“Hurting people is not always the best answer,” I pointed out.
Cynthia rose to rinse the cloth in the basin. I gave Clemmie’s limp hand a gentle squeeze then joined Cynthia. The washbasin was an elegant piece of furniture, tall on graceful legs, with a porcelain bowl fitted into a round opening, and a mirror above it. The mirror was fixed between two posts so it could be swiveled up and down. The dressing table next to the washbasin had the same tapered legs and burnished wood, the mirror’s frame carved with flowers and leaves.
“A hearty smack is what Evan needs,” Cynthia said decidedly. “Most men do. You wouldn’t be quite so gentle if you knew what they get up to when they’re not around ladies. Bobby can pass easily for a man, but I can only sneak into clubs where the gentlemen are so drunk they don’t notice they’re sitting next to a woman. They see trousers and a waistcoat and don’t bother to look into my face or under my hat. What they say about women when they’re in that state, especially their own wives, is disgusting. They see women as nothing more than places to stick their wicks, if you’ll pardon my frankness. Put on this earth to spread our legs to give men pleasure or heirs, whichever they want. Otherwise, we are to keep quiet and out of sight until we’re called for. Any woman who denies a man deserves what she gets, they state. Bobby laughs at them and goes along with it, but it’s all I can do to keep still so I won’t give the show away. They all need a kick up the backside, I vow to you.”
I did not disagree. Gentlemen had been given far too much power in this world of ours, and it had quite gone to their heads. But I had also learned that while this was true, all people, women and men both, had individual personalities, and it wasn’t fair to lump any under one description.
“Not all gents are horrible,” I said. “You see the ones who band together in these appalling clubs, where they feel free to drink themselves insensible. Perhaps many of them, like Bobby, simply go along with what their friends say. I have never heard Mr. Thanos speak a bad word about a lady.”
“True,” Cynthia acknowledged. She wrung out the cloth, spattering her silk gown with dark droplets. “Not that I’ve ever seen him in his cups. McAdam is deferential enough as well, but again, when he’s inebriated, he might spin a different tale.”
I could not disagree—I’d never seen Daniel drunk. He’d grown up rough, but . . .
My thoughts trailed off as I caught sight of several items on the dressing table. One was a hair receiver—a round box where strands of hair from a lady’s hairbrush were stored so they could be used to pad out the hair when styled. Next to that was a powder box. Respectable ladies didn’t use powder or any sort of cosmetics—but only in theory. In reality, a pale complexion was much desired, and ladies resorted to all sorts of trickery.
It was not the sight of these symbols of vanity that caught my eye, but the style of the boxes. Fat cherubs in gauzy robes danced around a too-blue sky, while ladies below enjoyed tea, their smiles too wide and tooth filled. The boxes both had curlicues with gold and silver gilding on the rims and handles.
I stared at them in shock, knowing I’d seen a box that exactly matched this set not very long ago.
Cynthia caught my gaze. “Hideous, aren’t they? But expensive. Ridiculously so.”
“Where did Lady Godfrey obtain them?” I asked, my heart beating faster.
“Shop in the Burlington Arcade. They had much more tasteful pieces, but Clemmie wanted these—an artist she likes painted them. Seems to me there was another box.” Cynthia glanced about the table then shrugged. “She must have put it somewhere else or already broken the thing.”
“A box about this big?” I asked, holding my hands in the approximation of a foot in length and then six inches wide.
“Yes. How the devil did you know that?”
“I saw it somewhere.” I bit the inside of my mouth to keep from blurting out my speculations. Finding a similar box in a pawnbrokers did not mean Clemmie’s had ended up there. The shop in the Burlington Arcade might have sold many of them, and perhaps one had made its way to the pawnbrokers in the Strand. Or Clemmie might have pawned hers, or had a maid do it for her, in her search for money to pay her gambling debts.
I doubted, however, that the box would have brought in enough to pay the thousands a lady could lose at whist. Clemmie had always gone to her husband for assistance with her debts, and then when he refused her, she’d turned to her lover. Cynthia had never indicated she’d tried to sell anything herself, and a lady would most likely pawn her jewelry, not a curio box.
