Page 71 of A Murder in Mayfair
I frowned. “So between noon and six, the packet vanished from the study, reappeared in the morning room, and was then brought to the kitchen?”
“Exactly so.”
I noted the sequence carefully in my small notebook. Then looked back to him. “Who brewed the tea?”
“Cook. Lord Walsh called for tea this morning while working in his study. He hadn’t had any the day before—only brandy with Mr. Heller, then burgundy with his supper. For breakfast, he requested coffee.”
“So the tea made from the packet was brewed only once—this morning?”
He nodded. “Just before ten. Elsie brought it up on a tray.”
A silence fell between us as the implications settled. Six hours unaccounted for. And a tea packet that changed hands without a witness.
“Thank you, Mr. Anstruther. I’d like to speak with Cook now.”
“She’s in the kitchen, my lady. It’s nearly supper. She’ll be hard-pressed to leave her post.”
“Of course.”
He led me down the hall, where the warm scent of yeast and rosemary greeted us. We found Cook at the long table, rolling pastry with firm precision. She looked up as we entered, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Lady Rosalynd,” she said, her surprise softened by concern. “I reckon you’re here about the tea.”
I nodded. “Tell me everything.”
She leaned back against the table, arms folded. “Elsie brought it in. I didn’t open it right away—just slipped it into a caddy to keep it fresh and set it on the shelf with the others. When I opened it this morning, it looked fine. Crushed leaves. Smelled herbal. Not unpleasant.”
“But it could’ve been tampered with.”
She hesitated. “Aye. Could’ve been. Easy enough to open the parchment, sprinkle something in, and wrap it up again. Wouldn’t take two minutes.”
“Did anyone else touch it?”
“Not that I know of. But it wasn’t locked up. We don’t treat tea like it’s diamonds. Anyone could’ve reached it between the time Elsie handed it over and when I brewed it.”
I thought of the narrow staircases, the servants’ corridors, the familiar rhythm of a household in motion. Trusted routines. Familiar faces. Too trusted.
“So the suspects are limited to those within the house,” I murmured.
“Or visitors,” Mr. Anstruther reminded me gently.
“Yes. Indeed.” I turned to Cook. “The tea—has it all been taken?”
“Yes, milady. That inspector—Dodson—took it.” Her look made clear what she thought of him.
I thanked her and asked to speak with Elsie, who confirmed what had been said. With that done, I made my way back toward the front entrance. It was nearing seven. My family would be wondering what had kept me away so long. But I had one last question.
“Mr. Anstruther,” I said, as he helped me into my coat. “Do you happen to know Mr. Heller’s address?”
“43 Duke Street.” He hesitated. “You’re not planning to go there alone, are you, milady?”
“No,” I said. “But I intend to share that information.” After a moment’s pause, I asked, “Was he notified of Lord Walsh’s passing?”
“I sent a footman early this afternoon, but no one was at home. We left word that an urgent matter required his attention.”
I stepped into the growing dusk, the weight of unanswered questions heavier than before. My trusted coachman waited at the curb. I climbed into the carriage, and the door closed with a soft thud.
As we rolled back toward Rosehaven House, I leaned into the shadows, reviewing every detail I had gathered.
