Death at Dinner

  Death at Dinner

  copyright 2014 L. A. Nisula

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to actual places or persons is purely coincidental.

  Cassie Pengear did not want to spend her evening acting as a parlor maid even if the house was in Mayfair, but her landlady’s friend was desperate and it was only night. But then one of the guests collapsed at the table. Now poison is suspected and the cook is convinced she’s the main suspect and will be locked away if Cassie doesn’t solve the death at dinner.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 1

  WHEN MY LANDLADY, Mrs. Albright, asked me to go with her to wait table at Mr. Carrollton’s dinner party, I wanted to say “no” at once. It was a dreary sort of evening, one that was threatening rain at every turn. The fog was so damp it looked ready to rain on its own. In other words, a perfect evening to curl up by my little fire with the nice piece of spice cake I’d bought at the shop on the corner and the novel I’d found at the lending library next door to the bakery. But then Mrs. Albright turned up at my door, full of enthusiasm for her latest idea.

  “It will be such fun. He lives at Parkside House.”

  “Fun” was not a word I associated with waiting table at a dinner party, even if the house was located at the cheaper end of Mayfair, if just barely, but Mrs. Albright was so enthusiastic, and she was one of my few friends in London, so I found myself in a borrowed black dress riding the Underground with the last of the office workers and shopkeepers.

  According to Mrs. Albright, Edgar Carrollton lived in a nice-sized townhouse on the very edge of the Mayfair District. Unfortunately, I could barely see it. The rain started in earnest as we climbed out of the Underground station, and by the time we’d walked the three blocks to Parkside House, I was soaking wet and keeping my head down in an effort to keep my hair from dripping into my eyes.

  “There’s the way in.” Mrs. Albright grabbed my arm and steered me toward the iron railing surrounding the stairs to the servants’ entrance. The steps leading down were slick with rain; I clutched at the railing with both hands as I followed Mrs. Albright.

  The door at the bottom of the stairs opened as soon as Mrs Albright knocked. “You two must be soaked through. Come in and dry off.” The woman who grabbed Mrs. Albright’s arm was small and slightly plump. Her hair had been put up under a cap but was coming loose around the sides. On the whole, she looked about as frazzled and harried as I would expect a cook planning a dinner party short-handed would look. “Thank you for coming, Agnes. I don’t know what I’d have done.” She grabbed our coats and looked me over. “Yes, you’ll do. Thank you for coming.”

  Mrs. Albright took the hint. “Cassie, this is Mrs. Pomeroy. Alma, this is Miss Pengear. She’s one of my lodgers. She offered to help us tonight.”

  “Can she be trusted to wait table if she has to?”

  I wanted to say, “I’m standing right here,” but I held my tongue. Mrs. Pomeroy looked so overworked that I decided she didn’t know what she was saying.

  “Definitely. She’s the one who solves murders.”

  “That’s right. You mentioned that. Well, come on through, and we’ll get organized.”

  We’d barely had a chance to dry off, but we followed her through to the kitchen.

  “Why might I have to wait table?” I asked. I’d never done it before. Never even been to a dinner which required it, and I had no idea how to go about doing it.

  “I had to ask Mr. Ross to come back and act as butler tonight. I don’t know if he’ll be—up to it. But first the dinner has to be finished, and that won’t happen standing here.” Mrs. Pomeroy dropped our coats on the nearest chair and went to the stove. “If only things weren’t at sixes and sevens.”

  Mrs. Albright straightened our coats. “What do you mean, Alma? And why did you send for the old butler?”

  “Well, Mr. Belmont,” she looked over at me, “our current butler, and James, the footman, were both taken ill. That’s why I asked you two to help out, and why we’re stuck with Ross acting as butler. The fish!” She grabbed a pan from the stove and pulled it away from the heat before it could start to smoke.

  While I waited for Mrs. Pomeroy to get organized, I took stock of myself. Under my coat, my dress was damp but not as bad as it had felt outside. My hair was still wet, but it had stopped dripping in face. Mrs. Albright put her large handbag on the table and pulled out a pair of aprons. She handed me one and put on the other on herself.

  As I covered my dress, I followed Mrs. Albright into the main kitchen. “How can I help?”

  Mrs. Pomeroy looked up from the stove. “The flower arrangements are in the cold room. Would you bring them up to the dining room and make them look nice on the table?”

  That I could manage. “Of course.” I started towards what I assumed was the cold room.

  “If you see Ross up there, make sure he’s coming down here.”

  I glanced back at her, but Mrs. Pomeroy was already back at the stove, stirring one pot and taking the lids off the other ones.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  When I managed to find the dining room, which was on the second floor, or first floor as they said here, there was a man there already, setting out glasses on the table. He was older, wearing an evening suit that was tight in the waist and hung off his shoulders, and counting to himself. “Gold rim, wine, in the study. One, two, three, four, five, six. Sherry glasses…”

  I made a guess. “Are you Mr. Ross?”

  He looked around the room until he spotted me. “That’s right.”

  “Mrs. Pomeroy wants you to go back to the kitchen when you’re finished here.”

