A Pinch of Poison

Book 2: Lady and Lady's Maid Mystery

by Alyssa Maxwell

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

In post–World War I England, Lady Phoebe Renshaw and her lady's maid, Eva Huntford, encounter an uncharitable killer at a charity luncheon sponsored by a posh school for girls . . .
Good deeds build good character, and good character is what the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies is all about. Lady Phoebe—with the tireless assistance of Eva—has organized a luncheon at the school to benefit wounded veterans of the Great War, encouraging the students to participate in the cooking and the baking. But too many cooks do more than spoil the broth—they add up to a recipe for disaster when the school's headmistress, Miss Finch, is poisoned.

The girls at Haverleigh all come from highly respected families, none of whom will countenance their darling daughters being harassed like common criminals by the local police. So Lady Phoebe steps in to handle the wealthy young debutantes with tact and discretion, while Eva cozies up to the staff. Did one of the girls resent the headmistress enough to do her in? Did a teacher bear a grudge? What about the school nurse, clearly shell shocked from her service in the war? No one is above suspicion, not even members of the school's governing body, some of whom objected to Miss Finch's “modern” methods.

But Lady Phoebe and Eva will have to sleuth with great stealth—or the cornered killer may try to teach someone else a lethal lesson.

Release date: December 27, 2016

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 321

Sample

April 1919

“Ladies, although the war is over, it is not yet time for England to rest. Quite the contrary.” Phoebe Renshaw, granddaughter of the Earl of Wroxly, looked up from her notes and braved a glance at her audience, ranged at tables in what had once been the ballroom of Haverleigh House, on the outskirts of the village of Little Barlow. When an intelligent brown-eyed gaze connected with hers, her spine straightened and her chin lifted as they typically did beneath her grandmother’s scrutiny. Grams, a tall, slender figure in severe head-to-toe black, sat at the front and center table and nodded encouragement up at her. She smiled slightly for good measure, sending a bracing surge of pride through Phoebe. Funny that she still sought Grams’s approval even at the ripe old age of twenty.

Sitting beside Grams, Phoebe’s eldest sister, Julia, sighed and used her fork to push leftover bits of Cornish hen and mushroom-stuffed tomatoes around her plate. She was looking particularly splendid today in a sporty, flowing jersey ensemble in creamy beige with black trim, something from the latest collection of a newish designer named Chanel.

Only Julia could look so lovely while behaving so thoughtlessly. Before Phoebe could look away, Julia flicked a glance up at her, little more than a flutter of her eyelashes, but in that moment, her eyebrow quirked in a familiar way, as if to say, Really, Phoebe, how much longer do you intend to bore us?

Her confidence slipped. Was she boring her audience? And if so, why did Julia need to point it out to her? More to the point, why wasn’t Julia up here with her? How lovely that would have been—the two elder Renshaw sisters, working together to better the lot of others. But no, since Papa’s death in the war three years ago, Julia pretended to care about nothing, except the pleasure she apparently took in calling attention to Phoebe’s faults. If Grams went into mourning three years ago and never quite emerged—rather like Queen Victoria had at the death of Prince Albert—Julia had turned off the better part of her emotions. Although why she turned her most acerbic sentiments on Phoebe remained something of a mystery, for Julia remained cordial toward their younger sister and simply chose to ignore their brother.

Phoebe knew better than to let Julia undermine her resolve.

Don’t be a goose. You have a vital message to deliver. Remember the words you rehearsed, do not let your voice waver, and for goodness’ sake, don’t stutter!

“M-many of those we consider lucky to have arrived home from the war are in fact struggling daily to support their families, indeed, struggling to survive.” Much to her surprise, she enunciated clearly after that initial stumble. “Our veterans, especially those wounded in the service of our country, deserve better. Those whom we hail as heroes need our assistance now more than ever, and so I thank the Haverleigh School for Young Ladies for hosting us today, and for the students’ efforts in collecting clothing, personal necessities, and household items to be dispersed among veterans and their families residing in the Cotswolds.”

