“How does it feel to become the darling of the recipe world?” The interviewer’s voice was unsteady as he asked his questions. This wasn’t the type of interview he would normally partake in, 

“I do appreciate the flattery, but I would not exactly call myself a darling. I’m glad to have an opportunity to share my recipes and advice with so many,” responded Beatrice in a quiet, delicate manner.

“The newspaper publisher must be grateful for you. I understand circulation has tripled, and much of this is due to housewives insisting their husbands buy this newspaper, just for your column.”

“It is delightful to hear. I hope I continue to keep the standards that our readers wish for.” 

“Your readers write in quite often, many with questions about you. Would you feel comfortable answering some of them?”

“I will try my best.” 

The interviewer clears his throat, “One reader asked about your childhood, since we don’t know much about it. What kind of childhood did you have?”

“Oh. Unfortunately, there isn’t much to tell. It was quiet with a loving family. A very typical childhood. I’m sorry if that is a disappointing answer.” 

What she couldn’t tell them was the nightmare she endured after her father passed away. The loneliness, especially being an only child. Her mother abandoned her for men’s attention. “Uncles” were being paraded in and out of their home. Many were interested in her more than her mother, even at the age of eleven. She was a pretty young girl, they would remind her over and over. Her mother’s jealousy and rage would rain down on her, causing scars no one would ever see. 

The roughness of their hands as they touched her face. 

Their sour breath smelled of ale. 

The way their eyes lustfully passed over her. 

The invasion.

“And your married life. Many are fascinated that you are married to a handsome police officer.”

“Again, I must apologize. Our marriage is a happy one. I am incredibly fortunate to have my John. He is the perfect husband. I only wish all women were as lucky as to have such a wonderful husband.”

“I’m sure your husband, Inspector McTavish, and our readers will be delighted to hear that.”

Being married to a police officer, an inspector, was hard. The further he rose in the ranks, the longer he was away. She ached for him to be home with her, for his company, to distract her, but she was the supportive wife. She would endure the loneliness for the greater good. How long would she last? Days, dinners, and evenings on her own. Night after night. Even when he had time off, he was often busy, with his mind on the cases he worked on. Especially now.   

“When did you first begin cooking and creating recipes?”

“I was quite young. My mother wanted me to have many skills. Art, writing, embroidery, and of course, cooking. Cooking itself is an art when done right.”

“Your family was quite wealthy, I understand; wouldn’t there have been servants taking up the cooking?”

“Oh. Yes. Mother did have some servants. She did prefer her privacy, though, so the cooking was always left to us.

Her mother, in fact, was a miser with her money. After her father passed away, all of the staff were fired. Beatrice was a servant enough. Elegant dinners for her gentleman callers. Punishment if they didn’t stand up to her mother’s expectations. Gruelling cleaning schedules, dressing and bathing her mother. Everything had to be meticulous. The demands on her time by her mother meant having no time for herself.

When her mother passed, she passed in bitterness. The house, her money, and her belongings were left to the church, which wouldn’t even rescue Beatrice after her mother’s lingering death. Beatrice tended to her day and night. No refuge. When her mother released her last breath, the church made haste securing their prize. Beatrice would not be allowed to stay in the home where she grew up. 

“Your life was happy and quiet up until you met your husband.”

“It was. It only got better as I haven’t felt a greater happiness than when I met John.”

“Where did you meet John?”

“At a garden party, at my aunt’s. I was living with her at the time. She needed a companion.”

Aunt Iris was her saviour. A light in her life. A spinster, just as lonely as Beatrice. Unfortunately, she too was ill. Her demise was due to the poisonous teas she drank to help with the horrifying symptoms of Consumption. Teas she made from the flowers she grew in her garden. Beatrice wished she’d had more time with her aunt. She was the mother; she could only dream of ever having. 

“Your aunts’ house. It’s where you live now?”

“It is. I inherited it. Isn’t that an odd question for a reader to ask?”

“My apologies. It wasn’t one of their questions. It was a rumour I had heard. I’ll move on to another.”

“Your aunt was well known for her beautiful gardens.”

“She was.” Beatrice was growing suspicious of the interviewer’s questions. 

“Do you continue to maintain the garden?”

“I would never let it go to weed. My aunt spent many long hours nurturing it.”

“Aren’t there some poisonous plants amongst the flora?”

“I’m certain readers are not asking these types of questions.”

“Apologies, I was just curious.”

“Then why are you making notes about it?”

“I thought it would be of interest.”

“Can I see the paper with the questions?”

“It’s ok. We’ll get back to them.”

Beatrice snatched the paper from the interviewer’s hands.

“One question. There is ONE question on here. Why are we doing this interview?”

“I may have…”

“Yes?”

“Someone has suggested that you aren’t quite who you say you are.”

“What does that mean, not who I say I am? Who said this to you?”

“The editor… he…”

“Wanted you to check up on me. Find out who I really am. This is beyond reprehensible!”

Beatrice stood, grabbing her bonnet and swishing her skirts so hard as she passed that she nearly knocked the interviewer off his chair. She walked straight into her editor’s office.

“How dare you! I have done nothing to deserve this. If you were trying to find a way to get rid of me, this was executed perfectly. I resign!”

“Wait… what is this about… You can’t.. “

“I can’t. How dare you send a reporter to interrogate me!”

“What are you talking about? I did no such thing.”

“Well, someone is trying to upend me, and I won’t have it!”

Beatrice, unlike her usual calm demeanor, stormed out of the newspaper offices. How dare they disrespect her this way? She would show them not to mess with Beatrice McTavish.

The reporter ran into the office. 

“Sir, I can explain. 

“You had better damn well have a good explanation! I may have just lost the best thing this newspaper has had in years!

The reporter pulls out a folder and removes a piece of paper from it. The editor grabs it from his hand and begins to read it. The editor pulls in a deep breath and lets out a long sigh. “This says that most poisoners are women. Where did you get this?”

“It was suggested to me that the person committing the murders might be a woman. Since… the victims seem to have been poisoned. I did research and read quite a few articles.”

“Suggested by who? Who told you a woman was doing this?”

“I promised my source that I wouldn’t reveal their identity.”

“Why are you harassing Beatrice?

“Her garden, sir. It has several poisonous plants. Deadly plants.”

“Does it now?” The editor paused for a moment, placing his hands under his chin, in a praying position. “Wouldn’t that be an interesting twist, if the murderer were our Inspector’s wife?”

“Shall I continue to pursue this?”

“If you do, do it quietly. Understood?

“Yes, sir. Understood.”