by Robin Paige
The constable opened his notebook. “It would seem,” he said, “that the victims died from eating a deadly mushroom.”
Sarah refused to feign sadness for Jaggers, but she could certainly feel a dart of it for the dead Miss Ardleigh. It was that sadness she allowed to creep into her voice. “I knew as much.”
The constable’s face tightened ever so slightly. “And just how did you know, Mrs. Pratt?”
“From th’ way th’ pore things died.” She added authority to the sadness. “Cudna been anythin’ but a bad mushroom.”
The constable made a note. “A bad mushroom, meaning a poisonous one?”
Mrs. Pratt nodded.
“And just where did you pick the mushrooms, Mrs. Pratt?”
That did surprise, and, for a moment, alarm her. She narrowed her eyes. “Who sez I picked ’em?”
“Did you not? Harriet says you often do.”
“So I do,” she said, “of‘en. There’s a spot at th’ edge o’ th’ wood where th’ meadow mushrooms are fat as dumplin’s. But I di’n’t pick ‘em that day.” She settled herself more firmly in the chair. “That day, there was a deal more t’ be done than jauntin’ through th’ meadow pickin’ mushrooms. There were comp’ny for luncheon, a great lot o’ it. Four, I made it, an’ th’ young miss, not t’ speak o’ the two upstairs, which di‘n’t come down an’ wanted a tray. Wi’ respect, sir, if yer don’t b’lieve me, come t’ th’ kitchen someday when there’s comp‘ny t’ luncheon, an’ see th’ goin’s-on. I warrant yer, yer’d find no time t’go a-pickin’ mushrooms.”
The constable looked at her. “Where did the mushrooms come from?”
It was the question she had been waiting for. “I bought ’em,” she said firmly, “from a gypsy. At th’ kitchen door.”
The constable appeared startled. “A gypsy?”
“A lad.” She allowed the sympathy to enter her voice. “His folks was camped by th’ ditch. His father was a tinker, out lookin’ fer scissors an’ razors t’ grind. His mother were sick with th’ fever, pore thing, an’ his three lit’le brothers was in th’ village, sellin’ clothes pegs an’ cabbage nets.”
As Sarah spoke, the constable rapidly scratched in his notebook. She watched him, envying the speed of his writing. She could read, and read perfectly, having been taught by Miss Ellison, the now-retired governess of Dedham National School. Miss Ellison had set her to read in the Royal Reader, where the young Sarah had been enthralled by such stories as “The Skater Chased by Wolves” and “The Siege of Torquilstone,” from Ivanhoe, as well as descriptions of fairy islands constructed by an amazingly industrious mite called a coral, and reports of the vast frozen wastes of the Northwest Territory. Each year Her Majesty’s gimlet-eyed Inspector of Schools came in his fine black frock coat with silk-faced lapels to put the young scholars to their annual examination, and Sarah would be placed in the front rank of the recitation to show off her reading ability. But when it came to shaping letters on paper, she was in a different sort of water. She was slow, and Miss Ellison’s daily exercises in penmanship—“lightly on the upstrokes, heavy on the down”—seemed monotonously tedious. She envied those who could write down words as fast as they spilled out of their brains.
“Can you describe this gypsy boy?” the constable asked.
Sarah shrugged, thinking of the young man who had stood before her. “Brown hat pulled down over his face, brown trousers a size or two b’yond him, boots, dirty hands. About this high.” She held a hand up to her nose to demonstrate height. “Face brown as a chestnut.”
The constable eyed her. “Are you in the habit of buying foodstuffs from gypsies who call at the door, Mrs. Pratt?” His tone ambiguously implied both a doubt of her veracity and of her prudence.
Sarah summoned dignity to her defense. “I am in th’ habit, sir, o’ buyin’ from vendors when they got somethin’ I need. Old Willie Hogglestock comes Mondays with his cart full o’ fish an’ fruit—grapes, pears, apples. Tommytoes, too”—she wrinkled her nose—“nasty, sour red things wot’ll make yer sick. Th’ gentry eats ’em with relish—why, I don’t know. Then there’s Hawkins th’ dairyman’s helper, wot brings milk, cream, an’ butter. Used to be a ship’s carpenter, Hawkins did. Come on with th’ dairyman after his wife threatened to—”
“I see,” the constable said hurriedly. “When the gypsy boy offered the mushrooms, you looked through the basket quite carefully, did you?”
