Page 12 of Murder in Matrimony
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” said Tabitha. “Best secure the curate if possible.”
“I will try.”
“Time is the issue.” Tabitha sighed. “All of this might be managed if we had six months instead of two weeks.”
“In the meantime, if there is anything I can do to help with the breakfast …”
“There is not.” Tabitha smoothed her dark dress and sat down. “See to the wedding ceremony—and rid yourself of that brown hat. It’s too dreadful, even for you.”
Amelia left with a frown. She knew the bonnet was ugly but dreadful? At least it served its purpose of concealing her face. With a blackmailer in her business, she couldn’t be too careful. An ugly hat was a small price to pay for anonymity.
A dozen minutes later, she crossed Hyde Park Corner, passing under the Triumphal Arch. Grady was to meet her at their special spot, a bench tucked next to an oversized plane tree, far away from onlookers and pedestrians. It was deep into the park, but she was used to walking and arrived on time, glancing around to make certain no one had followed her.
They hadn’t, and perhaps it didn’t matter anyway. The blackmailer claimed to know her identity. Whether he or she followed her might be of little consequence. Unless the blackmailer was considering pressuring her friends and acquaintances for theidentity of the Mayfair Marauder. Then it would be of grave consequence.
Grady was her oldest and dearest friend. They had grown up together in Somerset, scheming and dreaming and planning their futures. She didn’t have any brothers—only sisters—and he had the job, if not by birth, then proximity. When he was nine years old, he began working in the stables at the Feathered Nest, Amelia’s family’s inn. He fed and watered horses in need of a rest on the route to London. For years, Grady and Amelia had watched travelers come and go, vowing one day to go, too.
They’d made good on their promise, Grady leaving as soon as he had saved enough money and Amelia as soon as Edgar offered for her hand. Life had taken them on different paths and then brought them back together after Edgar’s death. Grady needed an author, and Amelia needed a way to spend her time.
And what a way it had turned out to be. In the long days after Edgar’s death, she spent her time thinking about her readers’ problems and ways to alleviate them. Her life had purpose, and it had meaning. She found her voice in those days, a voice she hadn’t known existed. Soon her role as Lady Agony became as important as her role as Lady Amesbury, more so because she was expressing herself in a way she hadn’t before.
The last few months, however, had brought the two roles closer together, and she had to wonder if she had essentially written herself into the person she wanted to be: courageous, forthright, bold, even. Or perhaps the recent murders had made her brave. They involved people she cared about, and she realized what was worth fighting for.
A footstep on the dry grass drew her gaze upward, and she noted Grady’s approach. She smiled at her oldest friend, and he smiled back. His shoulders were slightly curved, and his oversized coat hung loosely on his frame. As he approached, she saw his fingertips were smudged with ink, as they always were, and he smelled of it too, that and newsprint.
Grady sat down beside her, took off his cap, and swiped at his dingy blond hair before replacing it. “You send for me, andI drop everything. If you weren’t my favorite author, I might protest.”
Amelia recognized the weariness in his voice and regretted her request. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come after a long day. I should have waited.”
“You’re not good at waiting. You do not have the patience for it.”
“You’re correct, I suppose,” she agreed. “I don’t. But my impatience has often served me well.”
He lifted his shaggy eyebrows, not completely believing her.
She moved on to the topic at hand. The sooner they discussed it, the sooner he could go home and get some rest. “What do you know of Mr. Cross’s murder? Have you heard anything at the paper?”
“And so begins another investigation before my trousers have had a chance to wrinkle.” Grady slapped his thighs. “What does this murder have to do with you, may I ask?”
“Your trousers are already wrinkled, and it has everything to do with me. Mr. Cross left me a news clipping.” Amelia took the paper from her reticule. “He asked the curate to give it to me, personally, on the day of his death. I haven’t figured out what I am meant to do with it.”
Grady glanced at the clipping. “This is the woman you mentioned in your note.”
Amelia nodded.
“I don’t know anything about her death beyond what’s stated here. What I do know is this.” Grady ticked off information on his stubby fingertips. “She lived in Wapping, which was a prized area of your vicar’s. Her father owns a pub there, where she used to wait tables. She had worked at the biscuit factory only a month when the accident occurred. Nothing unusual about her death. People fall off ladders all the time, and this one went from the ground floor bake room to the second floor packaging room—quite a height, to be sure.”
Amelia didn’t hear anything in his account that would signal Mr. Cross’s involvement, except Wapping. The poor East End district was an area of concern for him. He was appalled by the working conditions the populace suffered, not to mentionthe crime and filth that filled the streets. Children and adolescents were of particular worry for him. Young girls and boys kept long hours for little pay, and regulations were practically nonexistent. When he’d heard of a candlemaker keeping children until eleven in the evening, only to return at six the next morning, he reached out to Amelia, asking her to address the abuse in her Lady Agony column. She did so immediately, and the factory came under investigation a fortnight later.
Amelia stared at the newspaper clipping. “I’ve written about several unfair employers in the column. Some of them in Wapping.”
“True.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Many bad eggs have been excoriated by your pen.”
“Am I to root out a bad egg here?” She let out a frustrated sigh. “If that is what Mr. Cross intended, I will, but not until I find his murderer.”
“Perhaps they are connected.” Lines appeared between Grady’s eyebrows, making him look more serious. To Amelia, he would always be a boy, connected to green grass and Somerset, but work had taken its toll on him, and it showed now in his concern.
“Perhaps, but I have no way of knowing yet.” She changed subjects to the other one she needed to discuss with him. “Simon came to me about the blackmailer. He said it was irresponsible to quote the letter in the column. He was not happy with my decision.”
