Chapter 24
Twenty-four
Kate
Major Fletcher had chosen to sleep on a cot again rather than in the bed upstairs Kate had provided.
It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to invite him upstairs, and he'd rejected her offer. Had she done something wrong? She knew little of men. She’d married young and lived an isolated life.
The males in Damien's family were her only other examples outside of her home, and she’d been little more than a child when they’d all left the Hall.
A widow's life had its advantages, she supposed. She answered to no man—and certainly not to Major Fletcher. Instead of fretting, she should hold her head high and be glad he stayed as far from her as possible.
She needed to give up her compulsion to make everyone comfortable. The ex-soldier could obviously take care of himself and preferred it that way.
As Damien drove them into the village Tuesday morning, Kate watched for Vivien, as promised. It wasn't her place to judge the girl, except to know she was a decent, if unreliable, worker.
Spotting Vivien and her walking stick with her sister and her sister's children, Damien halted the horses as he’d done yesterday.
“I’d like to climb down to speak with the sister. Remember to post those letters, please.”
Damien patted his pocket to indicate he had them.
Kate hadn’t received any replies from Ana Marie’s daughter last time she wrote, but she hoped she’d conveyed a sense of importance this time.
Knowing the Jamesons came from the same town as Ana Marie.
. . Kate didn’t know why it mattered. It just did.
Rob helped her down. Vivien had her flirtatious eye on handsome Damien, but he merely kept the restive horses in check, leaving Rob to do the honors and assist Vivien to the passenger bench.
“Why don't the two of you hop in with Rob and Lynly?” Kate suggested to the rather sullen pair watching. “There's room. I'll walk with your mother.”
So much for giving up the compulsion to help everyone.
Like the silent beast of burden she seemed to be, Mrs. Jameson began walking even before her children scrambled into the carriage. Kate hurried to catch up.
“How are they faring in school?” she asked, assuming all mothers liked to talk about their offspring.
“Hate it,” she replied. “They's too old and orter be working.”
That was not the conversational direction she'd hoped to take. “They might find better positions if they can read and write and do sums.”
Mrs. Jameson shrugged her thick shoulders. “They's too stupid, like their da.”
Kate fumbled uncertainly in the face of such scorn. “Well, I suppose, if Mrs. Russell believes they cannot be taught, there might be a place in the scullery and stable for them. Give them a little time. They might learn to enjoy school.”
The older woman grunted. “Need food in their bellies more than books in the brainbox.”
Quelling her horror, Kate sought the opening she needed to find out more about this family. “Did they not attend school in. . . Worcester, I believe it was?”
“Worked the fields, like theys should.”
Nonplussed, Kate tried again. They were almost at the top of the hill. “I thought perhaps you moved to Gravesyde for better opportunities.”
“One way of sayin’ it.”
Giving up on politeness, Kate asked flat out, “Our guests the other night said Miss Vivien worked on their costumes in Worcester. They were dismayed when she left. Shall I tell them you're here?”
Was that a flicker of alarm in Mrs. Jameson’s dull eyes?
“No,” was all the seamstress said, before picking up speed and entering the manor without waiting for her children.
Well, that was curious. Waving Damien off, watching the Jameson pair drag themselves up the schoolroom stairs, Kate hugged Rob and Lyn, then sent them up after the others. She followed them up as far as Lavender's office.
The modiste, of course, was already there. “Isn't it awful about Mrs. Young?” Lavender cried the instant Kate entered. “She was so very clever the other day! Do we have anyone to replace her?”
“Vivien would like the position,” Kate said dryly, removing her own wrap and bonnet since no footman guarded this door.
Lavender laughed. “The gudgeon is better off here, dealing with ladies who can afford her extravagant notions.”
“She can't meet eligible men here.” Kate hung up her outerwear. “She has a lot to learn. Can she do numbers? I just spoke with her sister, and the family appears uneducated.”
“I hadn't really noticed.” Lavender glanced up from her paperwork. “Most of our workers have learned to use the measuring tapes. Mrs. Young could count and took care of the button inventory. But writing in a receipt book? Do we ask?”
“Yes, perhaps we should. Instead of simply choosing somebody, we'll ask them to apply for the shop position,” Kate suggested. “We can take pages from one of those old receipt books Walker dumped in here, hand them out, ask them to write the date, their names, and maybe do a sum of some sort?”
“And then leave the papers with me,” Lavender said in satisfaction. “If there is more than one application, I'll test further.”
Kate could only hope the choice was someone pleasant to work with. She hadn't ever meant to be a clerk, but she could see the advantage in someone educated setting up a store. Really, education opened so many more opportunities. She'd have to talk to Verity about the Jameson children.
But for now, Kate had no assistants to help her complete the shop.
Lavender had her hands full with the gowns she was refurbishing for the dowagers.
Since it was a mild day, Kate enlisted Odila, the young hatmaker, to help carry supplies.
It was good to enjoy the spring air occasionally, and Odila chattered happily all the way down the drive.
Mid-morning, Kate left the hatmaker in charge of selecting hat ornaments to display and returned to the manor for more fabric. Thea Talbot, the manor's eccentric decorator, stopped her in the hall.
“There is a display case in the attic,” Miss Talbot told her. “It was most likely once in the library to protect valuable books or a butterfly collection or some such. The frame is damaged, but the glass is not. Might you use it?”
“Oh, I think so! I was wishing for a way to display pretty ornaments while protecting them from sticky fingers. Ask Lavender, but I'm sure she'll agree. Thank you!” Creating something out of nothing lifted Kate’s spirits. It was much more pleasant than fretting over the world’s ugliness.
