THE NEXT FIFTEEN MINUTES, Constance felt sure, would be the most important—and dangerous—of her time in Leng’s mansion.
With infinite care, she had learned the rhythms of the house. Leng’s outstanding characteristic, she had noted, was a strict adherence to dining routine. When he was in, usually three or four nights a week, he had dinner punctually, alone, and ate a limited menu. At eight o’clock promptly he was served le premier plat, usually smoked buffalo tongue, a pâté of snipe in jelly, or jugged hare. This was followed, invariably, by terrapin soup at eight fifteen. Then at eight forty-five came le plat principal, usually beef or lobster, with a glass of claret or white burgundy, which occupied the doctor for half an hour, until he was served pastries and coffee.
Because Leng was fussy to the point of metathesiophobia when it came to food punctuality, the preparation of dinner was always a fraught affair. The doctor would let it be known, before leaving in the morning, whether he’d be in for dinner, and the necessary arrangements would begin around noon, with marketing and the assembling of ingredients. The cook, with his sous chef and two assistants, would begin work at around five. The kitchen and pantry were on the first floor, their rear wall partially below ground due to the slope of the land, while Leng’s private dining room was almost directly above it, on the second floor. A dumbwaiter served both to bring up the various dishes—then served by the butler—and to send down dirty plates. The preparations reached a crescendo around quarter to eight and slacked off at eight thirty, when Leng briefly left the dining room to sharpen his appetite for the main course with a pipe of tobacco. The dinner reached its zenith between eight forty-five and ten. That was when Leng retired to his private salon and the last plates were sent down to the scullery maid.
This unchanging concerto de cuisine, so very surgical in its demanding nature, was a boon to Constance, especially given Leng’s otherwise unpredictable schedule. From her hidden chambers in the sub-basement—two floors below the kitchen, three floors below the dining room—she choreographed her plan of action. She had timed and rehearsed her plan and tried a dry run to ensure it could work. Now it was time for the main event.
Dressed in her black catsuit, she ascended from her hidden quarters to the basement, and from there to the first floor at five minutes after eight, taking up position behind a panel in the passage between the kitchen and the scullery. She had contrived to keep her hands and arms free by employing a crossbody strap, slung over her neck like a leather scarf and containing a pouch on either side. One held the poison she had managed to extract and concentrate with infinite care, along with a small glass beaker of hydrofluoric acid that she intended to fling at any attacker, should she be discovered. The other pouch contained a “top break” Enfield Mk I service revolver with a full complement of .476 cartridges. This was not for defensive purposes—it was to be used on herself as a last resort.
As the minutes stretched on, she remained still as death. Then, from her vantage point behind the panel, she silently withdrew her pocket watch: eight thirty precisely. And, just as precisely, the dumbwaiter descended with a whir; the scullery maid opened its door, removed the dirty plates, and trotted off down the corridor. A moment later, the sous chef returned with the dinner plates, arranged them in the dumbwaiter, and sent them up. The butler waiting above, Constance knew, was ready to deliver the main course to the table—and then discreetly withdraw.
This was Constance’s window of opportunity. She waited one hundred seconds exactly, then slipped across the corridor, freed the mechanism holding the dumbwaiter at the floor above, and manually wheeled it downward. Then she opened it. As expected, it was empty: the dinner had been taken to the table.
She clambered into the cramped space and closed the door behind her. Then she opened the trap in the roof and used the rope-and-pulley mechanism to lift herself up the fifteen feet from the main floor to the dining room. The dumbwaiter was of too primitive a design to have an interlock, so she bolted it in place manually, then paused to listen. The dining room beyond was silent. Once again, she checked her pocket watch: 8:35.
A faint smell of tobacco permeated the interior of the dumbwaiter.
Now Constance opened the door on the back side. Leng’s dining room came into view. The dinner was set, china and sterling glittering, butler gone, and the food in place, waiting for Leng’s return in a minute or two—or even less.
Constance quickly stepped out of the dumbwaiter and up to Leng’s chair, glancing over the meal: filet de bœuf et sa sauce Bordelaise.
That would do nicely.
Keeping alert for the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, she plucked a wad of cotton wool from the pouch and unwrapped it, revealing a tiny ampoule with a cork stopper. Without hesitation, she opened it and poured the clear liquid contents into the gravy boat holding the rich sauce. She mixed the sauce briefly with an index finger. Unconsciously, she raised the finger to her tongue—then stopped herself with a mordant smile at this almost fatal mistake. Instead, she dipped it into a large finger bowl and rinsed it off, the copper container masking any faint brownish hue that resulted. After a final glance around, she climbed back into the dumbwaiter, lowered it to the first floor, and put the ceiling trap back into place. Once again she looked at her pocket watch: 8:41.
The corridor outside was silent. Constance opened the dumbwaiter, crawled out, closed its door, raised it back to its proper level, and returned to her hidden observation post on the far side of the hallway.
Leng returned to the dining room, and she could hear the faint sounds of his meal for the next half hour. Finally, the dirty plates were loaded on the dumbwaiter and sent down. Looking out from her peephole, Constance saw that the filet had been wholly consumed—and that the gravy boat with the Bordelaise was at least half-empty.
“The condemned man ate a hearty supper,” she murmured to herself as she ducked out of the nook, then through the door leading down to the basement—and beneath.