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The answer hits me then, my gaze lifting to McCreadie’s as he holds himself calm awaiting the answer.
“He worked with a couple of men,” she says. “They dug the graves.”
“Would you happen to know the names of any of them?”
Now she’s the one going still. She looks up at McCreadie. “That man who died before my former husband. He was a gravedigger, was he not?”
McCreadie says nothing, but Clara hurries on. “I do not recall their names. It was years ago. But I do know where Andrew kept his papers, if that helps.”
McCreadie smiles. “It would help immensely, ma’am.”
Under that smile, she flushes, and then fidgets, as if embarrassed by her reaction. It is quite a smile, and McCreadie uses it to full advantage.
“Do you know whether he was still involved in any funerary business?” I ask.
At her frown, McCreadie interprets. “Any form of business that touches upon matters of death, whether it is burial plots or friendly societies or even renting coaches for funerals. If his current business is remotely related to that, it could prove helpful.”
She shakes her head. “I have not known his business since he left. The new Mrs. Burns is also well educated. She was a governess before she… Well, she had a bit of trouble with the master of the household. She reads and writes even better than I do.” She touches her fingers to her teacup. “Or so I have heard.”
“I understand,” I say. “But as youdidhave recent contact with him—perhaps when he came around hoping for supper—he might have mentioned his current business. If that is something you could think upon after you leave…”
“I could certainly do that. You are right, miss. I might recall some bit of useful information later, either about that or the pudding.”
McCreadie cocks a brow my way, but I ignore it. “That would be wonderful. Then I believe Detective McCreadie might have a few more questions for you?”
“I do not,” he says. “If you can promise me that you will be at home—and that you will send me anything more you recall—I see no reason to hold you further.”
“Thank you, sir.” She glances at the teapot and sugar bowl. “Might I have another cup?”
“You may,” I say as I lift it. “And if you do remember anything of use, I am quite certain I could find a packet of sugar to send home with whoever brings us the message.”
She smiles. “You do know the way to a woman’s heart, miss.”
Clara is gone, and we’re in the other room, with Gray anxiously awaiting an update, which I provide.
“She is almost certainly harboring the second Mrs. Burns,” Gray says. “From whom you hope to gain information on the origins of the pudding and whether any of Burns’s current business involves things that might also have interested Lord Leslie and Mr. Ware.”
“That’s the idea,” I say. “I bribed her with sugar.”
McCreadie says, “She is also going to supply us with the whereabouts of Burns’s business papers, which might lead to a connection with Mr. Young.”
“Will that require more sugar?” Gray asks.
“Do you have a shortage?”
“Oh, it ismysugar you are bargaining with, is it?”
McCreadie pulls out a chair and sits. “It is certainly not the sugar of a police office, paid for by the people.”
“Do the people want this poisoner caught or not?” Gray says.
“Depends,” I say. “If they keep targeting guys like Young, Burns, and Leslie, maybe not.”
Gray shakes his head. “I am teasing about the sugar. You may have a pound if it helps. You simply need to sneak it past Mrs. Wallace.”
“You’re kidding, right? Did you know she was a circus knife thrower?”
McCreadie laughs. “Best not let Mrs. Wallace hear you making such jests.”