So how had the box ended up at the table in Daniel’s pawnbrokers shop?
“Will you excuse me, my lady?” I asked, not waiting for her answer before I headed to the door.
“Of course,” Cynthia said behind me. “Provided you come back and tell me what is going on in that head of yours. You’ve had an idea, haven’t you?”
I turned back. “I am not certain. But do guard Lady Godfrey. If she wakes up, she might be in danger.”
As could Mr. Thanos be. I slipped away while Cynthia sent me a worried look, and I hastened through the house to the spare bedchamber where Mr. Thanos lay.
I let out a breath of relief when I saw Daniel still with him. Daniel sat beside the bed, his feet in their scarred work boots planted firmly on the carpet. He had his elbows on his knees and his head resting on his fists, every line of his body betraying both concern and self-chastisement.
I knew he believed it his fault Mr. Thanos lay here in a near stupor. But if I was right, Mr. Thanos’s poisoning had nothing to do with guests stealing objects from collections of antiquities during the supper parties in Park Lane. Guests hadn’t committed those thefts. I’d been correct all along that the answer to that particular puzzle lay below stairs.
I closed the door softly and moved to the bed. Mr. Thanos appeared to be asleep, his pallor as wan as Clemmie’s.
“Daniel,” I whispered.
He didn’t start—he’d have heard me come in. Daniel was a man ever aware of his surroundings.
He lifted his head. “I’d like you to go home, Kat,” he said, eyes somber. “It isn’t safe here.”
For answer, I dragged a chair next to his and sat down. “I am certainly not going to eat or drink anything in this house until we discover how the poison was administered. But I believe I am safe for now. It is Sir Evan’s wife I fear for. She knows too many of her husband’s secrets.”
Daniel gave me a level look. “You think Sir Evan is the poisoner?”
“I do. He owed much to the man who died. Very convenient, is it not?”
“That does not mean Sir Evan no longer owes the money,” Daniel pointed out. “Someone will inherit the debt, or Sir Evan will still owe the firm Mr. Harmon worked for.”
“Sir Evan might not have thought of that,” I said, undeterred. “I believe all of this happened because Sir Evan Godfrey is a mad collector who ran out of money, or at least of enough money for his passion.”
Daniel listened, mystified, but he nodded. “You might be right. My thoughts were running along a different line, but that is not to say you are wrong.”
“What line? You ought to tell me all you’re thinking, Daniel, so we are not at cross purposes.”
Daniel’s smile flickered, his grim and guilty expression fading. “Stealing to order. Someone wants something, he summons a thief, and it is obtained.”
“Not fanatics who wish antiquities returned to Greece?”
Daniel glanced at Elgin. “Thanos told me the idea he and Lady Cynthia came up with when we met up in the pub. They might not be wrong either—but I am thinking that a group of fanatics is simply but one of many customers.”
“Of a gang, you mean.”
“I mean just that. I think we can haul in the henchmen if I can put my hands on Varley or this fellow Pilcher, but it’s the ringleader we’ll want.”
I listened qu
ietly. “You want it to be this Mr. Naismith, don’t you?”
Daniel’s eyes held a determined light. “It is exactly the sort of thing he would do.”
“This man of business, Mr. Harmon, might very well have been the leader, you know. And Sir Evan murdered him to keep from having to pay him. You should have Sir Evan arrested and questioned.”
“The very thought has occurred to me.” Daniel’s grin flashed. “But one must be careful arresting a prominent man like Sir Evan, who has may high-placed friends.”
“Have Chief Inspector Moss do it,” I said. “Mr. McGregor will only get into trouble.”
“Sage advice.”
I studied the sparkle in his eyes, which covered a hard anger. “You have already decided to do so, I see,” I said in irritation. “You ought to tell me these things before you laugh at me. I—”
Mr. Thanos woke with a gasp. His eyes flew open, too dark in his overly pale face. He gazed at us sitting at his bedside, parted his cracked lips, and croaked, “Mummy!”
Daniel’s hand went to Elgin’s restless one. “Easy, my dear chap. It’s Kat. As lovely as she is, she’s not your mum.”
