Death in Kew Gardens, Page 5

  All in all, it was not a bad little room, more comfortable than some I’d lived in, and it was mine alone—I did not have to share it.

  This house, which had once been two houses and knocked together at some point, was large enough that I, the housekeeper, and Mr. Davis had bedchambers of our own. The maids and footmen had only two to a bed, not three or four as in some other households. Male and female staff were kept quite separate, as should be, ladies to the left of the house, gentlemen to the right.

  My room had a window that looked out over the back of the house and its little garden far below. I could see into all the walled gardens behind the Mount Street homes—tiny patches, it was true, but nonetheless soothing green space in the middle of the brick-and-stone city.

  I rarely had the chance to see these gardens in daylight, but I glanced down now to enjoy the serenity of trees and neat shrubs, with birds flitting about.

  In light of this morning’s tragedy, I was especially drawn to the garden of the house next door. I’d always thought it an odd but pleasant design, with its curving walkways and clumps of trees and other foliage.

  Whereas the rear of our house held one very straight walk cut at right angles by two others, and was bedded out with geraniums in summer, mums in autumn and winter, and bulb flowers in spring, the Harknesses’ gardens were a riot of ever-changing colors. Even the greenery came in shades of yellow, deep green, and gray. I could not discern individual plants from above, but the overall effect was pleasing.

  As I gazed down now, I saw a man in the Harknesses’ garden.

  This gentleman was on his hands and knees, crawling among a clump of plants. I lost sight of him a few times when he became obscured by the branches of a spreading tree, but he’d pop out again, still on all fours. His movements spoke of desperation as he scrabbled about.

  At last he backed out of the bushes, climbed to his feet, and dusted off his trousers. He had something clenched in his fist, though from this distance, I could not tell what.

  The man had a shaggy brown beard, a balding head, and broad forearms protruding from rolled-up sleeves. I had a few times in the past seen this gentleman going into and out of Sir Jacob’s house through the front door. A visitor, not a worker.

  He glanced furtively about before he caught up the coat and hat he’d left on top of a bush, and made for the gate in the back of the garden that led to the mews behind it. I craned to keep him in sight, but he ducked out of the gate and through a narrow passage to the stables, and was gone.

  I hurried out of my chamber and made for the stairs, ideas whirling through my head about how to get a closer look at the garden next door.

  5

  In the kitchen, I took up my basket, lined it with a fresh cloth, and told Tess I would be stepping to the Harknesses’ kitchen.

  Tess gave me a dark look as she shelled peas into a bowl. “I’ll carry on with the dinner, shall I? If that bat asks me to do anything else, I’ll say you gave me orders first.”

  “Of course,” I said, hiding a sigh. “Only be civil when you say it.”

  Tess gave me a grave nod, as though she’d decided I was wise.

  I walked next door and rapped on the scullery door before I stuck my head inside. “Mrs. Finnegan? Might I borrow some herbs? I want to serve a fresh vegetable soup, and I am all out of chervil.”

  Mrs. Finnegan did not question my glib excuse for rummaging in Lady Harkness’s garden and opened a door at the top of the back stairs to usher me through.

  I had many times suggested to Mrs. Bywater—obliquely and politely—that my kitchen could benefit from our having an herb garden. That way, I would have fresh herbs as I needed them, readily and cheaply. There would be an expense, at first, for tilling the earth and planting the rows, but the garden would pay for itself in time. Mrs. Bywater, however, typical of her, was loath to part with a lump sum or to ask Lord Rankin for it, which was why I or Tess went out for fresh herbs nearly every day.

  Lady Harkness had a lovely knot garden, from which Mrs. Finnegan had her pick of herbs in season. Mrs. Finnegan did not bother with them much, she told me, as Sir Jacob seemed to subsist on boiled mutton alone. Though he’d spent much time in foreign parts, he’d retained his taste for plain English food, and in fact, preferred it.

  I took scissors from my basket and crouched down beside the herbs. The knot garden was lovely, with its intertwined borders of parsley and chervil, purslane and dill. The scents as I snipped refreshed my senses.

