Page 6 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

“I heard that Mr. Whitaker is a rather sickly man,” I said.

“He is indeed, Mrs. Holloway.” Mrs. Cullen began a litany of every ailment Mr. Whitaker had suffered from since she’d come to work in Brook Street three years before. He had poor digestion and a weak heart, and sometimes couldn’t leave the house for days. Or he’d take a constitutional, all bundled up in coat, muffler, and wooly hat, so that a person could barely see there was a man inside at all.

“Why is Mrs. Whitaker convinced it’s poison?” I asked, trying to sound in awe of Mrs. Cullen’s observations.

“Because it came on sudden-like. He’s been moaning and groaning, can’t rise from his bed, their housekeeper says. Housekeeper’s blaming the food at a house party they went to, but no one else from that meal has been sick, so Mrs. Whitaker claims.” Mrs. Cullen sounded disappointed, as though she’d prefer to see everyone who’d dined at our table struggling to live this morning.

Mrs. Cullen appeared to have no idea that the dinner party in question had taken place at the house I worked in, and I did not enlighten her.

“Then it must be illness,” I concluded.

“So says the doctor. He’s our doctor too, and he’s quite frustrated with Mrs. Whitaker. What does she know about poisons? he’s asking. He’s only seen the like of Mr. Whitaker’s symptoms in true maladies.”

“There must be some reason she is insisting,” I said.

“I think she fed her husband the poison herself.” Mrs. Cullen gave me a decided nod. “And is trying to push the blame onto Mr. Whitaker’s nephew, Mr. Herbert, a young man who is good for nothing. Wears grand clothes, runs with an extravagant crowd, and is always touching his uncle for money. He inherits the lot if Mr. Whitaker pushes off.”

“Perhaps he gave Mr. Whitaker the poison,” I suggested. “Would he have had the chance?”

“Of course he would. Mr. Herbert is in and out of the house all time, runs tame there. The Whitakers never had any children. From what I understand, Mr. Whitaker could never come up to scratch.” Mrs. Cullen spoke without embarrassment about the man’s rumored infertility. “Mrs. Whitaker says she’s not bothered—bearing a child is dangerous for a woman, isn’t it? Mr. Herbert is a handful enough without her having to worry over children of her own, Mrs. Whitaker says. She’s besotted with her husband, never thought of annulling the marriage to catch a man who could fill her nursery. I understand her point of view. I’ve never wanted a husband and little ones to be a slave to. Children are a nuisance, and we have a much easier time without them, don’t we, Mrs. Holloway?”

I nodded dispassionately and inwardly apologized to Grace for pretending to agree.

When Grace had arrived in my life, I’d been terrified. I’d had no idea what to do with a tiny baby, though it was true Grace had been a sunny-natured infant. Without my friend Joanna’s help I think I would have gone mad or fallen into deep despair.

Even so, I’d never trade Grace for the world. Her father, deceased now, had been an awful person, but he’d given me one good thing—Grace.

Not all women wanted children, I knew. It was a myth, usually voiced by men, that women were only fulfilled when taking care of husbands and nurturing children. This lofty idea ignored the fact that some husbands could be brutes. Likewise, that some women worked themselves to an early death trying to feed and look after their many children, which came courtesy of their brutish husbands. My life might have gone that way if Mr. Bristow hadn’t gotten himself killed.

So, I both agreed with Mrs. Cullen that a woman needed more in her life than squeezing out children and disagreed that we were better off without them.

“Gentlemen like having sons to carry on their name,” I ventured. “Mr. Whitaker is not bothered that he doesn’t? Or perhaps he is but hides it well.”

“He’s looked upon his nephew as his own son since his brother passed on,” Mrs. Cullen said. “The brother never had much in the way of money, and Mr. Whitaker has rather indulged Mr. Herbert, knowing he’d inherited nothing. But he’s spoiled the young man. And this is how Mr. Herbert thanks him.”

“You said you believed Mrs. Whitaker poisoned her husband,” I reminded her.

“She could have. But you are right, Mr. Herbert could have done it, well enough. He was here last night, before they all left for the dinner, and didn’t they have a row? We could hear it downstairs in my kitchen, the two of them standing on the doorstep next door, yelling like stevedores. At least, Mr. Herbert was shouting. Mr. Whitaker never raises his voice.”

“I wonder what they could have been arguing about.” I put on a tone of mild curiosity in attempt to disguise my blatant hint.

Mrs. Cullen didn’t need much of a push. “I can tell you exactly. Mr. Herbert had made a very foolish investment with an unscrupulous gentleman and now owes this gentleman quite a lot of money.”

If Mr. Herbert stood to inherit Mr. Whitaker’s wealth, this would give him a strong motivation to rid himself of his uncle. Herbert could pay off the unscrupulous gentleman and then wallow in his uncle’s money until he squandered the lot.

I wondered what would happen to Mrs. Whitaker when Herbert inherited. Would he feel an obligation to look after his aunt? Or would he abandon her?

Had Mr. Whitaker provided for his wife in his will? Or had Mrs. Whitaker’s family set up a dower that would keep her well for the rest of her life?

Things I would have to discover. If Mrs. Whitaker became fully dependent on her nephew, who was a spendthrift, she’d be less likely to want to polish off her husband.

However, not all murders were about money, I’d come to discover. Some were caused by intense hatred, some by fear, some by desperation.

I supposed that Mrs. Whitaker might bear great anger at her husband for not giving her children, professing disinterest in offspring to hide the fact. Or perhaps she would do anything to get out of a marriage that was binding her. It was difficult for a woman to be granted a divorce or even an annulment without very obvious cause, or without the support of a prominent family behind her.

“Goodness, we’re at Hanover Square already,” Mrs. Cullen announced.

We had emerged onto the wide square with a garden in its midst. Fine homes marched along on either side of us, but commercial interests, in the form of a bank, had intruded on one end.

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