A Soupçon of Poison: Kat Holloway Victorian Mysteries Page 5

I locked the kitchen door then scurried up the back stairs to the door at the top, its green baize tight and unblemished, as though nothing untoward had occurred beyond it. I opened the door and peered out into the cold darkness of the house.

  I was too sensible to believe in spirits, but the shadows seemed to press at me. Sir Lionel had died here, alone and unpitied.

  I quickly closed that door, locked it, and descended again to the kitchen, where I rechecked the back door and made certain none of the high windows were open. The kitchen was stuffy with the windows closed, but I’d put up with it.

  I retired to bed, but I could not sleep for a good long time, as tired as I was. I kept picturing the rooms upstairs, dark, deserted, silent.

  At last I did drift off, only to be woken by a loud thump. Then came a creak of floorboard above me. Someone was in the house.

  I had a moment of panic, wanting to put the bedcovers over my head and pretend it hadn’t happened. But I hardened my resolve and sat up.

  Burglars must have broken in—empty houses were good targets, especially those belonging to rich men. Sir Lionel’s heir would no doubt arrive to take possession soon, but until then, a house full of silver, wine, and other valuables was a sitting duck waiting to be plucked.

  I wasn’t having it. I sprang quietly out of bed, pulled on a blouse and skirt over my nightclothes and found my good, stout boots. I’d run for the constable who patrolled the street—never mind he’d had a hand in my arrest—and bring him in to the take the thieves.

  As I left my tiny bedchamber and made my way through the short hall to the kitchen, I heard the burglar start down the back stairs.

  Damn and blast. The entire expanse of the kitchen lay between me and the back door. I knew why they’d come down here—the master’s collection of wine and much of the silver lay in the butler’s pantry beyond the kitchen.

  I’d have to risk it. Taking a deep breath, I scurried across the flagstone floor toward the scullery and the back door.

  A dark figure leapt down the last part of the stairs and grabbed me before I could reach for the door latch—the door was already unlocked, I saw belatedly. I let out a scream. A hand clamped over my mouth and dragged me back into the kitchen. I fought like mad, kicking and flailing with my fists.

  “For God’s sake, Kat, stop!”

  Daniel’s voice was a hiss in my ear, and a second later, I realized it was he who held me. I broke away. “What the devil are you doing, frightening me out of my wits?” I asked in a fierce whisper.

  “Shh.” He put a finger to my lips.

  I understood. Though it had been Daniel creeping down to the kitchen, someone was still upstairs, robbing the place.

  “It’s Copley,” Daniel said into my ear.

  I started in indignation. “That rat. We should run for the constable. Catch him at it.”

  “The police are already waiting outside. When he runs out with the goods, they’ll nab him. He won’t have any excuse or chance to hide.”

  I went quiet as the floorboards creaked again. I might have known. “What if he comes down here?” I asked.

  “Then I’ll lay him out and deliver him to the Peelers.”

  I liked the idea, but I had to wonder. “Why are you hand in glove with the police?”

  Daniel’s vague shrug was maddening, but I fell silent. We traced Copley’s path across the ground floor above us until he disappeared into the rear of the house.

  “The garden door,” Daniel said in a low voice, no more whispering. “That’s how he came in. He’ll find plenty of the Old Bill waiting for him as he goes out.”

  The nearness of Daniel was warming. “How did you know he was here at all?”

  “I was watching the house, saw him pass a few times. Then he nipped around the corner to the mews behind it. I told the constable to bring some stout fellows, and I followed Copley inside.”

  “You were watching the house?” I was befuddled from being jerked from a sound sleep and having Daniel so close to me.

  Daniel gave me a nod. “I wanted to make sure all was well. I worry about you, Kat.”

  He looked at me for a long moment, the touched my chin with his forefinger, leaned down, and brushed a kiss across my lips.

  I was too astonished to do anything but let him. Daniel straightened, gave me a wry smile, and moved around me to let himself out the kitchen door.

  A blast of cold air poured over me, but my body was warm where he’d held me. I touched my fingertips to my lips, still feeling the pressure of his soft kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  Daniel returned in the morning, knocking on the kitchen door, which I’d re-locked.