  “I know. I know. I’ll get there.” He turned back to the trays. “Sherry glasses, in the drawing room. Silver rims. One, two, three, four, five, six.” He placed each glass very deliberately on the proper tray as he counted, like he was trying a little too hard. Mrs. Pomeroy was right; he’d probably been in the cooking sherry. And the baking brandy. And whatever Mrs. Pomeroy used for her flambés.

  I put the flower arrangements in the middle of the table, evenly spaced between the empty wine carafes. When they looked as centered as I could manage, I made for the door. As I passed the butler, I decided a reminder wouldn’t hurt. “I’ll tell Mrs. Pomeroy you’re on your way.”

  Ross looked up. “Yes, yes. Tell her that.” And he went back to counting.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Pomeroy was mixing up the sauce for the vegetables. She noticed me before I’d made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Miss Pengear, would you get the bread from the oven? Just slice it on to that tray.”

  Another job I was confident I could do. “Right.” I took the last stairs as quickly as I could and went to the oven.

  I was surprised when Ross came down the stair
s a few minutes later, only a little unsteadily.

  “So you decided to join us again,” Mrs. Pomeroy snapped. “Where have you been?”

  “Mr. Carrollton told me to build up the fire in the study to warm the guests up when they get here.”

  “You mean in the drawing room.”

  Ross stared. “He said study. I know he said study.”

  “I see your hearing is as good as ever.”

  He ignored her tone. “Got the glasses in the right rooms. None broken. Now I’ll get the wine.”

  “Just get it,” Mrs. Pomeroy called after him. “Don’t open it.” She turned to Mrs. Albright. “I don’t trust him in there.”

  Mrs. Albright nodded. “I’ll get something proper.”

  “Thank you, Agnes. It’s all on the shelves in there. Just choose something nice.” She turned to me. “I’ll have Ross carry the wine, but if you would pour it out and watch it being served, Cassie.” She made a motion with her fist that suggested heavy drinking from a bottle.

  I nodded.

  Ross stormed out of the cellar, muttering, “Butler’s job to choose the wine. Don’t see why...” He noticed me and Mrs. Pomeroy staring at him. “You don’t need me, so I’m going to wait for the guests in the front hall.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy rolled her eyes and went back to the stove. Ross turned to me, but I had no idea what to say, so I just shrugged. He took a firm grip on the banister and started upstairs.

  Mrs. Albright came back from the storeroom so soon after Ross left that I suspected she’d been waiting for him to be gone. “Will two bottles of Vouvray do?”

  “Beautifully. Cassie, the corkscrew is on the table next to you.”

  I had just gotten the bottles open when I heard the doorbell ring.

  Mrs. Pomeroy was stirring three pots on the stove. “Do you think Ross is sober enough to answer?”

  Mrs. Albright and I looked at each other. I handed her the corkscrew. “I’ll go take a quick look in the front hall.”

  Mrs. Pomeroy attacked her sauce. “Thank you, dear. If you have to let them in, the drawing room is upstairs, the first door on the right.”

  I nodded and went upstairs.

  Chapter 2

  I FOLLOWED ROSS all the way through to the front hall just in case, but he managed to look quite proper as he opened the front door. “Mr. Warland. Welcome. Mr. Carrollton is serving sherry in the drawing room.”

  Mr. Warland was paunchy, stuffed into a suit that was too small, with too much massacar oil in his hair and cigar ash on his lapels. “Not brandy? But better than nothing I suppose. I’ll show myself there.” He shed his coat as he crossed the entryway. Ross tried to catch it but ended up gathering the coat up from the floor. He hung it in the closet, and I thought I saw him grab a flask from the pocket of a green mackintosh, but before I could be sure, the bell rang again.

  This time it was a couple, both a bit mousy, he with blond hair plastered to his head with rain, she cleaning her glasses as she squinted at Ross. Ross went to help the man with his coat. I stepped forward to take the woman’s.

  “Sherry in the drawing room, Mr. Ainsworth.”

  “Very good, Ross. Where is Belmont?”

  “Under the weather, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And James?”

  “The same, sir.”

  “I hope Mrs. Pomeroy is all right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we’ll eat well.” He started patting through his pockets. “I need to call the office and see if the Clawton file went out.”

  I was hanging the woman’s coat while she was adjusting her hair in the mirror. “I sent it out with Mr. Riley when he went home.”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Delford. But I should still telephone about the Ryan file.”

  “I locked that up before I left.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Did you bring the file from my desk?”

  “The papers you put in your pocket?”

  He patted his jacket. “There they are. Is Mr. Carrollton in the drawing room?”

  “No, sir. I believe he is in the office.”

  “Then I’ll bring these to him.”

  Mrs. Delford started to follow him down the hallway.

  “You don’t need to bother, Mrs. Delford. Go warm up in the drawing room. It will just take a minute.”

  “If you’re certain you don’t need me to take notes—”

  Mr. Ainsworth was already halfway down the hallway, leaving Mrs. Delford no choice but to go up to the drawing room.

