“I love the sea. I have always wanted to live in a coastal town. One with beaches, not cliffs like Dover.”
“He didn’t go to Dover, or the sea. He spoke of Sussex a lot, where the duke has his big manor. Mr. Edkins likes to fish and said there were some good places to do that near there. Mrs. Wiggins said he bought himself a cottage on a little lake near Stevening down there. Can’t say I can see him fishing, what with his coats and cravat and such.”
“Perhaps now he won’t dress so formally.”
“Can’t picture it since he always did. Nice for him to not have to stay in service though. He was young still. Too young for a pension. Kind of His Grace to leave him enough, though I expect that family thought it too much.” She sent Minerva a sideways, critical glance that indicated her feelings about the family.
“Will you stay on even with this new housekeeper you don’t like? Does the new duke suit you?”
“Suit me? What a question.” She set the last onion in front of Minerva, and dipped the corner of her apron into a water bucket. “He’s no trouble. He’ll marry now, though. That wife will be worse than the new housekeeper, what with having opinions about food and such.” She wiped her eyes. “Well, we will see. Can leave whenever I want, can’t I? I like that.”
Minerva finished her slicing. Mrs. Fowler dipped the other corner of her hem in the water and offered it. Minerva availed herself of the damp cloth, but knew leaving the kitchen would help more.
“It was nice visiting with you, Mrs. Fowler. I hope the new housekeeper appreciates the fine cook she has in you, and does not interfere too much.”
“You stop by anytime you want to work for free. Saved me crying another ten minutes, didn’t you?” She swept all the onions into that apron of hers, walked to the big hearth, and dumped them into a big cauldron.
Minerva let herself out and climbed the five stairs to the garden. That had gone better than she had hoped. She now knew the valet’s name, and the vicinity where he now lived.
Her smug satisfaction disappeared as soon as she began walking toward the garden gate. In her path, lounging with his back against the building’s stones, stood Chase Radnor.
“Are you always here?” she asked.
“Are you?”
What an exasperating man. “I visited a friend.”
“I visited my cousin. And how did Mrs. Fowler become a friend? Isn’t she the one who made you do all that laundry?”
“She is a kind soul.”
“She is also a talkative woman. What did you want from her?”
“You are so suspicious. You should find a diversion to occupy your mind on occasion.”
His hand stopped her progress along the path on the side of the house. She looked down at the hand on her arm, then up at him. He did not look suspicious. He looked annoyed.
“I was going to call, but we may as well have this out now,” he said.
She tried to appear interested instead of perplexed, but he made no sense.
“I am speaking of Mrs. Oliver.”
“Who is she?”
“Do not dissemble with me. You know very well who she is.”
“The question really is how do you know who she is?”
He folded his arms and looked down at her. “She approached me about conducting an inquiry for her.”
Oh, dear.
“We were to meet this morning. Only instead I received a letter in which she explained she had engaged another to do the inquiry instead.”
Again Minerva tried to appear interested. And innocent.
“Imagine my surprise when she wrote that she decided to hand her problem to Hepplewhite’s Office of Discreet Inquiries.”
