“As I warned, weddings bring nothing but trouble.” Higgins held up the newspaper. “The headlines are filled with Farrow’s death and his jilting of the Duchess.”
His housekeeper, Mrs. Pearce, waited nearby. “Would you like breakfast served on the sideboard or at table, Professor?”
“Table.”
“Should I bring coffee or tea?”
“Tea,” Higgins, Eliza, and Pickering replied. She hurried out.
Eliza unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. “Honestly, you act as if every wedding ends in death.”
He chuckled. “Even if no one dies during the ceremony, the bride or groom probably wishes one of them was dead soon afterward.”
“How can you find any levity in what happened on Saturday?” Pickering frowned at Higgins as a maid came in with the tea tray. “Dreadful enough Farrow jilted Her Grace at the altar, but to have the poor fellow die. And all from drinking that Scottish brew in the vestry. It must have gone bad in the summer heat.”
Eliza and Higgins exchanged knowing glances. “Colonel, it seems obvious the cog mixture was deliberately poisoned. And from the behavior of the local police when they arrived, I daresay they agree.” She loved Pickering dearly, but he believed most people in the world were as honest and kind as he was. Eliza knew the truth all too well. Growing up in the slums of the East End had a way of destroying pretty illusions.
“But who would want to kill the man?” Pickering protested. “No one knew what was going to happen until right before Farrow jilted the Duchess.”
Mrs. Pearce laid a platter of scrambled eggs on the table. A maidservant followed with rashers of bacon and a rack of toast.
“A jealous mistress for one,” Eliza replied. “In fact, she would want to kill him and the woman he was about to marry. All of us saw Pearl Palmer argue with Farrow shortly before the wedding. She actually struck him. Then she stalked off in an awful rage.”
“Exactly. We watched Miss Palmer drive away before the ceremony started. The girl could not possibly have done it.”
“Pick, you must try to entertain a cynical thought once in awhile,” Higgins said. “Otherwise people may question your sanity.”
“Farrow probably told Pearl that Her Grace wanted the bridal couple to drink from the Scottish cog following the ceremony.” Eliza sipped her tea, which this morning was a tart Earl Grey. “She could have gotten there early and poisoned it. Maybe she did it in case Farrow refused to call off the wedding, as she no doubt asked him to do. If that’s what happened, this tragedy could have been even worse. After all, the mixture was meant to have been drunk by both the bride and groom. Her Grace barely escaped with her life.”
Pickering sighed. “I have never known anything so appalling to occur at a wedding. The Duchess has probably taken to her bed.”
“She did appear to be in shock when we went to see her,” Eliza said.
Indeed, following the wedding debacle, Eliza and Pickering found the older woman sitting in her front parlor, oblivious to everyone.
“Minerva turned pale and silent after learning Farrow was dead,” Higgins said, “but she was as mad as the devil when Mother and I took her out of the church. If she’d gotten to the cog just then, she might have poisoned it herself. But we put her right into the car and had the driver take us straight to Rowan Hall.”
Pickering choked on his tea. “Henry, how can you imply she would poison the cog?”
“He’s being sarcastic, Colonel. No one believes the Duchess murdered Ambrose Farrow. But if it wasn’t his mistress who killed him, then someone else at the wedding had a deadly grievance against the bride and groom.” Eliza became distracted by the tiered plate of iced scones Mrs. Pearce carried into the dining room. A maidservant followed with a platter of potatoes and kippers, a favorite of the Professor’s.
Eliza loved mealtimes at Wimpole Street, especially breakfast. She woke each morning to the tantalizing smells of sausages, fresh bread, and coffee, along with whatever delectable pastry Cook decided to whip up at dawn. Until she became Professor Higgins’s pupil last summer, Eliza’s days had begun with a cup of boiled tea dust, an apple if she was lucky, and whatever slices remained of a loaf of stale bread bought at Covent Garden – which had to last a week, sometimes more. Not only had this past year under Higgins’s and the Colonel’s tutelage helped her to speak and act like a lady, she was also as well-fed as one, too.
Looking about the dining room with its mahogany paneling, ivory linen tablecloth, blue and white china, and carved wooden sideboard, Eliza didn’t know if she could ever bring herself to leave Wimpole Street. It was the first place that felt like home, and she was fond of the four maids, Mrs. Lennox the cook, and the beloved Mrs. Pearce.
