Page 33 of A Moveable Feast
Lord Babcock nodded once. “No reason for me to.”
“The kitchen is a woman’s domain, for the most part,” I said. I did know some masterful male chefs, and I’d worked in a house where the husband had enjoyed cooking an omelet when he felt peckish, but in general my statement was correct.
“Her ladyship did come down quite often this past week,” Mrs. Seabrook said in hushed tones.
“Mrs. Morgan is very protective of you, your ladyship.” I gave Lady Babcock a polite nod. “It is good of her. She nearly died for that protection.”
“What are you telling us?” Lord Babcock demanded. “That someone wanted to kill our cook as well as my son?”
His voice cracked on the last word, and I sent him a glance of sympathy. “Yes. I do not know if Mrs. Morgan suspected exactly what would happen, but the killer couldn’t take the risk. If Mrs. Morgan grew ill or died, sickness or bad food could be blamed. She would also be out of the way for the Easter meal, which was when there would be opportunity to strike. With so many people in the house and the confusion between drawing room and dining room, there would be a chance to corner Lord Alfred alone. Perhaps he was also made to feel unwell so that he’d not rush in to dinner with the others. The open door could suggest an intruder, but if the police saw through that ruse, there would be plenty of other people in the house at the time who could be suspected. To Lady Margaret’s regret, Mr. Desmond Charlton, of whom she is fond, was blamed.”
Lady Margaret did not like me saying her name, but the corners of her lips softened. “At least dear Des has been proved innocent.”
“It ought to have occurred to you that in the eyes of Detective Inspector McGregor, your cousin Desmond would have the strongest motive,” I said. “He is now closer to inheriting the title and your father’s wealth.” I looked directly at Lady Margaret. “If you do marry Mr. Charlton, my lady, I will worry about the health of his older brother.”
I heard intakes of breath around the room, and Lady Margaret stilled. “I beg your pardon? Are you accusing me?” She rose stiffly from her chair, her glare intense. “I’ll have you sacked for implying such a thing, perhaps even arrested. Papa, do something about her.”
“Let her speak.” Lord Babcock’s strong voice cut through his daughter’s. Lady Margaret gaped at him, but she sank into her chair again, her cheeks scarlet.
I cleared my throat. “There is a flower—jasmine—that grows in warm climates but is cultivated in this country in hothouses. The blossoms are lovely and fragrant. Unfortunately for some people, they can cause a bad reaction, mostly itchy skin, and red, watery eyes. A person with this sensitivity could rub their face on the plant and make it appear as though they’d been weeping heavily.”
“I have been weeping,” Lady Margaret declared. “Why should I not be? My brother is dead and my beloved cousin was taken to the magistrate for it. I do have an arrangement of flowers in my bedchamber, which might include jasmine, but I am not sensitive to it at all.”
“Yes, you are,” Lord Babcock broke in. “Have been since you were a child, which is why I won’t allow it in the house.”
“I cannot help it if young men send me posies,” Lady Margaret shot back.
“After your cousin was arrested, your tears were true,” I resolutely went on. “But when I first served you tea, before that event, you smelled strongly of jasmine, I assumed from perfume or cologne, but your tears then were your reaction to the plant, not genuine grief. When it occurred to me that you’d given yourself only the appearance of grief, I had to wonder why. Perhaps you hadn’t been close to your brother but wanted to show sorrow at his passing, even if you felt none, so that your father would not be upset. But it was more likely to disguise the fact that you were indeed happy he was gone. Cousin Desmond had little money, Lady Cynthia told me, and he wasn’t approved of for you. But if Lord Alfred and Desmond’s older brother were to die, the trifling matter of money would be solved.” I dared look directly at Lord Babcock. “Possibly you might die as well, begging your pardon, your lordship.”
What made me saddest of all was that Lord Babcock did not seem surprised. His mouth turned down, and he appeared to age before my eyes. “I was a fool to indulge and spoil you,” he said heavily to Lady Margaret. “I’ve always known that.”
Lady Margaret shoved her chair back and sprang to her feet once more. “You cannot possibly believe her,” she announced to the rest of the room. “That I stabbed my own brother with a kitchen knife? That is madness. She was in the hall with him.” Lady Margaret pointed a trembling finger at Lady Babcock. “She took Mrs. Morgan the tea with the morphine in it Saturday, giving her plenty of time to steal a knife.” The pointing finger switched to me. “I’m sorry Mrs. Morgan fell ill, and we had to have this terrible cook work for us, but it was my stepmother that gave our cook the tea.”
“I never said the morphine was in the tea,” I said quietly. “Or on what day it was served.”
Color seeped into Lady Margaret’s face in red blotches. “Stop this!” she shrieked, balling her hands. “You cannot possibly take the word of a cook over mine.”
“Sit down.” Again, Lord Babcock’s voice rolled over his daughter’s. “I worried it was you from the first, which is why I did not want the police here.” He turned to Cynthia with a hint of pleading. “Margaret can’t go to the magistrate. You can see that. I’d planned to deal with her myself—send her far away—but that decision was taken from me when Scotland Yard turned up.”
Cynthia nodded, her face wan. “I have a chum whose father is something in the Home Office. I could have a word. See what he can do.”
She meant her friend Miss Townsend, whose father was prominent in the ministry that oversaw the police departments. I’d never been certain what he did, but apparently, Mr. Townsend was quite powerful.
“I would be grateful,” Lord Babcock answered. “For now, Margaret, you should confine yourself to your bedchamber.”
“You know she did it.” Lady Margaret pointed once more to Lady Babcock, who sat in stoic perplexity. “If you search her chamber, you’ll find the knife. She killed your son, because she’s an evil, evil woman.” Tears, true ones, streamed down Lady Margaret’s cheeks. “I only want to marry Desmond. To marry Desmond … ”
Her knees buckled as she trailed off. Cynthia hurried to catch her before she fell, Mrs. Seabrook rushing in again with the smelling salts.
Before either could reach her, Lady Margaret came to life, struck out at Cynthia, and then lunged at me.
I gazed into the eyes of a young woman who’d never been denied anything, who thought she could do what she pleased to obtain what she wanted, even something as heinous as killing her own brother.
I brought up my arm to fend off her blows. Lady Margaret managed to strike me twice before Mrs. Seabrook seized her around the waist and dragged her from me.
Margaret turned to the housekeeper and sagged in her arms, relapsing into tears. “Help me, Seabrook. Make them leave me alone.”
“There now,” Mrs. Seabrook’s voice went surprisingly soft as she gathered Lady Margaret to her as though she were a child. “There now. It will be all right.”