At noon, after carrying newly-basted gowns up to the dowagers to try on, Kate ran downstairs hoping to grab some bread and cheese from the sideboard before returning to the shop. Walking up and down that hill all morning had left her hungry.
The empty clock sat where Fletch had left it, no longer ticking. She didn't miss the relentless bonging, but she rather missed seeing the surly major. Silly of her.
She passed Walker in the main corridor and remembered the question she meant to ask, even though she wasn’t clear yet on why it might matter. “Do you know if Ana Marie was hired before or after Miss Vivien?”
African in color, American by birth, Hunt’s steward was becoming very British in dress and mannerisms. He bowed politely, tucked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket, and gave her question due consideration.
“Miss Lavender does the hiring for the sewing room, but I recall Miss Vivien arrived during a brief snowstorm in mid-February. She has a tendency to. . . make herself known. . . and refused to use the service entrance.”
Kate smiled wryly. The girl was a lot like Lavender in many ways, definitely not shy. Although Vivien wasn’t an earl’s granddaughter and didn’t have Lavender’s right to put on airs. “Dramatic, let us say.”
Walker nodded again. “Mrs. Marie was entirely different. She wrote in advance, inquiring about positions, particularly those in sewing. I gave the letter to Mrs. Upton, who wrote back that she must inquire with Lavender about seamstress positions but letting her know we always have openings for upper housemaids. I’m fairly certain Mrs. Upton put her on the books at the beginning of March, a few weeks after Miss Vivien. ”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Kate didn’t know how to explain. “It was just. . .” She gestured helplessly. “I can’t understand why Mrs. Marie didn’t apply to Lavender.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t involved in the hiring and really cannot say. Perhaps speak with Mrs. Upton?”
Kate had to let him go on his busy way, but when she noticed Dr. Walker and the librarian poring over large volumes in the library, she stopped with a different inquiry. “Do we know if anyone is holding a service for Mrs. Young?”
As the curate's wife, Minerva, the librarian, knew almost everything about the village, because she was insatiably curious and a good observer. “She has no family. Paul will say a few words over the grave. Perhaps Lavender will hold a brief prayer?”
Of a mixed Hindu-Jewish family, Dr. Walker seldom attended chapel and was more interested in her science. She pointed at the hand-illustrated volume open on the table, then to jars of pickled mushrooms lined in a row. “Can you tell one from another?”
Kate studied the lot. “Only in general. Morels are usually that wrinkly sort. That kind,” she pointed at a jar, “are orange or yellow and found on trees.
Inkcaps look like they're wearing pointy nightcaps.” She pointed at another jar.
“But my father taught us that the good ones can look dangerously similar to the bad ones. I am not a risk taker and leave the harvest to professionals.” She gave that a thought.
“I think I will not even do that anymore.”
“Everyone knew Mrs. Young grew mushrooms and ate her harvest as well as sold it?” Minerva asked.
“And when she was cooking them,” Kate added. “She'd announce it to all and sundry, hoping folk would ask for recipes or get hungry for mushrooms and buy some for supper.”
“That doesn't narrow our suspect list,” Minerva said with a sigh of exasperation. “Cooking does not destroy the toxins?”
“In some, possibly, not all, from what I have read.” Dr. Walker flipped a page. “We need to find out how many others know mushrooms. If their uses are common knowledge, then that won't help either.”
Kate hated to be the bearer of bad tidings, but she was the one who had grown up here. “All the woods have different mushrooms at different times of the year. We’ve suffered lean times for so long, that almost everyone has some knowledge.”
“Of course.” With a sigh, Dr. Walker set a jar on the open page. “I think this one is the most likely suspect. But it shouldn't be ready for harvest for another month, correct? I wonder if the toxicity is greater before it ripens?”
Kate leaned over to study the jar. “I do not like mushrooms and am no expert. Since I did not prepare the mushrooms we ate the other night, I cannot say if this poison one is similar to the edible. I'd have to ask Jacques' friend. Is this what is growing in Mrs. Young's yard?”
“Similar, I believe. These jars were in the attic, labeled with their scientific names and a warning that they’re toxic.
The boys told us about them. One of the earl's scientific family most likely studied them.” Minerva glared at the jars.
“I suppose I should find a display shelf so we can all learn.”
“And put poison out for anyone to steal?” Dr. Walker asked in horror. “I think not. I'll lock them with my chemicals in the cellar.”
“Are they poisonous even when they're pickled like that?” Kate asked.
“I don't know. I could run some tests.” Dr. Walker looked concerned. “You think people may store toxic mushrooms? For what reason, other than to kill? That would be a lot of planning.”
“Someone stored those,” Kate pointed out. “If you'll remember, the late Miss Edgerton dried and stored poisonous herbs and berries.”
“But she knew their medicinal purposes.” Dr. Walker studied the text books. “These don't mention any medical uses of mushrooms, just how they grow and look and which ones are dangerous.”
“People preserve lots of things,” Minerva said with a frown. “They could have thought them harmless. But then, why would Mrs. Young add pickled ingredients to fresh soup?”
Kate hesitated. “Jacques' guests—they are very knowledgeable on many subjects and one is a chef who uses mushrooms. They were in town buying mushrooms on Saturday. Could we be looking in the wrong direction?”
“Two killers?” the curate’s wife asked in shock, following it with a string of shocking expletives learned at her soldier father's knee.