Lady Covington closed her eyes. “You have a point, my dear. I will consider it. However, the board, including George, would have to go along with a promotion.”
“You could talk them ’round,” Cynthia said with confidence. “Save you a good deal of bother.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Covington opened her eyes and skewered me with her gaze. “What else will you bluntly tell me, Mrs. Holloway?”
“I’m afraid I must ask about something that might be painful.” I drew on my courage as Jepson scowled at me. “The train accident in Heyford.”
Lady Covington’s face was brittle. “The one that killed Mr. Morris.”
I nodded. “Did anyone who was hurt in that accident, or who lost a loved one in it . . . Did they blame your husband?”
“Of course they did.” Lady Covington remained rigid, but her lip trembled once. “There was an inquiry and a judge who went over the case. Wheels on one car were faulty, which was found to be the responsibility of the wheel manufacturer. But the railway line was also held responsible, for not having enough inspections that would have discovered the problem. My husband was excoriated in the newspapers, even after he’d lost his life.”
“Newspapermen are a cruel lot,” Jepson broke in. “They even hounded her ladyship. Was angry at her for not claiming her husband was an incompetent idiot. No mention of the plenty of others who ran the railway.” She cast her glare at the painting of the haughty, late Lord Covington, whose bearded countenance gazed down at us imperiously.
“The newspapers were angry with me for standing up for my husband,” Lady Covington explained. “I told them pointedly that Mr. Morris had been a good man, and the mistakes of others were not his fault. Those hurt in the accident were compensated, as well as pensions made for those who lost members of their family. I received a pension as well, for Mr. Morris’s death, and the newspapers stabbed me for that too. I gave the money to a widow and orphan fund, and even that did not relieve me of denigration. I had to sue several of the newspapers.”
“Forgive me if this is even more painful,” I said. “But could either of your children resent you for what happened to their father? Or for you giving away the money that they thought should come to them for losing him?”
Lady Covington drew a breath for an angry retort, then she stopped. “I hadn’t thought of that when I donated the pension, I admit. But yes, they were very angry at me.”
“And your stepchildren. Were they resentful when you married their father?”
“That is natural. They doted on their mother, though she was rather heavy-handed. They also hadn’t liked Mr. Morris, this is true. He could be a difficult man, though I never found him so. Lord Covington and I were happy together. Once George and Erica saw this, they came around.”
Or perhaps they’d hidden their feelings, knowing it did no good to object. Both sets of children had had domineering parents, but now all those parents were dead—except Lady Covington.
“I will cease my questions, your ladyship,” I said. “I am truly sorry for stirring painful memories. However . . . may I have leave to look through Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber?” I was still mystified by who Henry was, and perhaps I could find some clue to his identity. I hesitated to mention the name to Lady Covington, though as I’d been openly asking the staff about him, she might already have heard.
I was trying to think of a plausible reason to give her for my request when Lady Covington heaved a long sigh and waved her hand. “Of course you may have leave. Jepson, please bring me some tea and tell Cook to add seedcake. I am hungry. Lady Cynthia, please remain and take tea with me. I feel the need to speak to someone with a good head on her shoulders.”
I had hoped Cynthia could help me in Erica’s bedchamber, but I was in no position to argue. I curtsied and followed Jepson out the door.
As soon as Jepson and I were alone in the hall, she seized my arm and dragged me to the staircase. I jerked from her painful grip as we reached its foot.
Jepson did not try to grab me again but shoved her face to mine. “What call do you have bringing up her ladyship’s husband? Making her suffer it all over again? Who are you to question her about it?”
I already felt terrible about having to prod Lady Covington’s memories, but I maintained my temper by reminding myself that Jepson might be a crazed poisoner.
“Her ladyship has asked me to discover who is trying to harm her,” I said firmly. “That is all. To do so, I must find out who would be willing to kill her and why. Naturally, a few skeletons in the closet must be rattled.”
“Just so you don’t end up one of those skeletons.” Jepson bared teeth that were stained from a lifetime of drinking tea. “Nor does her ladyship.”
“This is what I am trying to prevent,” I said with exaggerated patience. “Which is Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber?” I scanned the stairs, wondering where in this vast house it lay.
“Find it yourself.” Jepson turned on her heel and strode to the door to the back stairs, yanked it open, marched through, and slammed it shut.
The sound carried through the house, then silence reigned once more in the hall, the dust motes settling into their regular patterns.
I let out a slow breath. Jepson was a strange one, and I’d met many servants with peculiarities. One moment I was certain she was the poisoner; the next, she’d be guarding Lady Covington like a lion. If Erica had been the true target and Jepson the killer, then her behavior would make more sense, I reminded myself, and went up the stairs.
The wide staircase led to a hall as enormous as the one below it. A large gaslight chandelier, dark now, hung from a dome of stained glass far above.
The carpeted hall led to the north and south ends of the house, and the east and west walls held windows. One bowed out in the nook I’d seen over the doorway from the street, with a view over Park Lane and Hyde Park. I remembered spying a person in this window when I’d first approached the house, and I wondered anew who it had been. Not Lady Covington, who’d been in the garden. Erica, perhaps? The thought made me sad. Or Harriet, wondering who stared up at the house?
The long hall held doors, all polished walnut, all closed. Nothing distinguished any from another.
As I debated which door to approach first, one flew open, and a maid emerged with an armful of folded sheets. I saw behind her an airy bedroom in which another maid fluffed blankets over the bed while a young boy scrubbed blacking onto andirons at the fireplace.
The maid with the sheets kicked the door shut, hiding the flurry of activity.
I approached her and asked the way to Mrs. Hume’s bedchamber, explaining that her mistress had said I could look it over. The maid, after a sullen stare, led me down the hall to the south wing of the house.