  I scanned the rest of the garden while I chose the best strands of chervil and bright green parsley.

  The full garden had been cleverly laid out to convey a sense of space larger than it was. Brick paths led around clumps of bushes, many in flower, with trees strategically placed to heighten the feeling of being in a park.

  The man I’d seen scrabbling about had been in the very center of the garden, twenty feet or so from where I knelt now. The dark-boled tree that had obscured my view of him shaded a bench on a bulging curve of walk. The shrubs lining the paths sported different flowers and leaves, no two bushes alike.

  I’d been born and bred in the middle of the metropolis, and my knowledge of trees and shrubbery was somewhat limited. I thought the spreading tree was an elm, but I had no idea. I’d seen plenty of foliage in London’s parks, where I walked with my daughter, but unless a plant was edible, I could not identify it by name.

  I tried to contrive a reason to amble to the bench—perhaps my exertions harvesting herbs tired me and I needed a rest. However, this was a private garden of Mayfair, and a servant from the next house had no business strolling the walkways.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. H.,” a voice sang out. “Lovely day. I hope those are for my supper.”

  Lady Cynthia, still in her breeches and frock coat, came down the walk to me. I straightened, letting her see the clipped herbs in my basket. “They are for a potage printanier.”

  Lady Cynthia did not blink. “Of course.”

  “I saw a man here from my window,” I told her quietly. “He was searching, just there.” I surreptitiously pointed at the spot. “He took something. I could not see what.”

  “Did he? Let’s have a look, shall we?”

  Cynthia moved down the walk in her manlike stride, fine leather gloves outlining her feminine hands. I followed a few paces behind, clutching my basket.

  “Here?” Cynthia gazed into the shrubs.

  “In the middle of that clump behind the bench. Crawled out on hands and knees, his trousers covered with mud.”

  “And he wasn’t the gardener?”

  “No, he was a toff,” I said. “I beg your pardon. I mean, he was a gentleman. In gentlemen’s clothes.”

  Cynthia did not look offended. “I comprehend you. A person who had no business scrabbling about in the dirt in someone else’s garden.”

  “I have to wonder what he was looking for. And what he found.”

  “Curious.” Cynthia walked around the shrubs, eyes sharp.

  “What kind of plants are these?” I asked her.

  She shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Haven’t the foggiest. I grew up in the country—all rhododendrons, roses, and yew hedges in our gardens. These are none of those. They’ve got roses over there.” Cynthia pointed to a line of green branches running across a wall, the last of the summer roses fading on their stalks. “But few of these plants are English. Or at least what we consider English. Roses and rhodies came from somewhere else in the first place.”

  “Are they shrubs Sir Jacob brought back from China?”

  “From what I gather, yes. China, India, wherever he traveled. It’s why Lady Harkness throws so many garden parties, to show off the plants. Orchids and things. Though these aren’t orchids.”

  Cynthia stepped off the path and sidled around the bench. I remained where I was—the inhabitants of the house would never t
olerate me treading anywhere but the path.

  “Something growing in the middle here,” Cynthia said. “Little spindly thing. Probably can’t get enough sun with all these crowding it.” She bent closer, her coat catching in a thick-leafed bush. “Looks like someone took a cutting—recently too.” She pointed, but I could see little. “Unless the gardener trimmed this bush today, I’d say your man took a bit of it.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Is it a valuable plant?”

  “Doesn’t look like much to me. But as I say, I’m no botanist. However—” Cynthia took a knife from her pocket and sliced off a thin shoot or two. She straightened, showed me a few stems with green leaves, then tucked the knife and shoots into her pocket. “I can always ask another.”

  She flushed as she spoke, and I suspected she meant Mr. Thanos. The young man knew quite a lot about many things—not only was he an expert mathematician, but he had interest in astronomy, chemistry, history, and much else. I would not be amazed if he had a catalog of the world’s botany in his head as well.

  “I would be interested in Mr. Thanos’s opinion,” I said. “It might help his recovery.”

