Page 3 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

“Mr. Whitaker is still powerfully ill,” Tess announced as she set a basket of greens and winter vegetables on the table. “The family lives in Brook Street, so my pal Sally says. At Number 18. She’s friendly with the cook’s assistant there, name of Agnes. Mr. Whitaker was insensible when they brought him home and is still in his bed. His doctor has been there all night, and Mrs. Whitaker is certain they’ll be laying him out in no time. She’s sure someone poisoned him.”

I did not like the sound of that, but I forced myself to resume my confidence. “Well, he was not poisoned here. As Cynthia stated, everyone at the supper would have taken sick if he had been, and the two of us as well.”

“Stands to reason, don’t it?” Tess agreed. “As far as I’ve heard, Mrs. Whitaker ain’t blaming Mrs. Bywater and her dinner party, but she’s still convinced someone fed her husband poison of some sort. His doctor fears he won’t recover. Such a shame,” Tess continued with sympathy. “And so close to Christmas too.”

She had a good heart, did Tess. “Please speak to your pal whenever you can,” I instructed as I sorted through the produce she’d bought. “And let me know if there’s any change in Mr. Whitaker’s condition.” If Mrs. Whitaker was correct, and there was a poisoner lurking in Mayfair, I wanted to know about it.

“Right you are, Mrs. H. I found some lovely parsnips.” Tess took up two pale carrot-shaped vegetables and waved them about. “Can we roast ’em with them potatoes you have for tonight’s supper? I know they’ll taste ever so nice.”

The rest of our day was taken up with the usual preparations for meals for the family and staff. Mrs. Bywater inserted herself into the larder at one point, asking if I’d thrown out everything from last night’s meal, and I had to reassure her that all was gone. I was quite relieved when she went upstairs again.

I was still out of sorts when Lady Cynthia bounded down the outside stairs not long after the midday meal went up, her nose twitching in excitement. She was dressed in a gentleman’s suit, which she wore when she visited her more unconventional friends.

“Your aunt believed you’d be home for luncheon,” I warned her. “Several of her friends came to discuss books with her.”

Cynthia seated herself at my table. “Too busy to put on a frock and fuss. I doubt the ladies have actually read the books in question, in any case. I wager they tell each other what they’ve read about them and don’t bother to open the covers. A tedious afternoon avoided. I say, do you have a scone or something of the sort I can feast on?”

I knew Cynthia sought refuge here for a quick meal out from under her aunt’s watchful eye. I rounded up a few currant scones with some lemon curd and blackberry jam, and threw in a slice of plum tart for good measure.

Cynthia, as always, had a robust appetite. She made quick work of the food, licking her fingers clean of jam as I told her what Tess had reported to me this morning.

“Yes, Whitaker is in a bad way,” Cynthia said when I finished. “I’ve asked some of my chums who know the family about him. Tess has the right of it. My friends tell me that Mrs. Whitaker is convinced her husband’s been poisoned.”

“It’s a bit strange she is insisting on it,” I said as I brought out the parsnips to slice. “When a husband has been dispatched by poison, it is usually the wife who is the first suspect.”

“I thought of that.” Cynthia skimmed lemon curd from her scone and sucked the bright yellow paste from her fingertip. “She was sitting nowhere near him during dinner. In fact, I sat across from Mr. Whitaker. Auntie seemed to think he’d be impressed by an earl’s daughter.” She scoffed. “He was not, though he tried to be jolly about being saddled with me. I could tell he was unwell. He looked a bit pasty.”

“Who else was near him?” I asked, eager for more details.

“His wastrel nephew, Herbert,” Cynthia replied. “Herbert stands to inherit Mr. Whitaker’s fortune if Whitaker pops off.”

“Oh,” I said, intrigued. “And was he sitting next to Mr. Whitaker?”

“No, indeed.” Cynthia widened her eyes. “Auntie would never let two gentlemen sit together at her table, or two ladies either. Horrors. Whitaker was flanked by two of Auntie’s friends who nattered at him like mad. Again, he was polite and made the best of it. The wastrel nephew was one seat down from him. I suppose Herbert could have dropped a dollop of poison into one of the dishes that was being passed around. Of course, there’d be no certainty that Mr. Whitaker would be served the poisoned dose.”

“No,” I agreed. “Much too complicated. What I imagine is that Mr. Whitaker was given the poison—if indeed it is poison—before he ever entered this house.”

“That makes much more sense. Whitaker did arrive with his wife and the nephew, so either of them could have slipped a jolly good dose of arsenic into his sherry. There’s also a friend, a Mr. Hardy. Apparently, he owes Whitaker a vast amount of money.”

A desperate person wanting to get out of debt made an excellent suspect. The nephew was a good prospect as well. I laid aside the parsnips, pulled my notebook from my pocket, and began to scribble with my stub of a pencil.

“Is there anyone else in his life who might be happier with him out of it?” I asked.

Cynthia, finished with her repast, rocked back in the chair. “I’m not sure. I put the question to Judith, who knows everyone in London. She and Bobby are back from Paris, by the way—well, obviously, since I spoke to them.”

She referred to her friends Miss Judith Townsend and Lady Roberta Perry. I’d asked them to help me with a problem not long ago, and on my advice, they’d gone to Paris to finish the business.

“Was their journey fruitful?” I asked, perking up a little.

“Indeed.” Cynthia’s eyes sparkled. “Judith is most grateful to you.”

“I am glad,” I said, pleased Miss Townsend had found what she’d sought.

“Anyway, Judith believes Whitaker has a ladybird tucked away somewhere,” Cynthia went on. “That is something to find out.”

“I would think the ladybird would want him to stay well and healthy.” I scribbled another note. “If he dies, she’s cut off, isn’t she? Unless he has a remarkably generous will.”

“No idea,” Cynthia said, surprisingly cheerful for someone discussing potential murderers. “Ah, here’s McAdam.”

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