. He bought me presents: a brooch, a hat, a shawl—I can show you them. I was in his room that morning because the kitchen was shut and I had no duties. We’d gone there together, but then he was called away. He had to leave me there; no one could see me come out—I’d be dismissed. I’d never been in his room alone before, so I had a look about.”
“Why, she’s nothing more than a fallen woman spurned!” said Loin angrily.
Percy looked her at her with mild distaste.
“Life is muddy and untidy, Loin, you know that,” said Blake. “Let her speak. Tell us what it was that he wanted you to do before you disposed of the arsenic.”
She hesitated, and brushed a hair from her eyes with a shaking hand. “He asked me to accept Mr. Scott’s attentions.”
“Had this happened before?” said Blake.
“Yes,” she said dully. “I loved him. You do anything for the man you love, don’t you?” She looked about at us, entreatingly, but always avoiding Percy. “It meant he had something over
Scott. We all hated Mr. Scott, I reckoned it was a good thing.”
“Was there a reason Mr. Percy wanted something on Scott?”
“He told the committee what Mr. Percy was up to with the skimming and all to save his own skin. He told me he’d have Scott, but he promised I’d be kept out of it. I see I was stupid to believe him now. He brought Mrs. Quill and the captain”—she nodded at me—“to Scott’s rooms that night when I was there. He never said he was coming.”
“What happened?” said Blake.
“I had my bag and I was leaving when he found me and asked me to come to his room to talk. I hoped he would explain, or give me a bit of money. He said he was sorry; Mrs. Quill had found out about Scott and there was nothing he could do. I didn’t believe him. He poured me a glass of brandy. He said it was for old times’ sake. I knew then he wanted rid of me, and what the arsenic was for. He told me to drink. I didn’t want to”—she became breathless again—“but he was watching me. So I took a sip and pretended to swallow it, and smiled. He turned away, and I spat it back into the glass and held my hand over it so he couldn’t see. I didn’t mention the arsenic at all; I said I needed money. He told me to have another sip. I was frightened and so I did. I spat it out into my handkerchief, but then he made me have a third and, that time, I had to swallow it. Then I asked him for money. He turned nasty on me, said I must leave and that if he ever saw me again he would kill me. I ran. I thought I was going to die. I had nowhere to go. I found a doorway in Crown Passage and sat down in it. Later—I don’t know how long afterward—I was very sick.” She said, in a quieter voice, more shamed I thought by this than by her previous confession, “It was like my innards were burning.”
It explained her pallor and wretched look.
“You believe he poisoned you?”
“I’d swear to it. But it didn’t kill me, I didn’t drink that much. In the morning—yesterday—I got myself up to Piccadilly. I saw the captain; I wanted to tell him about Mr. Percy. But he wouldn’t talk to me. Don’t blame him. But I was too sick and frightened to come back here. I crawled back to Crown Passage and lay there until Mr. Maguire—Mr. Blake—came and found me.”
“Were there other things Percy asked you to do before you were dismissed?”
“Yes. He said Chef was so vain he couldn’t see things under his own nose and deserved a bit of mischief in his kitchen. With me, he used to make fun of Soyer. He told me once that, when he came to work for Soyer, he thought he was a god, a genius, but now he knew he was the Napoleon of fools. That is what he called him. It started with Chef’s secretaries. Throwing away their papers, putting powders in their drinks so they’d oversleep. Little things, here and there, ’cept they did all end up leaving.”
“And Hastings Bland?”
“Percy took his meat and never paid for it. He told Chef he sent it back because it was bad. I swore the meat was bad. I said I was there when he got rid of it. He sold it off himself after. He was proud of it. Bought me a brooch. When Bland complained, he swore Bland was sending bad meat. Why would anyone disbelieve him? He was loyal Mr. Percy. There was another week when he said he didn’t have enough in the accounts to pay for prime meat. Soyer was somewhere—with some duke or something—Morel was elsewhere. He persuaded the butcher to take some meat that was no good from another supplier. He laughed about it later. He kept the money. I think it happened with other orders, too.”
“Anything else?”
“He told me to say I suspected Matty of the poisonings.” She ducked her head. Matty gave a small gasp. Margaret did not look at her. “I had sway with some of the girls and cooks, convinced them, too. I was surprised when he told me, but I didn’t like her, so I can’t say I was that unwilling. I thought maybe he was doing it for me—I was supposed to have that kitchen maid’s job, and she just walked in, played up to Soyer, and they all fell for it. Well, she’s won that one now.”
“He never told you what he wanted out of this?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t ask. He didn’t like me to. He’d get angry. He could be so cold. Struck me now and then. But that’s men for you. Once, he said he should have been a doctor and a surgeon, but it was taken from him. He said his father lost everything and he was forced into servitude. He said, one day, we would escape to the higher station we deserved. He only said it once, but I remembered it, because I thought it meant he’d take me with him.”
“And what has prompted this sudden confession?” said Loin.
“Mr. Maguire—Mr. Blake—found me.” She looked up at Blake. “He’d sort of guessed it all. He told me I couldn’t hang for what I’d done, I was just Mr. Percy’s pawn. He said, if I told, Soyer might give me my character back. And”—she brought her now tear-stained face up and gave us all a look of implausibly girlish contrition—“I wanted to tell the truth.”
