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I stepped out of the kitchen to find Sergeant Scott at the door of the housekeeper’s parlor, a look of resignation on his face. He made no move to pursue Mary or make an arrest.

“Send in the other kitchen maid,” the sergeant instructed me, then disappeared back into the room.

Jane, her face wan, quietly moved around me and down the hall. She rapped once on the door, then entered, her body stiff.

I returned to the kitchen once Jane was safely inside. I knew Sergeant Scott would not let me in there with her, and I only hoped my admonition to be sensible and say little helped her.

“Sit down, Mary,” I told the weeping girl.

I fetched another teacup, poured the hot beverage into it, and set the cup on the table next to her.

“You were wrong to run upstairs when we were so busy, but you did, and there’s no use breaking down over it.

If Sergeant Scott believed you’d gone up to murder the young master, he’d have arrested you on the spot. ”

“I didn’t,” Mary wailed. “I just wanted to catch sight of him, like.”

“Of course you did.” I remained firm but put some sympathy in my tone. “The important point, Mary, is whether you saw anyone else when you were hoping for a glimpse of Lord Alfred.”

“I never did see him.” Mary sniffled. “Saw everyone else milling about, drifting to the dining room, but not his young lordship.”

“When you say everyone else , who do you mean, exactly?”

“His sister and stepmum, with their stepmum’s aunt.

” Mary pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and swiped at her nose.

“His dad and cousin. Your ladyship friend and her beau. They took their time going in, chattering to one another as they wandered down the hall. The rest was already in the dining room. Mrs. Seabrook was there too, clearing up the drawing room behind them. I was ever so afraid she’d see me. ”

“What about Lord Alfred?” I asked. “Had he gone into the dining room? Or back into the drawing room? Perhaps he spoke with Mrs. Seabrook?”

Mary shook her head vehemently. “I told you, I never saw him. Don’t know where he was.”

This was interesting. If Lord Alfred hadn’t been with either the group in the dining room or those in the hall, where had he been? And why?

“Did you tell Sergeant Scott this?” I asked.

Mary nodded. “He made me go over it and over it, but I know he thought I did it.” Her sobs renewed.

I had not imagined the weariness in Sergeant Scott’s expression when he’d watched Mary run to the kitchen. Her histrionics must have worn down even his stoicism.

“Have a cake and drink that tea,” I ordered. “You will feel better. Then continue putting away the food. Tess, help me with the trays.”

My crisp instructions cut through Mary’s weeping. She nodded and obediently lifted the teacup to her lips.

Tess rolled her eyes behind Mary’s back but seized the heaviest tray and moved off toward the backstairs. I picked up the second tray and followed her.

When we reached the main floor, we found the house very quiet. The dining room and drawing room doors were both closed, Inspector McGregor presumably interviewing the guests behind one of them.

I asked a footman, who was now diligently watching the front door, where the ladies of the household were. He regarded me sullenly and pointed upward with a stiff finger. I sent him a sharp frown then bade Tess continue up the main stairs.

The large first floor held only a sitting room and a library, so on we went to the next floor, where the mistress’s boudoir was likely to be. A maid who was nipping from bedroom to bedroom, linens in her hands, guided us to Lady Babcock’s chamber.

“Thank you,” I said to the maid.

She paused to whisper to me. “The breakfast you cooked for us was ever so nice. Wish you could stay here.”

I nodded at her compliment, though all I wanted to do after this day was return to my familiar demesne of Mount Street.

The maid opened the door for us, and Tess and I strode inside with our burdens.

Lady Cynthia rose from a settee she shared with the young woman I assumed was Lady Margaret, the deceased’s man’s sister. Lady Babcock sat on a chair at her dressing table, removed from them, wearing a bewildered expression.

An older woman with a thin face and graying hair reposed on a delicate chair in the corner near the window, as though not wanting to be noticed. I deduced she was Miss Jordan, Lady Babcock’s aunt.

Miss Jordan flashed a look at me as I entered that told me she saw more than her passive way of carrying herself indicated.

Mrs. Bywater, fortunately, was absent. She was not the sort of person one wanted close when needing comfort.

“I brought a repast, your ladyship,” I said when no one spoke.

I set the smaller tray on a table near the door and moved to help Tess with the large one, which we placed on the low table in front of the settee. Cynthia seated herself again and immediately began dispensing tea, as neither Lady Babcock nor Lady Margaret seemed able to take on the task.

Lady Margaret’s eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy.

