Page 22 of Murder in Matrimony
“Lady, you scare away my customers,” Mr. Jakeman said after the door shut, but his voice held no malice.
“I don’t see why. I am shopping the market, like any other woman.”
He chuckled, a warm, full sound. “You are not any woman. Far from it.” He lit a cigar and puffed easily on it. “So why are you here?”
Amelia was glad to get down to business and took the chair he proffered. “Mr. Cross was murdered three days ago. It was said he worked with the disadvantaged at St. George-in-the-East.”
“The Society for the Greater Good.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “I’ve heard of it.”
“You have? Wonderful.”
“Not wonderful, Lady. People did not like that priest. He stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong, encouraging people he did not know to find their greater calling and some such nonsense.” He lifted his eyebrows. “He, like you, should have stayed in Mayfair—where he belonged.”
“I resent that. He did a lot of good in these parts, and to be honest, I’ve had a hand in a few positive results as well.” She cleared her throat, feeling slightly embarrassed at her self-praise. She wasn’t just being nosy; she cared about the people she inquired after.
“Positive results.” He let out a long stream of smoke, reclining into his chair. “You have a funny way of talking.”
She wished she could reveal who she really was: Lady Agony. Not some spoiled Mayfair lady of leisure. Then maybe he would realize with whom he was dealing. “Regardless, it sounds as if you might know who wanted him dead.”
He lifted his chin at her. “What was he to you?”
“He was my priest.” She swallowed. “And I liked him.” The truth was she’d really liked him, and that was new. She was a woman of faith but not religion. As a child, she’d sat throughchurch waiting patiently for it to be over. The holy men had seemed as far away from her as heaven itself. But Mr. Cross was different. He cared more about people here on earth, including her.
If anyone had told her she’d reveal her secret pseudonym to only four people, one of them a priest, she would have never believed them. But she and Cross were connected by their mutual concerns, and she’d felt as if she could tell him anything, including her deepest secret. Had he lived, she would have told him about Simon and their blossoming relationship. He would have given her good advice, and as an authoress of advice herself, she knew how precious another’s opinion could be.
“All right.” He uncrossed his leg and sat up straight. “So you liked Cross. I understand. But even if I knew who hated him, what good could it do you? You are a lady. You have no business knowing such things.”
“Maybe not, but I have this.” She opened her reticule. “He left me a newspaper clipping. I want to know why and what it means.”
He took the paper and read it. “The Rothschild girl. I remember that.”
“You do?” Her voice sounded overly eager, and she smoothed her skirt, effecting nonchalance.
“She had a good job with her papa at the Plate & Bottle. What better employer than family, right? But your priest preaches about the ill effects of late nights and the liquor one Sunday, and the girl gets work with Baker Biscuits. Next thing you know, she falls off a ladder and dies.” He stubbed out his cigar. “A cautionary tale?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know the priest should have kept to Mayfair, like I said. If he had, the girl might be alive today.”
The comment caught her off guard. Was Isaac Jakeman right? Was the clipping meant as a cautionary tale about sticking one’s nose in where it didn’t belong, as she herself so often did? Was that why Mr. Cross left it for her? Perhaps he himself felt guilt or remorse over his actions. Maybe he wished he wouldn’t have gotten involved in a world so different from his own—and wished the same for her.
She twisted in her chair. It could not be. He was active in the East End until the day of his death. It had to mean something else.
“You do not agree?” he prodded.
“In truth, I don’t know. I hadn’t considered the idea before now.” She sighed. “It feels as if I’m missing something. Do you know that feeling?”
“No, I don’t. I don’t miss nothing.”
She gave him a wry smile. “Where is this Plate & Bottle?”
“Nowhere you know, Lady. A public house in the East End is no place for you.” He nodded toward the window. “Even with your man outside.”
Amelia followed his gaze. Bailey looked away, perhaps embarrassed that he was caught looking in on her. She smiled. “Point taken. Where does the Rothschild family reside then?”
“Above the same pub.”
Amelia murmured a sound of displeasure.
Isaac Jakeman held up a finger. “But her mother is devout. A frequent visitor of St. George-in-the-East.”
“Are you a member?”