Colonel Pickering had become dearer to her than her own father. Certainly, the Colonel never treated her with the caustic neglect and contempt Alfred Doolittle often did. As for Professor Higgins, she thought he was probably the best friend she ever had, even if people mistook their frequent spats and teasing for something less harmonious. The more strait-laced sometimes questioned the propriety of a girl of twenty living with two older men who were not family members. But Mrs. Pearce served as stalwart chaperone of the household, not that Eliza needed protection from Higgins or Pickering. In fact, she worried she might never live in such a wonderful place again, even if she did marry Freddy.
To make it more ideal, she and Higgins gave elocution lessons in the house’s laboratory and study. Of course, today’s lessons had to be canceled. As Eliza learned these past few months, murder had a way of disrupting one’s routine.
An unexpected ring at the front door caused everyone to look up from their eggs and bacon. “Who the devil is that?” Higgins growled. “If it’s your young man come scrounging for another free meal—”
“Freddy’s at his tailor’s this morning,” Eliza interrupted. “His suit for Clara’s wedding needs altering.”
“Perhaps one of your students forgot their lessons have been canceled,” Pickering said, pouring himself another cup of tea.
But Mrs. Pearce ushered Eliza’s cousin Jack Shaw and his fiancée Sybil Chase into the dining room. Happy to see the young couple, Eliza jumped up to hug them both. Pickering graciously got to his feet, but Higgins only speared a sausage.
“If either of you have come for the scones, sit down quick,” he said. “Eliza’s finished off two so far.”
“I’m so sorry for interrupting your breakfast.” Sybil handed Eliza a striped hat box. “But Selfridges mistakenly delivered your bridesmaid hat to my house.”
Eliza peeked inside and smiled. “How loverly. I can’t wait to wear it.” After placing it on the sideboard, she turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Pearce, please bring more sausage and eggs.”
“Oh, we’ve already eaten, but thank you,” Sybil protested as Eliza led them to the table.
Jack brushed back his always unruly black hair. “I wouldn’t mind a sausage or two, and maybe some of those potatoes and kippers.”
Mrs. Pearce smiled. “I’ll bring out a pot of coffee for you, Inspector. I know you like coffee with breakfast.”
Higgins snorted. “That proves how many times I’ve fed you, Jack. I should bill you for groceries.”
Despite Higgins’s long suffering expression, Eliza knew he liked the Scotland Yard police detective. Rather surprising given the two men met under tense circumstances when Higgins was the prime suspect in a murder case.
Jack only laughed. “Don’t worry. We’re about to go to considerable expense feeding you and dozens of others at our wedding.”
Sybil rolled her eyes. “Will you listen to him? Acting as if he, and not my father, is paying for everything.”
“You can’t blame me. We’ve talked about little else for months.”
“He’s exaggerating,” Sybil said. “It’s only these last few weeks that have been filled with bridal minutiae.”
“The Egyptians spent less time preparing to build the pyramids than we have for this wedding. And we’re not done yet.” Jack took a large bite of his scone. “There are ten days left to obsess about flowers and the right shoes.”
Sybil handed him a napkin. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. Really, all this fuss and complaining over a few wedding details.” She unpinned her white straw hat and placed it on the empty chair beside her. “At least Jack should enjoy today’s appointment. We’re off to see the caterer on Sloane Street to decide between two different fruitcakes.”
“One with sultanas, I hope,” Eliza said eagerly. “Or you could do what Clara did. Break with tradition entirely and have a tiered buttercream cake instead.”
“I’ve already broken with tradition by refusing to carry a bouquet of orange blossoms. But Mother insists we have the usual fruitcake.” Sybil took a sip of tea. “And she’s a bit nervous. All my friends are suffragettes, while most of Jack’s friends are policemen. I suspect some of his friends have arrested a few of mine. Mother’s worried a battle might break out in the church.”
Higgins grinned. “Now here’s a wedding I can look forward to.”
“Speaking of weddings, what did you learn about Ambrose Farrow’s death?” Eliza asked her cousin.
