I slid Daniel a fork and a napkin, and he wiped his hands, took up the fork, and plunged in. A very large hunk of golden cake disappeared into his mouth, and he chewed, a smile lighting his face.
“This is a failure?” he said after he’d swallowed. “Your failures are splendid.”
“Too flat,” I said. “It didn’t rise properly. For the one I just put into the oven, I beat butter into the sugar before I added the eggs. It will be lighter, and I’ll send it upstairs for luncheon tomorrow.”
“I will happily consume anything you consider less than perfect.” Daniel took a few more rapid bites, his usual garrulousness quenched by cake.
“Have you eaten today?” I asked.
“Not much. No time.” The rest of the slice disappeared.
“Well, you cannot survive on cake.” I rose and made for the larder, returning with a plate bearing a large piece of meat pie. “This was left over from the staff’s supper. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.”
“You are too good to me, Kat.” Daniel pulled the plate to him and unashamedly dug into the pie. “More than I deserve.”
“I know that,” I said lightly. “In your very busy day, did you have time to look in on Lady Covington?”
“Indeed I did.” Daniel scooped up a particularly large bite of meat pie, the gravy dribbling to the plate. He took a full minute to chew and swallow then wiped his mouth on the napkin I passed him. “I waylaid their usual deliveryman and convinced him to take me on as an assistant for an hour. Timing it to arrive at Baron Covington’s household not long after that, of course.”
“Clever.” I imagined Daniel giving the deliveryman a long and touching story of needing work, possibly to feed his son. Daniel stayed close to the truth in his rigmaroles, though he embellished without apology.
“The deliveryman and I coaxed a cup of tea out of the cook. It had started to rain and was dark—she’s not as sympathetic as you are, but she did not begrudge us the tea.”
“You are skilled at convincing overtasked cooks to give you food and drink,” I said, reaching for the teapot. “I am surprised you ever need to purchase a meal.”
Even as I spoke, I poured him a cup—myself one too—and slid it to him.
“Perhaps I never do.” Daniel winked at me as he lifted the tea.
“What did you discover?” I prompted. “Is the house a hotbed of intrigue? Or is the lady dreaming things?”
Daniel lost his smile. “I am glad you sent me.” He slurped tea and clattered the cup into its saucer. “You have reason to be worried, Kat. I believe Lady Covington is in true danger.”
3
I had lifted my own cup but quickly set it down, my fingers shaking. “Oh dear. I’d hoped the lady was being fanciful.”
“I can tell you only what the cook and one of the housemaids told me.” Daniel warmed his fingers around the teacup. “The cook was concerned about her mistress, described her ladyship’s digestion as ‘delicate.’ She said that Lady Covington often took sick in the night, or had stomach cramps early in the morning and was unable to eat breakfast.”
“That could be nothing more than a weak constitution,” I ventured. Lady Covington’s color had been good, however; everything about her robust. “Or overindulgence.”
“I suggested this, which brought an indignant reply from both cook and housemaid. Mrs. Gamble—she’s the cook—said that usually Lady Covington is quite fit, and only sometimes takes ill. The housemaid says she has powders for her indigestion, which help. Lady Covington never overindulges in anything, according to these two ladies. She takes one glass of sherry before dinner and one cup of coffee each morning. She considers these her treats for the day. Otherwise she drinks tea, flavored only with a little lemon and no sugar. She eats little more than bread, vegetables, and fish, with meat or fowl for supper every once in a while. Mrs. Gamble assured me she prepares an entire feast for the rest of the family but that Lady Covington partakes of only a few dishes.”
“Sounds a perfectly sensible regimen. It should keep anyone quite healthy.”
“Exactly. So why does she take sick? They could not tell me.”
“Continuing the argument, sometimes there is a hidden disease,” I said. “One doesn’t like to think of it, but some illnesses can render a healthy person sickly quite rapidly. Or, a less bleak situation, a patent medicine that is supposed to clear the skin or aid digestion does exactly the opposite.”
“I will remember that.” Daniel touched his face as though worried he’d find it breaking out in spots. “The housemaid claims her ladyship takes no medicines except the digestive powders, but who knows whether she has something tucked away she lets no one see?” He lifted a finger. “Before you make a counterpoint, let me tell you what settled the matter for me. The cook said that she sometimes prepares meals specially for Lady Covington, particularly after a bad bout of sickness. Mrs. Gamble makes dishes for Lady Covington alone and carries them up on a tray herself. These meals Lady Covington takes in her chambers, none of the family present. Mrs. Gamble also prepares the tea and brings it with her on those occasions. After these meals, Lady Covington is never ill.”
“Meaning someone else has the chance to tamper with whatever she eats for breakfast or during meals with the family,” I mused. “She takes sick mostly after supper or early in the morning, you said. But everyone in the house would eat the supper, wouldn’t they?”
“I know a little about the process of digestion from listening to coroners and visiting morgues. A person can eat something at noon and not be affected by it until late that night or the next morning. It seems that the stomach empties its contents by then, and some poison—or bad food—does not make itself known until it enters the intestines.”
While thinking of such things made me wince, the information was useful. “Meaning she could ingest the substance at luncheon, and only when the cook does not prepare her a special meal.” I tapped the table with my fingertips. “I fear then that Lady Covington’s misgivings are well-founded. If Mrs. Gamble is simply a careless cook and uses ingredients gone off, then the food she prepares specially would also make Lady Covington ill.”
“Exactly. Someone is poisoning the poor lady’s lunch.”
“Who is in the house at the time?” I asked, fully believing that Daniel would know.
“Mostly the family, but Lord Covington sometimes brings friends home to dine without notice. Mrs. Gamble complained of it.”
Always frustrating for a cook to not know exactly how many to expect for supper. One needs to measure ingredients precisely and not have too much left over, or worse, not prepare enough. The cook always takes the blame for a disastrous meal, no matter how chaotic the household.