When I beheld Caleb in his smart uniform, brass buttons up to his chin, I had a moment of light-headedness. Ten years dropped away, and I was the frightened young woman wondering how on earth I would raise my child with no husband and no widow’s portion.
I drew a deep breath and willed my heart to beat normally again. Caleb was a good soul, not the sneering sergeant who’d insisted on searching for my husband’s belongings in the rooms I’d let at a boardinghouse.
Inspector McGregor, in his usual rumpled suit, removed a faded hat and eyed me in annoyance over his thick mustache.
“Mrs. Holloway, if you will lend me a few moments.”
I had no time at all for him, but Tess sent me a look of apology as she reached for her apron.
“I’ll take over, Mrs. H. The inspector promised he’d not keep you long.”
“Very well.” I wiped my floury hands and, without removing my apron, beckoned the inspector to follow me down the hall to the housekeeper’s parlor.
Mrs. Redfern spent little time in this parlor, as she insisted on being upstairs to direct the maids in their work. Very conscientious, was Mrs. Redfern, never shirking her duties to sip tea with her feet up.
The parlor was empty. Inspector McGregor had been in this room before, but these days it was painfully neat, Mrs. Redfern having organized the previous chaos. My few cookbooks were lined up on one shelf in the corner, untouched by all but me.
“Will you sit, Inspector?” I waved him to the soft wing chair that was a recent acquisition.
He waited like a gentleman until I perched on the edge of the Belter chair before he took his seat.
“Mrs. Holloway, you are corrupting my constables,” he rumbled.
“I beg your pardon, Inspector.” I faced him without flinching, resting my hands on my knees, and forced myself to meet his keen stare. “I am naturally curious to find out what truly happened to Erica Hume.”
“Yes, McAdam informed me you were there when she died.” Inspector McGregor scowled as though I’d planted myself at Erica’s side to make things difficult for him. “And that you believe she was killed by mistake, the poison meant for Lady Covington.”
“Precisely,” I said crisply. “Lady Covington is still in danger, and as far as I can see, the police are doing little about it.”
“Because the police believe the death is accidental.” McGregor’s mustache bobbed with his words. “Poisonous leaves from the garden got into the food, and Mrs. Hume consumed enough to kill her.”
“Which is nonsense . . .”
Inspector McGregor held up a hand. “I said the police in general are convinced, not me. I would have been, if McAdam hadn’t told me of your interest. You are a confounded busybody, Mrs. Holloway, but I have learned you are usually right about things.”
I was pleased he thought so, but I did not feel clever allowing Erica to die. “Not always.”
“Often enough. That is why I’ve come. Instead of throwing yourself in front of a crazed poisoner, tell me everything you’ve discovered, and I’ll make an arrest before you are killed.”
“Very amusing.” I knew he was correct that I had been reckless in the past, but then, I’d more than once had to lay hands on a killer when the police were nowhere in sight. Not alone, of course—Daniel had obligingly assisted. “Unfortunately, I have been able to find out very little in this case. I have toyed with the idea that Mrs. Hume was the intended victim all along, but I confess I have given up the notion.”
“Lady Covington is the more likely target,” Inspector McGregor said with a decided nod. “She has wealth that can buy Park Lane ten times over. In fact, her first husband, Morris, owned several unentailed properties across England, and Lady Covington inherited the lot, held in trust for her son until she dies. She’d live well on the rents even if the late Mr. Morris hadn’t also left her a huge sum in the bank. The new Baron Covington doesn’t have half as much. When the present Lady Covington married Lord Covington, all assumed she’d pour her money into his railway, but she did not. The cash and property were tied up in trust so her new husband did not automatically take over. Morris knew what he was doing.”
“Mr. Morris died tragically in a train accident,” I said. “He’d certainly prepared well for his wife’s living.”
“Yes, the Heyford crash of January 1875.” Inspector McGregor settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Morris was in one of the first-class carriages, traveling from Coventry southeast to London. He’d made a business trip, as part of his position on the railway board. He was partly blamed for the wreck, but exonerated, as he would never have taken that train himself if he hadn’t believed it perfectly safe, and also because he wasn’t alive to make amends.”
“I had wondered if someone resented Lady Covington enough over that to kill her.”
Inspector McGregor shrugged. “Lady Covington always avowed her husband had done no wrong. Many lawsuits were leveled at the railway company, but it paid out, and all was finished. They had to cease operation on that branch of the line, but within a few years began to make back the money they’d lost concentrating on travel to the southeast.”
All as Mr. Davis had told me. “You have been thorough, Inspector,” I said admiringly.
“As soon as I found out who this Mrs. Hume was, I made my inquiries. Never hurts. The railway might have nothing to do with anything, but I wanted background on the family. You will give me more.” He pointed a stubby finger at me.
“I don’t know much more.” I didn’t mention Harriet’s paramour, because I wanted to learn further details about him first. If he was an innocent, lovelorn swain, I did not want Inspector McGregor to pounce on him.
“But you will find out. Anything you discover about Lady Covington’s household, you will tell me. If you have to send me reports through McAdam, I’ll put up with it.”
“Mr. McAdam is very busy,” I said hesitantly.
“So it would seem. I am not to know what he is doing, though I can guess. Not my case. Not my area.” He sounded vastly irritated by this. “Send word through Constable Greene.”
“Constable . . . ? Ah, Caleb.”
“Yes, the one who’s attached himself to your assistant. She has him wrapped around her finger.”
I regarded him primly. “A man could do worse than marrying a cook.”
“I hope to all that’s holy he isn’t thinking of marrying anyone. He’s not a bad policeman, and could go far.”
“I am pleased to hear it. You mean that when he has a detective inspector’s salary, then he might be able to marry?”