Chapter Five
Daniel waited for me on the stairs that led down to the scullery. He ran up them with his usual verve to assist me from the hansom, then he paid the cabby and took me down into the kitchens.
I was shaking with hunger, worry, and exhaustion. I was grimy and dirty, my clothes filthy. A long bath, a hearty meal, and a good sleep would help me considerably, but I had not the patience for any of those.
I broke from Daniel and faced him, hands on hips. “Explain yourself, Mr. McAdam.”
In spite of my bravado, my voice shook, my weakened knees bent, and I swayed dangerously.
Daniel caught me and steered me to the stool where I’d sat sharpening my knives the night Sir Lionel had come down. As I caught my breath, Daniel found the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove, which had already been lit.
“Nothing to explain.” Daniel moved smoothly about, collecting cups and plates from the cupboards, and rummaged in the pantry for leftover seed cake and a crock of butter. He knew his way around a kitchen, that was certain. “James told me you were in trouble, and I went along to see what I could do.”
“But I was released,” I said, trying to understand. “No one is released from Newgate. No one like me, anyway.”
“Ah, well, the magistrates were made to see that they had no reason to keep you. The fellow who examined you is a fool, and the charge of murder has been dismissed.”
I stared at him in astonishment. Daniel poured water, now boiling, into a teapot. He brought the pot to the table, and when the tea had steeped a few minutes, poured out a cup and shoved it and a plate of buttered seedcake at me.
“Get that inside you. You’ll feel better.”
Indeed, yes. I fell upon the feast and made short work of it. Soon I was no longer hungry and thirsty, but I remained half-asleep and filthy.
“What did you do?” I asked. “I sent Anne to find you, but I thought perhaps you’d do no more than see I had a solicitor, if that.”
Daniel finished off his tea and poured himself another cup. “If you mean Anne the actress, yes, she did find James—James is a friend of her son’s. But James had already seen you being arrested from here. He followed you to Bow Street and realized you were being taken off to Newgate. After that, he legged it to me and told me all. I regret you had to stay the night in that place, but I could not put things in motion sooner. I’m sorry.”
I listened in amazement. “You mystify me more and more. Why should you apologize, let alone rush to my rescue? How did you rush to my rescue? I’m only a cook, not a duchess, with no one to speak for me.”
Daniel lifted his dark brows. “Are you saying a cook should be tried and condemned for a murder she did not commit, because she is only a cook?”
I was too tired to argue with him, or even to understand what he was saying. “How do you know I didn’t murder Sir Lionel? It was my knife in his back.”
“Which someone other than you took from this kitchen and used. Someone evil enough to push the blame onto to you.” Daniel sat down, comfortably pouring himself a cup of tea. He pulled a flask from his pocket, tipped a drop of whiskey into it, then a drop into mine, if you please.
He went on. “If you had killed Sir Lionel, why would you leave the knife in him instead of cleaning it up or getting rid of it? Why would you go happily back to bed to wait for the constables to arrive instead of running away? It was you who raised the alarm and sent for the police, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” I had done all that. It seemed so long ago now.
Daniel sipped his tea, and I took another drink of mine. Whatever spirits he’d poured into the tea danced on my tongue and warmed my gullet.
Daniel watched me over his cup. “Tell me about these people who came to dinner with Sir Lionel last evening.”
I could barely remember. “Mrs. Watkins would know better than I about his guests. She served at table, because Copley was a mess.”
“Mrs. Watkins doesn’t seem to be here. In fact, the staff have deserted the house. Does Mrs. Watkins have another address?”
I clattered my teacup to its saucer, my hands shaking. “Mrs. Watkins has a sister in Pimlico—Sally, the scullery maid, told me she’d gone there, if I remember aright. However, if you imagine I can give you the particulars of all the people who worked here and where they might be, along with the names and address of the friends who visited Sir Lionel last night ...” I broke off, no longer certain where the sentence had been taking me. “You clearly have never been up before a magistrate and thrown into a common cell at Newgate for a night. It clouds the memory.”
“Oh, haven’t I?” Daniel’s dark eyes twinkled. “But that’s a tale for another day. Come along, Kat. You have a good rest, and we’ll talk when you wake.”
I found myself on my feet, again supported by Daniel. “I’m wretched dirty. I need a wash.”
“I have plenty of hot water going on the stove. Off we go.”
He steered me to my little bedroom and then went back out to carry in steaming water and pour it into my basin. Daniel left me to it, saying a cheerful good-night.
I was so exhausted I simply stripped off every layer of clothing I wore and dumped them on the floor. I washed the best I could, then crawled into bed, still damp, in my skin.
Some believe it is very wicked to sleep without clothes, but I’d already been a sinner, and I couldn’t see that God would care very much whether or not I pulled on a nightgown. I was asleep as soon as my head touched my pillow, in any case.
