The Vanishing Thief(47)

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No. I went downstairs then.” Sally twisted her apron, obviously agitated over being questioned about what she’d heard between Lady Margaret and Miss Victoria.

I tried asking about that day from a different angle. “What china was broken?”

Sally let go of her apron. “The teapot Lady Julia Waxpool drank from split in two. Each pot had a different floral design. Pretty they were, and I remember distinctly which young lady drank from which. She arrived just a minute after I brought the first two and I was sent for another teapot and cup. Two of the cups and saucers and tea balls were so badly crushed I couldn’t tell where all the slivers came from.”

Lady Julia was still alive. There was no reason to break her teapot on purpose. I was certain the tea wasn’t poisoned. “Is Lady Margaret that fussy about her tea that she’d have individual teapots for her guests?”

“She’s always been,” Mrs. Potter said. “Even as a little girl, tea cozies weren’t good enough for her. Tea had to be fresh that minute and piping hot.”

“Tell me how you fixed tea for her.” Was there something special in the ritual that could have led to Victoria’s death?

“Same as always.” Sally began to sound mutinous.

“Please.”

“When Mrs. Potter brought the water to a boil, I put some in the pots and then waited a moment before pouring that water into the cups to warm them up. Once I tossed that water, I filled up the teapots and put everything on the tray. Milk, sugar, cups, saucers, spoons. Then I carried it up.”

“Who put the tea leaves in the pots?”

“I did. Well, I put the tea into tea balls and put them into the pots. Little things they were to match the teapots. Then I carried the pots up with the tea already brewing, ready for Lady Margaret when I reached the parlor.”

“And the tea all came from one source?”

“Yes. That tin right there.” Sally pointed to a tea tin over the stove.

“How often are the remaining teapots used? It sounds like Lady Margaret had a good solution to cold tea in the pot when someone arrives late.”

Mrs. Potter answered. “She only used them that one day. Said it reminded her of Miss Victoria’s death and she couldn’t stand to look at them. The duke had us give the pots that were left to a charity drive a year ago.”

I decided to try a different line of questioning. “Had the visit been planned long?”

“Miss Victoria sent a note that morning saying she’d call at teatime. The lady’s maid, Ethel, came into the kitchen while the visit was going on and told us Lady Margaret grumbled that Miss Victoria would soon be here night and day, and couldn’t she wait a week before ruining every one of Lady Margaret’s days.”

“Did Lady Margaret do anything to get ready for Miss Victoria’s arrival?” I’d suspect sharpening knives except Miss Victoria wasn’t stabbed.

“Just ordered flowers and arranged them.”

“What did she order?”

“Lilies of the valley. Lady Margaret said they looked bridal. She was just cutting up the leaves when I came in to light the fire in the parlor,” Sally said.

“Cutting up the leaves?” That didn’t sound right.

“Yes. Into little pieces. Isn’t that how you arrange them?” Sally asked.

I had no idea. Girls who were raised like I was to work in a shop never had time to learn about flower arranging. But working in a bookshop had its rewards. Anything I wanted to learn was a hand’s reach away.

And I would look up lilies of the valley just as soon as I returned after a walk down Hyde Park Place. It was the only clue I had until Inspector Grantham gave me the details in Denis Lupton’s death or I heard more rumors about a Gutenberg Bible for sale in London.

After twelve years, it was time I solved my parents’ murder.





Chapter Ten





IT was sundown and the light was quickly fading from our street when the man came into my shop, tilting his bowler hat to keep the light out of his eyes. He wore a jacket and loose-fitting trousers of some cheap material, but his muddied boots looked new and well made.

I came out from behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“You wanted to meet me.” His deep voice was scratchy, as if from disuse, and he kept his head down so I couldn’t see more than his mouth and chin below the brim of his hat.

He had to be the Duke of Blackford’s man. “I do. I’m Georgia Fenchurch. And you are?”

“Sumner.” He took off his hat and held it in front of him by one hand so I couldn’t see his face. Then he held out the other hand, which I shook. My grip let me feel the well-made leather gloves that fit him like a second skin. His gloves and boots wouldn’t have looked out of place on the duke, but his clothes were the same as my neighbor the greengrocer wore. No one would give him a second look in our neighborhood, unless they were examining him closely the way I was.