  Mr. Thanos had been the unfortunate victim of a poisoner a few months before, and while he’d been purged of the poison, arsenic could have persisting effects.

  “Yes, just the thing,” Cynthia said briskly, though her cheeks grew still more red. “It’ll jolly him along.”

  I scanned the garden to give her a moment to recover herself. “I wonder who the gentleman was?”

  “I can find that out. The dragon Mrs. Redfern wouldn’t let just anyone back here. Had to bludgeon my way past her, so to speak, to come into the garden myself. I saw you and was agog to know what you were up to.”

  “Snooping,” I said. “Where I have no business to be.”

  “Nonsense. A man has died and another is raiding his garden—they likely are connected. The police are fools.”

  I did not agree. Inspector McGregor, though he could be unpleasant, had keen perception. I knew that if he fixed upon Mr. Li, the man would have little chance of escaping arrest. The gentleman I’d seen in this garden, however, had been decidedly English.

  We looked about a little longer, but found nothing else. Cynthia led the way back to the house, and I followed a few paces behind.

  A footman opened the door to admit us. Cynthia thanked him in her friendly way then strode down the hall crammed with settees and tables of Oriental vases to the front drawing room. I paused near the back stairs, next to a glass case full of tiny plants. I knew I ought to exit the house through the kitchen instead of lingering, but curiosity kept me in place.

  “Auntie will be by later,” Cynthia said into the drawing room, presumably to Lady Harkness. “Do you want for anything? Auntie and I would be happy to help.”

  I knew Cynthia did not like Lady Harkness, yet there was a note of sympathy in her voice, and her offer of assistance was genuine. Mr. Davis had been correct when he’d called Lady Cynthia a kind young woman.

  Lady Harkness emerged from the chamber. She was dressed all in black, from her high collar to the undecorated hem of her skirt above severely black shoes. Her dark hair was pulled up and tightly curled in the latest complicated fashion, her skin made more pale by the severity of her clothing.

  A second lady exited behind her, breathless and dithering where Lady Harkness was straight backed and regal. This lady was shorter, thinner, and less neat than Lady Harkness, wisps of her brown hair straggling from pins, though the hair had been dressed in an attempt at the same style. She too wore black, but her gown was plain cotton instead of bombazine, with no braid or trim.

  A maid followed them both—a lady’s maid by her dress. She bore a veiled hat in her hands, which she fixed to Lady Harkness’s hair with long pins, then draped the black veil to cover Lady Harkness’s face.

  “Thank you, Griffin,” Lady Harkness said. “And thank you, Lady Cynthia. You and Mrs. Bywater have been such a comfort to me. As have you, Amelia.”

  Amelia—I took her to be Mrs. Knowles, who’d been visiting in the night—flushed, pleased. She reached up to give the veil a helpful twitch, which endangered the hat coming off.

  Griffin reached out a startled hand, but Lady Harkness adjusted the hat without fuss. “Do be careful, Amelia dear. Good afternoon, Lady Cynthia. Putter about as long as you like. I do not know when I shall return today. Nothing seems to matter anymore.”

  The last words were delivered in a listless tone that sounded more sincere than anything else the lady had said.

  Neither Lady Harkness nor Mrs. Knowles noticed me in the shadows as they made for the front door, but Lady Cynthia signaled me to join her as she followed the two out.

  It was not done for a cook to walk in and out of a house’s main door, but on the other hand, I could not disobey a direct order from my employer. I ducked outside and stood with Cynthia on the walk as Lady Harkness, like a black ghost in her long veils, ascended into her carriage. She stepped in gracefully, barely touching the footman’s hand.

  Mrs. Knowles scrambled up behind her, having to clutch at the footman quite hard, the lad wincing when she squashed his hand. Griffin climbed inside with more dignity.

  Cynthia shivered as the carriage rattled off. “God save me from widow’s weeds. They make my flesh creep. Why bury yourself aboveground, I ask you?”

  “To protect yourself from prying eyes?” I suggested. “No one wants to show a weeping face to the world.”

