Page 5 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

“Even so, Thanos can find out the particulars once we know more,” Cynthia broke in. “The mum of one of my friends sees Mr. Whitaker’s doctor—Dr. Burnley—about her ailments. I might be able to ask the man point blank about Mr. Whitaker’s health or have my chum do it.”

“If he is a proper doctor, he will not tell you,” I said. “I believe it’s bad form to discuss a patient.”

“I’ll wheedle it out of him then,” Cynthia said with confidence. She leaned toward Daniel and spoke softly, “What about you, McAdam? Will you put on a disguise and quiz the family?”

Daniel chuckled. “No need, your ladyship. I deliver to many homes in Mayfair.”

Cynthia looked disappointed. She found it much more fun when Daniel pretended to be a man of the City or an inane upper-class gentleman to do his investigations. I preferred him to remain himself.

A delivery man could go to any house and talk to the servants there, including those of the wastrel nephew and the ladybird. Even if the household hadn’t ordered anything, Daniel could claim he’d brought the delivery by mistake and then charm the staff below stairs into giving him a cup of tea and a crumpet or two.

Speaking of that …

“I suppose you expect me to feed you,” I said to Daniel. “You ever manage to turn up right after a meal, do you not, Mr. McAdam?”

Daniel rubbed his hands together. “Because I know I’ll find the best food here. There are houses with cooks so unskilled I have to protest like mad to keep from eating what they offer.”

His flattery pleased me, but I strove to hide it. “So that is the secret of why you visit me.” I rose and clumped to the dresser to fetch him a plate.

Cynthia laughed at my feigned grumpiness. I spooned out a large slice of plum tart and dolloped a good portion of leftover Chantilly cream next to it.

“Have a care, McAdam,” Cynthia said as I set the plate in front of Daniel. “That is the exact tart my aunt claims poisoned Mr. Whitaker.”

Daniel forked up a large portion and slid the pastry through the cream. “Then I will die a happy man, your ladyship.” He shoved the whole concoction into his mouth, smiling as he chewed.

“I always say you’re a daft man, Mr. McAdam.” I sat down, elbows on the table and sipped tea.

Daniel sent me a wink from his sparkling blue eyes, which warmed me all the way through.

I was not one to sit idly and let others ask questions for me, especially when my livelihood might be at stake. After Daniel and Cynthia departed, I finished the preliminary preparations for that evening’s supper and told Tess I was going out.

Shopping for goods, of course. A cook couldn’t leave her place of employment on a whim, and my day out wasn’t until tomorrow. Besides, that day was for Grace.

Brook Street lay a short way from the house in Mount Street. I walked to Berkeley Square, then headed north a few blocks on Davies Street, passing Brook’s Mews before I turned to Brook Street itself.

I tucked my basket more securely under my arm and walked the length of the road, trying to appear purposeful. The street was not long, running from Hanover Square to Grosvenor Square, and I traversed it quickly. Number 18 lay near New Bond Street. The house had a portico with round columns between the pavement and the door, a relic from a past age.

Iron railings separated me from the stairs down to the kitchen. I peered into the recesses of the stairwell, wondering if I should boldly descend. The cook of this house would be familiar with Mr. Whitaker’s digestion and what foods bothered him. I’d come here with the purpose of inventing an excuse to speak to her, but while I debated, someone ascended the stairs from the house next to the Whitakers’ and paused to stare at me.

“Is it Mrs. Holloway?” a stout woman in a black hat with too many feathers asked.

“Mrs. … Cullen.” I recalled the name from my encounters with this cook at the greengrocers. “Good afternoon.”

“If you’ve come to have a chat, love, I’m off on my day out.”

“Oh, I see.” I strove to sound downcast. I’d known from our casual acquaintance that Mrs. Cullen worked in Brook Street but not in which house. She had often encouraged me to visit her when I had a moment.

Middle aged, with a round face under her out-of-date hat, Mrs. Cullen liked to talk. And talk. I’d avoided the visit knowing she looked for an opportunity to converse at length. I didn’t mind letting a person chatter away to me, but not for several hours at a time. However, she was in a position to know much, if not all, of what happened in the house next to hers, especially if she spoke often with the Whitakers’ kitchen staff.

“Thought I’d take the chance,” I continued, lingering. “Oh, well.”

“Walk with me a bit, if you like,” Mrs. Cullen said. “I’m off to visit my sister, and I catch the omnibus at Oxford Street.”

On any other day, I’d find an excuse not to stroll with Mrs. Cullen while her jaw wagged with her many trains of thought, but this afternoon, I readily fell into step beside her.

“Terrible about Mr. Whitaker next door,” I prompted.

“Isn’t it just?” As predicted, Mrs. Cullen was off, happy of the excuse to tell me all. “Mrs. Whitaker is most distraught. She’s telling all who will listen that her husband’s been poisoned. Terrifying.” She pressed a gloved hand to her ample bosom. “And me living right next door.”

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