Death at Rottingdean (19 page)

The green baize door in the dining room opened onto the back stairs, which descended to a flagged passageway across the rear of the house. Carrying her tray, Kate went down the dark stairs, avoiding the filled coal-shuttles at the bottom and the row of clean chamber pots waiting to be carried to the upstairs bedrooms. On the wall, on pegs, hung a variety of brooms and mops and buckets, along with several lanterns, a weeding hoe, a spade. Ahead of her, a heavyset man burst out of the door she assumed led to the kitchen and strode angrily to the outer door at the end of the passage, which he slammed behind him. She stared after him for a brief moment, wondering who he was. Then she remembered why she was there, and pushed the door open, her tray in one hand.

Mrs. Portney was standing at a huge black Eagle range, reaching for the iron kettle that was steaming on the back of the stove. She whirled around, eyes blazing, chin thrust forward. “I told ye not to come 'ere again—” she began furiously, and broke off.

“Oh! Lady Sheridan!” she cried, and fumbled a hasty curtsey. “I didn't know ... I thought...” Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the luncheon tray. “That lazy Molly! I
told
her to listen fer yer ladyship's bell an'—”

“No, no, Mrs. Portney,” Kate said soothingly, setting the tray on the well-scrubbed pine table. “I didn't ring for Molly. I wanted to bring the tray down myself.” She smiled. “After all, we will be staying here for several weeks. I thought it might be well to let you know about some of Lord Sheridan's favorite food and drink, so that you may take his tastes into account when you are planning menus.”

A look of momentary perplexity crossed Mrs. Portney's narrow face. “O' course, milady, but ... But wudn't ye rather I come upstairs?” She twisted her hands in her white apron. “Th' mornin' room is where Mrs. Seabrooke always give me orders. Th' kitchen ain't a fit place fer—”

“I find it a very fit place indeed,” Kate replied firmly, but with a smile. “Quite warm and homey and familiar, in fact. You know, I'm an American, and we have quite different ideas about things.”

“Well, yes,” Mrs. Portney said cautiously. “I did know from yer ladyship's talk that ye weren't quite ...” she colored. “Quite so formal as some.”

“That's because I grew up in New York,” Kate said. “I was an orphan, and my aunt and uncle O'Malley raised me. Uncle was a policeman, and I had six younger cousins to look out for. There wasn't money for hired help, of course, so I spent a great deal of time in the kitchen.” She rolled her eyes. “I can swing a fine broom, I tell you! And the floors I have scrubbed—Why, they would stretch from here to Westminster.”

“Lor!” Mrs. Portney exclaimed, her mouth a round O of astonishment. “A real, true Cindereller story! Out of th' ashes an' off to th' ball, so to speak. ‘Oo wud've thought it?” Then, thinking of who Kate had become, she reddened. “Oh, milady, I didn't mean—”

“That's perfectly all right, Mrs. Portney,” Kate said, with a sisterly laugh. “It
is
a Cinderella story. I can hardly believe that I actually came to England and married a baron! So you see, I
do
try extra hard to please his lordship by making sure he has just what he likes to eat and drink.” She pulled out a wooden chair and gestured at the teapot on the table. “While we talk,
dear
Mrs. Portney, I'd love to have a cup of the tea you were about to make.”

Having heard the story of Kate's humble beginnings (for the most part true, although it omitted any mention of her own inherited fortune), Mrs. Portney was a great deal more relaxed and easy. She poured boiling water over the tea in the china pot—a fragrant imported tea flavored with sweet orange peel and cloves—then set out cups and a plate of biscuits. Rummaging in one of the drawers, she found a tom piece of wrapping paper and a stub of a pencil. When the tea had properly steeped, she poured steaming cups of it and took a chair on the other side of the table.

“Now, milady,” she said comfortably, “wot was it ye wanted me to make fer ‘is lordship? I do 'ope ye remember that we're a small village, an' not smart. Mr. Grantly, the grocer, don't ‘ave much in the way o' fancy food, so if it's somethin' special ye're wantin', we'll 'ave to send to Brighton. An' as fer drink, wot's in the wine cellar belowstairs is the best there is in the village.”

