Page 9 of Mrs. Holloway's Christmas Pudding

“There is also the man who owes Mr. Whitaker money. Cynthia mentioned him—what was his name?” I consulted my notes. “Hardy, that was it. We must find out about Mr. Hardy.”

“Again, this man needs to have had the opportunity to give Mr. Whitaker poison. The wife is still the most likely person, or one of Whitaker’s servants. If any are unhappy with their lot and blame the master, it would be easy for one of them to slip a dollop into his soup.”

“If every disgruntled servant doctored their master’s soup or tea or sherry, there would be an amazing number of deaths in Mayfair,” I said.

Daniel laughed again. “I take your point. Also, servants are usually the first to be accused. Mrs. Bywater was very quick to point at you.”

“She was indeed.” I shivered. “She would be happier if she could find a good reason to dismiss me. I’d give noticed and seek another house to work in, but I stay because of Lady Cynthia and Tess. They’d be unhappy if I left.”

“A good many people would be.” Daniel swallowed another bite of tart. “They need you, Kat. Mrs. Bywater needs you as well, though she doesn’t understand that. From what I have observed, she is a lady who wants very much to be in charge of everything. When she comes across a person she cannot control absolutely—you, for instance, and Lady Cynthia—she compensates for this by finding fault wherever she can.”

This described Mrs. Bywater exactly. Should I pity her, rather than grow irritated with her? A difficult thing to do.

I turned to a clean page in my notebook. “What next? I suppose we must discover whether Miss McCafferty benefits if Mr. Whitaker dies. If he visits her regularly, she herself could feed him a slow poison. Or perhaps Mr. Whitaker meets this Mr. Hardy who owes him money at their club, and Mr. Hardy puts something into his brandy or whiskey, or whatever Mr. Whitaker consumes there.”

“I will send Errol back to Miss McCafferty to find out more.” Daniel finished off the tart and pushed away his plate. “Thanos is looking into what poisons produce the symptoms Mr. Whitaker exhibits. Tomorrow is your day out. Would you find a moment to stop by Mr. Thanos’s flat and hear his report?”

“Won’t he be at the Polytechnic?” I asked in surprise.

“Not tomorrow morning.” Daniel rose, and I hopped to my feet. “He would enjoy living at the Poly, but Lady Cynthia and I have convinced him to spend a few mornings at home resting and reading, to prepare for his lectures the rest of the week.”

“Of course,” I said. “I cannot stay long, though.”

“No, indeed, and I will not ask you to. I have an idea—you stop at Thanos’s flat, and then I will accompany you to the Millburns’. There is a pantomime at the Savoy Theatre tomorrow afternoon. Do you think Grace would enjoy it?”

I brightened. “I believe she would.” I had not seen a panto in a very long time, myself. “I would as well,” I said with enthusiasm.

Daniel chuckled. “I will try not to be aggrieved that you grow more animated about viewing a stage performance than you do about seeing me.”

My brows rose. “Well, it’s a rare thing for me to attend such entertainment, whereas I speak with you frequently.” A smile accompanied my words, so he’d know I was teasing.

Daniel studied me as though he wasn’t certain, but he drew near and kissed my lips. “I look forward to it, Mrs. Holloway.”

Before leaving in the morning, I helped Tess with breakfast and made more notes on my plans for Christmas dinner.

Mrs. Bywater had given me a list of all she wanted, which was overlong and ridiculous for their gathering of six people. Possibly eight or ten, Mrs. Redfern, the housekeeper, had mentioned to me, tight-lipped, yesterday evening, which annoyed me. Adding last-minute guests meant each person would have to take smaller helpings. If I made too much food to compensate for possible extra servings, I’d be berated for wasting it.

Soup would figure largely into this menu, I’d decided. Cynthia’s father had promised game from his estate, which could be put into a stew. Not trusting the earl entirely, I planned a julienne of vegetables soup and a thick carrot one as well. Several fish dishes would finish off the first course.

Mrs. Bywater insisted on a whole roast goose, and the best vendor for fowl in Covent Garden promised me one. In case he could not provide it for some reason, I would include a fricassee of chicken and leg of mutton.

Plenty of tarts, breads, and cakes would follow, including the pièce de résistance, the Christmas pudding. This would be served with brandy poured over it and flamed, with hard sauce on the side.

“Hard sauce?” Tess asked me this morning. “Why would someone want sauce that’s hard? Do you need a chisel to eat it?” She chortled at the notion.

“It is a misnomer,” I assured her as I arranged egg cups and piles of buttered toast on the platter to send upstairs. “Probably because of all the butter in it. It’s a mixture of that, icing sugar, and brandy. You spoon it onto the hot pudding, and it melts over it. It’s quite delicious.”

“I should think it would be.” Tess smacked her lips. “We’ll have to taste a large portion, to make certain all is well.”

“Of course, Tess.” I ought to admonish her for wanting to help herself to the Bywaters’ food, but I was in a good humor this morning. I always was, on Thursdays.

As soon as breakfast went up in the dumbwaiter, I pulled off my apron, changed to my second-best frock, and took up my coat. Tess waved me out, and I climbed the stairs to the street, breathing in the frigid air in release.

I had already sent a note to Joanna saying I’d be a tad late for my visit with Grace, and I turned my steps toward Regent Street. My path would take me along Brook Street to Hanover Square, as it had yesterday. Today, however, I heard soft footfalls behind me, ones that hurried when I did, slowed when I slowed. They stopped altogether when I halted, pretending to check for something in my handbag.

A lesser woman might have been frightened. I only quickened my pace, forcing my follower to keep up, and turned into Brook Street.

I gazed curiously at the Whitaker’s home as I passed it. Curtains were drawn over most of the windows, but no black wreath had been hung on the door, to my relief. There was illness in the house, the facade told me, but not death.

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