Page 18 of A Moveable Feast
Or perhaps Lord Alfred had simply angered someone, who’d struck out in rage, whether they’d meant to kill him or not.
How they’d managed to kill the man while everyone had been in sight of each other in the dining room was another problem.
Not that I would have the chance to look into the matter. This was not my kitchen or my house. I was being bundled back to Mount Street as unceremoniously as I’d been bundled to Portman Square.
Armitage put an end to our conversation by storming rather unsteadily into the kitchen.
“Are you still here?” he demanded of me. “You’d better clear out right quick, Mrs. Cook. The police have arrived, and they’re questioning everyone in the house, like the bastards they are.”
Chapter 7
Having delivered his message, Armitage stamped down the passageway to his butler’s pantry and slammed the door.
Jane’s face went tight. “The police? I can’t have no dealings with the police.”
Why not? I wondered. Guilty conscience? And about what?
“I will not let them question you without me by your side,” I promised her.
I’d learned from experience that constables or sergeants weren’t always kind to servants, often assuming one of them was the culprit from the outset. Any reported theft or murder in a home led police directly to the staff. With the entire dinner party in the dining room digging into the fish, that left any servant wandering the house as a suspect.
Which included Mrs. Seabrook, I reminded myself. She’d claimed to be tidying up the drawing room and heard the front door open. She could have quietly stabbed Lord Alfred, opening the door to hint at an intruder.
Despite Lord Babcock’s wishes, the police were here now. Tess had reported to Daniel, who’d have gone straight to Scotland Yard. We’d watched from the stairs outside the scullery while men in severe suits carried out Lord Alfred’s body on a draped stretcher and loaded it into a van, presumably to take to a morgue. Mary had renewed her weeping as they went.
Lord Babcock had walked out with his son. He was a tall man, but his frame was bowed with grief. He rested a hand on the stretcher before the bearers loaded it, as though saying good-bye.
My eyes filled with tears as I watched. Poor man.
I had hoped that Inspector McGregor would be called upon to run the investigation. Though he disliked my interference, he’d believe me if I told him the kitchen staff had been with me working hard while the crime had been committed.
I heard McGregor’s rumbling tones outside as we returned to the kitchen, but it wasn’t he who descended below stairs to interview the staff. It was Sergeant Scott.
I’d first met Detective Sergeant Scott when he’d detained Lady Cynthia’s father last fall in connection with a murder. The sergeant was a tall, youngish man with a sharp face, fair hair slicked against his skull, and shrewd blue eyes that took in everything around him.
If the sergeant was surprised to encounter me in this house, he made absolutely no sign of it. He instructed me to send in the kitchen servants to speak to him one at a time in the housekeeper’s parlor before walking purposefully there and closing the door.
Cynthia and Mr. Thanos had retreated upstairs after Armitage’s announcement, as they would be interviewed as well. They’d sent me sympathetic glances as they went but could no longer help me.
I decided to approach Sergeant Scott first. I entered the housekeeper’s parlor to find a small room containing a few comfortable chairs, a writing desk, and a sideboard with a half-full carafe of wine reposing on it.
Sergeant Scott had pulled the desk away from the wall so he could face his suspects and had set a chair in front of it for those he’d interrogate. He did not look up when I entered, only continued scribbling into a small notebook.
I declined the silently offered chair, preferring to stay on my feet. “Is Inspector McGregor speaking to the upstairs?” I asked before Sergeant Scott could address me. “He should be told that the footmen were instructed to be in the dining room, leaving the front door unguarded, which is a strange thing to do. Inspector McGregor might be wise to find out who gave the order.”
Sergeant Scott continued writing for a moment, though whether he took note of my observation or ignored it, I couldn’t say.
He at last fixed me with his pale blue gaze. “Mrs. Holloway, you are cook for a family in Mount Street, not this house.”
No question of whether I’d changed my place of employment since I’d seen him last. He knew I didn’t work here and waited for me to explain my presence.
“Lady Babcock’s cook has taken ill. Mrs. Bywater volunteered my services.”
His brows rose slightly. “Do you often cook for other households on your mistress’s whim?”
“No,” I said, a bit too quickly. “This was an unusual circumstance.”
Sergeant Scott’s pencil scratched on his page. “The nature of the cook’s illness?”
