Page 31 of A Moveable Feast
I closed the notebook and rose, quietly moving down the passageway to the housekeeper’s parlor. I had a key to it and unlocked the door.
The shelf in the corner held my three cookbooks. I flipped through one of them until I found its section on herbs and spices. I read the page I sought, my heart speeding.
I replaced the book on the shelf and returned to the kitchen in time to hear Daniel’s knock on the back door. I quickly opened it, pulling him inside and embracing him with relief.
Daniel no longer wore an indigent person’s garb but his own coat, homespun trousers, and thick cotton shirt. He also smelled nice, of the outdoors and coal smoke, nothing like the miasma that had clung to him with his disguise.
He returned my hug, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “That glad to see me, are you?”
I made myself release him. “I am always pleased to see you, Daniel, though I know you’ve only come for your Easter meal.” Before he could answer my teasing, I drew him all the way inside and shut the door against the night.
“Let us sit and have tea,” I said, towing him to the table. “And I will tell you who killed Lord Alfred.”
Chapter 11
Daniel regarded me with a satisfying amount of surprise, his hand poised on the back of a chair. “You know?”
“I believe so,” I amended. “Do sit down, please. Your hovering makes me nervous.”
Daniel scraped the chair back and dropped into it obediently. “Do you plan to report your conclusions to Inspector McGregor?”
“I am reporting to you. I might be wrong, and I’d like your opinion before you make it known to Sergeant Scott or Inspector McGregor.”
“I am agog to learn your solution.” Daniel spoke lightly, but his expression held tension.
I took some time brewing tea and fetching the ham and rolls from the larder while Daniel watched me intently.
“That the police think it was done with a knife from the kitchen is interesting,” I began as I sat next to Daniel and laid a fork and napkin near his plate. “It means the culprit had access to the kitchen, or to someone in the kitchen who could fetch the weapon for them. That person also would have to somehow obtain morphine.”
Daniel lifted his fork. “You believe one person did both?”
“Yes, and I know why, although I don’t know precisely how. Nor do I know the exact sequence of events. I can only guess them.”
Daniel smiled as he scooped up a bite of ham. “Your guesses in the past have proved more accurate than those of the most thorough detectives I know.”
“Very flattering,” I admonished but good-naturedly.
I poured out the tea and proceeded to tell him all.
“The ladies will be down directly,” Lady Cynthia said to me the next morning as she admitted me to the dining room of the Portman Square house.
I wasn’t comfortable speaking to the family in the upstairs rooms, but Cynthia had wisely pointed out that Lady Babcock, Lady Margaret, and the marquess would be even more uncomfortable below stairs.
I could not, in good conscience, sit in an aristocrat’s drawing room as though I were an honored guest—though I wore my best frock and hat, not my kitchen garb—but I acceded to the dining room as neutral territory. What I cooked ended up there, after all.
Mrs. Morgan was back in her kitchen, I learned upon arrival, but she’d given her notice. So had Jane. In the meantime, Jane carried in a tray of tea things and a platter of cakes to nourish us.
Jane curtsied deferentially to Cynthia, gave me a nod with the hint of a smile, and disappeared again.
The gilded clock on the sideboard ticked monotonously a few more minutes before Mrs. Seabrook led the two ladies of the house into the room. Mrs. Seabrook wouldn’t look at me, but her movements were stiff with disapproval. She likely blamed me for the cook and Jane giving notice, and she’d be correct.
Lady Margaret, dressed in a black silk gown that didn’t fit her well—possibly quickly altered from something borrowed—kept her head bowed. Her unhappiness rolled from her, touching me palpably. She plunked herself in the chair at the foot of the table and gazed unseeingly out of the window.
Lady Babcock’s dark frock, by contrast, had clearly been tailored for her, likely leftover from the last person she’d mourned. The cut had been in fashion only a few years ago, which meant her loss had been recent. My pity for her increased.
Cynthia poured tea for all as they got settled. Lady Babcock sat in a chair halfway along the table. Miss Jordan, still in the plain gray broadcloth frock I’d seen her in the day before, planted herself firmly in a chair by the sideboard, which put her almost directly behind Lady Babcock. The dragon was guarding her well.
Lord Babcock was the last to arrive. This was the first time I’d seen the man close to. He was tall and gaunt, his graying hair and lined face betraying his age. He also dressed in mourning, and his withdrawn manner touched my heart. It was obvious he had been grieving deeply. Whatever rumor surrounded Lord Alfred’s origins, this man had cherished his son.
