Page 24 of Murder in Matrimony
“I understand the church is undergoing some changes.” Amelia took a seat at a small wooden desk.
“That is a polite way of putting it. People in Wapping don’t want religion; they want miracles.” He chuckled, taking a seat as well. “Now, how may I help you?”
“It’s about a parish family, the Rothschilds? I wonder if you know anything about them.”
He leaned forward. “You know Miss Rothschild died in a terrible accident?”
“Yes, I do.” Amelia liked how easy the man was to talk to. He didn’t put on airs, and he wasn’t intimidating. His face was open and inquisitive, and he seemed genuinely interested in talking to her. It was no wonder Mr. Cross recruited him for the society.
“Then you know she fell off a ladder after taking a position to get out of the public house her father owns. Some say the accident was punishment, for putting herself above her family.”
“Did her family say that?” Amelia wondered if it was in fact retribution for not staying in her place. She couldn’t imagine a family member hurting another in that way but was not naïve. Families came in all shapes and sizes, and she didn’t believe every family operated as the Scotts or Amesburys did. It was a known truth that people often hurt the ones closest to them.
His sandy-colored eyebrows peaked with curiosity at thequestion. “Her mother was glad she got work outside the neighborhood. She herself has been with the public house since the day her husband opened it many years ago. It’s not surprising she wanted a different life for her daughter. She is a virtuous woman who maintains a weekly prayer group even among the late tumult.”
“What about Miss Rothschild’s father?”
The rector shook his head. “He did not see it quite the same way. He had to hire a girl to wait tables, and she was not as efficient as Rose. A selfish complaint but perhaps a valid one.” He clasped his hands in front of himself on the desk. “I have to ask, though, what does any of this have to do with Mr. Cross?”
Amelia didn’t know how to answer. In truth, she didn’t have the answer herself. Mr. Cross had left her Rose Rothschild’s obituary, so her death must be important. But what did it have to do with Mr. Cross or his own murder? It could be a clue or an errant message or nothing at all. Further complicating the matter was Amelia’s own secret identity. She couldn’t let on that she did investigative work under an alter ego. “I’m not sure what her death has to do with Mr. Cross. I know Miss Rothschild was a recent worry of his. I thought it might be relevant to bringing his murderer to justice.”
“I take your point.” Mr. James tapped his fingertips together. “But I heard it was a thief after the poor box?”
“That’s what’s been reported,” answered Amelia evenly.
“You believe the reports are wrong?”
“I believe the Metropolitan Police report what they see in front of them. A vicar with a questionable following in the East End and a missing poor box.” She shrugged. “It’s the easiest answer. I’ve found, however, that the easiest answer isn’t always the correct answer.”
“Quite true.” His brow lifted in surprise. “But a lady doesn’t concern herself with such things … does she?”
“Society presumes what young ladies—and rectors—concern themselves with, but we know better.”
He smiled, revealing a brightness in his eyes. It was the light of passion and vigor, an enthusiasm for life that hadn’t beendimmed by difficult experiences or turmoil. Amelia suspected that even when he grew to be an old man, Mr. James would know the precious gift that was life.
She returned the smile. “Do you know where I could find Mrs. Rothschild?”
“As I mentioned, she meets weekly, on Monday, with her prayer group.” The smile faded from his face. “The Society for the Greater Good is meeting that night also. We are holding a special assembly. Mr. Cross would want his work to continue, and it must. They cannot win.”
“They?” Amelia noted the new determination in his voice, and she understood that while his passion made him eager, it also made him resilient. He believed nothing was beyond his capabilities if he only tried hard enough.
“The evil doers,” Mr. James said. “The people who do not want his work to succeed.”
“Are there many of them?” Too late, Amelia realized the ignorance of her words and wished she could take them back.
“Observe, and you will see. Factories, docks, pubs, warehouses, brothels. It would be better for business if residents did as they have always done. Work, drink, and prostitute themselves.” He leaned forward. “They are many who despised the work Cross did—and the work I do.”
The importance and gravity of the priests’ work became clearer. She had read about the riots at St. George-in-the-East. Of course she had. At the time, she had a vague understanding of the disagreement. Now she realized a war had been waged against the East End, and the East End had retaliated in kind. It was much deeper than clothes or cassocks. It struck at poverty, depravity, and livelihoods. “I appreciate the work you’re doing, and I hope someday, parishioners will as well. Obviously, some, like Mrs. Rothschild, do already.”
He acknowledged the statement with a dip of his chin.
“Do you happen to know what time her prayer group convenes?” she continued.
He gave the time. Then his blue eyes crinkled mischievously, and he looked quite young. “Why? Are you in need of prayer, Lady Amesbury?”
“Always,” she said with a smile.
“Let us pray now then.”