“Ah.” This was the sticky part, and Sarah knew it. “T” speak God’s truth, sir,” she said, averting her eyes from the glance of the queen, ”I did not.”
“You did not?”
“No, sir,” she said remorsefully, “an’ I’ll ferever wonder in me heart whether ’twas my carelessness wot caused th’ trouble.”
The constable frowned. “And how was that?”
Sarah heaved a dramatic sigh. “Well, sir, I thought to meself that th’ boy might not be a good judge o’ mushrooms. But I cud see that he needed th’ money, mother sick an’ father a tinker an’ all. So I paid him, an’ paid a bit mor’n he asked, part fer pity o’ his perdicament, and part out o’ wantin’ th’ mushrooms. The elder Miss Ardleigh was right partial to ‘em, an’ I thought t’ make her a puddin’, seein’ as she was plannin’ t’ give back th’ carpet.” The constable looked confused but did not interrupt. “But as I was reachin’ fer th’ basket—t’ look through it an’ be sure th’ mushrooms were wot they should be—there was a commotion.”
“What sort of commotion?”
“Th’ lad looked round, like, over his shoulder, an’ there stood one o’ th’ guests, lookin’ at him. The boy took fright an’ bolted.”
“And then what?”
“Well, there I stood with th’ basket in me hand, thinkin’ t’ sort through it, like. But Harriet had made up th’ fire too hot an’ th’ soup boiled over. As I was tendin’ t’ that, I burned me thumb.” She held it up to demonstrate the red welt. “I dipped it in Saint-John‘s-wort oil an’ bound it up an’ went back t’ th’ mushrooms, which was sittin’ on th’ table. But th’ spit give way in th’ fire an’ the joint dropped in th’ ash an’—”
“Mrs. Pratt,” the constable said, “are you telling me that you did not check the mushrooms?”
“Yes, sir,” Sarah said, low. “I aimed t’ do’t before settin’ Harriet to chop. But th’ sweets tray got knocked over an‘—” She dropped her head, her shoulders slumped under the weight of so many domestic tragedies. “I made th’ crust fer th’ puddin’, an’ Harriet chopped th’ mushrooms. An’ that, sir, is how th’ sad deed was done.”
The constable spoke with care. “So there could have been a poisonous mushroom in the basket and you would not have seen it?”
“Yessir,” Sarah said. “I mean, no, sir.” She frowned, trying to make out which way the question went. “I mean, sir,” she added, to make her answer clear, “as I di‘n’t see no poisonous mushroom. If I had’ve, it wud never o’ got near th’ puddin’, yer can be sure o’ that.”
“Did anyone else see the gypsy?”
She spoke truly. “None o’ the servants, sir, but me. Th’ guest, though—he got a glimpse o’ him.” Not a good glimpse, though, she thought. “He’s th’ one wot frightened him off.”
“Do you know the name of the guest?”
“Well, ’twas th’ Marsdens who come fer luncheon, and he was their guest, a Sir Charles somebody-or-other. The same one wot pushed his way in while you was talkin’ t’ Harriet.”
The constable’s eyebrows went up. “Sir Charles Sheridan?”
“If that ’twas ’is name,” Sarah said cautiously.
Her answer seemed to satisfy the constable. “Only a few more questions,” he said. “Harriet cut up the mushrooms and you prepared the pudding—in what sort of container?”
“Why, a puddin‘-basin, o’course,” Sarah said. “It were steamed.”
“Inside a pot with a cover, on the stove?”
Sarah frowned. “How else?”
“For how long?”
“An hour, most like. Till ’twas done.”
“Was anyone else in the kitchen during that hour?”
Sarah thought. “Just me an’ Harriet.” She frowned. “An’ th’ young miss. She come in to make tea fer her aunt an’ herself.”
The constable’s mouth tightened at the corners. “Did she go near the stove?”
Sarah’s frown darkened. “Cudn’t say, sir,” she said carelessly. “I had too much t’ do t’ be watchin’ others.”
