Page 16 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

Mr. Whitaker was painfully thin, his chest sunken, his cheeks gray. The whites of his eyes held a yellowish tinge.

“Good afternoon, Uncle,” Herbert sang out as he admitted me. “This is Mrs. Holloway. The cook who made such a splendid meal when we visited Mr. Bywater the other night.”

Mr. Whitaker sent me a wan smile. “Such a treat. I commend you for the meal, Mrs. Holloway. I was sorry to have taken a turn and not finished it. Did you come to find out why I’d left too much food on my plate?”

His good humor about his weak state was both charming and sad.

“Not at all.” I spoke in my best no-nonsense voice. “Mrs. Whitaker asked me to make a few dishes to settle your stomach, and I was happy to oblige.”

“You’re a cheerful cook.” Mr. Whitaker’s hands moved on the blanket. “A novelty in this house. Well, Mrs. Holloway, I will attempt a few mouthfuls, but I warn you, my appetite is not what it once was.”

“It will do you good, Uncle.” Herbert clasped his hands and kept his smile fixed on Mr. Whitaker. “If you eat up and rest as the doctor says, you’ll be well in no time.”

“You are young and optimistic,” Mr. Whitaker answered dryly. “Perhaps it is just as well for you that I am finished. You can come into your legacy and begin to live your life.”

“Do not say that,” Herbert exclaimed in trepidation. “No reason for me to settle down so soon. I’d rather be touching you for my allowance for years to come.”

I concentrated on dishing out a bit of custard garnished with fresh mint during this exchange, pretending not to listen. Herbert sounded genuinely concerned that his uncle might cease to be, rather than a young man eager to inherit a surfeit of wealth.

“It will be the making of you,” Mr. Whitaker assured him. “Your aunt will look after you. And you her.”

“Please don’t speak so, Uncle,” Herbert said in distress. “You’ve been ill like this before and recovered. No reason you shouldn’t again.”

“The very young believe no one will ever die,” Mr. Whitaker said to me as I set the bowl of custard on the table next to him. I’d added plenty of vanilla and a little nutmeg to warm the stomach. “But I’ve put everything to rights and can leave all in Mrs. Whitaker’s capable hands. I have no regrets.”

Interesting. Did he mean he’d told his wife about his by-blow daughter? Had he provided for the young woman? Or only for Herbert?

My speculations were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor himself. I’d only seen Dr. Burnley in a greatcoat and hat, and without them he proved to have a slight build and balding head, a graying moustache on his thin face. His brown eyes filled with concern as he took in the scene.

“What is that you’re eating?” he exclaimed as Mr. Whitaker finished off his first spoonful. “You must be very careful what you ingest.”

“It’s only a bit of custard,” I said. “It will do him no harm.”

“And very good custard, too.” Mr. Whitaker spooned up another mouthful. “Much better than those foul concoctions you feed me, Burnley.”

Doctor Burnley frowned in displeasure. “If you can keep it down, it might be all right. But you must rest.”

“I am tired of resting.” Mr. Whitaker ate another mouthful—nothing wrong with his appetite today. “It is wearying, all this resting.”

Herbert chuckled. “Very clever, Uncle.”

“Speaking of clever, Herbert, you must meet Mr. Hardy at our club for me,” Mr. Whitaker instructed.

I listened intently as I stirred the broth and added a bit of chopped parsley to the bowl.

“At the Oriental?” Herbert sounded pained. “Stuffy place full of tedious old men. If one doesn’t know anything about the East India Company, one is sneered at.”

“Several of those tedious old men paid me compliments on my bright and cheerful nephew last time I took you there,” Mr. Whitaker said. “The club will admit you as Mr. Hardy’s guest. You can stand it for one evening. I have come up with a scheme where Hardy can pay me back without humiliation. Not his fault the diamond mine failed. I have the papers my solicitor drew up—you have only to present them to him for his signature.”

“Why can’t your solicitor present them then?” Herbert asked, a bit petulantly.

“Because it’s better coming from a friend in a comfortable place, not in a cold solicitor’s office. Hardy has already agreed and will be waiting for you. And, he knows that if I leave this world before he can, the estate will forgive the debt.”

A fine motive for murdering a man. Putting that fact together with Miss Townsend’s speculation that Mr. Hardy was sweet on Mrs. Whitaker made him a prime candidate.

“I think you are far kinder to him than he deserves,” Herbert said, sharing my opinion. “But I will meet with him.” He patted his uncle’s shoulder. “As long as you promise to eat up Mrs. Holloway’s food and get better.”

“I’m sure I will.” Mr. Whitaker smiled weakly. “Off you go, boy. A sickroom is no place for a robust young man.”

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