***
When I woke, it was bright daylight. I spent some time trying to convince myself that everything that had happened to me had been a bad dream, and that I’d rise as usual and go out into my kitchen to cook. I had an idea for tea cakes with caraway and rosemary that I wanted to try.
I threw back the covers to find myself unclothed, which reminded me of my quick bath, after which I’d been too tired to don a nightdress. This told me my adventures had been real enough—I was usually quite modest and would never risk being caught without any sort of clothing on my body.
The events of the night before notwithstanding, I rose and did my toilette, put on a clean frock and apron, pinned up my unruly hair, and set my cook’s cap on my head. The familiar routine comforted me, and besides, I had no idea what else to do.
When I opened the door, the sharp smell of frying bacon came to me. I moved out to the kitchen to find Daniel at the stove, cooking. The urchin, James, a bit cleaner than he usually was, sat at the kitchen table.
When I looked at James this morning, I noticed something I had been too distracted to note in the past—he and Daniel had the same eyes. But then, I hadn’t seen the two together when James’s face hadn’t been covered with dirt. Now I saw that the shape of James’s jaw, the jut of chin, the manner in which he sat sipping a mug of tea, mirrored Daniel’s almost exactly.
“You’re his son,” I exclaimed to James. I had no idea whether this fact was a secret, but I was too bewildered and tired to guard my tongue.
James gave me his good-natured look, and Daniel glanced over his shoulder at me. “Ah, Kat,” Daniel said. “Awake at last. You slept the day away, and a night.”
I rocked on my feet, disoriented. “Did I?”
“Indeed. I didn’t have the heart to wake you yesterday, but I knew you’d be hungry this morning. Sit down—these eggs are almost finished.”
“You have changed the subject,” I said. “As usual when you don’t wish to answer. Why did you not tell me James was your son? Why did you not tell me?” I shot at James.
James shrugged. “Embarrassing, innit? For me, I mean. T’ have to admit he sired me?”
“I don’t see why,” I said. “You could do much worse than Mr. McAdam.”
James grinned. “Suppose.”
Daniel shot him a weary look, which made James more amused. I realized they must banter like this all the time. It reminded me of the jokes I shared with my daughter, and my heart squeezed.
By habit, I brought out my bin of flour and the sponge starter I kept on a shelf beside the icebox. I stopped after lugging the flour bin to the middle of the table. Who was I baking for? Did I still even have employment? And why were Daniel and James here, when no one else seemed to be?
“Where is everyone?” I asked. “Did Mrs. Watkins return? Copley? Sally?”
James answered, Daniel still at the stove. “The house be empty. Dangerous, that. Anyone could come in and make off with the silver.”
“Have they?” I asked. “Was Sir Lionel robbed? And that’s why he was killed?”
My hands measured the flour and bubbly starter into a bowl, and I took up a wooden spoon to mix it all together. The familiar feel of my muscles working as the dough grew stiffer calmed me somewhat. If there’d only be three of us today, I wouldn’t need more than one loaf.
I stirred in the flour along with a dash of water and a smidgen of salt, then scraped the dough onto my table and began to knead. Neither Daniel nor James admonished me to stop. I’d refuse anyway—the vigorous kneading helped my agitation. I dumped the ball of dough into a clean bowl, covered it with a plate, and set it aside to rise.
As I wiped my floury hands, Daniel shoved a large helping of bacon and eggs at me. “Eat all that. Then we’ll talk.”
“Talk.” I picked up the fork he’d laid beside the plate, suddenly hungry. James, likewise, was digging into the repast. “I think I never want to talk again. Perhaps I’ll retire to the country. Grow runner beans and pumpkins, and bake pies the rest of my life.”
“I’d eat ’em,” James said. “She’s a bloody fine cook, Dad.”
“Watch your language around a lady, lad.” Daniel scraped back a chair, sat down, and watched us both eat. He wasn’t partaking and didn’t say why, but I was beyond curiosity at this point.
Once I was scraping my plate and finishing off my second cup of tea, Daniel said, “Kat, I want you to tell me about the meal you served to Sir Lionel. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”
“Why?” I came alert, able to now that I had a bit more inside me.
Daniel laid his hands on the table, giving me a kindly look, but I saw something watchful behind the compassion. “Just tell me.”
It was the same gaze I often found myself giving him. Wanting to trust him, but knowing so little about him I was not certain I could.
“There was nothing wrong with my meal,” I said firmly. “Was there?”
James frowned across at his father. “What are you getting at, Dad? You’re upsetting her.”
“Sir Lionel didn’t die from the knife thrust,” Daniel said, far too calm for the dire words he spoke. “That wound was inflicted post mortem. Sir Lionel had already been dead, though not for long, of arsenical poisoning. His guests, Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, also suffered from poisoning. Mr. Fuller died in the night. Mrs. Fuller, her doctor says, has a chance at recovery, but he can’t say for certain whether she will live.”