Page 10 of Murder in Matrimony
“You’re welcome.” Mr. Dougal stood, and the rest of the group followed.
“Yes, thank you,” added Amelia. “If you think of anything else that might be of importance, please let me know.”
“I will, and I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Dougal replaced the hat on his large head and left.
When he was gone, they returned to the seating area, and Amelia drifted onto the couch as if in a daze. How could it be that Mr. Cross was gone—murdered? It didn’t make sense, yet she must make sense of it. Her mind began considering the facts, starting and stopping several times when she could draw no conclusions. The loss was too overwhelming to comprehend.
Kitty joined her on the couch, placing an arm around her shoulders.
Amelia started, almost forgetting Kitty and Simon were there. “Oh … right. Thank you for coming. I think I need a moment. Feel free to see yourselves out.”
“I wouldn’t leave you in a hundred years.” Simon was sitting across from her and leaned closer.
“Me neither,” Kitty added. “Not in a thousand. You need a friend, and we are here.”
Amelia was moved by their steadfastness. “I know you mean well, and you are both treasures—”
“No.” Kitty was insistent. “You just lost a priest and friend. You will not go this alone—not this time. We will help you find out who killed Mr. Cross.”
“I did not say—” she began.
“We know you too well.” Simon reached for her hand. “You will not sleep until you do.”
Amelia had never been as grateful for her friends as she was right now. They knew her mind went immediately to the murder. She needed to understand why Mr. Cross had left her a news clipping and if it had anything to do with his death. If it did, she had been entrusted to solve it.
“Let us go over what we know.” Kitty sat up, placing her hands on her lap. “The police claim his death was a robbery gone awry.”
“We know how often the Metropolitan Police are mistaken,” Amelia mumbled.
Simon held up a finger. “Still, the poor box was gone, and the time of death was ten minutes to ten. It might havebeena robbery.”
“In Mayfair?” asked Kitty doubtfully.
“We only need look to the Mayfair Marauder to understand that bad things can and do happen in our part of town.” Simon was obviously convinced of his logic and tried convincing them with the reasonable tone of his voice. “And what of this newspaper clipping? The timing seems rather significant.”
Amelia pulled the clipping from the envelope. “Rose Rothschild. Age eighteen. She fell to her death off a ladder at Baker Biscuits two weeks ago. A sad accident, truly, but one of many cases of factory mishaps. I must be meant to investigate it—or the baker or the girl.” She felt overwhelmed by the possibilities. “How am I to know?”
“You believe Mr. Cross wanted you to investigate the accident?” asked Simon.
“What else?” Amelia shrugged. “I do not know the girl personally, and I’ve never been to Baker Biscuits.”
“They have wonderful biscuits,” put in Kitty. “They mean to compete with Huntley & Palmers in Reading. They have a new partner with a head for business and money for expansion. They plan to relocate from their current storefront on Mill Street.”
Huntley & Palmers was a popular baker located on the busy road from London to Bath. It had started as a small bakery in 1822 and expanded into a large factory that employed much of the town of Reading. Hundreds had relocated to work at the busy plant. Amelia couldn’t imagine how a relatively new biscuit maker like Mr. Baker could compete with a company that now had a factory of five thousand square feet.
“Huntley & Palmers is serious competition.” Simon tapped his chin, which, despite it being mid-afternoon, was growingdark with whiskers. “But it explains Baker Biscuits’ recent advertisements. Perhaps they intend to make a biscuit town of their own right here in London.”
“I saw the advertisements, too. Employees are required to work Monday through Saturday, sixty-eight hours a week.” Amelia had gathered no small amount of information about factories and conditions. Most of it related to women and children, and she passed on the facts to her readers, who often seemed to have very few specifics of their own. She attempted to keep them as well informed as she could. “It isn’t surprising, perhaps, with the long hours, that accidents are the norm. Factory girls are habitually underfed, overworked, and overheated.” She exhaled a frustrated breath. “I feel bad about Miss Rothschild, of course. Still, it leaves the problem of Mr. Cross dead.”
“And Margaret without an officiant,” added Kitty.
Amelia glanced at Kitty. A matrimony beginning with murder was not a good omen.
FIVE
Dear Lady Agony,
Recently, a bride and groom did not attend their own wedding breakfast, instead taking a quick refreshment in private apartments before leaving for the honeymoon. I was surprised until it happened again. Is this to be the new practice? Please let us know your opinion on wedding day deserters.