But the constable’s eyes were still on her as he shut up his notebook and stood. “I will confirm your report of the gypsy with Sir Charles as quickly as I can. You will not object to being detained meanwhile?”
Sarah smiled comfortably. “Oh, no, sir. I’d as soon have the day t’ meself, ‘specially seein’ as it’s washday.” She stood. “Yer don’t suppose, d’yer, that Pocket could bring th’ carriage when it’s time fer me t’ go back t’ Bishop’s Keep?”
The constable’s lips twitched. “I can’t say, but I will inquire.”
“Thank ye, sir,” Sarah said. She looked up at the queen’s photograph and dropped a deep curtsy, pleasantly conscious that she had met her obligation to the crown while still protecting the innocence of one whose motives she pitied, rather than hated.
The queen gave her a benevolent smile.
48
“When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
-SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, “The Beryl Coronet”
A little before eleven, Kate was sitting at the Remington, typing—but not on her book. There would be a great deal to do over the next few weeks, and “The Golden Scarab” would have to wait. She was typing a letter to Mr. Bothwell Coxford, her editor, to ask for an extension of her deadline.
She was interrupted by the sound of cart wheels on gravel. She went to the French doors and saw Mudd, bowler-hatted and wearing his greatcoat, drive up with Pocket in the cart. She threw on her shawl and hurried outside.
“How is Mrs. Pratt?” she asked, shivering in the chilly air.
An hour before, Kate had dispatched Mudd to Dedham to find out what he could about Cook’s situation, and fetch her home if possible. Although Harriet had been bidden to silence by the constable, the girl had finally told her story to Kate, who now knew that the deadly toadstool had found its way into the pudding by a tragic accident. This new information had much relieved Kate’s mind, since she no longer had to wonder if either of her aunts, or Cook, had been somehow responsible.
But if it was known how the toadstool got into the pudding, it was not yet clear how the toadstool had gotten into the kitchen. Harriet did not know whether Mrs. Pratt herself had gathered the mushrooms from the wood, or whether they had arrived by some other means, and no one else was able to offer enlightenment. But Kate, thinking back over the events of the past few days and recalling the brown felt hat dropped by the would-be intruder, suspected that Jenny Blyly’s lover—who certainly had a reason to hate not only Aunt Jaggers but Aunt Sabrina as well—might have brought the poisonous mushroom into the house. Indeed, she would have spoken the name of Tom Potter to the constable, had she been sure that to do so might not further incriminate Mrs. Pratt.
Mudd alighted from the cart. “Mrs. P. is quite well,” he said, “an’ sends ‘er thanks fer inquirin’. She ‘as explained things t’ th’ constable an’ hopes he’ll soon let ’er go.”
“Thank God,” Kate breathed fervently. “But why did he not let her come back with you?”
“ ’E’s gone off t’ check ’er story wi’ Sir Charles.” He took off his bowler hat and held it in his hands. “She’ud like t’ know whether ye plan t’ send th’ carriage, miss.”
Kate could not help smiling. She had overstated the case to Mr. Laken when she claimed Mrs. Pratt as a friend. But as Aunt Sabrina’s secretary, she had felt a fraternal sympathy for all the servants and an outright concern for the two youngest. As mistress, she felt the same compassion but with an added sense of obligation, for she was now responsible for the well-being of the staff. Still, she had to admire the irrepressible Pratt, and she hoped that even in the changed circumstance, a mutual friendship was not out of the question.
“By all means,” she told Mudd, “send the carriage.” She turned to go back into the house, then turned back. “You said that the constable is speaking with Sir Charles. Why is that?”
“Mrs. P. ses ‘twas a gypsy ’oo brought th’ mushrooms t’ th’ kitchen door. Sir Charles saw ‘em talkin’ t’gether, afore th’ lad took to ’is heels.”
Kate stood still. A gypsy! Yes! At luncheon, Sir Charles had mentioned taking the photograph of a gypsy boy who had turned tail and fled when he saw the camera. Well, Tom Potter was slender enough to be thought a lad. If the picture were clear enough, it might confirm or contradict her suspicion of his guilt. She turned toward the house. Had not Sir Charles called with photographs yesterday? Had not he left them in an envelope on the table beside the chair where he was sitting?
