Page 19 of A Moveable Feast
“I don’t really know. She is poorly, I can tell you that. The morphine given her can’t help, can it?”
The pencil abruptly ceased. Sergeant Scott looked up at me again, his eyes even sharper. “What morphine?”
“It was introduced into her tea. I have no idea who put it there.”
“How do you know she was given morphine? And that it was in the tea?” His skewering gaze told me the most likely answer was that I’d put it there myself.
“Because I accidentally drank it,” I admitted. “Fortunately, only a small mouthful, but the effect was strong, and the tea was terribly bitter. I gave the cup to Mr. McAdam to test. The report I received was that there were trace amounts of morphine. I am not certain if the dose was meant to murder the cook, make her ill, or make her well. The lady of the house carried it to her, but that does not mean she put the morphine in it.”
“You knew poison had been put into a cup of tea, and you didn’t summon a constable?” Scott demanded.
In my younger days, I might have wilted before his accusing stare, but I’d grown strong. “I did inform the police, in a way. I gave the cup to Mr. McAdam. As I say, the morphine might have been put there for benevolent reasons. If Mr. McAdam had been alarmed, he’d have told Inspector McGregor.”
“McAdam doesn’t answer to McGregor,” Sergeant Scott growled.
“I know,” I replied as calmly as I could.
Daniel worked for a horrible man called Monaghan, but I had no idea how much Sergeant Scott discerned of the exact nature of Daniel’s assignments. I knew very little myself, because Daniel wasn’t allowed to tell me. Scott knew something of it, but it wasn’t for me to babble about Daniel and the tasks Monaghan set him onto.
Sergeant Scott regarded me severely for a few more seconds, then returned to his book. “Describe the events of today, leading to the death of Lord Alfred Charlton.”
“We were busy preparing the Easter dinner,” I said. “Which is quite a long process. None of us left the kitchen, that I saw, once all the guests had arrived. Hours pass quickly when one is cooking, and it is a miracle we finish it all by the time the butler summons the diners. We had ham and its accompaniments, a mutton shank and some quail, all the vegetables, the fish and the soup, bread to go with every course, not to mention the pastries and tarts I’d been working on over the past week?—”
“Given that you were paying close attention to your tasks,” the sergeant interrupted me. “Could it be that you didn’t notice anyone from downstairs nipping up to the main floors? Lord Alfred was fatally stabbed in the base of his neck. Death would have been very quick, and the murderer back in place before she was missed. You likely have a number of deadly knives in the kitchen. My constable is even now collecting them.”
I briefly reflected that it was a mercy I’d decided against bringing my own. “Why did you say she?” I asked. “You suppose the murderer was a woman?”
“All the male servants were in the dining room, according to the butler,” Sergeant Scott answered without hesitation. “That leaves the female servants unaccounted for.”
“You wouldn’t be so certain of the killer’s gender if an intruder walked in and did it,” I pointed out. “You are assuming someone in the house killed Lord Alfred?”
“I assume nothing, Mrs. Holloway. I only note what happened so the inspector will have as much information as possible to make an arrest.”
His words were logical, but I was not reassured. “Lord Alfred was wandering the house, I’ve been told. He might have met his death before everyone was settled in the dining room, if one of the guests lingered to speak to him. You say it would have been very quick—how do you know he wasn’t dead before the meal was served?”
Sergeant Scott’s next glance told me he found me irritating and arrogant. “I will speak to the rest of the kitchen maids,” he said, ignoring my question. “Their names?”
I bristled at his preemptory tone but answered without argument. “Tess Parsons, who is my assistant. Jane, the undercook, and Mary, scullery maid. I don’t know their surnames, but Mrs. Seabrook will.” As Sergeant Scott wrote this down, I continued, “I will remain while you question them. They’re fearful, which is understandable.”
“No, I will speak to them alone, without them looking to you for instruction on how to answer.”
“I’ll not abandon them, Sergeant,” I said tightly.
Sergeant Scott frowned at me but remained cool. “You will not be?—”
He broke off on a sudden, staring sharply at the door. I heard what he did, the sound of bottles clinking.
Scott rose and swiftly stepped past me. He wrenched open the door to reveal Armitage staggering into the hall with a large crate of wine bottles.
“You there,” the sergeant demanded. “What are you doing?”
Armitage started, nearly dropping the box, but an answer sprang readily from his lips. “Moving the master’s wine to a safe place. If there’s a tramp lurking about, I need to make sure he don’t nick anything, don’t I?”
He lied—a few of those bottles were ones I’d brought that I hadn’t finished packing. Armitage’s safe place was likely one in which he’d either drink all the wine or sell it on.
Sergeant Scott detected the lie as well. “Put them down,” he ordered.
“I didn’t kill the young master. You’re no one to tell me what to do?—”