  I saw Ross edging towards the closet. There was no reason for him to sneak over like that if all he was going to do was hang up Mr. Ainsworth’s coat, so I snatched the coat from him and hung it up myself, along with Mrs. Delford's. I was about to go through the mackintosh’s pockets when the doorbell rang again.

  This time when the door opened, the wind caught it and slammed it into the wall. Ross grabbed at the knob, ready to force the door shut as soon as the new guest came in, bringing the wind and rain and dust and leaves in with him.

  “Mr. Sharma, good evening.”

  The man put his shoulder to the door and helped Ross slam it closed. “Beastly weather. Like the monsoon season but freezing cold.”

  “Welcome to England, sir.”

  Mr. Sharma smiled. “So I should expect this?”

  “Not every day, sir. There’s sherry in the drawing room.”

  “Then I’ll go warm up there.”

  Mr. Sharma shed his coat and looked around for someplace to hang it. I recognized that lost look; I’d had it often enough. Not used to servants, I diagnosed. I stepped forward and took the coat from him before Ross realized what he was doing and used it as an excuse to get at the bottle in the closet.

  Mr. Sharma smiled, a relieved smile. I also knew that well, and he gave me half a bow before he realized that might not be proper.

  I covered for him by saying, “Do you know where the drawing room is?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He turned to the stairs. I brought his coat to the closet.

  Ross locked up the front door. “That’s the last of them.”

  “I thought there were six places at the table.”

  Ross went to the closet and pushed all of the coats around until he liked their spacing. This time I was certain he had a bottle hidden in there, but he answered, “Miss Carrollton is the sixth. Mr. Carrollton’s niece. She’s already here, in the drawing room upstairs. You’d better see if Mrs. Pomeroy needs you. I’ll sweep up the leaves.”

  I could see his hand twitch towards the mackintosh pocket again, but he was right; Mrs. Pomeroy might need me, and I wasn’t sure if the storm would have some effect on the preparations. Besides, I didn’t want to have to deal with the remains of the storm in the hallway if Ross was willing.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  When I got back to the kitchen, Mrs. Albright was unmolding the salmon mousse. “Grab a plate, Cassie and help me with this.” She glanced around the kitchen until she saw that Mrs. Pomeroy was busy at the oven before she whispered, “Why she made individual ones when she knew she’d be short-handed I don’t know, but she didn’t make any extra, so I don’t know what we’ll do if one breaks.”

  I was going to answer when Mrs. Pomeroy came back with a stack of plates. “Just unmold them onto these. But give me that one.” She snatched one of the molds from us and turned it onto the plate. She rapped the back sharply with the end of a knife, then lifted the mold away, revealing a perfect fish. “That’s how it’s done.” She took some parsley from the asparagus platter and arranged it on top.

  Mrs. Albright and I both tried her tapping method. The center of mine fell out in a shapeless glob of mousse; Mrs. Albright’s stayed firmly in the mold. I hurriedly spooned the lost mousse back into place. “I’ll get a warm knife to smooth it,” Mrs. Albright whispered. “They’ll never notice.”

  Ross came past and saw what we were doing. He grabbed my mold and the plate together and banged them on the table.
When he lifted the mold away, he also had a fish. Then he stumbled away.

  Mrs. Albright returned with a thin knife and ran it along the edge of her mold. It wasn’t quite as neat as Ross or Mrs. Pomeroy, but it seemed like it would give us the most consistent results. “Did you want parsley on them?” Mrs. Albright asked as we went on to our second set.

  “Only on the one, Agnes. Cassie, would you get the platters set out there,” she pointed to the side table, “then I can plate this up when it comes off the heat.”

  I left the rest of the molds to Mrs. Albright and went to the cupboard where poked around until I found the platters that looked like the soup tureen near the stove. I was extracting them from the jumble of other plates on the shelf when I heard footsteps that could only be described as tripping down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Pomeroy. How is my favorite chef?”

  “Mr. Ainsworth, how is my favorite guest?”

  I got a better look at Mr. Ainsworth now. He was older than his steps suggested, with greying blond hair still slicked back with rainwater. He smiled at all of us and glanced into the pots as he passed them. Mrs. Pomeroy handed him a spoon and let him taste the various things that were simmering on the stove.

  “Delicious.”

  “Did you just come down here to steal my dinner?

  “Of course not, I wanted to see you. And I did have one very small favor to ask. Would you have a minute to sew on a button?”

  “I always have a minute for you, Mr. Ainsworth.” She left the stove and went into her parlor. As she came back with her sewing kit, the pot on the stove for the potatoes began to boil roundly. Mrs. Pomeroy turned away to deal with it. “Miss Pengear will help you.”

  I took the sewing kit Mrs. Pomeroy held out and nodded to the chair beside the table. Mr. Ainsworth sat down and held out his button. I realized he expected me to sew it on when he was wearing the shirt. I threaded a needle and asked, “Where does this go?”

  Mr. Ainsworth pointed to a loose thread where the third button down from the collar had been. “Sorry to be such a bother. And it’s a brand-new shirt too.”