AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“I don’t know,” he admitted, governing his voice and his expression. This was a woman more than ready to take umbrage. “My guess would be by someone adding something to his food as it was taken upstairs to his bedroom.”
“Then what are you doing here in my kitchen?” Her chin came up. She had an unarguable point, and she knew it. “It weren’t one o’ my girls. We don’t have no truck wi’ foreigners, ’ceptin’ as guests, an’ we serve all guests alike.”
Monk glanced around at the huge room with its spotlessly blacked cooking range, big enough to roast half a sheep and boil enough vegetables or bake enough pies and pastries to feed fifty people at a sitting. Beyond it were rows of copper saucepans hung in order of size, every one shining clean. Dressers held services of crockery. He knew that beyond the kitchen there were sculleries, larders … one specifically for game; small rooms for the keeping of fish, ice, coal, ashes; a bake house; a lamp room; a room for knives; the entire laundry wing; a pantry; a pastry room; a stillroom and a general storeroom. And that was without trespassing into the butler’s domain.
“A very orderly household,” he observed. “Everything in its place.”
“O’ course.” She bristled. “I don’t know what you’re used to, but in a big house like this, if you don’ keep order you’d never turn out a dinner party for people what come ’ere.”
“I can imagine—”
“No, you can’t,” she contradicted him with contempt. “No idea, you ’aven’t.” She swung around to catch sight of a maid. “ ’Ere, Nell, you get them six dozen eggs I sent for? We’ll need them fer tomorrow. An’ the salmon. Where’s that fish boy? Don’t know what day it is, ’e don’t. Fool, if ever I saw one. Brought me plaice the other day w’en I asked fer sole! Not got the wits ’e were born with.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot,” Nell said dutifully. “Six dozen ’en’s eggs like you said, an’ two dozen duck eggs in the larder. An’ I got ten pounds o’ new butter an’ three o’ them cheeses.”
“All right then, off with yer about yer business. Don’t stand there gawpin’ just ’cos we got a stranger in the kitchen. It isn’t nothing to do with you!”
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot!”
“So what is it you want from me, young man?” Mrs. Bagshot looked back at Monk. “I got dinner to get. Put the pheasant in the larder, George. Don’t hang ’em in ’ere for ’eaven’s sake!”
“Thought you might want to see them, Mrs. Bagshot,” George replied.
“What for? Think I never seen a pheasant? Out with yer, before yer get feathers everywhere! Fool,” she added under her breath. “Well, get on with it!” she said to Monk. “Don’t stand there all day with yer foot in yer mouth. We got work, even if you don’t.”
“If anyone came into your kitchen at night and used one of your saucepans, would you know about it?” Monk said instantly.
She considered the matter carefully before replying.
“Not if they cleaned it proper and put it back ’zactly where they found it,” she said after a moment. “But Lizzie’d know if anyone’d stoked the fires. Can’t cook nothin’ on a cold stove, if cookin’s what yer thinkin’ of. What you think was cooked, then? Poison?”
“Yew leaves or bark to make a poisonous liquor,” he agreed.
“Lizzie!” she shouted.
A dark-haired girl appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
“How many times have I told you not to do that?” the cook demanded crossly. “Dirty ’ands shows on white! Wipe ’em on yer dress. Gray don’t show! Now, I want yer to think back to when that foreign prince was ’ere, him what died when he fell off ’is ’orse.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot.”
“Did anyone stoke up your stove at night, like they might ’ave cooked summink on it, boiled summink? You think real careful.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot. Nobody done that. I’d ’a knowed ’cos I know ’zactly ’ow much coals I brung in.”
“You sure, now?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot.”
“Right. Then get back to them potatoes.” She turned to Monk. “Them coals is ’eavy. Takes sticks and coals to light fires, an’ yer got to know just ’ow to do it. Isn’t a matter o’ just pushing it all in an’ ’oping. Don’t always draw first time, and the damper’s ’ard to reckon right if yer in’t used to it. There’s not a lady nor a gentleman yet what could light a decent fire. And there isn’t one born ’oo’ll shovel coals nor replace what ’e’s used.” She smiled grimly. “So your poison weren’t cooked in my kitchen.”
Monk thanked her and took his leave.
He questioned the other servants carefully, going over and over details. A sharper picture of life at Wellborough Hall emerged than he had seen before. He was amazed at the sheer volume of food cooked and wasted. The richness and the choice awoke in him a sharp disapproval. With bread and potatoes added, it would have fed a middle-sized village. What angered him more was that the men and women who cooked it, served it and cleaned away afterwards, accepted all the waste without apparently giving it thought, much less question or rebellion. It was taken by everyone as a matter of course, not worthy of observation. He had done so himself when he had stayed there before. He had certainly done it in Venice and again in Felzburg.
He also heard from each servant individually of the glamour, the laughter and the excitement of the weeks Prince Friedrich had been staying.
“Terrible tragedy, that was,” Nell, the parlormaid, said with a sniff. “Such a beautiful gentleman, he were. Never saw a man with such eyes. An’ always lookin’ at ’er ’e was. Melt your ’eart, it did. Ever so polite. Please an’ thank you for everything, for all ’e were a prince.” She blinked. “Not that the Prince o’ Wales in’t ever so gracious too, o’ course,” she added quickly. “But Prince Friedrich were … such … such a gentleman.” She stopped again, realizing she had made it worse rather than better.