She moistened her lips and aimed an acknowledging nod and accompanying smile at headmistress Henrietta Finch, who sat at Grams’s other side. She did not know the woman well, for while Phoebe had attended Haverleigh during most of the war years, Miss Finch had only stepped into the position a year ago. “Miss Finch, we owe you a debt of gratitude for embracing this cause and allowing the school to participate.”

The woman, stout, square-jawed, and always flushed as if she had just run a brisk mile, tipped her head modestly in return. The assistant headmistress, younger and trimmer than her superior, pressed a hand to her bosom and also nodded, but far less modestly, in Phoebe’s opinion. True, Miss Verity Sedgewick had insisted on overseeing each step of the preparations for today’s luncheon, but she had been in the way more often than not.

Phoebe continued. “I thank all of you, our gracious guests here today—mothers, benefactors, members of the school’s governing body—for your generous donations to the Relief and Comfort of Veterans and their Families, or the RCVF, if you will. Your pledges of continued support will ensure our success as we endeavor to assist our valiant young men—and women—to pick up the pieces of their lives and regain their dignity and self-sufficiency.”

She stepped back from the podium. Polite applause spread through the room. It was enough to satisfy Phoebe, who wanted only to return to her seat and enjoy the array of desserts and glazed fruit that were to be served next. Speaking to large numbers of people was not her forte, but since the RCVF and this charity luncheon had been her idea, she’d had little choice.

Less than a month after the war ended last November she had realized she could not return to the idle life she had known before the war. No longer could she anticipate days filled with parties, picnics, hunts, and parlor games. The war years had taught her what it was to be useful, to give of one’s time rather than endlessly taking, to solve problems and even, if one were clever enough, prevent them from arising. She hoped today’s efforts, and future ones, would prevent families from going hungry and put clothes on their backs—minimal thanks for the great sacrifices suffered during the war.

Now all she had to do was step down off the speaker’s platform without tripping. She was in the process of doing just that when a crash and a shout tore up the steps from the kitchen and along the service corridor, only partially muffled by the baize door behind her.

Several cries erupted and chairs scraped back as attendees leapt to their feet. Phoebe held up her hands. “Please, everyone, there’s no need to panic. Just a small mishap, I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go check on things. . . .”

With a startled expression, Miss Finch started to rise, but sank back into her seat when Grams placed a firm hand on her forearm. “My granddaughter can handle it.”

With that endorsement, Phoebe hurried into the corridor. It registered in her mind that Miss Sedgewick had made no move to leave her chair. Apparently, her desire to help didn’t extend to when help might actually be needed.

Belowstairs in the main kitchen, Phoebe quickly scanned for blood, burns, broken appendages. To her vast relief, the students and kitchen staff appeared sound enough, except for their sour expressions. A small crowd of young ladies in matching blue skirts and white shirtwaists hovered around the abundantly round figure of the school cook, Mrs. Honeychurch. The sounds of weeping drew Phoebe’s attention to one girl in particular. Unruly spirals the color of newly polished copper spilled from a hasty updo, identifying a sixth form girl known for her shy, often nervous nature.

Oh, dear. What small disaster had occurred now?

It certainly wouldn’t be the first. This morning’s casualties had included not only a spilled quart of milk but a shattered pitcher as well, nearly a dozen broken eggs, a burned soda bread, and an oversight when it came to adding sugar to the lemonade. Unfortunately, several of the luncheon guests had been served before the mistake was discovered. That was, in fact, how it had been discovered.

It had also been Phoebe’s idea to have the older students manage the luncheon preparations, and Miss Finch had given her wholehearted approval. “Most of these girls have little notion of what their servants endure each day simply in keeping their employers fed and happy,” the woman had declared. “It’s high time they learned.”