“Oh, I imagine we'll do wonderfully well out of Mr. Grantly's stock,” Kate said. “His lordship is quite fond of fish of any sort. Veal cutlets always suit him, and roast partridge, and he is especially partial to a bit of lobster salad.” She sipped her tea thoughtfully. “And if this tea is any indication of what you are able to obtain here in the village, I am sure his lordship will be very pleased. It is truly delicious, and quite unique. Is it imported?”

A little frown showed between Mrs. Portney's thick brows, and she stirred uncomfortably. “That's good about the lobsters,” she said. “We've very fine lobsters ‘ere, straight out of our waters and much better'n wot ye'll find in Lunnun. They're much admired by all the vis'tors.”

“Then let us have lobster often,” Kate said with enthusiasm. “Breakfast, of course, can be quite simple: any broiled fish will do, or broiled kidneys, not fried, and bacon. His lordship prefers his eggs scrambled, occasionally poached, and as to fruit, he favors apples above strawberries. You might poach the apples, perhaps with a little cinnamon, and serve them with cream.”

Mrs. Portney scribbled busily with her pencil. “Well, then,” she said, as she wrote down the last, “we should get on, for there are delicious apples round about. Soups, I s‘pose. An' reg'lar custards.”

“Yes, but not pea soup or celery soup, I am sorry to say.” Kate looked up and added, as if it were an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, I should have mentioned that his lordship is in the habit of adding a sum in compensation to the cook who pleases him.” She paused, and gave Mrs. Portney a conspiratorial glance. “Quite a handsome sum, I should add.”

The tip of Mrs. Portney's nose grew pink. “That's very gen‘rous of 'is lordship.”

“He can be a very generous man when his wishes are accommodated,” Kate said. “Now, as to drink, I have surveyed the wine cellar and found it quite adequate—except for brandy, of which, unfortunately there is none. There
had
been, recently, from the evidence of a broken bottle, but it is gone. What do you suppose—” She left the sentence dangling.

Flustered, Mrs. Portney pretended to study her list. “I'm sure I don't know, mum,” she muttered. “Mrs. Seabrooke always saw to the cellar her own self.”

“Well,” Kate remarked, “it is a great pity, for if there is anything Lord Sheridan fancies when he is relaxing in the evening, it is a glass of fine French brandy. If my nose told me correctly, the brandy that was spilled in the cellar was fine indeed. If more could be got, Mrs. Portney, I'm sure his lordship would be delighted to pay.”

Mrs. Portney hesitated.

“Whatever the price,” Kate added significantly.

“P'rhaps,” Mrs. Portney ventured, “I could make inquiries.”

“That would be lovely.” Kate said. “As for me, my tastes are modest. But there is one dish I truly love above all others, and now that I can afford it—” She gave a little shrug. “Of course, it is an indulgence.”

Mrs. Portney's brows went up. “And wot's that, milady?”

“I hate to confess it.” Kate laughed lightly. “You'll think me quite silly and extravagant.”

Mrs. Portney shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, milady! If it's in me power, yer ladyship shall 'ave wot ye likes.”

“I hesitate to mention it,” Kate said, “for it involves a very great delicacy, difficult to procure and unimaginably dear—although if you were able to find it, I should be delighted to pay whatever is required, and add a substantial sum for your trouble.”

Mrs. Portney's nose was growing even pinker. “What is it, milady?”

“It is eggs beaten with cream and cooked to soft curd,” Kate said, “with a topping of sautéed truffles.” She clasped her hands and raised her eyes. “It is a simple dish, but oh, quite heavenly! And I should be very glad to give you my recipe.”

“Truffles?” Mrs. Portney frowned.

“Yes,” Kate said. “They are imported from France, you know, and the duty one must pay is simply exorbitant.” She laughed again. “I told his lordship that he should enter a motion in Parliament to repeal the excise on truffles—and that if he were not successful, I should go to smuggling. I am sure there are smugglers somewhere who would be glad to see what a fine profit could be made from such a delicacy.”

There was a space of silence. At last, Mrs. Portney said, cautiously, “It's possible that truffles might be got fer yer ladyship. Arrangements might be made. Not straightaway, mind ye, but soon. P'rhaps I can speak t' Mr. Grantly today—it's my half-day off, ye know. I'll leave a cold supper.”

“Indeed,” Kate said. “If you find the truffles, I shall be content.” Leaning forward, she patted the cook's hand. “And you, my dear Mrs. Portney, shall be very well rewarded. Mr. Grantly too, I might add.”

