Page 19 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

I charged through the door, bumping past the poor woman in my haste. Cynthia followed me, Mrs. Whitaker watching in bewildered indignation.

“Stop!” I shouted.

Dr. Burnley, who was doing nothing but gazing down at his patient, swung around and gaped at me.

I strode past him and grabbed a large black bottle from Mr. Whitaker’s lavishly carved nightstand, a bottle identical to what Mr. Davis had taken from the housekeeper’s parlor.

“Have you been giving him this?” I waved the bottle at the doctor.

Dr. Burnley’s thin face reddened. “Of course, I have, you impertinent woman. What are you doing in here? Mrs. Whitaker, why has—?”

“It’s ipecac.” I turned the bottle to show Cynthia its label. I uncorked it and took a sniff, wrinkling my nose at the acrid odor.

Cynthia stared at me. “What is the matter with that, Mrs. H.? Auntie uses ipecac all the time. She swears by it.”

“In the diluted form sold by apothecaries, it can be a good emetic, though too much is a bad thing.” Mrs. Bywater did like to give sick staff a good hearty dollop. “But if a doctor boils it down to concentrate it, or adds juice from the ipecac plant itself, he can poison his patient slowly, simply by instructing him to take his medicine.”

“Oh,” Cynthia said, enlightened. “So that when the patient dies, everyone will assume it was from his long illness. They’ll even praise the doctor for trying to help.”

“You are a cook,” Dr. Burnley snapped at me. “How dare you barge in here and disrupt a sickroom? Mr. Whitaker is in a bad way.”

Mr. Whitaker’s eyes were open, but his lids were heavy, his fingers like sticks where they clutched the blanket.

Dr. Burnley pointed a furious finger at me. “Get out.”

I lifted a spoon from the nightstand and trickled syrup from the bottle into it.

“If it is harmless, then take some yourself.” I held the spoon out to him. “There’s not much here. A tiny amount of ipecac won’t hurt you.”

The doctor backed away in alarm. Foolish man—the actors in the pantomime had been much better.

Mr. Whitaker’s voice rasped from the rumpled bed, while Mrs. Whitaker watched, stupefied. “Burnley? I think you should explain yourself.”

Dr. Burnley continued to glare at me. “You have no proof. Neither you nor this … trollop … have any business here.” He made a dismissing gesture to Cynthia.

Cynthia did not faint in dismay at his contempt for her. “I’d say the proof was in the bottle, eh, doctor?” she said cheerily. “We’ll just take that to Scotland Yard and have it tested, shall we?”

Dr. Burnley lunged for me. I sidestepped him, clutching the bottle to my chest. A little ipecac splashed onto my work dress before I could jam the cork back in.

“Good Lord, Burnley.” Mr. Whitaker’s voice was faint but stern. “You’ve just insulted the daughter of an earl who is also the niece of an old friend. Is this kind cook correct? You’ve been poisoning me all this time?”

Instead of denying it, Dr. Burnley lunged at me again, but Mrs. Whitaker got in his way.

“No.” She held out her arms, as though protecting me from an attacking dog. “If you have nothing to fear, Doctor, you will let the medicine be tested. And if you truly have been making my husband and your dear friend ill, tell me why.”

Dr. Burnley’s jaw hardened. “He has been keeping a mistress.” He hissed the word. “He pretends to be so devoted to you, but for the last few years, he has been going to another woman. Betraying you, humiliating you.” His eyes took on a new light, a doting one. “I did this for you, Angela.”

“Not a mistress,” I said quickly. This was not a time for secrets—the Whitakers would have to talk through this revelation later. “She is his daughter.”

Mr. Whitaker gasped. Burnley had leaned toward Mrs. Whitaker as he spoke and now he snapped upright.

“What are you talking about? This woman is mad.” Dr. Burnley glared at Mr. Whitaker while pointing at me.

“It is true,” Mr. Whitaker said. “From my misspent youth. Cristina McCafferty is a lovely young lady I am proud to say is mine.”

“A by-blow,” Dr. Burnley began with a sneer. “My dear Angela, how could he do that to you?”

“I know all about it,” Mrs. Whitaker said clearly. “He told me the day he found her. And I will thank you not to address me so familiarly.”

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