Page 13

“Ever so kind,” Mrs. Morgan said as I laid the tray on her bedside table. “What with all the goings-on here, I think I’ll give me notice.”

“Perhaps that would be for the best.” I poured out a cup of tea, added a bit of sugar, and handed it to her.

Mrs. Morgan’s eyes narrowed, though she readily took the cup. “Are you after my post, Mrs. Holloway?”

“No, indeed.” I’d have to be desperate to work for this family, I decided. “I only meant you might be happier elsewhere.”

“Could be. Course, if I leave, her ladyship will be thrown to the wolves.”

“You are afraid for her.” I’d finally settled on that interpretation of what she’d been trying to tell me before.

Mrs. Morgan took a noisy sip of tea. “Even her own husband can’t be bothered with her most of the time. Besotted at first, because she was once so lovely, but she don’t have much in the way of good sense. A man gets weary of that, don’t he?”

It occurred to me that in his time of loss, Lord Babcock hadn’t wanted his wife next to him. He might have ordered her to withdraw to her chamber with Lady Margaret and Cynthia, or perhaps it had been Cynthia’s suggestion.

“I don’t believe she killed Lord Alfred,” I said.

“Eh? Of course she didn’t. Her ladyship don’t have that sort of cunning. I tried to tell her to be careful in this house, what with how the family treats her, especially with young Desmond arriving.”

Third Cousin Desmond, whom Cynthia had told me about.

“Would Cousin Desmond risk murdering Lord Alfred?” I wondered out loud.

“His brother, Stephan, is the one who will inherit.” So Cynthia had indicated.

“Does he dote on his brother so much that he’d sacrifice himself to ensure Stephan is the next marquess? ”

Mrs. Morgan snorted a laugh. “Not young Desmond, that scrawny nuisance. I’ve known him since he was in short pants, and believe me, he has no love for his older brother.

No, if he offed Lord Alfred, it would be in a fit of pique alone.

Young Alfred used to poke fun at him something awful, and young Desmond was always a bit sensitive. ”

“Lady Margaret wants to marry him?” I’d have thought the pampered young woman I’d observed downstairs would prefer a handsome, brawny, and very wealthy man to be her husband. Wouldn’t hurt if he was already a duke or some such.

“Those two have been thick as thieves since they were children. Lady Babcock believes Lady Margaret ought to marry a quiet man and go live in the country somewhere, instead of larking about the metropolis with her friends. Girls these days are bold as brass, ain’t they?”

Lady Margaret had seemed more lethargic than bold, but then, she’d suffered a shock from the loss of her brother this day. Her face had betrayed her weeping. Perhaps she ought to marry Desmond after all and try to find some happiness.

“Mark my words,” Mrs. Morgan went on darkly. “It were Seabrook what killed him, if it were anyone.”

I started. “Why do you say that?”

Mrs. Morgan shrugged. “She never liked Lord Alfred. Lord Alfred always ragged on her, just as he did to his stepmother. Lord Alfred was a cruel young man to his own family. Outside it, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, as they say. Had much of polite society wrapped around his finger.”

I’d already wondered whether Mrs. Seabrook, upstairs in the drawing room once the diners had departed it, had done the deed, for whatever reason. She was a robust woman.

Other ideas poured through my head, distracting me as I nodded at Mrs. Morgan. “No doubt the police will find the culprit.”

“Those fools? Ha. Couldn’t find a piece of hay in a haystack.” Mrs. Morgan slurped her tea noisily and reached for the pastry.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I said, as Mrs. Morgan had fixed her attention on her repast. “I’m sure your kitchen maids will be happy to have you back again.”

Another snort told me what Mrs. Morgan thought of my platitudes.

I departed as she masticated the pastry, and descended once more below stairs.

By the time I reached the kitchen, Tess and Mary had made good headway on packing up our things. Jane was less downcast though still tense.

“The sergeant were ever so polite,” Jane told me, sounding reluctant to admit it. “It was like you said, Mrs. H. He only wanted to know where I was at half past one, when we was sending the meal upstairs. He didn’t want me to tell him anything else.”