  “Ha. She hasn’t shed a tear. Not saying she didn’t love the old duffer or isn’t sorry he’s dead, but I wept more over my favorite hound when he went to the other side.”

  “We all show grief in different ways,” I said diplomatically.

  Cynthia shot me a skeptical look. “You’re a kind soul, Mrs. H. I can’t help being so pessimistic—my own family is frightful. Well, I’m off to look up Mr. Thanos.”

  My eyes widened. “Do not be foolish. You cannot.”

  Cynthia stopped in true confusion. “I thought you wished me to consult him.”

  “You cannot go unchaperoned, I mean. A young lady does not visit a gentleman on her own.”

  Cynthia started to laugh, then she scowled as she realized I was serious. “Damned nuisance. Lord help me if I am in the same room with a gentleman without some busybody watching over me. We all know Mr. Thanos would leap upon me and ravish me without restraint.”

  I had to smile at the thought. A more gentlemanly and proper young man I’d never met.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. H. I know better than to visit him in his rooms. We meet at the pub near the British Museum—you know the one, off Bedford Square. Bluestockings welcome, and we’re in the public reading room. Plenty of chaperones about.”

  I relaxed a fraction. “True, but if you meet him too often, tongues will wag. You must have a guard for your reputation.”

  “Rot that. My family has destroyed what reputation I ever could have. But I take your meaning. Fortunately, everyone knows Mr. Thanos is more interested in numbers than anything else. I am quite safe.” She kicked out with one foot, as though laughing it off.

  I said nothing, but I then and there determined to speak to Daniel on this subject.

  But what then? I thought as Cynthia and I parted ways to enter our house through our respective entrances. Mr. Thanos was a gentleman but without much money. Cynthia had no money of her own and no hope of it. They might like each other quite a lot, but if they married, they’d starve together. I would have to speak to Daniel about that as well.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day was Monday, my half day. As usual, Tess and I worked to prepare most of the meals in the morning, so I wouldn’t be missed in the afternoon.

  Tess by now had mastered many techniques, and I worried less each week about leaving the kitchen in her hands. She was a brigh
t young woman, which for some reason she felt she had to hide behind silly remarks and flashes of temper.

  “Warm the leftover potage for the midday meal, then use any leavings of it to put into the rice soup.” I showed Tess the Carolina rice I had rinsed and let drain in a sieve. “Once the rice is cooked, add the potage, then beat up an egg into warm cream and strain it into the soup. You must stir and not let it get too hot, because the eggs will cook—it needs to blend in smoothly to thicken. Can you remember that?”

  Tess watched, focus intense. “I’ve been whisking up the eggs first and adding them in little bits to hot cream—keeps them from cooking, like you say.”

  “Very good.” I warmed. This was the first time Tess had taken what I’d taught her and applied her own ideas.

  Mrs. Daley chose this moment to enter the kitchen.

  She’d kept mostly to the housekeeper’s parlor since her arrival, but this morning, she’d met us early in the servants’ hall to give the staff their orders.

  I privately thought she’d piled too many chores upon them at once, nearly twice what Mr. Davis and I expected in the same amount of time, but I held my tongue. Mr. Davis did as well—the two of us had agreed the night before to give Mrs. Daley a chance before we condemned her. The well-trained maids and footmen forbore from arguing, but I could sense their dismay.

  Mrs. Daley, after she’d given her orders, seated herself at the table in the servants’ hall, ate a hearty breakfast, and then took her time over tea and a newspaper.

  Now she stood in the kitchen door, hands folded, the keys I’d relinquished to her hanging from her belt.

  “You have a half day out as well as a full one?” she asked me.

  “I do,” I said as I untied my apron and hung it on its hook. “A condition of my employment.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Do you have a secret husband?”

  Mr. Davis, who’d come up behind her, snapped, “Mrs. Holloway is a respectable woman.”

  “One can be respectable and have hidden depths,” Mrs. Daley said complacently. “I only wonder why she has so many days out.”