Phoebe agreed. It had seemed like such good idea . . . in theory. The design for the invitations had been stylish, the menu plans inspired, the seating arrangements diplomatic, and the floral decorations cheerful yet refined. In these matters the girls exhibited high levels of proficiency, but of course that was to be expected of fashionable young ladies. When it came to the preparation and serving of food, however . . . suffice it to say, Phoebe felt obligated to personally see to the cleaning of Lady Stanhope’s green China silk suit from the Redfern spring collection—as she had heard her ladyship specifically mention upon being splattered with orange-sherry glaze as the Cornish hens were served.

Phoebe was making her way over to the scene of this latest mishap when, from behind the center worktable, up popped Eva Huntford, lady’s maid to Phoebe and her two sisters. She held a wire whisk brush in one hand and, in the other, a dustpan piled high with sticky, glazed berries and cut fruit that sadly sported a dingy coating of whatever other morsels had fallen to the floor during the course of the luncheon preparations. One of the kitchen maids appeared with a bucket and mop. The crowd of girls moved aside to let her through.

Phoebe didn’t need an explanation to guess what happened, but as soon as the red-haired Lilyanne Mucklow spotted her, the girl’s pale eyebrows, barely visible against her freckles, drew tightly together above her reddened nose. “I c-couldn’t help it, Lady Phoebe! I tripped.”

“Well, and what on earth did you trip over?” the cook asked, most unhelpfully. “There was nothing in your way.”

Lilyanne’s bright blue eyes shifted, lighting for an instant on another sixth form girl. Lady Zara Worthington’s babyish features hardened to a scowl, prompting Lilyanne to quickly drop her gaze and shrug. “I didn’t spill all of it.”

“You spilled enough of it. There isn’t enough to go around now, Lillian.” Zara’s violet-blue eyes narrowed accusingly. “The desserts we’ve worked so diligently to create will look positively uninspired without the fruit to garnish each plate.”

“My name is Lilyanne, not Lillian.” The girl wiped at her tears with the back of a freckled hand.

Another girl with plain features, lanky brown hair, and a sturdy frame intervened. “I glazed the fruit, so I don’t know why you should complain so bitterly, Zara.”

Zara Worthington’s nostrils flared. “Jane Timmons, do not speak to me.” She pushed her face closer to the other girl’s. “Farm girls should know their place.”

“Now, ladies, that will be quite enough,” Mrs. Honeychurch said, but without the conviction of someone used to disciplining students.

The situation needed to be defused, and fast. With an attempt to make light of the accident, Phoebe patted Lilyanne’s angular shoulder. “It doesn’t matter how it happened, there’s no use in crying over spilled fruit. We’ll simply serve tea and dessert without it. But, Jane, we’ll be sure to let Miss Finch know of your efforts in making the glaze. Now then, Mrs. Honeychurch, are the kettles warmed?”

“They are, my lady.”

“Good. Girls, let the brewing begin.”

As an orderly commotion resumed, Phoebe moved off to one side and motioned for Eva to join her. With lustrous dark hair pulled back in a tidy bun, striking green eyes, and a trim figure, Eva Huntford might easily have passed for one of the aristocratic ladies sitting in the dining hall. However, her serviceable black dress and sensible, low-heeled pumps identified her as the lady’s maid she was. Phoebe longed to see Eva in something more elegant, but Eva wouldn’t hear of it. The one time Phoebe had made the suggestion, Eva had rolled her eyes and laughed.

“Did you see what happened?” Phoebe asked her. She watched Zara Worthington as the girl bent in front of one of the ovens to remove a cake tin. Before she grasped the hot metal, Mrs. Honeychurch cried out Zara’s name and shoved a pair of towels into her hands. Otherwise, the careless girl would have handled the pan barehanded and singed her fingers. Phoebe shook her head. “Did Zara intentionally trip Lilyanne?”

“I honestly didn’t see, my lady.”

“Is there some ongoing dispute between Zara and Lilyanne?”

“There is always some dispute between Zara and Lilyanne.” It wasn’t Eva but Amelia, Phoebe’s nearly sixteen-year-old sister, who replied. Attempting to brush powdered sugar from the pleats of her uniform skirt, she sidled closer and whispered, “There are disputes between Zara and absolutely everyone, at one time or another.”

