He remained in the hothouse, taking up a trowel, as I departed. I let myself out of the gate to the mews and walked through a tiny passageway that led between coach houses. I emerged into the mews, which were busy with coachmen grooming horses or repairing harness or carriage wheels, the scent of horse pungent. The mews led out to Park Street, which roughly paralleled Park Lane, and I turned down this to walk home.
When I entered the kitchen, Cynthia sprang up from the table where she’d been chatting with Tess. She wore a suit, and thrust her hands into its pockets.
“The chemist told me what was in Lady Covington’s powders,” she said. “The ones Jepson was so angry at me for not giving her.” She bent closer, though there was no one else in the kitchen but Tess, and confided, “Magnesium hydroxide.”
13
Oh.” Cynthia’s words arrested me in the act of lifting off my hat. I took it all the way off and hung it up with my coat, hiding my disappointment.
“What’s magnees . . . ?” Tess asked. “Whatever you said?”
“A common substance,” I answered, retrieving my apron and moving to the table. “Sometimes it’s known as magnesium milk, and it’s nothing more than a laxative.”
“Not poison, then,” Tess said, deflating.
“I suppose it can be if you take too much,” I answered. “But the symptoms would be different.”
Cynthia rocked on her heels. “Chemist said there wasn’t anything but the laxative in the powders, so that wasn’t how the poison was given. Anyway, we do know Erica took sick from what she ate from the hamper.”
“As did Sir Arthur,” I said as I resumed my apron. “We can’t know which food was dosed, however. The hamper was empty when someone from the railway returned it to the house, Mrs. Gamble says.”
Cynthia’s eyes widened in alarm. “Lord, I hope none of the porters nicked leftovers from it.”
“That would indeed be terrible,” I said with a shiver. “Though I think any porters falling ill would have been reported in the newspaper.”
“That’s somefink I could find out,” Tess chirped. “Can tell Caleb to, I mean. Whether any porters on that train got sick. Be more evidence the food was tainted, wouldn’t it?”
“That is true,” I said. “Thank you, Tess. I appreciate the help.”
She beamed, pleased.
“What do you want me to do, Mrs. H.?” Cynthia asked. “I’ll go back to Lady Covington’s tomorrow—I’m giving her family a day to themselves. What sorts of things can I ferret out?”
“Please, do not go,” I said quickly. “It is obviously not safe to eat food from that house.”
“Nonsense. The hamper was meant for Lady Covington alone. The poisoner couldn’t have known it would be passed around.” Cynthia paused. “Jove, if the poisoner is one of the family, and he or she sat calmly and watched Erica down the lot . . .” She trailed off grimly. “I’ll go back so I can wring his neck. Or hers.”
“Anyone on the train could have had the chance to doctor it,” I pointed out.
Cynthia dug her hands deeper into her pockets, slouching like a languid young man. “True, the hamper would have sat with the luggage on the platform, then been loaded into the baggage car and carried from there to the compartment. An enemy who didn’t live in the house could have seized the opportunity. He’d not have guessed Lady Covington wouldn’t eat a thing.”
“But how would someone from outside the house poison the family meals Lady Covington has taken sick from?” I carried my spice boxes from the dresser to the table and began laying out ingredients for the Antiguan custard. “They’d have to find a way to slip into the kitchen and sprinkle the substance into the dishes, and I’m certain Mrs. Gamble would notice. A good cook never lets a meal go up without having a taste to make certain all is well.”
“Has the cook ever been sick?” Tess asked Cynthia.
“Not that I’ve heard. None of the staff either. Hmm.”
I sniffed a fragrant star anise and set it into a bowl. “Then the poison must be introduced after the food leaves the kitchen. Everyone below stairs would sample a bit of what goes upstairs—I always make extra to feed the staff if I do not cook them a separate meal. Or I have Tess taste things to give me her opinion. Depend upon it, if the food was poisoned in the kitchen, someone else would fall ill, mostly likely Mrs. Gamble herself.”
“I’ll just have to catch them at it.” Cynthia bounced on her toes with the eagerness of a pup. “Don’t worry, Mrs. H. I’ll eat very little and smuggle in biscuits to keep myself nourished in the middle of the night. Now that Erica has paid the price, I’ll wager the rest of the family will take Lady Covington’s fears more seriously.”
“If they find poison in Erica,” I said, recalling my discussion about this with Daniel. “After all, bad food lays people low or kills them all the time. Not always the fault of the cook—ingredients can go off, with none the wiser until it’s too late.”
“Miss Townsend has some leverage with the police,” Cynthia said. “Her father is in the Cabinet and does something or other in the Home Office. She can encourage them to look for poison. Look carefully, I mean.”
I was not optimistic. Erica belonged to a wealthy and prominent family, that was true, but I did not have much faith in a police coroner if the poison wasn’t obvious. I was not an expert on such, but the coroner could decide that Erica’s symptoms came from a bad egg or a spoiled strawberry. The police might dismiss Lady Covington’s conviction about poison out of hand, labeling her a hysterical woman.
“Or I could speak to Inspector McGregor,” I said. “He does not welcome my interference, but he knows by now that I do not cry wolf.”
Tess grimaced. “He frightens me, does the inspector. Caleb’s terrified of him, though he says Inspector McGregor is a good policeman.” She added the last reluctantly.
“I will speak to the inspector as soon as I can.” I did not relish hunting him up—McGregor could be intimidating, though I agreed with Caleb that he was a good policeman, if a bad-tempered one.
Cynthia let out a breath. “I feel ineffectual shuffling about this house. Every time I see Mummy or Auntie, they immediately open their mouths to tell me about some young toad they want to pair me up with. It’s galling. My father is chumming up to some prominent chaps while he’s here—I imagine to fleece them somehow—and I live in terror he’ll convince one to throw his son at me. It’s becoming stifling.”
“Do you not want to marry at all, Lady Cynthia?” Tess asked. “You’d have your own house and your own servants. Maybe me and Mrs. H. could work for you.” She gazed at Cynthia, her freckled face hopeful.