Elgin studied Daniel in confusion that quickly dissolved to scorn. “Not that sort of mummy, you dolt. An actual one. Or the essence of. Curative properties. That’s what’s poisoned us. Bloody hell, how asinine am I? Oh . . . beg your pardon, Mrs. Holloway. As I say, my language can be so very unfortunate.”
22
Daniel leaned to him. “Thanos, cease your babbling and tell us what the devil you mean.”
Mr. Thanos had run out of breath. He lay back, wheezing, waving his hand as Daniel offered to fetch him water.
“No, no. Good Lord.” Elgin coughed, swallowed, and coughed again. “I was a fool. Serves me right.” He pressed his stomach, eyes closing. “No, I did not anticipate this. Nor did I deserve it, really. Arsenical salts, I believe.”
“From your color and your symptoms, I agree,” Daniel said. “That is why I sent a footman running for charcoal.”
“That doesn’t always work, you know,” Elgin said weakly.
“I don’t give a damn,” Daniel growled. “I will take the chance and pump it down you as well as various other liquids. How much did you ingest?”
I was on my feet, hurrying to the washbasin, as the two debated behind me.
“Very little,” Elgin said. “I only had a taste, you see, as did Lady Godfrey. Harmon downed a whole dose, which is why he’s already dead, poor chap.”
I rinsed out a cloth and returned with it to dab Elgin’s sweating face. “Do you mean to tell me you tasted arsenic?” I demanded. “Why? For the fun of it?”
Elgin relaxed under my touch, his breathing easing. “Good heavens, no, dear lady. I had no idea it was arsenic. I thought it was mummy powder.”
“Mummy powder,” I repeated. I remembered something Mrs. Hemming, my friend the housekeeper, had said about Sir Evan . . . a brilliant painting by an old master isn’t as important to him as a bit of powdered mummy in a jar.
“Sir Evan gave it to you?” I asked. “Whatever for?”
“It’s a remedy,” Elgin said. “A loathsome one, but people have long believed that the ground bones of mummies from the tombs of ancient Egyptians have curative powers. It’s all nonsense of course, but I’ve read many a tome that prescribes a bit of ground skull to ease headache. Sympathetic medicine, you know.”
“It ought to be harmless,” Daniel said.
“Harmless?” I cried. “Rather disgusting, I’d think. Are you saying, Mr. Thanos, that Sir Evan mixed arsenic with the mummy powder and fed it to you and Mr. Harmon?”
“Someone did,” Elgin said, his voice a scratch. “I’ll give Sir Evan the benefit of the doubt and say he may know nothing about it. We were in his collection room, looking over his antiquities—ushabtis, pots, beads, even gold collars and marble statuary—and Mr. Harmon complained of a headache and congestion. No wonder—we’d been out in the garden and all the flowers had made him sneeze. Sir Evan, in jest, said he believed in the mummy remedy and showed him a ceramic jar full of the stuff. Lady Godfrey laughed and said she took a pinch now and then for fun, good for the humors. She took a tiny bit into her mouth, I suppose to show Mr. Harmon it was all right. Mr. Harmon said—why not? And took a jolly large dose with a glass of water. And I, as I am insatiably curious . . .”
“Oh, Mr. Thanos.” I pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. “Can’t you be curious about noxious substances without tasting them?”
“The scientists I know taste their chemical concoctions,” Elgin argued. “To see what they’ve got.”
“A very foolish practice,” I said with force. “A wonder any of them are still alive.”
Elgin let his eyes drift closed. “Ah well. McAdam, if I do not revive, my library is yours. The little funds I have in my accounts can go to James. Do not argue. Mrs. Holloway may take a small legacy for herself. Tell Lady Cynthia . . .” He trailed off and wet his lips. “No, dash it, tell her nothing. Except good-bye.”
“Do not be so maudlin, my friend.” Daniel stood over him, taking his hand. “I am not about to let you die. Kat, stay with him while I locate this infamous jar of mummy powder.”
“No, indeed.” I thrust the cloth at Daniel. “I can move through the house less conspicuously than you—I am only the cook come to help Mrs. Martin. The housekeeper has already shouted that she will have you arrested if she finds you about. I will fetch the jar, never you worry.”
