The young gardener pushed his hat askew and scratched his forehead. “That so?” he asked good-naturedly. “She told me you was coming here for advice on starting a kitchen garden. Which is it, missus?”
4
Before I could answer the gardener’s question, Lady Covington herself strode down the path. Dressed in a long coat and hat with veil, she tapped the stones with a tall walking stick held in an elegant gloved hand.
She paused without surprise and studied the gardener with an imperious gaze. “Symes, have you given Mrs. Holloway the fresh herbs Lady Cynthia asked for? Be quick about it, man.”
“Of course, your ladyship. They’ll be ready for you in the kitchen, missus.”
I curtsied to Lady Covington, a bit unnerved by her arbitrary change of story, and prepared to move to the outside stairway I’d spied at the rear of the house, which I presumed led to the servants’ area.
“Mrs. Holloway, I believe you should come inside with me. I do not want any interruption in the kitchen. I’ll send someone for the herbs. This way.”
Lady Covington gestured to me with stiff fingers then strode on, stick tapping, toward a door with an oval glass window. I glanced at Symes, who raised his brows, shook his head, and walked away.
I said nothing as I caught up to Lady Covington. The door opened for her, held by a footman who’d no doubt sprung to assist as soon as he’d seen his mistress approach. He stared in perplexity at me in my cook’s frock.
“This is Mrs. Holloway,” Lady Covington said, as though I were any other guest. “We will require tea in the sitting room.”
The footman bowed, strove to keep his face blank, and hurried away.
A maid dressed in black with a stark white apron and cap came forward to take her mistress’s coat, hat, gloves, and walking stick. Lady Covington, once free of these burdens, moved briskly across the wide but dim front hall, me following, our footfalls deadened by the thick carpet.
The house was immense, the sitting room in similar proportions. Tall windows lined one wall, but what should have been a fine view of the garden was obscured by panels of opaque lace. Heavy blue velvet draperies, tied back, additionally swathed the windows. A small coal fire glowed in the walnut-paneled fireplace that took up one wall, but the blaze could scarcely warm all this space. The ceiling rose at least twelve feet above us, pseudo Gothic fan vaulting punctuating the room’s vastness.
Unlike sitting rooms and parlors that managed to be crammed full of as many pieces of furniture, plants, and objets d’art as possible, this room had but a few groupings of tables, sofas, and chairs, very little bric-a-brac, and no potted plants.
The furniture was upholstered in a dark blue that matched the drapes, with splashes of yellow via cushions for contrast. The few paintings depicted vast landscapes and a fine manor house, possibly the Covington country estate. Only one portrait graced the collection, of a bearded man with a stern expression, whom I took to be the late Lord Covington.
No other portraits. No photographs on the tables, nothing but impersonal elegance, and several buttons on the paneled wall that could summon individual servants.
“Sit. Do.” Lady Covington indicated a chair of stiff blue damask. I perched on its edge, still in my coat and hat—the maid had not offered to take my things, and Lady Covington had not asked her to, a signal I would not stay long.
Lady Covington paced until the maid returned with a tray bearing a teapot and teacups. Lady Covington waved her away with a languid hand, seated herself on the chair next to mine, and poured out tea for both of us.
I hesitated to take a cup in a house where Lady Covington—and Daniel—feared poison, but I cautiously sipped. I tasted nothing but tea.
“Do not worry,” Lady Covington said, seeing my hesitance. “It is never in the tea.”
“Why would anyone wish to poison you, your ladyship?” I asked in a quiet voice. I noticed Lady Covington had settled us far from the door, which was now closed.
“To kill me, of course.” She sat rigidly upright, back straight, her silver-gray gown in the latest fashion, her hair pulled in a simple style away from her face. “But you mean, what motive has anyone for doing away with me? My wealth, I would guess. My first husband left me well off; my second husband, even more so. My stepson now chairs our railway company, as the late Lord Covington did, but he is not as sound in business as his father. George is a spoiled brat, quite frankly—his mother indulged him far too much from what I understand. He inherited the title and the entailed estate, but Covington left a large amount of unentailed money to me. If I had not married his father, George would have received much more cash, and he resents me for that. He does not hide the resentment either.” Lady Covington took a decided sip of tea.
“Then you believe the new Lord Covington is the culprit?”
Lady Covington sighed and set her teacup on the table between us. “I would if he had the wits. George has much arrogance but is not overly gifted in intelligence.” She fell silent, as though waiting for me to explain all.
I had no idea how to proceed—I was well out of my depth. The only thing to do, I told myself, was ferret out as much information as I could and try to discover evidence that someone was indeed poisoning the poor woman. I would then take this evidence to Inspector McGregor, an intelligent and respected man at Scotland Yard, and have him properly deal with it.
Feeling a bit more confident, I continued my questions. “What brought you to the Crystal Palace yesterday? Your brother, Sir Arthur? I understand there will be scientific lectures there next week.”
“Indeed, but that is George’s idea, not my brother’s. George has many shares in the Crystal Palace, and he’s always trying to revive it to its former glory. It’s a bit run-down for my taste. But we scurry there as often as possible to make certain all is well. George is convinced more tickets will be sold if he makes an appearance and drags his entire respectable family with him. He decided that since I am giving Sir Arthur funds for the Polytechnic, Sir Arthur can take his scientists to the Crystal Palace to entertain paying attendees.”
“I see.”
“You do not.” Lady Covington lifted her teacup. “But I will try to make things clear. Everyone in this house is in need of money. Erica, my stepdaughter, married one Jeremiah Hume, who died in a coaching accident. The trouble was, when the coach struck him, he was nowhere near home but very near the house of a woman he was reputed to be carrying on with. He left Erica penniless—everything Hume had, and it was not much, went to an heir in Canada. Hence Erica had to return here to live or starve. She feels the humiliation.”
I did not blame her. As one who’d been left penniless by an unfaithful husband, I understood Mrs. Hume’s mortification. I at least had the chance to earn my living, while Erica would be dependent on her family if she found no other man to marry her.