  He’d brought James with him again, to help me with the morning chores necessary to any house, no matter I was its only resident. James whipped around, carrying in coal and helping stir up the fire, while I mixed up dough for flat muffins and fried the last of the bacon.

  I kept glancing sideways at Daniel as we ate at the table, though he did not seem to notice. He said nothing about the adventure of the night before—not to mention the kiss—as if none of it were of any moment.

  I was no stranger to the relations between men and women—I had a daughter, after all—but what I’d had with my husband had been sometimes painful and always far from affectionate. The gentle heat of Daniel’s mouth had opened possibilities to me, thoughts I’d never explored. I’d had no idea a man could be so tender.

  Daniel seemed to have forgotten all about the kiss, however. That stung, but I made myself feel better by pretending he was being discreet in front of his son.

  After breakfast, I mentioned I needed to tidy myself and return to the agency to find another post, but Daniel forestalled me. “First we are visiting Mrs. Fuller.”

  I blinked as I set the plates on the draining board. “The woman who shared the fatal meal? She has recovered?”

  “She has, and was lucky to. The coroner tells me there was a large quantity of poison in the two men, enough to kill a person several times over. Mrs. Fuller is rather stout, so perhaps the arsenic did not penetrate her system as thoroughly. Her doctors purged her well.”

  “Poor thing,” I said. “Do you think Copley somehow added the poison to the meal? To clear Sir Lionel out of the way so he might help himself to the goods?” I contemplated this a moment, rinsing plates under the taps. “Perhaps he only pretended to be too drunk to serve that night, so the food wouldn’t be connected with him.”

  Daniel shook his head. “I think Copley is more an opportunist than a schemer. Though he might have seen an opportunity to administer the poison and took it.”

  “I still don’t see how. Copley is limber and thin, but I can’t imagine him crouching in the dumbwaiter shaft with a bottle of poison.”

  Daniel gave me his warm laugh. “Nor can I. Ready yourself, and we’ll go.”

  James finished the washing up so I could change. I put on my second-best dress, the one I kept clean for visiting agencies or my acquaintances on my day out, or my occasional jaunt to the theatre. For church and visiting my daughter, I always wore my best dress.

  This gown was a modest dark brown, with black piping on cuffs, bodice, and neckline. I flattered myself that it went with my glossy brown hair and dark blue eyes. The hat that matched it—coffee-brown straw with a subdued collection of feathers and a black ribbon—set it off to perfection.

  Daniel gave me a glance of approval when I emerged, which warmed me. Ridiculous. I was behaving like a smitten girl.

  But then, he’d never seen me in anything but my gray work dress and apron. James grinned at me, told me I was lovely, and offered me his arm. Sweet boy.

  Mrs. Fuller lived on Wilton Crescent, near Belgrave Square. A fine address, and the mansion that went with it took my breath away. Daniel and I were let in by a side door, though James remained outside with the hired coach.

  The ceilings of the house above stairs were enormously high, the back and front parlors divided by pointed arches. Plants were e
verywhere—we had stepped into a tropical rainforest it seemed. Rubber trees, elephant’s ears, potted palms, and other exotic species I couldn’t identify filled the rooms. The furniture surrounding these plants was elegantly carved, heavy, and upholstered in velvet.

  The butler led us through the front and back parlors and into a bedchamber that looked out to the gardens in back of the house.

  This room was as elegant as the others, the ceiling crisscrossed with beams carved like those in an Indian mogul’s palace. Mosaics covered blank spaces in the ceiling, and outside in the garden, a fountain containing tiles with more mosaics burbled.

  Mrs. Fuller lay on a thick mattress in an enormous mahogany bedstead with curved sides. Mrs. Fuller was indeed stout, about twice my girth, and I am not a thin woman. Her face, however, was pretty in a girlish way, the hair under her cap brown without a touch of gray.