Kate went swiftly back to the library. Yes, there was the envelope. She picked it up. In it were a number of photographic prints—several of her in various casual poses; two of Bradford and Eleanor, unaware of the concealed camera; the one taken by Mudd of the self-conscious quartet at the luncheon table. She laid the photo aside to study later, and turned eagerly to the last one. Yes, this was it! The slender gypsy boy at the kitchen door, face turned full to the camera, hat slipped to the back of his head.
Kate stared at the photograph for a long moment, puzzled. No, the figure was not that of Tom Potter, nor the face. It was too finely featured, too symmetrically drawn. But there was something familiar about that face, something about the eyes, the mouth—
Suddenly her fingers felt cold and her knees began to tremble. She knew the face in this photo! It was—
But that was impossible!
She swallowed. No, not impossible, only improbable. But why—?
She stood still, thinking rapidly. Outside in the hallway a cuckoo clock began to announce the hour of eleven. By the fifth cuckoo, her thoughts began to make a kind of muddled sense. By the seventh, Kate could see how it might have happened. By the eleventh and last, she thought she knew who and how, and even why. Her conclusion seemed improbable, very nearly impossible, but it made sense. It had to be the truth.
But she had to admit to an uncomfortable degree of doubt. She looked down at the photograph again, at the face, the clothing, the hat. The picture was not as clear as she would have liked, and her identification could not be absolutely positive. Still, she was almost sure she was right.
But what should she do? The first and most obvious step was to find Edward Laken and show him what she had discovered—what she thought she had discovered. But the constable was the one who had insisted so vehemently, despite her protests, on taking Mrs. Pratt in for questioning. What was more, he had infuriated her by staring when she ordered the carriage for the cook. No. It might be petty, but she would not allow him the satisfaction of making the arrest—or, if she was wrong, the satisfaction of laughing at her.
Then what? Should she show the photograph to Sir Charles and beg his assistance? For a moment, she was tempted. It would be quite pleasantly gratifying to show that arrogant man that he did not have a monopoly on hypotheses: she too could formulate a theory of the crime and provide the evidence to validate it. And it would be delightful to correct his incorrect conclusion that Mrs. Pratt was the killer.
But here the same nettlesome difficulty arose. If she was wrong, she would have made a fool of herself in Sir Charles’s quite critical eyes. It would be far better to obtain definitive proof—a confession before a witness, if at all possible—and then turn the matter over to the proper authorities.
But it was not Kate’s unwillingness to accommodate Constable Laken or risk Sir Charles’s critical judgment that proved to be the definitive factor. What decided Kate was her quite
natural impulse to face down the wicked person who had killed her aunts, and Beryl Bardwell’s interest in hearing a confession from the criminal’s own lips.
But this was obviously not a matter that she could take entirely into her own hands. She would need help. She stood quietly for another minute, sorting through various possible strategies. Then she made up her mind. She knew what she would do. But it had to be done quickly. Time was of the essence.
49
“The hiding of a crime, or the detection of a crime, what is it? A trial of skill between the police on one side, and the individual on the other.”
—WILKIE COLLINS The Woman in White
Laken was frowning thoughtfully as he mounted his bicycle. But instead of riding out in the direction of Marsden Manor, he rode toward the vicarage. An important matter wanted clearing up before he spoke to Charlie Sheridan.
The vicar was among his roses. “Ah, Edward,” he said, straightening, a basket of late blossoms in his hand. “Perhaps you would care for a cup of morning tea? A biscuit? I am sure Mrs. Mills can find us a little something.”
“Thank you, sir,” Laken said, “but I fear I am in a bit of a hurry. I came to ask you to enlighten me as to the Ardleigh inheritance.”
“Ah, yes.” The vicar seemed burdened by the thought. “It is very simple, really. Miss Ardleigh—Sabrina Ardleigh—recently made a new will. Her sister Bernice was her previous beneficiary. Owing to difficulties between them, Miss Ardleigh determined to exclude her from inheritance. In her place, she named her niece. There are some minor bequests, of course, but the bulk of the estate goes to Kathryn. As it should,” he added. “She is the last Ardleigh.”