I did not know Sergeant Scott well, but he seemed to me a practical man.

He wouldn’t be interested in Jane’s past if it wasn’t relevant.

The sergeant could be as intimidating as the growling and grumbling Inspector McGregor, though in a cool way I found a bit more frightening than the inspector’s bluster.

However, Sergeant Scott had proved his pragmatism in my last encounter with him.

As we continued the work, I heard a familiar click of heels in the passageway, heralding the arrival of Mrs. Bywater. She gazed about the room when she arrived, focusing on the foodstuffs still waiting to be put into their crates.

“Leave nothing behind,” she admonished me. “All these vegetables, all these potatoes. They should already have been packed.”

“Not those.” I shielded a basket of leftover produce. “I purchased them for this house.”

“Did you?” Mrs. Bywater widened her eyes. “Then they come with us. Lord Rankin will reimburse you through your wages.”

“I put them on the marquess’s account, ma’am.” I bobbed a shallow curtsey as though I was in awe of saying the word marquess .

“Oh, well, in that case.” Mrs. Bywater backed away from the argument. “Be sure to pack what is ours, including what you’ve already cooked. We can dine on that for a few days. And all of the wine. Close up those crates, Tess, before someone takes anything.”

Mrs. Bywater shot a quick glance at Mary and Jane, as though certain they’d pinch the leftovers and rush out into the street with them. Mary regarded her fearfully, Jane with a scowl.

“All our things will go back to Mount Street, I assure you,” I said in soothing tones.

“See that they do. I’ll visit the larder this evening and check, so no giving things away or eating them yourselves.”

“Of course, ma’am.” I gave her another curtsey.

Mrs. Bywater’s eyes narrowed at my sudden docility, but she changed the subject.

“Leave out a loaf of bread and some butter,” she instructed me. “So that Lady Babcock and her husband will have something to eat. I adore Lady Babcock—so generous to our little charitable society—but she is apt to forget simple things like nourishing herself.”

I had the feeling that if the family wished to eat at all, they’d need more sustenance than bread and butter.

“Is his lordship all right?” I asked Mrs. Bywater. “Considering.”

“Lord Babcock is made of stern stuff,” Mrs. Bywater said decidedly. “He still has an heir, so all is not lost.”

Jane blinked at this callous statement, but she quickly dropped her gaze and helped Tess nail the crates shut.

Mrs. Bywater winced as Tess gave her crate a hard blow with a hammer. Mrs. Bywater sniffed, looked over the kitchen once more, and thankfully took herself away.

“I was right,” Jane said once we heard Mrs. Bywater retreat and the backstairs door slam. “She is a cow.”

“Enough,” I told her, but gently. “I will run out and see if we have a cart to tote this home in.”

I headed up the stairs, not bothering with a coat.

The spring day had become even warmer, and I perspired as I hurried to the road where I’d last seen Daniel.

I hoped he’d lend his delivery wagon, as no other was in sight.

Apparently, Mrs. Bywater hadn’t thought through how we’d lug all these things back.

Daniel was no longer at the railings where I’d left him. As I paused, contemplating where he might have gone, James spoke behind me.

“He’s gone.”

I spun around, my hand to my heart. “Good heavens, James. You do like to spring from nowhere.”

“Sorry, Mrs. H.,” James shot me a lopsided grin that was so like his father’s. “Dad went off to assist Inspector McGregor. The inspector’s decided to arrest the murdered man’s cousin for doing the deed, and the cousin is cutting up rough.”

“Third Cousin Desmond?” I asked in astonishment. “No, that is all wrong.”

I hadn’t heard any shouting or seen Inspector McGregor bundling Cousin Desmond out into the street, but we’d been hastening to pack under Mrs. Bywater’s admonishments, Tess enjoying making a racket with the hammer.

James shrugged. “Right or wrong, they’re hauling him to the magistrate. Dad had to help the constables hold on to him. They’re trundling him off, even as we speak.”