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D aniel 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.

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.”

Lord Babcock nodded once. “No reason for me to.”

“The kitchen is a woman’s domain, for the most part,” I said. I did know some masterful male chefs, and I’d worked in a house where the husband had enjoyed cooking an omelet when he felt peckish, but in general my statement was correct.

“Her ladyship did come down quite often this past week,” Mrs. Seabrook said in hushed tones.