Daniel did not like this, but he had to concede I had a point. Daniel was more likely than I was to be ejected by the constables, but the servants knew me and would explain my presence if any of the police asked.
I leaned down to press a kiss to Mr. Thanos’s forehead. He looked as though he needed some affection, poor lad.
“You will get well,” I told him. “We will make certain of it. Now, have yourself a good sleep.”
I straightened the quilt over him then took myself out of the room before Daniel could change his mind and stop me.
When I reached the ground floor, I saw that Chief Inspector Moss’s wishes had prevailed. The guests were leaving. Carriages moved up the drive, and ladies and gentlemen gathered in the front hall, waiting for theirs to appear.
No one paid any attention as I made my way toward the back of the house. Instead of heading for the servants’ stairs, I veered into the parlor where Clemmie had showed me where the missing paintings had hung and through to a library beyond, searching for the room where Sir Evan stored his collection.
I found it in a room tucked behind the library, a square box of a chamber whose far doors opened to a conservatory. Dawn light filtered through the conservatory’s palm trees, giving me just enough illumination to see what was in the room.
I walked along the shelves and cases, trying not to be distracted by their contents. Sir Evan had labeled his pieces carefully, and I peered at the gold bracelets of an Egyptian princess, red pots with strange but beautiful black figures painted on them from Athens, a tablet with square-looking writing from Asia Minor.
My greatest fear was that Sir Evan had already disposed of the mummy powder. Clemmie and Elgin might realize, when they recovered, that only the two of them and Mr. Harmon had partaken of it last night, and I would think he’d want to rid himself of the evidence.
However, I wondered if Sir Evan had assumed his wayward wife and the eager Mr. Thanos would die as well last night, thus giving him plenty of time to steer the blame from himself. If not for me rushing in and convincing Inspector McGregor to the contrary, Sir Evan could continue to point to the mushrooms as the cause and dispose of the powder at his leisure.
On a shelf near a window, I found several jars of white alabaster, their lids carved into fantastic shapes. One was a monkey, one a cat, and one the mask of an Egyptian man. The label on the last read, Powder of mummifie
d remains. Obtained in bazaar, Constantinople, March 1869.
I reached for the jar.
“What are you doing in here, Mrs. Holloway?”
I jumped and whirled around. Inspector McGregor stood just inside the doorway of the conservatory, his arms folded, his eyes glittering in the dim light.
Inspector McGregor—the one person in the house who most certainly would believe I was up to no good. Before he could admonish me, accuse me, or banish me, I snatched up the jar with the powdered mummy and thrust it at him.
“Test this,” I said. “The poison that killed Mr. Harmon is most likely in here. Take it!”
McGregor’s eyes narrowed even as he wrapped his hands around the jar.
He could have accused me of putting the poison into it myself, but he said nothing. Inspector McGregor only watched me closely as I turned from him and hurried back through the library to the main hall.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I reached the back stairs to climb up to check again on the patients.
* * *
* * *
Lady Cynthia resolutely stationed herself in Clemmie’s chamber and vowed she’d stay until she was better and Sir Evan arrested. So far, Sir Evan had not been taken by the police; in fact, I hadn’t seen him downstairs when I’d gone to search for the powder.
I offered to send for a change of clothes for Cynthia, but she told me not to bother. She’d already ruined the silk gown with water from the cloth she’d wet to wipe Clemmie’s face, as well as a few tears she must have obtained in the night’s adventures. I had the feeling she’d like to see the beautiful gown on the rag heap.
“I’ll fend off Sir Evan,” Cynthia said. “See to Mr. Thanos. I am angry that he’s come to harm because of my horrible friends—please tell him I shall make it up to him.” Cynthia’s words were brusque, but the consternation in her eyes was acute.
She was not terribly surprised when I told her about the mummy powder.
“Ha!” she exclaimed. “Clemmie will swallow any potion she thinks will make her complexion better. I’m surprised Sir Evan hasn’t attempted to poison her before this. Which makes me conclude she wasn’t the intended victim, just in the wrong place. Not that Sir Evan tried to stop her or Mr. Thanos taking it, the blasted weasel.”