“I shall be grateful, mum,” said that worthy, with a little bob of her head. “Most, most grateful. An' if there's anything else I can do, ye've only to ask.”

Kate picked up her cup and sipped her tea. “There is one more thing,” she said. “I have it in mind to look for some lace that Amelia might add to the throat of my dressing gown. I don't suppose, in a village the size of Rottingdean, that I shall find what I'm looking for. Where in Brighton would you recommend—”

“Oh, but ye
will
find it in Rott‘ndean!” Mrs. Portney exclaimed eagerly. “Mrs. 'Oward 'as quite nice lace in 'er dress shop just down the ‘Igh Street, as fancy as any ye'll find in Brighton. I know, fer I've seen it meself, and even bought a piece or two. Do 'ave a look, mum.”

“Why, I believe I shall, Mrs. Portney,” Kate said, smiling, and set down her cup. “And thank you again. You cannot know just how very helpful you have been.”

17

A weapon is an enemy, even to its owner.

—TURKISH PROVERB

 

 

 

 

 

I
t was past two in the afternoon when Charles and the Chief Constable crossed The Steine and made their way up North Street, then through the South Gate of the Royal Pavilion Estate and along a wide gravel walkway that bisected the western lawns. They passed in front of the huge domed building that had been erected in the early 1800's to accommodate the royal stables, then let as cavalry barracks in the fifties and sixties and later reconstructed as a concert hall. In Church Street, they walked several blocks in a westerly direction, and turned right into a narrow lane. Several doors up, Sir Robert stopped before an unassuming brick-fronted shop with a painted sign board that read simply R. W. Barker & Son. The mullioned window was protected with iron bars, curtained with gray draperies to deter prying eyes, and topped conspicuously with a burglar alarm. A discreet brass medallion beside the door bore the Royal Lion and Unicorn and the inscription
Armorer, by Appointment to Her Royal Majesty.

“The family has been in business here for at least half a century and is considered very reputable,” Sir Robert said. “They provided arms for the cavalry officers when the company was stationed in Brighton. If there is any knowledge in Brighton of a new type of firearm, my lord, we should find it here.”

Charles nodded, hoping that Sir Robert was right. He did not want to take the time to make a trip to London, especially when he had promised Kate that this holiday was to be theirs alone, a retreat from the pressures that had made life so difficult for the past few months, a time to heal whatever rifts had opened up between them. At the thought of Kate, sitting alone at Seabrooke House waiting for him, Charles felt resentful of the task that was taking him away from her, and yet—and yet, there was a certain compelling excitement in it, too. The thrill of the chase, was that it? he asked himself, with a kind of self-mockery. The scent of danger on the wind, the exhilaration of the game? Well, if that was it, he could forget all that heroic silliness. He squared his shoulders. The hunt for a killer was not a schoolboy's lark but a very serious affair. Two of the Queen's officers were dead, and unless he was mistaken, the net of treachery that had snared them had been flung very wide indeed.

Sir Robert pushed open the door and Charles followed him into the narrow shop. It smelled richly of gunpowder, machine oil, and leather, and was lit by a row of gaslights along each long wall. The gaslight gleamed softly on the polished wooden butts of the rifles and shotguns that filled the wall racks, and on the glass tops of the oak cases on either side of the narrow aisle down the middle of the shop, in which a wide selection of handguns was displayed. Behind the cases there was a clutter of shooting equipment: gun cases, slings, cartridge belts and holsters, cartridge-filling machines, cartridge magazines.

“Ah, Sir Robert!” A short, slight man with gold spectacles and gray hair came toward them, dressed in an old-fashioned long-tailed coat. “So good to see you!”

Sir Robert smiled cordially and the two men shook hands. He turned. “Lord Sheridan, I should like to present Mr. Reginald Barker. Reg, my friend, his lordship has come down from London on holiday. He has a question for you with regard to a certain new type of ammunition.”

With a slight smile, Mr. Barker rubbed his hands together. “New ammunition, eh, my lord? Shotgun, perhaps? If you're doing a bit of shooting in the downs, I'm sure you'll be interested in the smokeless powder cartridges we have just received. A very significant improvement, I must say, over the black powder we are all accustomed to use.” He turned. “Let me show you—”