Eva leaned over to assist Amelia in patting her skirt clean. “My lady, this is what aprons are for.”

“Yes, sorry. I always forget.”

Phoebe wanted to know more about Zara. “Is she often so disagreeable toward the other girls? I noticed she also spoke sharply to Jane Timmons for no apparent reason.”

“Jane can take care of herself.” Amelia absently tipped her head to one side as Eva repinned golden blond strands that had fallen loose.

“What about you?” Phoebe asked. “Is Zara unpleasant with you?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t pay her much attention. As if I could care what that rattlebrain has to say. But Lilyanne does, unfortunately. She hasn’t much confidence and doesn’t stick up for herself.”

“Do the other girls stick up for her?”

Phoebe’s question sent a blush creeping up Amelia’s already rosy cheeks. “Well . . . Lilyanne isn’t the easiest girl to get to know. She spends most of her free time alone. Prefers her books to people. At least that’s the impression I’ve gotten.”

Phoebe treated her sister to a disapproving lift of an eyebrow. “Amelia, are you allowing the other girls to dictate whom you befriend and whom you do not?”

“I . . . em . . . I don’t mean to.”

“Lady Amelia,” Mrs. Honeychurch called, “time to take your raspberry tart out of the icebox.”

“Coming, Mrs. Honeychurch!” Looking relieved, Amelia scurried away. Eva called after her to walk and not run, lest another unfortunate incident occur. She turned back to Phoebe.

“You’d best get back to the dining hall, my lady.”

“I think perhaps I’d better stay and help out here.”

Eva shook her head. “If you don’t go back, your grandmother is liable to come looking for you. Things are frenzied enough down here without the Countess of Wroxly poking her head in.”

“Eva, you are right as always. Good luck. I’ll have my fingers crossed the remainder of the luncheon is smooth sailing.”

Eva let go an uncharacteristic guffaw. “Now you’re hoping for the moon, my lady.”

“All right, ladies. Queue up with your desserts, please.” Eva clapped her hands for attention. Slowly, the din of chatter subsided and the nearly twenty-odd girls lifted platters of blancmange, bread pudding, fruit tarts, petit fours, honey cakes, and other creamy, sticky, sweet concoctions. The rest carried full teapots draped in bright-colored cozies. Unmistakable pride glowed on each girl’s face, and suddenly these past hours of frustrations, tempers, and tears seemed more than worth it.

Of course, that didn’t stop Zara Worthington from imparting one last rebuff to a still teary-eyed Lilyanne. “I still cannot believe you ruined the glazed fruit.”

“Never mind about that, Lady Zara,” Eva said calmly, earning a haughty look from the girl, one that spoke of retribution if Eva didn’t watch out. Eva ignored it and climbed the steps up to the corridor.

Assistant headmistress Verity Sedgewick peered in from the dining hall doorway. Like the gasses rolling across no man’s land, a cloud of violet-scented perfume filled the corridor, prompting Eva to cough. She recognized the fragrance, for Lady Phoebe had received a bottle of it for her last birthday in February. It was Brise de Violettes, a new product and one of the few perfumes that succeeded in capturing the true essence of the flower. Lady Phoebe’s came in a Baccarat crystal bottle and when she used it, she did so sparingly, unlike Miss Sedgewick. It struck Eva as odd that Miss Sedgewick could afford the same luxury on her school administrator’s salary.

The young woman wore blue and white silk crepe that mimicked the girls’ uniforms, yet with draping that hinted at the work of Paul Poiret—again, surprising for an assistant headmistress, but then again, Miss Sedgewick never missed an opportunity to remind people she hailed from a landed family in Hereford. Perhaps her relatives supplemented her income.

“Is everyone ready?” the woman called out as if the luncheon hinged upon her leadership, as if Eva couldn’t manage to direct the girls into the dining hall.