“Have you anything to say, Percy?” said Loin.
Percy looked away.
“Tell them, Margaret,” said Blake.
“When I left his room, I took the glass with me. I hid it in the linen cupboard just down from his room. It should still be there with what’s left in it. The cupboard’s rarely used.” She drew something from her pocket and put it on the table. “This is the handkerchief I spat the brandy into. Mr. Blake said it would be useful.”
I could have kissed her.
“Mr. Wakley can test the contents for arsenic,” said Blake. “And I’d have him look under Percy’s bed.”
For the first time since he had arrived, Loin’s scowl disappeared. He stood up and shook Blake’s hand. “Well done, sir,” he said, and sent a constable to retrieve the glass.
A snort came from the hitherto silent Percy. “This proves nothing. The girl is just revenging herself on me because I let her go. That handkerchief could have come from anywhere.”
Margaret looked at him.
“How can you say that? See his true face? Cold and cruel.” She fell back into her chair, exhausted, and Blake gave her some water. She took a sip.
Percy stared at the wall.
“After I found Margaret,” Blake said, “I went to see if I could find where the arsenic had come from. I knew it wasn’t on the Reform’s books, because all their orders were accounted for, and I had visited all the druggists the club ordered from, and anyone besides within two miles. But there’s a wholesaler in hard goods near Spitalfields. I went back there, got them to open up. Over the last four months, they have had three orders for a large bag of arsenic for the Reform Club. All ordered by post or messenger boy. I’ve each of them here. One was signed by Morel, one by Scott and one by Mrs. Quill. I’d swear Percy was responsible for all of them; if he was falsifying accounts, I’d bet he can manage a little forgery.”
The constable returned with the glass in which there was still almost half an inch of brandy left.
“Will you come make a statement, girl? And you, Matty?” said Loin.
Margaret nodded.
They hauled Percy to his feet. Loin announced he was arresting him. Percy did not respond.
We trooped out into the morning. There was a chill, but the sky was clear. We stood on Pall Mall, Blake and I, Loin, his constables, Margaret, Matty and Percy.
Loin took Blake aside. “I imagine you have a good deal to be getting on with,” he muttered. “I see no reason to keep you. I’ll have Perrin released and see what I can manage about the charges against the captain. If Collinson wants you, he can find you. Not that I said that. I’ll deny it if I’m asked.”
Blake blinked—the only indication that he was surprised; that he understood that, for the moment, he was free. He said to Percy, “Was it the wine?” The question was posed almost carelessly.
Percy smiled. “I did nothing, Mr. Blake.”
Loin turned on his heel, and his entourage followed him. We watched them snake up Pall Mall.
“Why?” I said. “All this d
estruction for what?”
“He was jealous of Soyer. Didn’t Ude tell you that envy is the guiding sin of the kitchen?”
“But Percy said he loved Soyer at first.”
“I reckon his admiration was always tempered by envy. He felt he should not have been in service at all. When the club became such a success and Soyer more famous than anyone could have expected, his admiration curdled. And when Soyer told him he must stop skimming and then forced on him the indignity of saving him, I reckon he truly hated him. He designed a plan to destroy Soyer’s reputation and exploit his rivals’ weaknesses so that, when all was done, he would be the only man left: calm, capable Percy.”
I felt the horror of the week slip, just a little, from my shoulders. There was a hawker on the street selling the Morning Chronicle. The headline on the front page ran: “Ibrahim Pasha Royally Entertained at the Reform Club. Soyer Triumphant Again.”
Blake bestirred himself. I tried to think of something to distract him.
“When did you know it was Percy?” I said. “How did you read him?”
“There was something about him. Too correct, too solicitous—I don’t know. But I had no proof, and I’m not always right. I can’t say exactly how it works. I just watch people: the smallest gestures—a twitch, a yawn, a blink. How they hold their hands. Where they put their feet.”
“Where did it come from? From when you were in India? Before?”
He knew what I was getting at, but he spoke anyway.
“For the two summers before I was sent to Calcutta, my pa sent me off with a man called Big Ned to work the summer fairs. I was one less mouth to feed. They started me out picking pockets. There was a woman, a great, fat dame who called herself ‘Madam Cagliostro, handmaid of the fates.’ She wore an old red turban stuck with paste rubies, and told fortunes. Sometimes I’d steal something from her customers and, if she felt like it, she’d give it back at the end—magic! They didn’t even know it had gone. They’d leave full of wonder. Then I began to drum up custom. The old madam, she saw something in me. Said I had the gab, the eye and the memory. I’d walk the fair to bring her customers. Sometimes she’d give me a little bag of humbugs or licorice. I’d watch people and ask them questions in such a way that they didn’t see what they were giving me. Then I’d tell her what I’d observed, all they’d said, but she’d also say, ‘What did their mouth look like when they said that? How much did they scratch? What did they do with their hands?’ She used everything, and made such good use of it. She’d tell them about themselves and they’d be amazed at what she knew. And I was amazed, too. I watched her whenever I could. When I was taken up in India by the Secret Department, they discovered I could do this, but they started me looking for lies, for what was not being said. It became second nature.”