“Yes, Hannah. And as for the chicken, that was a little beauty. It was that young, I says to Hannah at the time as it seemed a shame to casserole it, for it would ’ave roasted beautiful. But Mr. Urquhart is very partial to a casseroled chicken, he says as there’s more flavour to ’em that way, and I dunno but what he’s right.”
“If done with a good beef stock,” pronounced Mr. Bunter, judicially, “the vegetables well packed in layers, on a foundation of bacon, not too fat, and the whole well seasoned with salt, pepper and paprika, there are few dishes to beat a casseroled chicken. For my own part, I would recommend a soupçon of garlic, but I am aware that such is not agreeable to all tastes.”
“I can’t a-bear the smell or sight of the stuff,” said Mrs. Pettican, frankly, “but as for the rest I’m with you, always allowing that the giblets is added to the stock, and I would personally favour mushrooms when in season, but not them tinned or bottled sorts as looks pretty but has no more taste to ’em than boot buttons if so much. But the secret is in the cooking, as you know well, Mr. Bunter, the lid being kep’ well sealed down to ’old the flavour and the cookin’ being’ slow to make the juices perambulate through and through each other as you might say. I’m not denyin’ as sech is very ’ighly enjoyable, and so Hannah and me found it, though fond of a good roast fowl also, when well-basted with a good rich stuffing to rejuice the dryness. But as to roasting it, Mr. Urquhart wouldn’t hear of it, and being ’as it’s him that pays the bills, he has the right to give his orders.”
“Well,” said Bunter, “it’s certain if there had been anything unwholesome about the casserole, you and Miss Westlock could scarcely have escaped it.
“No, indeed,” said Hannah, “for I won’t conceal that, being blessed with hearty appetities, we finished it every bit, except a little piece I gave to the cat. Mr. Urquhart asked to see the remains of it next day, and seemed quite put out to find it was all gone and the dish washed up – as though any washing-up was ever left over-night in this kitchen.”
“I couldn’t abear myself if I had to begin the day with dirty dishes,” said Mrs. Pettican. “There was a drop of the soup left – not much, jest a wee drain, and Mr. Urquhart took that up to show to the doctor, and he tasted it and said it was very good, so Nurse Williams told us, though she didn’t have none of it herself.”
“And as for the burgundy,” said Hannah Westlock, “which was the only thing Mr. Boyes had to himself, like, Mr. Urquhart told me to cork it up tight and keep it. And just as well we did, because, of course, the police asked to see it when the time came.”
“It was very far-seeing of Mr. Urquhart to take such precautions,” said Bunter, “when there wasn’t any thought at the time but that the poor man died naturally.”
“That’s what Nurse Williams said,” replied Hannah, “but we put it down to him being a solicitor and knowing what ought to be done in a case of sudden death. Very particular he was, too – got me to put a bit of sticking-plaster over the mouth of the bottle and write my initials on it, so that it shouldn’t be opened accidental. Nurse Williams always said he expected an inquest, but Dr. Weare being there to speak to Mr. Boyes having had these kind of bilious attacks all his life, of course there was no question raised about giving the certificate.”
“Of course not,” said Bunter, “but it’s very fortunate as it turns out that Mr. Urquhart should have understood his duty so well. Many’s the case his lordship has seen in which an innocent man has been brought near to the gallows for lack of a simple little precaution like that.”
“And when I think how near Mr. Urquhart was to being away from ’ome at the time,” said Mrs. Pettican, “the thought fair gives me palpitations. Called away, he was, to that tiresome old woman what’s always a-dying and never dies. Why, he’s there now – Mrs. Wrayburn, up in Windle. Rich as Sneezes, she is, by all accounts, and no good to nobody, for she’s gone quite childish, so they say. A wicked old woman she was, too, in ’er day, and ’er other relations wouldn’t ’ave nothink to do with ’er, only Mr. Urquhart, and I don’t suppose ’e wouldn’t, neither, only ’e’s her solicitor and it’s his duty so to do.”
“Duty does not always lie in pleasant places,” commented Mr. Bunter, “as you and I well know, Mrs. Pettican.”
“Them that are rich,” said Hannah Westlock, “find no difficulty about getting their duties performed for them. Which I will make bold to say, Mrs. Wrayburn would not have done if she had been poor, great-aunt or no great-aunt, knowing Mr. Urquhart.”
“Ah!” said Bunter.
“I pass no comments,” said Miss Westlock, “but you and me, Mr. Bunter, know how the world goes.”
“I suppose Mr. Urquhart stands to gain something when the old woman does peg out,” suggested Bunter.
“That’s as may be; he’s not a talker,” said Hannah, “but it stands to reason he wouldn’t be always giving up his time and tearing off to Westmorland for nothing. Though I wouldn’t care myself to put my hand to money that’s wickedly come by. It would not bring a blessing with it, Mr. Bunter.”
“It’s easy talking, my girl, when you ain’t likely to be put in the way of temptation,” said Mrs. Pettican. “There’s many great families in the Kingdom what never would a bin ’eard of if somebody ’adn’t bin a little easier in their ways than what we’ve bin brought up to. There’s skelintons in a many cupboards if the truth was known.”
“Ah!” said Bunter, “I believe you. I’ve seen diamond necklaces and fur coats that should have been labelled Wages of Sin if deeds done in the dark were to be proclaimed upon the house-tops, Mrs. Pettican. And there are families that hold their heads high that wouldn’t ever have existed but for some king or other taking his amusements on the wrong side of the blanket as the old saying goes.”
“They say as some that was high up wasn’t too high to take notice of old Mrs. Wrayburn in her young days,” said Hannah, darkly. “Queen Victoria wouldn’t never allow her to act before the Royal Family – she knew too much about her goings-on.”
“An actress, was she?”
“ And a very beautiful one, they say, though I can’t rightly recollect what her stage name was,” mused Mrs. Pettican. “It was a queer one, I know – ’ Yde Park, or somethink of that. This Wrayburn as she married, ’e was nobody -jest to kiver up the scandal, that’s what he married ’im for. Two children she ’ad – but ’ose I would not take it upon me to say – and they both died in the cholera, which no doubt it was a judgment.”
“That’s not what Mr. Boyes called it,” said Hannah, with a self-righteous sniff. “The devil took care of his own, that was his way of putting it.”
“Ah! he talked careless,” said Mrs. Pettican, “and no wonder, seeing the folks he lived with. But he’d a sobered down in time if he’d bin spared. A very pleasant way he ’ad with ’im when ’e liked. Come in here, he would, and chat upon one thing and another, very amusing-like.”
“You’re too soft with the gentlemen, Mrs. Pettican,” said Hannah. “Anyone as has taking ways and poor health is ewelambs to you.”
“So Mr. Boyes knew all about Mrs. Wrayburn?”
“Oh, yes – it was all in the family, you see, and no doubt Mr. Urquhart would ’a told him more than he’d say to us. Which train did Mr. Urquhart say he was acomin’ by, Hannah?”
“He said dinner for half-past seven. That’ll be the six-thirty, I should think.”
Mrs. Pettican glanced at the clock and Bunter, taking this as a hint, rose and made his farewells.
“And I ’opes as you’ll come again, Mr. Bunter,” said the Cook, graciously. “The master makes no objections to respectable gentlemen visitors at tea-time. Wednesday is my ’arf-day.”