“Touché, Mrs. Holloway. I’m interested in this case, because I know there’s more than meets the eye, or else you wouldn’t be involved.”
“Possibly true, but did you not interview them about Erica’s death? Considering poison was found.”
Inspector McGregor’s expression turned sour. “I tried to speak to the family, and the servants, but the whole lot of them froze me out. No one in that household, whether upstairs or down, will deign to talk to the police. I was scum on the bottom of their shoes—they would not even let me in past the downstairs back door.”
“The staff is very protective of her ladyship.”
“I imagine she pays them a fair amount. A rich woman can buy loyalty.”
I thought of Jepson, the dragon who guarded—or at least seemed to guard—Lady Covington. She had been with Lady Covington a long time, from what I understood. There was more than riches keeping that household together, but whether it was love or hatred remained to be seen.
“Very well, Inspector. I will save you the mortification of being treated as though you are dirt on the bottoms of their shoes and speak to Lady Covington’s family and staff. Would you like me to write to you, or would you prefer I give the constable a verbal report?”
“A letter is fine.” Inspector McGregor slid to the edge of his chair. He wanted to rise and depart, but he was enough of a gentleman to not simply stand and stalk out before I was ready to say my farewells.
I stood up, relieving him of his impatience. “Would you like to take home some lemon cake, Inspector? I have made several batches.”
“You are very kind, but no.”
I saw sudden hunger flicker in his eyes and his fingers twitch, but he was trying to be the correct policeman who did nothing untoward while he was on duty, including indulging in sweets offered by a helpful cook.
The poor man needed a wife, I thought. One to make certain his collar was straight and he was well-fed enough to not be tortured by the thought of cakes.
“I’ll wrap it up for you anyway,” I said. “You can have it with your supper.”
Before he could protest, I strode back to the kitchen and lifted an already wrapped bit of cake I’d intended to send to Bobby and Miss Townsend. I could give them another.
I thrust the packet at Inspector McGregor as he made his way through the kitchen to the back door. He could do nothing but take it and tuck it into his pocket, though he scowled as he did so.
Inspector McGregor said a curt “Good day,” and opened the door, sending a cold gust into the kitchen. He slapped his hat firmly onto his head, slammed the door until it rattled, and trudged up the stairs into the wind.
* * *
* * *
The next day, Sunday, I woke early and worked hard alongside Tess to make certain the Sunday dinner would be a fine feast.
Mrs. Bywater, who walked down the road to attend services at Grosvenor Chapel most Sundays, allowed the staff to attend church with her if they wished. I decided to go with her today, as did Sara and Mrs. Redfern. The three of us followed at a discreet distance behind Mr. and Mrs. Bywater, and surprisingly, Lord and Lady Clifford.
I slid into a back pew with Mrs. Redfern and Sara. As always, I found the white-columned interior of the chapel with its galleries and arched ceiling soothing. Grosvenor Chapel had no stained glass, and while I thought stained glass pretty, I liked how the clear windows flooded the chapel with light. God was in nature, after all, and letting in the sunshine—what there was of it on a London spring day—admitted His presence.
The vicar, a slim man with a calm, almost liquid voice, conducted the service. I could doze off listening to him, but I remained awake to study him with interest. This was Daniel’s friend who allowed him to enter the sacristy in the middle of the night and entertain guests there. Daniel had said he’d done the man a favor, and I was curious to know what.
I switched my gaze to Cynthia’s parents, who sat in the front of the chapel. From this angle, I could see Lord Clifford, who’d returned from Surrey late last night, on the end of the pew, gazing in a bored manner at the gold-leafed cross hanging over the altar.
Lady Clifford, next to him, had her head bent as though in prayer, her lips moving. It struck me as I observed her that she was an aging woman. Though she dressed smartly, much more so than Mrs. Bywater, her slim frame drooped, and her shoulders possessed a thinness that spoke of waning strength. Sunlight touched her hair, which was fair like Cynthia’s, but in this chapel, it appeared more white than flaxen.
I recalled Lady Clifford collapsing against Cynthia when she’d come down to my kitchen, sobbing when she’d thought of her children. She’d lost a son under horrible circumstances, and a daughter under not much better ones.
Cynthia easily grew exasperated with her parents, but I saw her hurt that they regarded her as a nuisance to be foisted off on a husband while they grieved her much-lauded brother and sister.
My mother had rarely had two coins to rub together, and she’d spent all day and many nights charring to keep food on our table. But I’d never had any doubt that she loved me deeply, and I’d loved her in return.
She’d made sure I learned my letters, and when I was fourteen, she’d found me a position as a cook’s assistant, hoping I could begin a profession in service. A cook in a proper household could make a living and have a decent roof over her head far easier than a woman who scrubbed floors piecemeal.
When my mother had died, having worked herself into an early grave, I’d felt nothing but pain for a long time. I’d become an under-cook in a large house in Grosvenor Square shortly before her death, moving up in the world, my mother proudly told her old cronies in Bow Lane. It was in this vulnerable state that I’d met my husband.
The service ended with one of my favorite hymns—
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty
God in three persons, blessed Trinity
I sang loudly, still thinking of my mother, and ducked outside after the music ended, without waiting for the final blessing. I wanted to make certain the dinner Tess and I had begun would be finished for the family when they arrived home.
I found Lord Clifford at the end of the chapel’s porch, lounging against the last column, he having slipped away during the last hymn. He lifted his hat and fell into step with me as I walked toward Mount Street.
“It happened as you said, Mrs. Holloway,” he told me in a low voice. “The duke has paid me two hundred guineas for the necklace. I’d only asked a hundred, but he was moved to assist me.” Lord Clifford chortled his triumph before he caught my look and amended his expression. “Anyway, I toddled back to London, telling him I wanted to rejoin my wife—which is true. I don’t much like being away from her long. Reverend Fielding has taken over. He is going to give the duke four thousand for that bloody—er, dashed—paste necklace.” Lord Clifford trailed off admiringly. “Lancaster—or, no, he’s McAdam, isn’t he? He came up with the cash for Mr. Fielding to pay over. A dashed clever chap is McAdam. I truly believed him a vacuous fop whose head was only good for holding his hat.”