Death at the Crystal Palace (Kat Holloway Mysteries #5) - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,1

my brown woolen frock, which though neat and mended was years out of fashion. The contrast between the two of us could not have been more marked.

“Your ladyship, if you are unwell, I must strongly advise you seek a doctor. He can give you a draught to purge you at the very least.”

Lady Covington shook her head. “You must think me quite mad, Mrs. . . .” She groped for my name.

“Holloway. I am Lady Cynthia’s cook.”

“Yes, that is why I sought you out.” She regarded me with confidence that I would see the obvious connection.

“Are you worried about something you ate?” I ventured.

“Perhaps. I assure you I am not mad, though I understand why you would believe so. They would like to see me dead, Mrs. Holloway.”

“Who would?” I asked in bewilderment.

“All of them. Except dear Jonathan, of course. He has been nothing but a help and guide to me.”

I remembered the flurry of names that flew by as Sir Arthur introduced his family. Jonathan was the younger of Lady Covington’s sons. The older was the current Lord Covington.

“Perhaps I could send for him.”

“Not yet.” Lady Covington craned to see beyond the crowd clustered about the popular Egyptian court.

We sat facing the hall of columns, which were reproductions of those at Karnak, though in a smaller size. Behind us was a replica of the temple at Abu Simbel in Nubia, and to our right was a tomb from another time in Egyptian history, filled with colorful paintings I’d found quite fascinating.

Lady Covington turned back to me. “I am not mad, and I know have been given poison. Not much, which is why I am able to speak to you and do not appear to be ill. Slow poison is wicked, and I am surrounded by wicked people.”

I could hardly argue with her, but I did not understand what she expected me to do. “Why tell me, your ladyship? Your brother could help you—”

“Not Arthur.” Her voice changed to steel. “He would never believe me.”

“Miss Townsend or Lady Cynthia, then. Both are very capable young ladies.”

“I wanted you.” Lady Covington’s anxiousness had receded a bit, and she once more became the widow of an aristocrat, certain of her place. “I have heard of the goings-on in Lord Rankin’s household, and how you made certain the police arrested the correct criminals for heinous things. I want you to call on me. My home is in Park Lane, not far from where you are employed.”

Park Lane contained the mansions of some of the wealthiest families in Britain. I worked in a house in Mount Street, around the corner and a short block away.

A cook did not call upon a rich baron’s widow to sip tea in her parlor, but I could see that Lady Covington was in some distress. She might be imagining things, in spite of her protests, but then again, she might not. I had observed men and women of all walks of life cruel enough to kill another for even trivial reasons.

“I could pay a visit to your cook, if you like,” I suggested. “Or your gardener—do you grow many vegetables or herbs?”

She blinked her pale eyes. “Yes, an excellent excuse. Do come to the garden, tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. I will speak to you then. But I must—”

“Your ladyship.” A stern female voice cut through Lady Covington’s breathless words. A rather stout woman wound her way around the columns and sightseers to the bench. She had a severe face and hard brown eyes, her gray hair pinned into a tightly twisted bun. “I have been searching everywhere for you.”

The newcomer pinned me with a glare, as though certain I’d waylaid Lady Covington for nefarious purposes.

“Never mind, Jepson.” Lady Covington rose, tone brisk, and I and Grace hopped up beside her. “I was asking Mrs. Holloway about one of her recipes. I’ve told her to bring it to Cook tomorrow.”

A plausible reason for me to enter the house. Apparently, she’d dispensed with my idea of approaching the gardener.

Jepson folded her arms in a fair imitation of one of the Egyptian statues behind her. “They are waiting for you, your ladyship.”

Jepson was a lady’s maid, I surmised. They were usually called by their surnames only, and a lady’s maid was the one servant of the household likely to accompany its mistress on an outing. She would look after Lady Covington’s things and make certain her ladyship was where she needed to be.

“Let them wait,” Lady Covington snapped. “I’ll not come