I noted that she smelled strongly of a floral perfume, possibly donned to entice her cousin Desmond, or perhaps it was something she wore for supper every day.

Lady Cynthia never wore scent, not liking to smell like a chemist’s shop, she always jested.

“I don’t want anything,” Lady Margaret declared tearfully. “Take it all away.”

“Nonsense.” Cynthia finished pouring a cup and shoved it at Lady Margaret. “Best thing for shock is to take nourishment. Else you’ll waste away.”

As Lady Margaret possessed the artificial slenderness so popular these days, it wouldn’t take much for her to fade to nothing.

Lady Magaret grasped the teacup and saucer, either because she agreed with Cynthia or because Cynthia was a stubborn force.

I pushed the plate of pastries toward them. I’d worked hard on these, laminating the dough and brushing some with jam, others with chocolate and hazelnut cream.

Cynthia took up a jam pastry and bit off a large chunk while Lady Margaret regarded them listlessly.

“Perfect,” Cynthia stated after she chewed and swallowed. “Mrs. Holloway has a fine touch.”

I nodded my thanks as I fixed a cup of tea and carried it to Lady Babcock. “I’ve put a bit of sugar in this and a dollop of cream,” I told her as I held it out to her. “It will fortify you nicely.”

Lady Babcock took the cup, gazing at me as though she’d never seen me or anyone else in the room before. Of the three ladies, she seemed the most dazed.

“What has happened in my house?” Lady Babcock murmured to me, so softly I barely caught it.

I bent closer. “Lord Alfred’s death is a terrible thing, your ladyship, I know. We can only let ourselves grieve and then carry on.”

This is what I’d told myself after my mother had died. The words sounded as hollow now as they had then. I’d been fortunate to have Joanna to hug me until my weeping ceased, and not much longer after that, I’d borne Grace. Grace had done much to return happiness to my life.

“They don’t want me to carry on,” Lady Babcock said to me, sotto voce . “They want me to hang for murdering Alfred.”

I could not say, Of course, they don’t , because it had been made clear that most in this household did not want her here.

Would Lord Babcock’s lofty position protect Lady Babcock if she was accused? I dimly recalled some law or other from the past that said a husband was responsible for his wife’s wrongdoings, but I wasn’t certain if that was still the case.

The law might, at the very least, have Lady Babcock put into an asylum for the insane—one of those remote country places with thick walls and strong gates. Lady Margaret and the servants might be pleased by that outcome.

The question was, would any of them go so far as to sacrifice Lord Alfred to rid themselves of Lady Babcock? The idea seemed far-fetched. It was more likely that Lady Babcock’s enemies would take advantage of the situation to try to pin the crime on her.

That left the problem of who had actually crept up behind Lord Alfred and stabbed him.

“All will be well,” I said softly to Lady Babcock. “Drink your tea.”

She lifted the cup to her lips and took a long swallow. That she did so without hesitation, made me believe she hadn’t, in fact, dosed Mrs. Morgan’s tea. Lady Babcock would be more suspicious of a cup I handed her if she was used to manipulating people with dollops of morphine.

Once Lady Babcock seemed calmer, I carried tea to Miss Jordan. She took it with murmured thanks.

“Will you look out for her?” I whispered.

“Of course,” Miss Jordan said stoutly.

A dragon, I decided. One in simple gray broadcloth.

Would she have killed the son of the house to protect Lady Babcock from him?

Perhaps Lord Alfred had gone beyond rudeness and had dealt the occasional blow to his disliked stepmother—it was not unheard of.

Miss Jordan might have decided he needed to be taken from Lady Babcock’s life. An idea worth pondering.

Miss Jordan began sipping her tea, ignoring me, and I returned to the others. Tess had quietly served Lady Margaret some of the cakes, though the young woman only stared at the plate on the table.

I signaled to Tess that we should leave. Tess curtsied to the room, eyes down, as though she was the most obedient maid in the history of maids. I lifted the tray I’d prepared for Mrs. Morgan, and Tess followed me out.

“Whew, I don’t envy our Lady Cynthia staying in there,” Tess murmured to me as we reached the door to the back stairs.

“Neither do I,” I agreed as Tess opened the door for me. “Back to the kitchen for you, Tess. And thank you. On a cheerful note, we should be home soon.”

“That’s the truth.” Tess grinned at me and then clattered down the stairs while I ascended them.

I found Mrs. Morgan sitting up in her bed, looking much better. She’d obviously drunk no more morphine-laced tea today.