Page 32 of A Moveable Feast
The way Lady Babcock followed her husband with her gaze as he passed her without a word told me she was still in love with Lord Babcock, despite his seeming indifference.
I wondered if Lady Babcock truly would go live with Miss Jordan for a bit, and what affect that would have on Lord Babcock.
“Thank you for coming down,” Lady Cynthia said to the ladies and Lord Babcock as he took his place at the head of the table. “Mrs. Holloway had some news this morning. Your cousin Desmond will soon be released.”
The reactions around the table were varied. Lord Babcock’s thick brows shot upward, he clearly curious how a cook of all people would know such a thing, but I caught relief in his eyes.
A pucker appeared between Lady Babcock’s brows, and Miss Jordan, if anything, looked angry.
Lady Margaret’s reaction was the most dramatic of all. She burst into tears and collapsed forward onto the table. “Thank God,” came her muffled words. “Thank God.”
Mrs. Seabrook pulled smelling salts out of her pocket and hurried to Lady Margaret. Before she could reach the young woman, Lady Margaret sat up and wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. Mrs. Seabrook stepped back but kept the salts at the ready.
“Of course, he is not guilty,” Lady Margaret declared, her voice hoarse with weeping. “Never was. Didn’t I tell you?”
“You did tell me,” Lord Babcock rumbled gently. “Do not give way to hysteria, my dear. You.” His gentleness fell away as he pinned a stern gaze on me. “What do you mean by coming here and upsetting us? Why should the police tell you anything about our cousin?”
I had remained standing, knowing better than to sit at a table with an aristocrat and his family. I gave him a deferential curtsey. “I have friends who work for the police, your lordship. They decided the news would be best coming from Lady Cynthia and myself.”
Lady Babcock raised her chin, her gaze alert. “Quite right,” she said in her soft voice. “We’ve had enough of police in the house.”
Miss Jordan agreed with a nod, though she said nothing. No one else in the room paid any attention to her.
Lady Margaret also did not speak, but her glance of intense dislike toward her stepmother told me she hoped the culprit would be Lady Babcock. How satisfying for her to watch Lady Babcock be shoved into a police wagon and taken away forever.
“I’ll have Mrs. Holloway explain,” Cynthia said. “She can relay it clearly. But I must say that I agree with the solution and so does Inspector McGregor. He will be along soon.”
Lady Babcock’s eyes widened. “Good heavens. Do you mean the killer is still here?” She sent a fearful gaze to the closed double door, as though the murderer would leap through it, brandishing a knife.
“Of course it is what she means,” Lord Babcock snapped at her, his eyes holding both rage and worry. “Carry on, Mrs. Holloway.” His tone told me that I had better make his attendance at this tableau worth his while.
“Your ladyship,” I said, speaking directly to Lady Babcock. “Has someone prescribed for you a packet of morphine powder? Or perhaps a liquid dose?”
Lady Babcock started. “Yes, indeed. My doctor. For my nerves. He told me to take only tiny bits at a time.”
“Mrs. Morgan’s dose was more than a tiny bit,” I said. “It was enough to kill someone if they took the entire dollop. Thank heavens Mrs. Morgan did not.” And I did not, I added to myself.
Mrs. Seabrook scowled at me. “Do you mean to accuse her ladyship of trying to poison Cook? You are highly impertinent, Mrs. Holloway.”
“Not at all,” I said quickly. “I am only pointing out that there was morphine in the house. Anyone who knew of it could have taken some to either harm the cook or at least lay her up for a while.”
“Why should they?” Lord Babcock demanded.
It was quite unnerving for me to face Lord and Lady Babcock and tell them of the goings-on in their household. If Lord Babcock chose to be offended, he could have a word with Lord Rankin, and I might be out of a place in an instant. He could also spread the word to his cronies to tell their wives not to hire me.
I curled my fingers into my palms and forced myself to continue. They deserved the truth. And who knew who else might die before the killer’s wild scheme was concluded?
“Mrs. Morgan suspected that there was danger in this house,” I told him. “I don’t believe she knew exactly what would happen, but she knew something was wrong. She tried to warn Lady Babcock, but Lady Babcock did not want to believe her. These are the arguments the kitchen staff and Mrs. Seabrook witnessed. Mrs. Morgan confirmed this to me when I arrived today.”
Lady Babcock gave me a faint nod. “She was right. I ought to have listened.”
“At some point during the week, when Mrs. Morgan began to feel unwell—likely already being given the morphine—and the kitchen maids were preoccupied trying to carry on without her, the killer took the opportunity to pinch the kitchen knife that did the murder.”
Miss Jordan made a soft sound of surprise, that again, no one else noticed.
Lady Margaret turned her gaze to her stepmother, waiting for me to denounce her. “How awful.”
“All of you had access to the kitchen,” I went on. “Mrs. Seabrook included, of course. It stands to reason, as this is your house. Lady Margaret went down from time to time to consult on dishes or to snatch a bite between meals, and lately, Lady Babcock went to continue her discussions with Mrs. Morgan. The only one who did not habitually go below stairs is your lordship.”