“All ready, Miss Sedgewick,” they responded in the practiced unison of schoolgirls, and formed a queue in front of her.

Lady Zara, her chestnut ringlets upswept and arranged to frame her face, shouldered her way to the front of the line. “I must be first. I’m to present Miss Finch with her Madeira cake as the rest of the desserts are being served. Look, Miss Sedgewick, didn’t it turn out splendidly?”

Miss Sedgewick regarded the miniature cake, iced with a cinnamon and nutmeg glaze. “It certainly did, Lady Zara. Miss Finch shall be very pleased.”

They held each other’s gazes another moment, long enough for Eva to notice and wonder whether a silent communication passed between them. But perhaps Zara Worthington, as the daughter of an earl, felt a stronger bond with Miss Sedgewick, who was more her equal than any of the other staff.

Miss Sedgewick pivoted on her fashionable heel and preceded the girls into the dining hall—as if she had led them in their efforts from start to finish. Unhurriedly, she all but floated back to her seat and gave an authoritative nod for the girls to begin serving. Eva might as well have stayed downstairs in the kitchen. One by one they passed her, dispersing in an almost dancelike formation among the tables. Another minute or two, and Eva would retreat to her own cup of tea before helping Mrs. Honeychurch and the kitchen maids restore order to their domain.

Phoebe’s gaze caught hers. Grinning broadly, she lifted her teacup in a toast and mouthed a silent thank you. As if Eva needed to be thanked—as if women in her position were typically acknowledged in any but an absent, offhand way. Her heart swelled with gratitude, and with pride, too, that her lady had grown into such a gracious young woman.

She watched Zara present Miss Finch with her special Madeira cake. After an exclamation of delight, the broad-faced, large-bosomed woman wasted no time in tucking in. One by one, the students set their various desserts on the tables and then moved to form a queue at the side of the room. When all had been served, light applause broke out among the assemblage. The girls curtsied and more than a few blushed with pleasure. At the rear of the room, an array of boxes and packages occupied a long table draped in colorful bunting. Collected under Lady Phoebe’s directions, these were the personal and household items to be distributed among the needy families of the Great War’s veterans. Each attendee at today’s luncheon had made a generous monetary donation as well.

Eva smiled. Yes, Phoebe and the girls had much to be proud of. Today was a resounding success.

She was about to retrace her steps to the kitchen when a noise held her still. Despite the mingling conversations and the oohs and ahs as delicacies were sampled, a distinct choking sound reached Eva’s ears. Concern became foreboding when the coughing escalated to forceful hacking. Heedless of whether she would be seen or not, she pushed the baize door wider. Miss Finch held a hand in front of her mouth and gripped the edge of the table with the other. Her shoulders shook violently.

“Good heavens, Miss Finch. Someone, pour her some lemonade.” Without waiting for anyone to comply with her demand, the Countess of Wroxly snatched the pitcher from the center of the table. She poured a generous measure into a glass, but when she attempted to put it in the woman’s hand, Miss Finch shoved it away. The glass fell, splashing lemonade onto the table linen before rolling and crashing to the floor. The other ladies at the table, most of them members of the school’s governing body, leapt to their feet.

Eva abandoned all discretion. She entered the dining hall and hurried to the head table. Phoebe, her face etched with shock, attempted to reach for Miss Finch, but with flailing arms the woman stumbled backward. Ruddy color flooded her face, her several chins, her thick neck. Eva came to an abrupt halt. She no more knew how to intervene than the bug-eyed ladies surrounding her.

One idea presented itself amid the growing panic. “Lady Amelia,” she called out, “run and fetch the nurse! Tell her Miss Finch is choking.”

At a trot, Amelia began wending her way around the tables in her path. Lady Phoebe, meanwhile, seized Miss Finch’s forearm to prevent her from falling over backward, while Miss Sedgewick did likewise on the woman’s other side. The ladies seated farther back in the room finally realized something was terribly amiss at the head table. Tea and desserts abandoned, the assemblage came to their feet, their cacophony of voices echoing against the ceiling high above them.