  I curtsied when the butler announced us, and Daniel made a polite bow. “I apologize for disturbing you, madam,” Daniel began. “The police inspector thought Mrs. Holloway might be of assistance, as he discussed with you.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Fuller lifted a damp handkerchief from the bedcovers and wiped her red-rimmed eyes. “I am anxious to find out what happened. Forgive me, my dear, if I am not myself. It is still incredible to me that my dear husband is gone, and yet, here I am. You are the cook?”

  “Indeed.” I gave her another polite curtsy. “My condolences, ma’am. Yes, I cooked the meal, but I promise you, I never would have dreamed of tainting it in any way.”

  Mrs. Fuller dabbed her eyes again. “They told me you were innocent of the crime. I suppose you are suffering from this in your own way as well. Your reputation … you are an excellent cook, my dear. If it is any consolation, I so enjoyed the meal.” Her smile was weary, that of a woman trying to make sense of a bizarre circumstance.

  Daniel broke in, his voice quiet. “I’ve asked Mrs. Holloway about what she served and how she prepared it. It would help if you described the meal in your own words, Mrs. Fuller, and tell us if any dishes tasted odd.”

  Mrs. Fuller looked thoughtful. I pitied her, ill and abruptly widowed. She could have doctored the food herself to kill her rich husband, of course, but her husband dying did not mean she inherited all the money. That would go to her oldest son, if she had sons, or to nephews or other male kin if she did not. She’d receive only what was apportioned to her in the will or in the marriage agreement, though the heir could be generous and give her an allowance and place to live. However, the heir did not have to, not legally.

  One reason not to marry in haste was that a widowed woman might find herself destitute. Careful planning was best, as were contracts signed by solicitors, as I’d learned to my regret.

  “Let me see,” Mrs. Fuller began. She then listed all the dishes I had prepared, forgetting about the mushrooms at first, but she said, “oh, yes,” and came back to them. No, all tasted as they should, Mrs. Fuller thought, and she heaped more praise on my cooking.

  “The custard at the end was very nice,” she finished, sounding tired. “With the berries, all sweetened with sugar.”

  She had described what I did. Nothing added or missing. She and Sir Lionel had taken coffee, while her husband had been served tea, so if the poison had been in the coffee, she would have still have been ill but her husband alive.

  Daniel seemed neither disappointed nor enlightened at the end of this interview. He thanked Mrs. Fuller, who looked tired, and we began to take our leave.

  As her maid ushered us out of the bedchamber, a thought struck me. “A moment,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Fuller. “You said the custard and berries were sweet with sugar. I put a burnt sugar sauce on the custard, yes, but did not sprinkle more sugar on top. Is that what you meant?”

  Mrs. Fuller frowned. “I meant that there was sugar in a caster that came with the tarts on the tray. We all made use of it.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  Mrs. Fuller drooped against her pillows, the handkerchief coming up to her eyes again. The maid gave us a severe look, protective of her mistress, and Daniel led me firmly from the room.

  I tried to walk decorously out of the house, but I moved faster and faster until I was nearly running as we reached the carriage.

  “What the devil is it, Kat?” Daniel asked as he helped me in and climbed up beside me. “What did she say that’s got you agitated?”

  “The caster.” I beamed as James slammed the door. “There is your incongruity.”

  Daniel only peered at me. “Why?”

  “Because, my dear Daniel, I never sprinkle extra sugar on my custards, especially with the berries. Ruins the contrast—the custard is plenty sweet with the burnt sugar sauce, and the slight tartness of the berries sets it off perfectly. Extra sugar only drowns the flavor. I would never have sent up a caster full of it on a tray to ruin my dessert. I didn’t, in fact. That means the poison must have been in the sugar.”

  Daniel’s eyes lit, a wonderful sight in a handsome man. “I see. The murk begins to clear.”

  “Does it?” I deflated a bit. “Now all we need to know is where the caster came from, who put the poison into it, and how it got on the table that night.”

  Daniel gave me a wise nod. “I’m sure you’ll discover that soon enough.”

  “Don’t tease. I am not a policeman, Mr. McAdam.”

  “I know, but perhaps you ought to be.” His amusement evaporated. “I must ask the inspector how he and his men missed a container full of poison when they searched the house.”