“Most of the details are in the morning papers. As expected, the cause of death was poison. The preliminary toxicology report points to cyanide, which kills quickly. Had you gone to the vestry five minutes earlier, Eliza, you would have found Farrow gasping for breath and in the throes of a seizure. Whoever poisoned the drink wanted no chance for their victims to survive long enough to get to hospital.” Jack finished off his scone. “But have no doubt. There was a murderer at that wedding. A murderer who wanted death to be swift but painful.”
The atmosphere in the dining room turned gloomy as everyone grew silent except for Eliza. “Where does one get cyanide?” she asked.
“It’s a common substance. One finds it in everything from wallpaper to paint.” Jack seemed to realize he had cast a pall over the breakfast. “There’s no reason to dwell on the Farrow murder. The police in Kent are handling the case, so I won’t hear much more. It is, after all, not my jurisdiction.” He winked at Sybil. “And I have more than enough to do before the wedding.”
Sybil nodded. “Yes. Jack still has to reserve a restaurant for the bachelor dinner. And purchase a gift for his best man and ushers.”
Jack leaned over to kiss Sybil, which flooded her face with color. “True. I also have a triple homicide I’m overseeing, one involving a member of Parliament and an opera singer. Although I grant you, the murders aren’t as urgent as choosing engraved cuff links.”
Eliza smiled as she watched them. “Sybil, you truly are a blushing bride.”
“Probably because I’m feeling overwhelmed. Like Jack, I had no idea how many details need to be kept track of. I didn’t spend my girlhood paying attention to these things as I never had any desire to marry. All I cared about was fighting for the rights of women.” She shot Jack an affectionate look. “Then I met this fellow.”
Jack grinned. “I am irresistible.”
“But it means so much to my parents that everything be done properly,” Sybil continued. “I owe them that. Having a suffragette daughter has not been easy. They dread I’ll be arrested during a demonstration.”
Colonel Pickering looked surprised. “If you were, being married to a Scotland Yard detective inspector ought to assure them you wouldn’t be held by the police long.”
“She won’t be held at all,” Jack said. “I’ve made certain every police constable knows what Sybil looks like and that she is not to be touched. Even if she’s slinging tomatoes at Lloyd George himself.” He turned to her. “I hope you have no intention of doing such a thing.”
“Of course not, dear. I would never take such a risk.” Sybil and Eliza exchanged quick smiles. This past summer both of them barely escaped arrest at a Votes For Women rally. A rally Lloyd George drove right into the middle of, which prompted a few tomatoes hurled his way.
“Farrow’s killer certainly took a risk, poisoning the cog at the church when anyone might have walked by and witnessed it.” A thought suddenly struck Eliza. “And the cog must have been tampered with there. The best man told me it was made at the church by her butler.”
“A Scotsman, of course,” Higgins said. “Can’t believe he’d want to poison anyone.”
Jack sipped his coffee. “The sexton stood beside the butler while he made it. And he swears all the bottles were sealed before the butler began. The cog was poisoned afterward.”
Eliza pushed her plate away. “I feel rather guilty about Mr. Farrow’s death. After all, I asked if the groom could stay somewhere in the church until the guests had all left. How dreadful the vicar took him into the room where a poison drink lay waiting.”
“You and the vicar couldn’t have known that,” Sybil assured her.
“This crime appears to have been planned well in advance,” Jack said. “I daresay if this attempt had failed, another one would have followed.”
“Who do the police suspect? We did tell them about Pearl Palmer arguing with Farrow before the wedding. And Mrs. Higgins informed them about the rumors they were lovers. It seems obvious Miss Palmer killed him out of jealousy.”
“Eliza, you and I both know the obvious suspect is not always the one who did it.” Higgins no doubt recalled his own unhappy time as chief suspect this past spring.
“True,” Jack said, “but I agree with Eliza. Miss Palmer had motive and opportunity.”
“While we were waiting for the police,” Eliza said, “both the sexton and best man told me a young woman came looking for Farrow shortly after he arrived at the church. And that they went outside for a short time. Obviously it was Pearl Palmer.”
“That confirms what you observed in the graveyard.” Jack reached for another scone. “When the Kent police brought Miss Palmer in for questioning, the sexton identified her as the woman.”
“But everyone at the wedding had the opportunity to poison the bridal cog.” Eliza frowned. “It was on display in the church vestibule for over an hour while the guests arrived. We all walked past it.”