“Quiet, everyone!” Lady Wroxly held up her thin hands. “Quiet, please. This isn’t helping.” She spoke next to the gaggle of ladies who had closed in around Miss Finch, each attempting, in shrill voices, to ascertain what was wrong. “Ladies, give her some air. Miss Finch, is there something caught in your throat? Nod once for yes.”

Where was Lady Amelia and that nurse? The school’s infirmary occupied the former music room at the back of the house, overlooking the gardens. It shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes at the most. Eva spotted Julia, or rather the back of her, as she fled the table and rushed from the dining hall. Eva barely had time to contemplate where Lady Julia might be going before a crash drew her back to the situation unfolding before her.

Miss Finch, though still held by Phoebe and Miss Sedgewick, had begun twitching and jerking. Her complexion turned garnet and her eyes bulged. To Eva’s horror, she realized the woman was no longer hacking and sputtering, but heaving silently in a futile attempt to draw air into her lungs. With a great wrenching of both arms, she broke free of Lady Phoebe and Miss Sedgewick, pitched forward, doubled over, and dropped face-first onto the head table with all the deadweight of a sack stuffed with flour. Her plate rattled beneath her and her teacup went rolling.

The ladies nearest the fallen woman screamed, their cries quickly taken up and echoed from table to table. The students, still lined up on the side of the room, began to weep, and a quick-thinking woman in a fox-head stole scurried over and herded them back into the corridor and down to the kitchen.

Eva rushed to the fallen woman’s side. Phoebe reappeared at Miss Finch’s other side, but before either could lay a hand on the headmistress, she slid grotesquely downward, taking the tablecloth and place settings with her as she collapsed to the floor. Dishes and glasses shattered around her; cutlery clattered; tea and cream and remnants of cake splashed and bounced. At first, no one moved, frozen in obvious disbelief. Then Eva sank beside her, hesitated, drew a fortifying breath, and slipped her fingers to the side of the woman’s neck.

“Is she . . . ?” several voices hissed at once.

Eva looked up and found Lady Phoebe’s anxious face. “I don’t feel a pulse.”

A chorus of shrieks raised a lament and invoked the Lord’s mercy. Ladies huddled together with their arms around each other. Still others buried their faces in their hands, until footsteps from the main hall turned their horrified gazes in that direction, as if the assemblage believed Death, having fled too hastily, had decided to return to claim another soul.

Instead of a shrouded, formless creature, the school nurse appeared, clad in blue with a crisp white pinafore and matching kerchief. She strode briskly in, looking straight ahead and avoiding the stares converging on her. She carried a short length of rubber tubing and what appeared to be a hand-held pump very much like a concertina accordion. As the nurse grew closer, she attached the tube to a nozzle at one end of the pump, and Eva surmised this to be some kind of breathing apparatus. Amelia and Julia came in behind her, trotting every few steps to keep up. So that was where Julia had gone.

Lady Phoebe pushed to her feet. “Amelia, don’t come any closer.”

The youngest Renshaw sister paid no heed, but was forced to halt before reaching Miss Finch’s inert form when Lady Wroxly adamantly stepped in front of her. “I’m feeling faint, dearest. Would you help me into the hall?”

“Oh, but Miss Finch—I want to know if she’s all right.” Uncertainty spread across Amelia’s pretty features, but she linked arms with her grandmother and walked away. She apparently couldn’t resist looking back several times before they reached the doorway and turned out of sight.

It was then Eva realized the nurse had yet to take action. The woman, about Eva’s own age, had come to an abrupt halt and simply gawped down at her would-be patient. She clutched the apparatus so tightly, the rubber tubing compressed and the accordion threatened to collapse into uselessness. With her frizzled, strawlike hair and ashen complexion, she more resembled a patient than a healer. Why didn’t she do something? What was she waiting for?

“Nurse, help her,” Eva shouted. “Perhaps she can still be saved.”

That brok. . .