  He had a point. “The poisoner obviously took it away before the police arrived,” I said.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  The wretch. My gaze dropped to his smiling mouth, and the memory of his brief kiss stole over me. If Daniel noticed my sudden flush, he said nothing, and we arrived at Sir Lionel’s house again.

  Nothing for it, but we began to search the place, top to bottom, for the sugar caster. I had to first explain to James what one was.

  “A small carved silver jug-like shape, with a top,” I said. “Like a salt shaker, but wider and fatter.”

  James nodded, understanding, but try as we might, we could not find it. We searched through the dining room, opening all the doors in the sideboard and the breakfront, then I led them downstairs to the butler’s pantry.

  The walls were lined with shelves that housed much of Sir Lionel’s collection of silver, some of it handed down for generations through the Leigh-Bradbury family. Silver kept its value where coins, stocks, banknotes, and even paintings might become worthless. Heavy silver could at least be sold for its metal content if nothing else. Sir Lionel’s plate had the hallmark of a silversmith from two centuries ago and was probably worth a fortune.

  I discovered that at least a third of this valuable silver was missing.

  “Copley,” I said, hands on hips.

  Daniel, next to me, agreed. “Meanwhile—no sugar caster?”

  “If it’s in this house, it wasn’t put back into its usual place. Did Copley rush out of here with it in his bag of stolen silver?”

  “Very possibly,” Daniel said. “I will question the inspector who arrested him.”

  I became lost in thought. How likely was it that the poisoner had tamely returned the caster to the butler’s pantry, ready for Copley to steal it? Unless Copley had poisoned Sir Lionel for the express purpose of making off with the silver. Why, then, had Copley waited until Sir Lionel had been found? Why not put the things into a bag and be far away when I’d stumbled across the body? The answer was that Copley most likely hadn’t known that Sir Lionel would be killed. He was an opportunist, as Daniel said.

  Daniel’s shoulder next to mine was warm. I did not know what to make of him. Would I ever know who he truly was?

  Well, I would not let him kiss me again and then disappear, leaving me in the dark. I was a grown woman, no longer the young fool I was to let a handsome man turn my head.

&nb
sp; I voiced the thought that we should look for the caster in unusual places, and we went back to the dining room. After a long search, I spotted the sugar caster tucked into a pot containing a rubber tree plant.

  The plant and its large pot stood just outside the dining room door, a nuisance I’d thought it, with its fat leaves slapping me across the back if I didn’t enter the doorway straight on. As I impatiently pushed the leaves aside, I spied a glint of silver among the black earth.

  I called to Daniel, and put a hand in to fish it out. He forestalled me, shook out a handkerchief, and carefully lifted it.

  He carried the caster into the dining room, both of us breathless, as though the thing would explode. James fetched a napkin from the sideboard, and Daniel set the caster into the middle of it. With the handkerchief, he delicately unscrewed the top, then dumped the contents of the caster onto another napkin.

  It looked like sugar—fine white sugar used to put a final taste on pastries, berries, cakes.

  James put out a finger to touch the crystals, but Daniel snapped, “No!”

  James curled his finger back, unoffended. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” Daniel said. “Arsenic, perhaps? Or some other foul chemical. I’m not a scientist or doctor.”

  “Or chemist,” I said. “They sell poisons.”

  “True.” Daniel wrapped the caster’s contents in one napkin, the caster in the other, and put them all into the bag he carried.

  “What will you do with those?” I asked.

  “Take them to a chemist I know. Very clever, Mrs. Holloway.”

  “Common sense, I would have thought.”

  The teasing glint entered Daniel’s eyes again. “Well, I have a distinct lack of common sense when I’m near you, Kat.”

  James rolled his eyes, and I frowned at Daniel—I refused to let him beguile me. “Be off with you, Mr. McAdam. I must put my things in order and find a place to stay. Another night in this house would not be good for my health, I think.”

  “I agree.” Daniel gave me an unreadable look. “Where will you go?”

  I had no idea. “I suppose I’ll look for a boardinghouse that will take a cook whose master died after eating one of her meals. I’m certain I’ll be welcomed with open arms.”