“Well, I doubt everyone at the wedding had a reason to want Farrow and the Duchess dead,” Jack said. “After all, both of them were supposed to drink it.”
“The morning paper claims the police questioned the wedding guests.” Higgins pointed at the folded paper beside his plate. “Including those two children who carried the cog to the altar.”
“They questioned the chauffeurs, the organist, the best man, the sexton, even the piper. No one saw anything suspicious, nor did anyone seem to have a reason to want Farrow or Her Grace dead.” Jack raised an eyebrow. “Except for Miss Palmer. Unless another wedding guest with a motive surfaces, Pearl Palmer remains the prime suspect. But the police must not have enough evidence. Otherwise they would have arrested her.”
“Do you think she killed him, Jack?” Eliza asked.
“Probably. But I don’t have enough information. If I were handling the case, I’d push her hard for the truth. She’s only twenty-two and prone to hysterics, at least according to my friend with the Kent police. A little pressure at the right time and I suspect she’d confess.”
Sybil frowned. “Seems a bit cold-blooded, sweetheart.”
“Not as cold blooded as putting cyanide in the bride and groom’s wedding drink. A good detective reserves his sympathy for the victim, not the killer. But I can understand why Miss Palmer might have done it. The man she loved was about to marry another woman. By the way, Miss Palmer’s an American like Farrow. They came to England together. Only natural for her to feel abandoned and betrayed when he decided to marry the Duchess.”
Eliza sighed. “I wish I’d seen her face. I have no idea what she looks like.”
“Miss Palmer must be attractive,” Sybil said. “She’s a mannequin at Maison Lucile. I can’t imagine Lady Duff-Gordon hires young women to model who aren’t pretty. I hear her clothes are both fashionable and exorbitantly expensive.”
Eliza sat back in surprise. When Mrs. Higgins told them Pearl was a mannequin, she hadn’t mentioned the girl’s employer was Lady Duff-Gordon. Freddy’s sister had ordered her wedding gown from Maison Lucile, and Eliza accompanied Clara to her first fitting. While there, Eliza had paid attention to the gowns modeled by the mannequins, not the young women themselves. She wondered if she’d already seen Pearl Palmer. Clara wanted Eliza to go with her again this Friday for her next fitting. She preferred spending Fridays at the cinema, but now Eliza thought the dress fitting with Clara might prove more interesting. Especially if she could see – and perhaps speak with – Pearl Palmer.
Sybil looked around the table. “All three of you are looking rather formal for a Wednesday breakfast at home. Especially you, Professor.”
Eliza, Pickering, and Higgins were decked out in their Sunday best, albeit in sober colors. Eliza was amused by Sybil’s consternation at Higgins’s presentable appearance. The Professor was notorious for taking his breakfast in a ratty bathrobe and carpet slippers. This morning he looked ready to attend a Cabinet meeting.
“She’s right,” Jack said. “You’re all dressed up.”
“Perhaps I should have worn a walking suit today like Eliza.” Sybil looked down at her simple pink skirt and white blouse.
“Don’t be silly,” Eliza said. “You’re off to order your wedding cake. You should look all summery and girlish. Whereas we must attend a memorial service for a man who was murdered. That requires dark colors and long faces.”
“Is this service for Ambrose Farrow?” Jack asked.
Higgins pushed away his now empty plate. “The Duchess felt it was only proper to hold some sort of memorial for the chap, even if he did jilt her. It appears he has no family, at least not close enough to take care of funeral arrangements. My mother spoke with her yesterday. Her Grace has arranged for Farrow to be buried at Highgate, but there’s to be no formal funeral. Just a memorial reception today at his art gallery in Mayfair.” He gave a great sigh. “And I have not been able to come up with a good enough excuse to avoid it.”
“Seems a bit odd, don’t you think?” Sybil said.
“Not really,” Higgins replied. “Minerva has her own way of doing things. And being a duchess, she usually meets little opposition.”
“If you finish with the baker early, why not come to the gallery and meet us?” Eliza asked. “Jack might be able to learn something interesting about Mr. Farrow.”
“Absolutely not.” Sybil shook her head. “This morning is devoted to marriage, not murder.”
Higgins laughed. “I think you may find there’s no way to separate the two.”